by Claire Adams
That meant paying for another round of hair and makeup for Mercedes. She didn’t protest, either. She even called me after to find out where her hair appointment was. The dress, however, was an issue.
She didn’t want anything made by a designer. She didn’t understand. She had to wear a designer gown there. It was basically written law. She’d have to have so many karats on her, so many jewels, and the right bodice.
I was just putting on my jacket when she called me again. “Hello?” I answered.
“I’m ready.”
A shiver ran up my arm. “I’ll be there soon.”
The drive to her house was getting harder. I had to focus on the road and try to stop thinking about the way she smelled, and the way she tasted, or how her eyes rolled back when I pressed her just right.
The entire drive there, my mind raced, and my heart pounded. She did this to me now. I didn’t know how it happened, but right before I saw her, I’d get tense and nervous. It was different with her now. We were together.
I considered our romance to be inevitable. Looking back, there was never a point when we weren’t dating. We were just fooling ourselves before. Everyone told us we looked like a couple and that we were cute together. They even went so far as to say they saw a spark.
I saw that spark. Mercedes saw it. We just refused to acknowledge it. It occurred to me that this was my fault. I had the commitment issues. She should’ve been my girlfriend this whole time. I think a part of me knew that. She must’ve felt it as well. She didn’t even have to think about her response. She wanted to be with me.
Our relationship was inevitable. On some level, she knew it, and I knew it. We were just addressing the thing sitting right in front of us. I was surprised when I burst out with it. I didn’t ever expect to date again, but Mercedes was irresistible. I didn’t foresee any trouble with her.
Quite the contrary, being with Mercedes was the most natural thing in the world. She never invaded my space or worked my nerves. Everything was casual and easy when she was there, but I was never satisfied.
I felt like a child with a new toy that I couldn’t play with. I could only call her and text her at certain times, so I didn’t alienate her. I had to be more careful with what I said now and a little gentler than I had been.
Mercedes would need time to acclimate to her new role. She wouldn't want to talk about dating and would probably shut down on the subject for good if I pressed it. Instead, I decided not to say anything about it. Mercedes didn’t mention it either. The moment hung between us. Neither of us could think of anything else, but we couldn’t talk about it.
Mercedes was waiting outside her house when I pulled up. She wore a simple white dress, but she looked ready for the red carpet. I got out of the car and walked around to open her door.
She leaned in and kissed me before she got in. “That’s so good. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Get in.” I chose a simple, black convertible. It had smooth, rounded edges and a nice reflective surface that picked up the lights when we turned onto the freeway.
“So, tell me more about this event,” she said.
“The White Party is for an exclusive group of investors and businessmen. They all pay to get in the room and make a token donation so they can do business.”
“That sounds terrible,” she said.
“It’s actually a lot of fun. They have one of the best bars in the city.”
“Are there any incidents at these events?” she asked.
“Half the time I just come for the show.”
“Is the charity a bunch of crap, or is it real?”
“It’s real. The money they charge is more than enough to pay for a network of hospitals.”
The White Party was always held in the convention center. They’d turn off all the lights, so it was hard to see the warehouse ceiling above. Then they’d string up white Christmas lights and hang globes from the ceiling. When done properly, it was elegant.
The convention center had a back entrance where all of the attendees parked. The lot was small and unusually empty that year. I wondered why they had a drop-in attendance. The year before was one of their biggest years.
Once we’d emerged from the car, we followed a velvet-lined rope up a set of concrete stairs that led into the convention center floor. A construction paper star hung above the entrance. This year’s charity event was a cluster of tables and a bar, with sound equipment set up in the corner.
Mercedes took a step back when she walked in, shook her head, and turned back to me. “How much do they charge to get into this place?”
“Couldn’t say.” I looked around to make sure nobody was listening. “It’s a lot.”
“Then why does it look like this?”
“Because the drinks are the only thing that matter here.” The bar was a small wooden booth set up in the corner. Most of the people waited in line to get to it, which meant that everyone summed us up when we got to the back of the line.
“If anybody asks, your name is Katya, and you only speak Russian.”
“Really?”
“No, I’m just screwing with you.”
She slapped my arm.
“Do you think Natasha fits better?” I asked. “Or maybe Kendall.”
We both laughed.
“I prefer Cinnamon,” she said. “And that’s with an ‘s.’ Don’t you forget it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The drink line moved steadily forward. It didn’t take long for us to be sipping on margaritas at a table in the back. We faced the room, watching people as they moved from one person to the next, fake smiles, hugs, and on to the next victim.
“Over there.” I pointed to a woman laying with her head face first on the bar. “That’s Samantha. She works with me.” I took a picture with my phone.
“You’re terrible, Jake.”
“It’s funny.”
A card table sat in the nearest corner across from us. A mismatched stack of envelopes and pens sat on top. Nobody had made an actual donation. They just paid the entrance fee, so I left Mercedes at the table to make a donation.
I saw her tits bouncing out of the corner of my eye before I noticed her. She must’ve had them upgraded. On the surface, Becky was the sweetest little woman that you ever did see. She looked like a porcelain doll with her straight brown hair and her sky blue evening gown.
When she saw me and stepped closer, I got a better look. The dress barely covered her nipples, and her tits spilled out. Cold as ever, she flashed me a seductive grin and walked away. She wanted me to follow after her and try to talk to her, but that sort of crap never worked on me.
I ignored her for as long as I could, put in my donation, and walked back to the table where Mercedes sat.
“Jake, how are you?” Becky asked. She swept in from the side with her arms outstretched so I’d look like an ass if I didn’t give her a hug.
I was forced to give in. The second I did, she looked me up and down—daring me to try something.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing. Get the hell away from me, now.” I kept my voice low. I couldn’t have anyone hearing this.
“I don’t want to. I want to play around with your new toy for a little bit.” She flicked the collar of my shirt. “Does she know you’re a monster?” She had a seductive grin. “You can’t control yourself. How are you going to make this work?”
“You know what, woman?” I tried to sidestep her, but she blocked my path. “I don’t have to put up with this crap. And do you keep getting surgeries? Your lip is starting to sag.”
“It won’t last, Jake. You know that.” She reached up and kissed me on the cheek, then looked back at Mercedes. “Come on, let’s go talk to her.” She grabbed me by the arm and wrenched me over to the tables.
“Who is this?” Mercedes asked.
Becky stared at Mercedes with a look of contempt. “See, baby, I’m telling you. You can do a lot better than her.”
“Wha
t?” Mercedes stepped around the table, and I had to block her from getting to Becky.
“You’re getting discount rentals, aren’t you?” Becky asked, laughing.
Mercedes tried to push past me to get to her.
“Hey, hey.” I turned around to grab her by the shoulders, and she went pale. I dropped my arms and looked away. “Becky, you need to leave right now.”
“Fine with me.” She walked off, but the damage was done.
Chapter Thirty
Mercedes
I pushed past Jake and walked outside to the front of the convention hall. In front was a bus stop with a covered bench. I made my way through the grass and took a seat there. Jake had been using the escort service as a way to meet girls.
That didn’t bother me so much as the fact that he was attracted to whores. He admitted to having had multiple girls in one day. He loved whores so much, he was addicted to them. Maybe he saw me as a whore.
The circumstances of our meeting weren’t going away. I met Jake at an escort service. He’d been paying women to have sex for years. He had problems that I might not be able to handle.
The entire time we were together, it was obvious that he liked me, but he didn’t act on it. Something kept him from committing. Why should I be the one to break him out of his addiction? I was nothing special; just some white trash hooker he had delivered to his house.
I couldn’t get past the way that woman had looked, like she’d been spending millions on plastic surgery. Her face was cut up, her cheeks were too round, and her neck muscles stuck out like extra appendages. The worst part was the way she carried herself.
She was fake, bitter, and callous. I couldn’t imagine Jake ever being with somebody like that. It made me wonder if there was a rich douche hidden inside him. I thought it was easy to spot that sort of thing, but any man willing to date a monstrosity like her had issues.
The worst part was the dynamic between them. It was clear that she got to him. She knew what buttons to press and just how to act. They had a history, and with the way she looked, I had a problem with that. She was a whore, and I didn’t think Jake dated whores.
What did that make me? He told me I wasn’t a whore and that he wasn’t paying me for sex, but he spent tens of thousands of dollars on me. So what if he took me a to a nice dinner or a barbecue with his family? He paid me to pretend to be his girlfriend because he was too afraid to get into a relationship.
In the end, Elizabeth was the one that said it best. It was like he had a moral problem with relationships. He didn’t believe in them, so he hired women to stay by his side. Did he go through women like me a lot?
This had moved beyond the realm of personality and interpersonal dynamics. He was mentally ill, and I had to think about what I was doing before I dated him. I wanted to be with him, but if he was crazy, I was just going to get hurt.
There was an intense side to him. He was so touchy, so close, always by my side. Intensity was a bad sign. It often led to jealousy and violence. Maybe he was a drinker, or who knows? Maybe he had other habits. There was no way of knowing what he did or how he lived. His world was too mysterious.
He could be a true monster that preyed on women by showering them with gifts and affection, then beat them and screamed at them. Intensity could be dangerous. It could also be raw, like our bodies grinding together, and my skin tingling when I was with him.
I couldn’t think of those things. If I allowed him to pull me in again, I could become a victim. He might use me and throw me away. Why else would he want hookers? They were disposable. I couldn’t go back into the party, so I sat on the bus stop bench, shivering in the cold. The wind came in strong, and beads of moisture formed on my arms and shoulders.
The grass rustled behind me. I heard footsteps and a hand moving through the hedge. But he couldn’t see me past the bushes.
“Mercedes,” he called out, and walked away.
I was stupid for ever getting involved. I couldn’t believe I got caught up with a man like him. I’d always been so careful about the men I dated. They were thoroughly screened and questioned for months before they even got to ask me out. I couldn’t believe I let Jake slip in.
“Mercedes.” He was on the other side of the building now.
I teared up. I hated myself for doing this. He might’ve been crazy, but he was a good man, and he didn’t deserve to be left alone like this. What we had was intense. He deserved an explanation as to why I was pulling away from him.
I walked around to the lawn. His back was turned, and he was about to walk inside. He froze and turned around. God, I couldn’t do this to him. I hated myself for it. It would probably break his fragile heart. He really thought I was special.
He paled when he saw me. I kept my eyes averted and walked through the grass to meet him near the front entrance. The lights from the party were behind him, casting a shadow down his body.
“Mercedes, will you talk to me?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“No, talk to me.” He took a step forward to wrap his arm around me. I had a choice. I could pull away and let him know I was leaving, or I could let him hold me and second guess myself. I pulled away, slowly at first, then more confidently.
He shrank back, and the light from the party illuminated his face. He was terrified. I felt like a serial killer ready to take their victim, but there was nothing I could do. I wasn’t a whore. I was a dignified woman struggling to become independent. He was just a beautiful trap.
“We should go home,” I said, unable to look at him.
“Mercedes.” He took another step closer to me. I pulled away. “Please, talk to me.”
“I just want to go home, okay? Everything is fine.”
I felt like I’d just shot him between the eyes. I couldn’t drag out the moment and lead him on, but he knew. He knew exactly what I was thinking. It was obvious in the way he kept trying to look at me out of the corner of his eyes. He hunched his shoulders and leaned against the car when we walked up. “Mercedes, please...”
I was torturing him. I’d never hated myself more, but I had to do what I had to do. I walked around to the passenger side door.
He toughened up when we got in the car. The tension between us was electric, but he didn’t say anything. I expected a big fight. Instead, his face calmed, and he stopped looking at me out of the corner of his eyes. He would adjust to life without me. He’d find some other whore to move onto, and I’d build a career for myself.
All the way home, from the second we left the event hall, the air around us became thicker and thicker. A wall of budding resentment and bitterness sprouted up between us. He could cling to that. It would make it easier for him to forget about me.
When he stopped the car in front of my house, he leaned over and grabbed me by the shoulders to face him. “Talk to me, Mercedes.”
“I have to go, Jake.” I opened the door and wrenched away. I climbed into my bedroom window using a patio chair from the backyard and fell face first on the bed.
I wrapped the comforter around my head and stayed there.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jake
The night had started amazingly. Mercedes and I had finally crossed the gap between us, and we were together the way we were supposed to be. We would’ve spent the night together, cuddling and making love. Then we’d wake up next to each other, and I’d make breakfast. That was the way it should have been, and it would’ve had it not been for Satan herself.
Becky was the worst kind of human being possible. She didn’t care about anyone other than herself. She thought she did, but it always came down to how she felt, and whether or not she got the things she wanted.
It all came down to her rich daddy complex. She was from an upper middle-class family. They were the kind of people that thought they were above everyone else, just because they had six figures in their checking accounts.
Her father couldn’t move past his blind ambition. He worked constantly, and when he wa
s off, he was with his mistress. It bothered her a lot. I remember when she told me about it, how she cried and shook. It was hard to hear, but she used that story to get me to let her in.
I gave her nice dresses, and I helped her with her rent when she was in trouble. I even gave her an allowance, so she could feel comfortable, but it was never enough for her. She always wanted more: more money, more jewelry, more clothes. By the time our relationship ended, she had the fall, winter, and summer collections for all major fashion lines. She was mad because she couldn’t keep that up.
In a sense, she was a gold digger. A glorified prostitute. She knew the tricks of her harlot trade. She researched all the right surgeries. She had a schedule set up. Every two years, she had a tit tune-up. Every month, it was Botox injections. And every few weeks, they pumped her full of collagen.
That was how she made her living. Every cup size she went up tripled her budget. Every shot she got made her look five years younger. The men loved it, and they paid a very high price to be with her. It didn’t take her long to figure out that she didn’t need to whore herself out. She could just pick one prick and bleed him dry.
The sad part was that she used men, not because she wanted to use them, but because some sick part of her had gone sour a long time ago. She preyed on rich men because they could shower her with all the pretty things that her father never bought her. They’d fill the gaping hole between her legs and make her feel like she had a heart.
Once they’d proven themselves capable of supporting her fashion addiction, she fell for them. It wasn’t a shallow, “Oh, I love you sweetie,” type of love, or a deep, intimate connection. It was a wild, drunken, glass-breaking brawl.
It turned into an intense battle between the complacent male and a neurotic beauty queen. She’d fight and scream and push her men away. Then she’d lose it when they cheated on her or broke up with her, but it was her fault. I was lucky enough to cut things short before I had to retreat to somebody else.
I did it the right way, too. I brought her to a romantic dinner, and I got her a new dress and a diamond necklace. That was basically a prerequisite to get her out of her townhome at that point. She spent the entire time going over the thing, inspecting it, and asking about the carats. Then she moved onto the new spring collection, and how much she’d love it for her birthday.
