Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
EPILOGUE
Table of Contents
Accidental Man Whore
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Katherine Stevens
Copyright © 2017 Katherine Stevens
All rights reserved
Published by Katherine Stevens
Cover Art Design by Katherine Stevens
Cover Art Image: Depositphotos.com
Artist: vojtechvlk
Formatting by CP Smith
Accidental Man Whore is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author’s unconventional imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no par of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system with the prior written permission of the author.
ISBN-13: 978-1974462773
ISBN-10: 1974462773
For J & C
PROLOGUE
I am not a male escort.
Okay, technically I am a male escort in the sense that I take money from women to go out with them and sometimes have sex with them. But it didn’t start out that way. I own my own business, for Pete’s sake. It’s not turning a huge profit yet, but it’s mine and I don’t have to answer to anyone. Now I have a madam and a Little Black Book. Except I couldn’t find a real little black book, so my escort contacts are scrawled across the pages of the October 2016 Men’s Health that I hide in a kitchen drawer. My whoring schedule is written on a Chinese takeout menu.
Life used to be simple. I barely remember that life now. The past several months are a blur of lies, and sex, and more lies, and a lot more sex, and yarmulkes. Now I’m standing at my door with some eager beaver Miami detective flashing his badge in my face and wanting to know why they found my contact info in a madam’s office during a prostitution bust. I don’t have an answer that won’t land me in jail. I missed the hooker orientation where they tell you to have prepared statements for events like this.
How did it start? How did I go from a guy who waters plants for living to a part-time escort? I would like to say it started with a woman, but it didn’t. It’s kind of a funny story. I took money to bang chicks for my dad. It’s only a little less creepy than it sounds. I wonder if this cop will get a laugh out of it.
CHAPTER 1
THE DEAD JEW
BEN
Four Months Earlier
“You killed the Jew, Martha. There’s no bringing him back now.”
Martha sighs. She’s a short woman with graying hair and always looks like she smells something bad. “I do this every time. I have such a black thumb. I did what you told me to. I took it home and I put it near a window. Are you sure it just doesn’t need some water?”
I poke at the brown remains of the Wandering Jew. The plant didn’t stand a chance against Martha. She is a horticultural grim reaper.
“I think we’re past that point. I’m calling it.” I look at my watch. “Time of death, 9:42 a.m.”
Martha closes her eyes. I hate that my next words are going to send another plant down the long walk, but I can’t help myself. I’m a wimp when it comes to sad women. “I have a little fern out in my van. Do you want to try keeping that alive?”
I think she smiles, but it’s hard to tell. “You’re the best, Ben. I swear I will remember to water this one.”
I am sure she won’t, but I need to keep my client happy. I quit the restaurant business a year ago to start my own company. I take care of plants for commercial buildings. Basically, I water them, pull off the dead leaves, and swap them out when they die. I only have one client so far, but this management company contracts me to handle three of their buildings. It’s paying the bills and I get weekends off. And I don’t come home smelling like fish every night. That’s a real deal breaker for a lot of women. I lost two girlfriends over it. Working with plants is so much better and less smelly.
I go out to my van to get Martha’s next victim. Or as my buddy, Steed, calls it—The Anti-Pussy Wagon. Steed is an asshole. A van is the easiest way to transport all the shit I need for work and I can’t afford to buy a car for the weekends. He ducks down in the seat whenever I drive so he isn’t seen in a van with “The Plant Doctor: We Make House Calls” written on the side.
I take Martha’s fern back to her, along with a spray bottle. Literally, all she has to do is spritz it every couple of days to keep it alive. I hope she can remember that, but I have a feeling I’ll be picking up the corpse in a couple of weeks.
I move to the next office in the building, which is some kind of event planning company. I don’t really know what most of the companies in the three buildings do, but this one stands out. It’s full of women who look like the opposite of Martha. They are all hot as hell. Think Mad Men, but everyone is Joan Harris. I intend to ask one of them out, but I can’t tell them apart yet. The only one I really know is Stephanie, the owner. She scares me a little, so I’m going to pass on her. I have a feeling most of her dates end the evening tied to the bed with a ball gag in their mouth. She’s intense and I’m not about that life.
“Benjamin, I’m so glad you’re here.” The queen bee appears behind me and I jump a little. My masculinity takes a hit every time I talk to her.
“Good morning, Stephanie. How can I help you?” I’m sure she can sense my nervousness. I think she gets off on scaring men.
“There’s a plant in my office that looks sick, Benjamin. Could you take a look at it?”
She says my name way more often than a normal person. And she won’t call me Ben for some reason. My mother was the only person who ever called me Benjamin. I don’t like her using that name, but I’m afraid if I push it, she’s going to bite my head off like a praying mantis.
“Sure, Stephanie.” Now I’m using her name every three seconds. She’s in my head.
“It’s behind the credenza.”
I walk into her office and see a large corn plant between the enormous piece of furniture and the wall. It’s such an odd place for a plant and looks impossible to get to. “Can we move this credenza?” I stand by one end waiting for her to grab the other end and help.
She stands in the doorway, leaning casually against the jam. “Oh, I’m afraid not, Benjamin. It’s antique and weighs several hundred pounds. There’s no way to move it.”
Well, this is stupid. “Then how did you get the plant back there?”
“Not without great effort.”
That’s vague and unhelpful. I bend over the crede
nza and check out the leaves and the soil. “Everything looks good from here,” I call out to her. All the blood is rushing to my head.
“It sure does, Benjamin. Everything looks very good from here.”
I stand back up and turn around. She’s smiling, but it’s not like a regular smile. We’re both probably picturing me tied to her bed, but only one of us is loving the vision.
I wipe my hands off on my pants. “I’m going to check the rest of the plants now. You should move that near a window. It will do a lot better there than behind a piece of furniture.”
“It has its advantages back there, Benjamin.” She doesn’t move out of the doorway, so I brush past her on the way out. I’m happy to leave with my head attached to my body.
There are only a few other plants in the office suite, but I take my time so I can check out the supermodels walking around. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve cranked my frank to the general hotness happening in this space. I’m being creepy, but Steed says I have the van for that.
I finish up the rounds at this building and then head over to my dad’s. He lives alone since my mom passed a few years ago. I like to check on him every couple of days. She took such good care of him. I only know how to make sure he’s been fed and watered, but it’s better than nothing. He’s lived in the same house since him and Mom got married. It’s old and falling apart, buthe will never leave. The neighborhood isn’t what it used to be. I don’t even bring that up anymore. I added bars to the windows last year after some break-ins and we left it at that.
I walk up to the front and turn the knob. It opens right up. The man thinks Miami is Mayberry.
“Dad, you have got to start locking your front door,” I yell as I walk through it.
“How will the murderers get in if I start doing that?” I hear him call from the back of the house. The man has jokes. Always has.
I walk into the living room and see him sitting at the kitchen table. He’s got the phone cord stretched from the wall next to the cabinets. I bought him a cordless phone a few months ago, but he returned it and said cords were good enough for his dad and they are good enough for him, too. He doesn’t like change. No one does, I guess, but Dad is a lot more vocal about it.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m on hold with my doctor’s office. I swear, you call them right back after they leave you a message and they put you on hold for the rest of your life as punishment.” He knocks the receiver against the table top.
“Why didn’t you answer when they called?” I wash my hands in the kitchen sink and dry them on the towel that sits next to the dish rack.
“Because I was on the phone with the Queen.”
I roll my eyes.
“Because I was in the bathroom. That’s the only time they ever call. I don’t know how they know when you need to take a piss, but they know.” He knocks the receiver against the table again.
I snag an apple from the bowl on the counter. I don’t think Dad even likes apples, but my mom always kept a bowl of apples on the counter when she was alive, so Dad keeps refilling it. I think it makes him feel like she’s still with him.
“Thank God, Barry,” he yells into the phone. “Your hold music is enough to make someone lose their will to live. Do I not pay you enough to afford some better music?”
I sit at the table next to him and eat my apple. I wish I knew how to peel an apple without cutting off half the good stuff. Only moms know that trick.
“What do you mean I have to come in? I’m not going to drive down there so you can tell me something you could’ve told me over the phone. That’s stupid. I’ve known you since we used to throw shit off the bridge at railway cars. Don’t start acting like a real doctor with me.”
Dad grew up with Barry Jordan. They terrorized the neighborhood, from what I can tell. Mostly harmless things, but more than I could get away with as a kid. Then they went into the Army together. Barry became a doctor, but Dad treats him like he has a pretend license. Still, he won’t go see anyone else.
“Give it to me straight, Barry, and don’t use big words. We both know you almost flunked out of medical school.”
That catches my attention. Dad doesn’t usually get this worked up with Barry. Barry takes good care of him. I’ve seen his bills and he only charges Dad twenty dollars, no matter what he goes in for. Barry always happens to have samples of my dad’s prescriptions laying around, so he’s never had to buy those either. My dad has no idea how much any of this medical stuff really costs. I broke my shoulder doing a keg stand when I was twenty, and I had never seen a bill with that many zeroes before. I would have moved to Canada if they had tropical weather.
“In my where?” He’s getting more agitated. “Bullshit. You’re pulling my leg. I’ll tell Doreen who really broke her mom’s vase. I will. I’ll call your wife. Don’t mess with me.”
I’m watching my dad and I think he’s intentionally avoiding eye contact with me. None of this sounds good. “What’s going on?” I ask.
He waves me off without looking at me. “Okay, well what do we do about it? Do I come by your office and pick up some samples?” There’s a long silence. “Oh. I don’t want to do that.”
“What’s he saying?”
I get waved off again. “Fine. 10:00 a.m. tomorrow? They better not make me fill out a bunch of papers.”
I reach for the phone, but he swats my hand.
“Whatever, Barry. Next time don’t keep me on hold so long, you bastard. Tell Doreen I said hello.”
He walks the receiver back to the base on the wall and goes to sit in his recliner. He flips up the foot part of it and turns on the TV like every other day. I know we’ll both die of old age if I don’t press him to tell me what just happened.
“What did Barry say, Dad?” I sit on the couch next to his chair.
“Oh, you know Barry. He’s all worked up over nothing.” He switches the channel to the local news.
“He’s a doctor. I don’t think they usually get worked up over nothing. What did he say?”
He sets the remote back on the tray table next to his chair. “Yeah, but he’s not a real doctor. This is Barry we’re talking about. He’s scared of dogs.”
I hate trying to get information from him. “Didn’t you say he got attacked by a dog when you guys were kids?”
“Still, he’s scared of dogs.” He focuses on the newscast like this is a normal day and he didn’t just have a weird conversation with his doctor.
“Dad, what did he tell you?” This is why I prefer to work with plants and not people.
He mutters something under his breath. “He says I have cancer. There, are you happy?”
Everything stops. That’s the worst C word. Worse than the other C word. You can’t just toss something out there like that. “Cancer? Is he sure? What kind? What else did he say? I want to talk to him.”
He shifts around in his chair, looking uncomfortable. I’ve never seen my dad look uncomfortable in his old recliner. “I’m not a parrot. I can’t remember everything he said. Something about cancer in my ass. It had a long name.” He points at me. “It’s probably from you and your brother being a pain in my ass all these years. He wants me to go down to the VA in the morning for more tests. He said it looked like he caught it early so it’s no big deal.”
“He said it’s no big deal?” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation right now.
“No, but’s that’s what he meant. I’m paraphrasing.” He’s back to focusing on the TV.
Some obnoxious used car commercial comes on and I will now forever associate this dealership with my father’s cancer. Fuck you, Honest Gary’s Used Cars. “Can you not paraphrase your cancer diagnosis?”
“It’s fine. I’ll go down to the VA in the morning and I’ll get it taken care of.” He looks like he’s trying to convince himself that it’s fine. Neither of us is buying what he’s selling.
“I’m going with you. I’ll be here to pick you up at 9:30.”
&nb
sp; He waves me off again. “I can go to the VA by myself.”
“I know you can, but I’m going with you. I would like a little more detail other than ‘ass cancer’ and ‘no big deal’ so we know what we’re dealing with. You should be seeing a specialist.”
“You sound like Barry.”
He’s acting like this isn’t a huge thing, but I know it’s an act. Cancer killed Mom. He knows what this means. Am I about to be an orphan? I’m having flashbacks to finding out about Mom’s diagnosis. She went so fast. One minute she had a cough and the next minute she had stage four lung cancer. Everything in this house is still the same as when Mom was here. All of her collectibles are still displayed, her clothes are still in the closet, and the floral pillows my dad always hated are still on the couch. This feels like a bad sequel to a movie I don’t want to see.
“Dad, I’m driving you to the hospital tomorrow and I don’t want to hear any arguments.”
“You better not be late.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the TV, but he doesn’t argue. That means he’s worried and that makes me worry. Cancer is such bullshit.
Dad looks over at me. “What? Are you just going to stare at me all day? Your face will freeze like that.”
I don’t know how, but he’s already making cancer less fun. “I’m not staring. I’m just thinking about some things. It’s kind of a lot to process.”
“No, you’re staring and I don’t like to be stared at in my own house.” The commercials end and he turns back to the TV. “Why don’t you go home and feed your gerbil instead of staring a hole through my head?”
He’s lashing out. He did that when Mom was sick, too. He went through a few other stages first, but maybe his body has muscle memory and he’s skipping those phases this time. “He’s a ferret, not a gerbil. I don’t think I should leave. We should call Jacob and have him come over.”
He turns away from the newscast, which is like seeing a dog jump rope. That’s not a thing he does. Ever. “Oh, no, we’re not telling your brother to come over. Then I’ll have two of you staring at me like I could croak any second. I’ll call Jacob later. Barry said it was no big deal. Now I want to watch my news in peace. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t be late.”
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