Love's Illusion

by Priya Grey

  “Satisfaction guaranteed, huh?” She replies. Damn her voice sounds sexy. It’s sarcastic and feminine but with many layers to it. It’s full bodied like a fine wine.

  “Before we meet,” I tell her. “I need to ask you something.”

  “Okay,” she replies.

  “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  She laughs. “No.”

  “Good. I just needed to check. Well, now that that is settled, why don’t we discuss some details.”

  She says she’s just interested in a quick session. She doesn’t know what she wants, and we decide to figure it out when we meet. When I mention my fee, she doesn’t hesitate and says it won’t be a problem. I ask her where she wants to meet and she says her home. I find that a bit unusual since I meet most of my clients in hotels.

  “How long will it take you to get here?” she asks.

  “Well, you have to tell me where you live first.”

  “Duh. Sorry.”

  She gives me her address. It’s all the way on the other side of town… in the Hollywood hills, celebrity central. A far cry from my ghetto neighborhood in South LA.

  “It’s the middle of the night, so not long,” I tell her. “But you know LA. You never know when you’re going to hit traffic.”

  “Can you leave now?” she asks. Now that she’s made up her mind to go through with it, she doesn’t want to waste any time.

  “Sure.”

  “Great. See you soon.”

  She hangs up. I look at my phone, still surprised by the tone of our conversation.

  Haunted.

  I stretch my arms and slowly get out of bed. I’m back on the clock.

  I step into the tiny bathroom of my shitty studio apartment and wash my face to wake up. As I dry off, I see the picture of Max pinned to the bathroom mirror. He’s smiling back at me. The picture was taken when he was healthy… before the cancer. I kiss my lips and touch his picture.

  “Tigers need their rest, son.”

  I turn off the bathroom light and walk out.

  Tomorrow will be the nine-month anniversary of his death.

  Fortunately, there isn’t much traffic on the 110. So, I can probably make it up to the Hills in forty-five minutes. I roll down the window of my piece-of-shit Corolla and let the night breeze blow in. It’s unusually hot in LA for February.

  Fuckin’ climate change.

  I listen to some hip-hop to divert my mind. But that doesn’t work. I turn off the radio.

  As usual, I think about Max.

  Tomorrow will mark nine months since I buried my son.

  It all happened so fast.

  After Shane offered to pay Max’s medical bills, I immediately told the doctor to enroll him in the experimental procedure. We flew Max to Denver, Colorado for his treatment – that’s where the premier doctor that dealt with Max’s rare illness worked. Max and I spent two months there. At first, it looked like he was responding well to the treatment. But then suddenly, things took a turn for the worse.

  I’m still amazed by how tough my son was until the end.

  I miss him so much. He was such a good kid. He didn’t deserve to go through what he did. My heart bleeds every time I think of him. It’s a pain – an emotion – I can’t put into words.

  Suddenly, I stop thinking about Max when – to my right – about a mile ahead, I notice a car pulled over on the highway. Instantly, the muscles in my neck tense. I grip the steering wheel for dear life. My heart races.

  Here we go again.

  My fight or flight responses kick into high alert. Is that car a decoy? Could it contain an explosive device – just like the car in Iraq that blew up my Humvee and killed two of my men. I was lucky; I escaped with only a few bruises.

  A cold sweat pours down my face, as I get closer to the car parked on the shoulder. My instinct is to find an alternate route, a way out. My eyes swiftly scan the rearview mirror, then the side mirrors. I’m blocked by another car to my left. I can’t stop, or swerve into another lane.

  I’m getting closer.

  I imagine the car exploding.

  I ease off the accelerator, wanting to avoid passing the car altogether. The car behind me honks me out of my daze.

  I have no way out of this. I have to drive past this car.

  It’s getting closer.

  I grip the steering wheel so tight that I’m afraid it might snap off.

  I’m about to pass it.

  I tightly shut my eyes and wait for the explosion.

  Suddenly, the car to my left honks. I open my eyes wide.

  Shit! I’m about to hit the car!

  I swerve back into my lane. I quickly look in my rear view mirror. The car on the shoulder is now a safe distance away. It looks like it had a flat tire.

  I try reminding myself I’m not in Iraq or Afghanistan. I’m in LA. But my body can’t tell the difference. It’s on high alert now and I feel a sense of rage flood through me. I bang my steering wheel with frustration. Fuck this PTSD.

  I take several deep breaths but it does nothing to calm me.

  I’m so angry. Angry at a million different things all at once. I’m angry at the war and what it did to me. I’m angry at God for putting my son through so much pain and then robbing him of his life at such a young age.

  I was the one who went to war. I should be the dead one, not my little boy.

  I’m angry at life itself and how unfair it can be to some.

  Then, a sense of guilt overwhelms me.

  My anger slowly turns to regret.

  I was a terrible father.

  I should have spent more time with Max when he was alive.

  Monique got pregnant right before I was shipped out on my first tour of Iraq. We were never a couple. We just had sex after a party one night and she got pregnant.

  I was in the Middle East when Max was born. And when I came home between tours, I wasn’t very involved in either one of their lives. Honestly, I was a bit of a zombie. Acclimating to civilian life was really difficult for me. That’s why I always went back to the Middle East. That all changed when I realized Monique was in really bad shape because of her drug habit. When I saw my son being raised in that environment, I realized I needed to do something. I finally took on my responsibilities as a father and put my combat days behind me. Max moved in with me. Monique disappeared. I still don’t know where she went. I hope she’s alive and hasn’t died from drug abuse.

  Max and I had a few happy years together, just the two of us. I channeled my PTSD anger issues into MMA fighting. But when the traveling became too much, I decided to open my own gym to spend more time with Max. Everything felt like it was finally falling into place.

  I was finding joy in being a father.

  Then Max got sick.

  When I buried my son, my life fell apart. I lost everything.

  Max’s medical bills amounted to several hundred thousand dollars. Shane paid every one of them, on one condition: He owned me until the debt was repaid.

  He owns my gym, and I have to fight in underground matches he promotes. He keeps all the earnings; I don’t see a dime. But that’s not where it ends.

  He also owns my body.

  Shane pimps me out through his website. Apparently, there’s a huge demand among rich LA women for former military men who are built like me. So, when I’m not training for the next fight, I’m on the clock fucking.

  I’m a whore. And Shane is my pimp.

  This was the deal I made with him in exchange for paying Max’s medical bills. To Shane, this is purely a business transaction. He needs to make back the money he loaned me. And the only thing I have of value is my gym and my body. In his view, this isn’t personal. It’s just business.

  I don’t know how much more of this I can take though. I’ve grown so numb to people, my surroundings…

  I’ve come close to killing myself on more than one occasion. I keep a handgun in the drawer of my nightstand. On two separate nights, I’ve placed the muzzle of that
gun in my mouth and tried to pull the trigger. But both times, the realization that I’d be letting my son, Max, down stopped me from going through with it. I believe Max is in heaven looking down at me. And I know he’d be really disappointed in his father if he quit on life.

  But I’ll be honest, it’s getting harder for me to justify living in such a senseless world. What do I have to live for, anyway? I still have Layla, but I avoid seeing her and her family as much as possible. I just feel like my sad presence brings everyone down. I see the sadness in their eyes when I show up to their house and it reminds me of everything I’ve lost.

  I force myself to stop thinking about all this as I take the next exit off the freeway. I’m about to meet a client. I have to get in the mood to fuck. As I weave my beat up Corolla through the curvy Hollywood hills, I glance at the mansions lining the street. So this is how the other half live – in a world where money is never a concern, and the future is always bright from inside your hilltop mansion. Must be nice.

  The GPS tells me I’ve arrived at the address. I park my car.

  I still don’t know if I can go through with this tonight. I’m in such a sad, miserable state. But if I don’t, I’ll have to provide Shane an explanation. I don’t feel like dealing with that either. I take a deep breath and get out of my car.

  A full moon is shining in the night sky, casting shadows on the ground. I look at the modern mansion before me, overlooking LA. I make my way toward the gate. A red Volkswagen bug is parked down the street. It calls my attention because I can see the silhouette of someone inside the car. Looks like a guy with a beard. But it’s dark, so I’m not sure.

  I press the button on the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me. Kade.”

  “It took you long enough. I almost changed my mind.”

  “Well, you’ll be glad you didn’t,” I respond. I hate talking like this. It’s not me. But I remind myself that Shane wants me to be friendly and upbeat, not such a downer.

  “Come around back. Don’t use the front door,” she says.

  The gates open and I walk up the driveway toward the house. I ring the backdoor, as instructed. As I wait, I remember the reason this woman chose me from the website: my haunted eyes. Well, if haunted is what she’s attracted to, she picked the right guy.

  The door unlocks.

  As I wait for him to knock on my door, I realize what I am doing. I’m letting a complete stranger into my house. What if he’s a serial killer? Fuck, now I decide to worry about this? I’ve already let him through the gate and he’s walking to my door! I quickly run to the safe in my bedroom and punch in the code. I unlock it and take out a small handgun. I’ve never fired it. I purchased it three years ago when I found a deranged-looking thirty-year-old man waiting for me in my kitchen with flowers. He broke into my house. He said his name was James, said he loved me, and wanted us to get married. I talked calmly to James as I texted 911 on my phone. James is now locked up in some psych ward.

  My doorbell rings. I quickly slide open my nightstand drawer and place the gun inside. Now, it’s easily accessible if anything crazy happens. I’m about to step out of the bedroom when I realize I don’t have my mask on. I grab it and slip it on, then make sure it’s tightly fastened behind my head so it won’t slip. I check myself in the mirror. This white mask really makes me look like the Phantom of the Opera. I check my outfit. I’m wearing a long burgundy peasant skirt with a black tank top under a chambray shirt. For some strange reason, I hope this guy I’m paying to fuck me likes what I’m wearing. The doorbell rings again. I hurry out of the bedroom and toward the back door. Mingus runs after me the whole way. I realize he might be too much of a distraction, so I scoop him up and lock him in one of the bathrooms with a bowl of food and water.

  “This is only temporary, Mingus. I just can’t have you barking while I’m fucking. It’s a mood killer.”

  Mingus whimpers a reply as I close the bathroom door. The doorbell rings again.

  “I’m coming,” I shout. I scurry toward the back door. I take a deep breath and touch my white plastic mask one last time – just to make sure it hasn’t shifted. I don’t want my scars to scare him away.

  Finally, I open the door.

  He’s staring straight at me. Those dark, deep eyes set in a chiseled face. I scan his body.

  Damn, he is fine.

  He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt and worn out blue jeans. It’s a simple ensemble but one that highlights his perfect physique. This dude is rock solid: muscular, tattooed arms, strong thighs and legs. And his face: gorgeous – like it’s been chiseled out of marble as some sculptor’s idea of what the perfect man should look like. He has dark hair and full lips. But it’s those damn eyes that really draw me in. They’re so intense, brimming with emotion. Then I notice the surprised look on his face. It’s my mask. I’ve caught him off guard. I didn’t warn him beforehand. I touch the mask gently with my hand. I’m about to comment on it but struggle with what to say.

  So I say nothing.

  We stare at each other in silence. I sense he’s trying to figure out what kind of weird shit he signed up for. He gives me a slight nod and tries to smile, but I can tell it doesn’t come naturally to him.

  “Sorry, it took me a bit,” he says. “I don’t live anywhere near your neighborhood.”

  I hear the sadness in his voice. He’s trying to hide it. But if you listen closely, you can sense it in the few words he just uttered.

  It’s been so long since I’ve had a man like this in my presence. Scratch that. I’ve never had a man as impressive as him stare at me before. And wearing this mask, I suddenly feel really foolish.

  This was a mistake. But I’ve already opened the door. I have to let him in now. I take a deep breath and try to steady my nerves.

  “Please come in,” I say as I open the door wider so he can pass through.

  I inhale as he walks past me. Damn… I’ve missed the scent of a man. And this guy, Kade, smells good, like the outdoors, woodsy but mixed with spice. I feel myself getting woozy from his presence. I convince myself it’s because of him and not the vodka tonics I’ve had throughout the night.

  He turns around and faces me, his hands in his jean pockets. He gives a quick glance around the place and shrugs.

  “Nice place,” he remarks, but I can tell by the way he says it that he doesn’t really care.

  “Thanks.”

  We stand still, staring at each other again, saying nothing. Those eyes. I see an intense storm brewing in them. He’s on the edge of something. Something deep and sorrowful. His energy might be dark and mysterious but it’s also strangely comforting. My attraction toward him escalates. I can’t explain why.

  “I should have warned you,” I say.

  “About?”

  “The mask.”

  He shrugs. “Whatever makes you comfortable is fine with me.”

  He keeps staring at me, and I realize if I’m going to go through with this, I should warn him about the scars on my body too.

  “I had an accident,” I say. “I have scars. All over my body. Including my face. I should have warned you over the phone.” I take another deep breath. “If you want to cancel this meeting, I understand.”

  He ponders what I said, and I’m suddenly racked with nerves. I realize I don’t want him to go. In the few seconds he’s been in my home, I’ve felt the air shift around me. His dark, soulful presence is astonishing. It pulls me in, like the force of a magnet. And up close, he looks even hotter than his picture. Even though I’m nervous about it, I know I just have to see what he looks like underneath those clothes. I have to see him naked.

  But I can’t blame him if he doesn’t want to have sex with my scar-covered body. I really should have mentioned it over the phone when I was talking to him. Now it’s awkward.

  “Will it hurt? If I touch you?” he asks. I notice the concerned tone in his voice. I wasn’t expecting it.

  I shake my head. Then quickly
make sure my mask hasn’t shifted. “No,” I say. “It won’t hurt. But there are scars everywhere.”

  He shrugs. “I’m fine with it, if you are?” he says. “I just want to know if I need to be gentle.”

  Another long moment of silence. We keep staring at each other. His dark gaze is so intense. It’s mesmerizing.

  “Please don’t be gentle,” I confide. “I’m not that type of girl.”

  Did I just say that? I guess it’s the vodka talking, but it’s true.

  Physical sex – the unbridled, no-holds barred kind – is what I prefer. Tonight will test whether my body can handle it after the accident.

  “Good to know,” he replies. After a pause, he admits with a shrug, “I’m not really the slow and romantic type.”

  Our eyes meet again and my body begins to tingle. It’s been so long since I’ve felt the excited rush of sexual energy run through my veins.

  “Do you want anything to drink?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No thanks.”

  “Are you in training? Your profile said you’re a fighter.”

  He nods. “Yeah. I fight underground.”

  “What makes it underground?”

  “No rules.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Can be,” he says with a shrug.

  This Kade isn’t much of a talker, but I don’t care. I didn’t hire him for that. I hired him to fuck me. And I get the impression he knows what he’s doing in that department.

  “Is this going to be your first time since the accident?” he asks.

  I nod slowly.

  “Well, I hope I can make it memorable,” he says.

  I smirk behind the mask. “Trust me, looking the way you do, I don’t think it will be an issue.”

  I’m feeling bolder now, more comfortable. My attraction to this guy is growing with each passing second. And my sexual desire is coming back to life.

  “Well, I’m here to please you,” he says with another shrug, “Your satisfaction is guaranteed. If you don’t like anything I do, just let me know.” He pauses then says, “And if you want to take off that mask so you’re comfortable –”

  I raise my hand, cutting him off.