Angel: Counsel Series

by Shenda Paul

  He lowers my leg and gets up to walk through the door behind the bar and returns with a warm, damp towel, which he hands me. I take it wordlessly and, without meeting his gaze, sit up to clean myself.

  I reach for my discarded clothes. “Don’t,” he says, “there are robes in the bathroom.” I retrieve my underwear and quickly move past him. Inside the small bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror, expecting to see some change in my face. ‘Perhaps a scarlet letter on your forehead,’ my subconscious taunts, but other than my disheveled hair, swollen lips and flushed, tear-stained cheeks, I still look like me.

  My mind, however, chants ‘whore, whore’, over and over—a word I’d never found the desire or need to use before, and one I’d certainly never thought could or would ever be aimed at me. I remove a washcloth from the folded pile, run it under the hot water and hold it to my private parts, which are feeling distinctly sore. Sex with Justin was definitely not as careful and loving as it had been with Luke, but what did I expect? This is a job, it’s not affection, and it could never be love.

  I splash cold water on my face, dry myself, and finger-comb my hair, trying, desperately, to restore some semblance of normality to my appearance. I search around for the robes he’d mentioned and finally find four, two white toweling and two black silk. I settle on the smaller of the white robes—it speaks less of sex—and slowly make my way back to the room where he’s waiting.

  He wears only trousers as he reclines on the sofa with a brandy balloon in hand. He motions for me to sit beside him, and I do, leaving some distance between us. “Brandy?” he points out the second glass on the table.

  “I’m not really a drinker. I’ll just have another soda,” I get up to go to the bar.

  “I’ll get it,” he says, placing his glass on the table. He returns with my drink. I thank him softly and take a sip.

  “Angelique?” He waits for me to look up. “Were you a virgin?” Gray eyes bore into mine, and I feel a lump rise in my throat. I fight back the tears and shake my head.

  “I saw your reaction, don’t lie … please?” He adds the plea only to soften his demand, I think. ‘And to get the desired response from you,’ my subconscious taunts. I can’t look him in the eye. “I’ve had sex only once before…four years ago,” I confess. He’s silent, shocked or perhaps waiting for me to expand. I don’t. I’m not sharing any more of myself than I have to. Those memories are mine. I don’t want it sullied by what I’ve done here, what I’ll probably continue to do here.

  “I’m a lucky bastard,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re an unexpected gift—worth every penny,” he adds. He leans in to kiss me deeply and rather roughly, groaning as he pulls me close. “God, I want you again.” He sighs when he sits back. “But I’m not an animal,” he says and finishes his drink in one gulp before he gets up to pick up his shirt, donning it slowly. Once buttoned, he puts on his jacket and then leans over to kiss my cheek.

  “Wednesday, Angelique. The same time,” he says, and then leaves.

  15

  T hree months have passed, months that, at times, have felt like a lifetime, since I first slept with a man for money. Justin’s requested my company on a regular basis, often bemoaning the restrictions imposed on the number of liaisons I can have. Twice, he sought and gained approval to spend extra time with me. Ironic, really, that what we do is referred to as a liaison. I couldn’t help wondering, when I first heard it, which had come first, the euphemism or the club’s name?

  As much as I deplore what I’m doing, I tried, after that first time, to convince myself that it wasn’t all bad. Justin was kind and gentle, mostly, and if I tried really hard, I could almost pretend we were in a relationship of sorts, tainted as it may be. But, no matter how hard I pretend, I can’t escape the fact that I’m nothing more than a paid sex worker—a fact, driven home particularly hard on the nights, after we’ve had sex, when Justin becomes, withdrawn, almost dismissive. He hasn’t done it often but, on occasion, for seemingly no good reason, his mood would shift. Instead of spending time talking over a glass of wine or brandy, or in my case, soda and lime, he’d leave abruptly, even before I had time to get dressed. I’d feel used and discarded then, humiliated really.

  Sometimes, I see Justin on the news attending a public or social event, often with a woman clinging to his arm. I don’t actively follow him in the media; it’s just that he’s always there, hard to miss. Those occasions, especially when he’s with a female, serve as yet another sharp reminder that my place is in the shadows. I’ve realized that I can no longer expect that a respected man would want to be seen with me or proud to publicly claim me as his. The knowledge that I may never again be viewed as worthy devastates me.

  Mom taught me from an early age that my body is special, and, as I grew older, she’d tell me how wonderful it would feel to share myself with someone who loves and cherishes me. And Dad, my honorable and hard-working dad, had been all about teaching me pride and respect. ‘Self-respect means everything, A Stór,” he’d say. ‘Just because we don’t live in as nice a house or have as much money as some people, doesn’t mean we’re less.

  ‘Don’t let anyone rob you of your pride,’ had always been his mantra. I’ve betrayed every principle my parents tried to instill in me. I can only pray that if Dad’s looking down, he forgives me and understands why I’m doing this, and I hope fervently that Mom never finds out.

  About a month ago, even as I’d thought I might, finally, be coming to terms with my situation, Joseph Cordi decided it was time I escorted other men. He set up liaisons with a wealthy, influential businessman, a foreign diplomat, and an actor. They were courteous, but I hated having sex with them, even more than I first had with Justin.

  My self-loathing quadrupled, and I spent much of my time in the shower, trying to scrub away my shame. Even now, despite no longer crying myself to sleep, I haven’t managed to dispel the feeling of self-disgust. I’d even, for one insane moment, found myself wondering why I hadn’t accepted Dieter’s offer. Surely it would be better than what I’m doing now? I thought, but I castigated myself almost as soon as the idea surfaced. Of course, it wouldn’t be better, it could, in fact, be viewed as worse. The man had victimized me since I was a little girl. He’s pure evil.

  It doesn’t improve my self-perception, but I do, at least, gain a sense of relief when I see Mom happy and mobile in her new wheelchair. My bank account’s improving month by month, and we’re moving toward some semblance of financial security. I constantly remind myself that I won’t have to do this forever. I try, also, to be thankful that Joseph has kept his word and been selective with the men he’s agreed for me to see and also for the limitations placed on my liaisons. Most of the other girls see twice or three times the number of men in a month, some even more than that. I’m grateful, despite knowing that his decision’s based on some twisted idea of market value rather than concern for me.

  I don’t know the exact amounts of money exchanged for my services, and I don’t want to. I prefer to concentrate on what I’m paid, and how those shameful earnings allow me to care for Mom and save for a better future. I do manage to save quite a bit each month because, other than spending what’s necessary on maintaining my appearance and a wardrobe of stylish clothes for the club, and, last month, buying myself a small, second-hand car, I live frugally.

  I haven’t given up on the idea of returning to college, but I’ve yet to decide what to study. I find it hard to give up my dream of ballet, though, because, since first setting eyes on those little girls in ballet clothes, I’ve wanted to do nothing except dance. I’ve considered opening my own, modest studio, but I’m not sure how realistic that plan is, given the amount of money I’d have to invest in setting it up. For the sake of Mom’s upkeep, I simply can’t risk failure.

  Mom, my friends in New York, Sammy, Samuel and Nic know nothing about my new occupation. They’ve readily accepted my explanation that the ballet school has expanded and that I’m now working full days. I�
�ve resigned myself to the ever-present guilt; not only for what I do but also for lying to the people I love. Only Sarah and Amy know the truth, and they understand the situation only too well; and, at least I can be honest with them.

  I’ve studiously avoided making friends because the more people I allow into my life, the more chance there is of discovery. Anyone who learns the truth will almost certainly despise me, and why wouldn’t they? I hate myself, and I especially hate having sex with the other members I’ve been forced to. I can’t possibly be as good at it as the other girls, and I don’t think I do a good job at hiding the fact that I deplore what I do. But those men don’t seem to care; for some, unfathomable, reason I remain in demand. I should be thankful, I suppose, otherwise, Joseph would lift the restrictions, and I’d end up having to sleep with more men.

  The other thing I find particularly upsetting is that, much to my ongoing shame, no matter how hard I mentally fight against succumbing, Justin always manages to make my body respond. Perhaps it’s because he was the first after Luke, maybe I’m subconsciously clinging to a childish dream of romance, or perhaps it’s because, beneath his somewhat cynical and sometimes cold demeanor, I catch glimpses of what could be sensitive and caring man. He’s also, undeniably, good at sex, and I know he enjoys that I can’t seem to control my response to his skill. I’ve given up on trying to understand it, but it hasn’t stopped me viewing my body as a traitor to both my heart and mind.

  I know from Sarah and Amy that Justin treats me differently than he did Natasha, his former escort. I think it’s because of what he knows about my very limited sexual history. Whatever the reason, the fact is that, no matter how reluctantly, I’ve given him access to a part of me, a part I’d been determined not to relinquish when signing that contract. I don’t aim to share any more of myself, but, in the absence of any real relationship, what I have with him, I suppose, is as close to one I’ll come, given the current situation.

  Justin’s expressed more and more displeasure when I’ve been unavailable because Joseph’s booked me with someone else. He knows I don’t have any choice in the matter, but his bouts of churlishness have increased. His mood had been particularly bad some nights ago when Tom, not for the first time, suggested booking me. Justin jumped down his throat, telling him there were other women better suited to his needs. Tom challenged him; he even implied that they’d shared before. I visibly blanched at that, and Justin all but stomped out of the room, demanding that Tom follow him. When they returned, Tom sported a supercilious smirk, but he kept well away from me. It didn’t appease Justin though; he practically dragged me from the lounge and up to his private room.

  I’m grateful that Justin confronted Tom because, despite his attempts to be charming, there’s just something about Tom that I don’t like or trust. I can’t determine what it is, but I think it has a lot to do with the thinly disguised disdain he shows me.

  The actor, Robert and I met again last night. He booked me once before, and we’d, predictably, spent the time in a private room. He surprised me last night, however, when having met at the club as requested, he led me to a waiting limousine. We drove to an exclusive restaurant, and I found myself enjoying his company. Robert didn’t make one sexual overture over dinner; he behaved like an attentive date. I had no doubt how the night would end, but he made me feel a lot less like a prostitute.

  I glanced up at one stage and found myself staring straight into Justin’s flinty eyes as a waiter led him to a table. He stared back without a flicker of recognition before he glanced at my companion. He narrowed his eyes when he recognized him. Robert, in turn, gave him a polite nod, which Justin rudely ignored. An imperious-looking blonde woman clung to his hand. She pursed her lips when she caught Justin looking at me, her expression, one you’d expect from someone who’d stepped in something nasty. She tugged on Justin’s hand, and he walked away without a backward glance.

  And now, having arrived at the club for a prearranged meeting, I have no idea what his mood will be. Amy waylays me and motions for me to follow her into the ladies room. She crouches down and, ignoring my incredulous look, checks under the door of every stall before, seemingly satisfied, she turns to me.

  “I overheard Senator Wade and Mr. Cordi arguing,” she whispers conspiratorially.

  “What about?”

  “You,” she says expectantly.

  “What did they say?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me,” she huffs.

  “I know nothing about it; are you sure you didn’t hear anything?”

  “Carmen turned up before I could find out more, but they were shouting, and I heard Senator Wade mention your name.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” I mutter, more worried than ever.

  “Call me as soon as you know, right?” she calls out as I leave.

  Justin’s agitatedly pacing the floor when I arrive. He stops and pins me against the door, and without speaking, tugs at my clothes while hungrily sucking at my neck.

  “Justin, you’re going to mark me…” I protest.

  “Don’t talk, Angelique, and don’t argue with me.” He pulls my dress down and roughly lowers my underwear. “On the bed,” he tells me as he removes his own clothing.

  I’m dazed and, to be honest, humiliated. I understand that he’s paying for me, but he’s never exhibited angry, possessive behavior he did tonight. I’ll carry the marks of his rough handling, I’m sure. I sensed his contrition when he noticed the bruise already forming on my hip, yet he left without an apology.

  I dress without having a shower, and for the first time, in a long while after having spent time with Justin, I truly feel like a prostitute. I just want to get home to my little apartment, wash away this feeling of sorrow and disgust and forget tonight, forget this place—forget what I’ve become.

  Justin doesn’t contact me for two weeks, and I don’t reach out to him. My contract strictly forbids me from approaching members, a condition introduced to protect them from unwanted attention, no doubt. Not that I have any wish to contact him; I wouldn’t do so, even without the existence of that clause.

  At the beginning of the third week, Carmen calls to inform me that Joseph wants to see me. Justin’s in the room when I arrive and barely looks at me.

  “Take a seat,” Joseph tells me, and Justin, still silent, stands to pull out my chair. I thank him quietly.

  “I’ve decided to change your terms of employment,” Joseph announces, making my heart pound furiously. Has Justin complained? Am I being fired again? My mind’s already frantically calculating how long my savings will last when Joseph continues.

  “As of today, you’ll serve the Senator exclusively.”

  Bewildered, I turn to Justin. “Does this mean I’ll be working for you?”

  “Certainly not,” Joseph snaps. “Your contract is with me, but you will service Senator Wade exclusively. He’s free to contact you directly to make arrangements as he wishes. There are no restrictions on the time he can spend with you; all other conditions remain in place—including the one where you are not to approach the Senator directly. Do you understand?” he asks, his tone cold with warning.

  I nod dumbly. “Do you have any further questions?” Joseph asks after a moment of awkward silence. I have a million, but I don’t voice them. I want to get out of here so I can think about what brought about the change and what ramifications it will have for me.

  “No, thank you,” I say.

  “Good. Senator Wade and I have a few more things to discuss. I’m sure he’ll be in touch,” he dismisses me.

  It takes Justin three days, three agonizing days, during which I’ve imagined all kind of things before he calls and asks me to meet him at the club. I feel peeved and wish I could tell him I’m busy, but my contract forbids me from doing so. I agree, and he hangs up without another word.

  When I enter his room that night, his first words to me are, “I don’t want to talk about it,” before he takes his time undressing me. For the first
time, I’d call our sexual encounter something akin to making love. It’s as if he wants to erase the memory of our last encounter, and in another first, he pulls a nearby rug over us afterward and holds me close. It’s also the first time Justin falls asleep, and when I wake him an hour later, he asks me to spend the night.

  A week later, we still haven’t discussed his behaviour after seeing me at that restaurant or why he stayed away for those weeks. He’s refused to discuss whatever agreement he’s reached with Joseph, but our relationship’s changed. We spend a lot of time together not only alone but also in the grand room, where he openly shows affection by holding my hand or kissing my cheek, something he’s never done before. I’m also thankful that he never paws at me the way some of the men do the women they’re with.

  Tom spends many evenings with us in the company of one or another escort, and when he feels like being really provocative or downright annoying, he invites Natasha to join us. She makes her antipathy toward me clear, and tries hard to engage Justin in conversation. I sometimes wonder whether she fell in love with him during whatever arrangement they had. I empathize with her feeling of rejection, so I choose to ignore her animosity. Justin finds it somewhat amusing, I think, but I’m grateful that he never encourages her. I’m also thankful that he hasn’t indulged in sex with her or anyone else at the club since being with me.

  We still avoid being seen in public, of course, but he’s, somehow, acquired the room next to his and had the two remodelled into one. The new suite consists of a bedroom with a large, comfortable bed and a sitting room. He refers to the space as our suite and often asks me to spend the night there with him. Both still have the glass panel overlooking the stage, and he sometimes asks me to perform while he watches either from the audience or from above, where I’m expected to join him straight after. I detest being made to feel like a prized filly, paraded for others to view, but I comply because my contract stipulates that I please him.