Fidelity Files

by Jessica Brody

  This particular clue came in the form of a name and a series of numbers. "Alexis" was spelled out on the page in unmistakably female handwriting, and then underneath was a phone number, followed by the text, "Bathing suit optional!"

  Although I didn't want to admit it to the woman sitting across from me, it looked exactly like what I suspected it to be. My friends give out their numbers to guys all the time. And that's what they write. A name and a number. And then sometimes a funny private joke. Something to remind him of the conversation they had had earlier in the evening.

  "And you're positive your husband doesn't know anyone by the name of Alexis?" I asked earnestly.

  She shook her head. "Not that I know of. Our friends' daughter's name is Alexis, but she's only ten. I doubt she would have written that."

  I nodded in agreement and offered a heartwarming smile. "Yes, I doubt it, too." She fidgeted nervously in her seat. She had hoped it wouldn't come to this. She looked down at her lap. Her hands were locked tightly together, and she began to knead them like a loaf of bread.

  We sat in silence for a moment, until she finally lifted her head and looked me straight in the eyes. "If you were me, what would you do?" she asked softly.

  I looked at her with compassion, ready and willing to help in any way I could. "I would want peace of mind," I said in all honesty.

  "WHAT'S YOUR name, by the way?" the man in the bar asked me.

  "Ashlyn," I answered as I turned toward him and extended my hand.

  Of course, it's a code name. I never use my real name. "Ashlyn" doesn't actually exist. She's a hologram. A character in a play. A play I've performed hundreds of times, in a hundred different hotel bars. And yet, they all seem strangely familiar. The same show, over and over again for the past two years.

  "What a beautiful name," he remarked, becoming visibly more comfortable in the booth.

  I thanked him kindly. It wasn't the first time I'd heard it. Yes, it was a beautiful name. That's, after all, why I chose it. Because if you're going to fight for a cause, you need a good alias to fight under.

  "Nice to meet you, Ashlyn. I'm Raymond."

  But I already knew his name. That's one of the basics. In fact, I knew a lot more about the man sitting next to me than what was written on his little white business card.

  Raymond Jacobs. CEO of Kelen Industries, the second-largest manufacturer of automobile engines in North America. Just shy of thirty-eight years old, he lives in Newport Beach, California, with his wife, Anne, and their three children. His hobbies include sailing, golf, downhill skiing, and wine tasting, although he hardly gets to do any of them because of his hectic work schedule. He likes sushi, but only if it's expensive, the blue fin tuna stuff (he's suspicious of cheap, uncooked fish). He watches hockey and basketball whenever a Texas team is playing, because that's where he grew up. He graduated from the University of Texas with a degree in engineering, a college sweetheart who he proposed to a year later, and a lifetime allegiance to the Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity.

  I always do my research. It makes my job much easier.

  "Yes, I know," I said with a faint smile that left my mouth half open so he could see my tongue playfully massaging the back of my teeth.

  As soon as he began to stare, however, I quickly shut it and pressed my lips together tightly. Because tonight, with Raymond Jacobs, CEO of Kelen Industries, I am embarrassed at being caught doing anything overly sexual. Especially when people are watching. I practice the tongue-against-the-teeth maneuver in front of the mirror at least twice a week... when no one else is around. But when it comes time to actually use it on someone, I am slightly less courageous.

  "Raymond Jacobs." I pronounced his name fully and with importance.

  "How do you know that?" he asked, suddenly paranoid, as he remembers that he hasn't yet told me his full name.

  I coyly pointed to his business card in my hand.

  "Right." He laughed at himself, seemingly relieved. Because for the very slightest moment, there was just a small flash of panic that I might not be exactly who I say I am.

  And the truth is...I'm not.

  But the mind sees what it wants to see.

  "So what are you in town for?" Raymond asked quickly, steering the conversation back down its steady path to, well, exactly where he hoped it would go. "Business or pleasure?" Raymond's emphasis on the word pleasure was far from discreet. He wasn't about to waste a perfectly good opportunity to insinuate.

  Ashlyn may have been shy, but she certainly wasn't stupid. I caught his suggestion and laughed nervously at what it implied. He watched my mouth intently, waiting for the laugh to turn from one of uneasiness to one of reciprocated flirtation.

  And what do you know?

  It did.

  "Business," I said with a flitting sigh, as if to suggest the dullness of my trip and the burning desire to make it a bit more interesting.

  "What do you do?"

  I tucked my hair behind my ear. "I'm a research manager for a law firm."

  Ashlyn has had so many jobs. Tonight, however, her job had to be interesting and important. Not overly flashy, but one that required a significant amount of brains. With some subjects, Ashlyn's job is an important component of the mission. But tonight it was becoming increasingly clear that with legs like that, Raymond Jacobs could care less what she did during the rest of the day. As long as her nocturnal activities included a space for him.

  "Wow, that must be exciting," he said with an earnest attempt at sincerity.

  He wanted this. And he knew what it was going to take to get it: interest and attention. Because from experience, that's what it normally takes to win over girls like Ashlyn.

  I flashed the kind of smile that radiates from someone who enjoys her job. "Yes, it's pretty exciting," I began. "Always something different... lots of travel. I get to meet new people all the time. And the research I do is usually pretty interesting and informative. The best part is, I learn about things I would never have chosen to learn about on my own."

  I laughed to myself as I realized that the whole speech was actually fairly accurate. I did get to travel a lot. I did get to meet new people. Not necessarily the most upstanding kinds of people, but still people. And sometimes the research required for this job can be pretty fascinating. For instance: Over the past two years, I've learned how to speak French, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, German, Russian, and some Arabic. It doesn't really bother me that the only conversations I can have in those languages are all for the purpose of seeing if men will ask me back to their hotel rooms.

  But I can't complain.

  Grunt work is part of any job. My grunt work is just a bit more... literal.

  The more I spoke with Raymond Jacobs, the more confident I became that he was what I call a "channel changer." Someone who doesn't feel guilt. These are the ones who keep me awake at night. The ones who go through with it so easily, as if they're just casually changing the TV channel during a commercial break, just to see what else might be on. It's a good test for any man. Can he sit through an entire commercial break without changing the channel? If he can he might have potential. If he can't, toss him out right away. Of course, with the advent of TiVo and DVR, testing capabilities have become somewhat limited.

  But the one thing I was fairly confident he would feel was remorse. Regret. Although it probably would not come in the form of "How could I do something like this?" but rather as "How could I let myself get caught?" Successful men don't really like getting caught with their pants down...so to speak.

  Whether or not it will change them is the real human-interest story.

  After three drinks and what seemed like hours of pointless conversation, I turned my wrist and looked at my watch. "Oh," I said, seemingly surprised that someone like me could have lost track of time so easily. "It's almost midnight. I should really get some sleep. I have such an early day tomorrow."

  I brought my gimlet glass to my lips and slowly tipped my head back, allowing the very last of
my drink to slide down my throat. I was also allowing the reality of my parting words to fully infiltrate his mind.

  Ashlyn is leaving. And there's no doubt he wants more of her.

  It's a guaranteed method for dealing with any man. Married, single, divorced, gay, straight, bisexual. Always leave them wanting more. Never give them enough.

  I grabbed my small black handbag and slung it around my shoulder as I slid to the edge of the booth and slowly stood up. I turned to him and paused before speaking again. This gave his eyes time to find their way from eye level, which was now directly between my legs, to my face.

  "It was nice meeting you, Raymond."

  He cleared his throat. "Do you really have to go?" His disappointment was purposefully transparent. Trying his luck with the "broken heart" card. Because girls like having a heartbreaking effect on men.

  I nodded solemnly as I pretended to feel the effects of the alcohol I had just consumed. "Yes, I probably should. But thank you again for the drinks." I giggled. "All three of them." I extended my hand, letting him shake it, feel it, absorb it, long for it. "Good luck with your meetings," I said sweetly, and started to turn away.

  "You, too," he said, confused. I could see his mind scrambling for his next chess move. Knowing full well that he still needed to capture the queen, he was not about to let me leave that easily. And that's exactly why I felt comfortable bluffing my exit.

  "You know . . ." he started to say, his hand resting contemplatively on the metaphorical bishop of our imaginary chessboard.

  I turned back around curiously, as if I had no idea what was coming next. As if I wasn't already five moves ahead of him, just as any good chess player should be.

  "I have this great minibar in my room and I haven't even touched it yet. Do you want to come up for another drink?"

  Checkmate.

  I hesitated slightly. Considering his offer.

  I had to think about it. To jump at the invite would be out of character. And Ashlyn never steps out of character.

  I had to be flattered by his invitation, but I also had to bite my lip hesitantly while I thought about it.

  So I did.

  But the indecision is actually built in for two reasons: (1) the obvious – to allude to the fact that I am unsure about going upstairs with a stranger; and (2) the not-so-obvious – to give him a chance to back out. Yes, it is, in essence, counterproductive to my "mission," but I have to be certain that he really wants it. There's a fine line between testing someone and entrapping them. They are fundamentally two different things, and I don't do the latter. I don't set traps and let men walk right into them. I let them lead the way and observe what they do with a "willing" participant.

  Because, in reality, temptation is everywhere.

  I'm just a human camera, documenting that reality.

  "Yes, I think I would like that," I said, lowering my head half an inch.

  He stood up, feeling an extraordinary sense of accomplishment. Letting the rush he longs for every single day to pulse through his veins and fuel his excitement. And together we weaved our way through the bar, around the other tables and into the lobby.

  Once in the elevator he pressed the letter P for the penthouse, and the doors closed. His lips immediately moved toward mine. His kiss wasn't tender or gentle. It was purposeful. I had agreed to the invitation, and in that simple concurrence, I had knowingly agreed to so much more. It was an unspoken rule. One that Raymond, apparently, was very familiar with.

  When he kissed me my mind filled with the same thing it always does: nothingness. It's taken a while to master the art of thinking about nothing. I'd always thought it was nearly impossible, especially for women. Our minds are constantly racing, always analyzing, always planning. But after several meditation classes, numerous books on the art of Zen, and hours of practice, I had finally become a master of nothing. Empty space in my head.

  And trust me, it's the only thing you want to be thinking about at a time like this.

  Because God knows there are several other options. His wife, his kids, his beautiful mansion in whatever impressive-sounding town he's chosen to live in, the wedding ring once filled with meaning and virtue, now sitting lifelessly in his shirt pocket.

  Looking at a man like Raymond Jacobs can be very deceiving. Because to the untrained eye his family, his life, his accomplishments would probably look just like a TV show. The perfect American Dream paradigm. But to an expert like me, it looks quite a bit different.

  It's funny. Never as a child growing up watching Family Ties or The Wonder Years did I picture encountering the husbands and fathers of these shows under these circumstances. But I learned rather quickly that sitcoms never actually reflect real life. They're just an idealistic creation. A utopia in the mind of some producer looking to strike an emotional chord in those of us who live in the real world. A world that, not surprisingly, looks nothing like theirs.

  Not yet, anyway. But I have high hopes.

  The elevator dinged and the doors opened. He grasped my hand tightly and began to lead me down the hallway toward his room, a playful smile artificially painted on my face.

  This is a very crucial time in the process. The game is nearly over, but it's no time to be careless. Any slight mistake, change in character, wrong word could trigger suspicion and, inevitably, an aborted mission. Raymond was far too distracted to be suspicious, but you can never be too sure. No matter how predictable someone is, they can always surprise you. And therefore I can never lose my concentration. My true identity must always be concealed.

  Backing out is one thing, but a blown cover is quite another.

  He let go of my hand just long enough to fish his hotel key out of his back pocket. I giggled nervously as I watched him fiddle with the electronic lock. Trying it once, getting a red error light, and then trying it again. If only he had stopped long enough to read the red light and respond to its obvious implication.

  There are always signs; most just fail to see them.

  The green light finally illuminated and he turned the handle and pushed the door open with his back. He reached out his hands and grabbed me around the waist, pulling me in after him.

  "THERE'S JUST one more thing..." Mrs. Jacobs had said to me as I was packing up my things to leave.

  I tucked the photograph of Raymond Jacobs that she had given me into the pocket of my portfolio and placed it in my bag. Then I looked up at her. "What's that?"

  She fidgeted in her seat, the inevitability of her forthcoming question making her visibly uncomfortable. But it was a question that needed to be asked. And she knew she would have to ask it eventually.

  I, however, already knew what it would be.

  Because it was the same question that always came at this point in the meeting.

  The same disturbing image that would perpetually haunt her for the rest of the week, and possibly the rest of her life, unless it was addressed.

  "What about sex?" she finally managed to get out. "Do you actually have sex with the...um..." Her voice trailed off. She was unable to even think about it, let alone say it aloud.

  "Absolutely not," I said, without even the slightest waver in my voice. This point has always been nonnegotiable, so it was important that I presented it as such.

  She breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God."

  I smiled warmly. "Mrs. Jacobs, I assure you, my test is based on an intention to cheat only. There is no sex involved."

  She shifted again in her seat. "Intention to cheat," she repeated to herself.

  "Yes," I confirmed with an emphatic nod of my head.

  "So how does that work exactly?"

  RAYMOND AND I stumbled clumsily through the extravagant, top-floor suite, his lips on my mouth, my neck, my face. Anywhere they could find.

  As we fell onto the bed, I made sure that I was on top. It's a much easier escape route when the time comes to escape.

  His hands immediately came up and landed on my ass. I moaned with pleasure.


  He liked it.

  They usually do.

  He continued to kiss me as he slid my suit jacket over my shoulders. Then he went for my shirt. Unbuttoning the buttons one by one. I didn't protest. The shirt came off. He took one look at my lavender lace Balconette push-up bra and let out an appreciative sigh. Sure, it was flattering. How could it not be? But tonight, like every other night, the focus wasn't on me. And therefore, I usually took little notice of their "appreciation."

  Next off was my skirt, revealing the matching Boyshorts I had on underneath. He touched my hip bones and squeezed. I shivered with believable excitement.

  My fingers started unbuttoning his shirt next, stroking his chest and sliding it seductively off his shoulders.

  He quivered with anticipation. "Oh my God, I want you so bad."

  "Really?" I asked softly, still as demure and unsure as ever.

  "Oh, yes," he replied. "You are so sexy."

  "Good," I whispered.

  And with that I rolled off of him, slid to the edge of the bed, and callously started gathering up my items of clothing. Without a word, I quickly located my skirt on the floor, reached down to grab it, and then stood up to put it back on.

  "What are you doing?" he asked with more than a hint of annoyance in his voice.

  "I'm leaving," I replied blankly, stepping into my skirt and pulling it up around my hips.

  He sat up, seemingly too quickly, either because of one too many drinks or a lack of blood flow to the brain... possibly both. He put his hand to his head to steady the room. A look of total bewilderment stretched across his face. "Why?"

  I knew exactly what he was thinking. That this part was definitely not in the script he had come to memorize. Boy meets girl. Boy buys girl drink. Boy invites girl to hotel room. Girl accepts. But girl certainly does not just change her mind and leave for no reason.

  "Because I'm done here," I said matter-of-factly, sliding my arms into the sleeves of my shirt and proceeding to button it up.