"Wait a minute," he began.
My first thought was that he was having doubts. That he might actually turn me down. The alcohol had worn off, something reminded him of his fiancée, whatever the reason... this unlikely candidate looked poised and ready to be one of the select few who passed the inspection.
I fought the smile that was attempting to penetrate my facade. The thought of someone passing was always exhilarating. Yes, it would mean my initial read on him was wrong, but this was hardly the job in which to be proud. Most of the time I practically prayed I was wrong.
"What's the matter?" I asked, naively.
"Something's not right," he replied.
My heart started to pound. This was it. It was really going to happen.
"Really?" The tone of my voice bordered on clueless.
"You've changed," he said, matter-of-factly.
My small glimmer of hope slowly started to melt into a very large pool of confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"You were all about this on the dance floor, and then as soon as we left the club it was like you just shut off."
My stomach lurched as I began to realize what his hesitation was really about. It was about me. I had fucked up. I had lost control... just for a second. And now I was about to sabotage an assignment because of it.
"I, um, I don't know what you're talking about."
He sat up. "It feels like you're just going through the motions or something. Like you're on autopilot but your mind is somewhere else."
Oh, dear Lord.
I started to panic. It just goes to show: No good can ever come from losing focus in this job. You can never let your guard down, even for a minute.
My thoughts were a blur. Was he really questioning my motivations or was this just an excuse? That tiny ray of hope was ironically clouding my view of reality. I couldn't seem to let go of the thought that maybe he was having second thoughts after all, and that my abnormal behavior tonight was just a convenient way out. A magical solution to dissolve the glue that held him captive in this sticky situation.
"That's crazy," I replied defensively.
"Is it?"
It suddenly occurred to me: If he turns me down now, I'll never know the real reason why. Will it be because he really wanted to be faithful to his fiancée, or will it be because I screwed up? The implication of confusing these two very different scenarios was severe. I, of course, would assume the latter.
How would I ever report back to Roger Ireland if I wasn't 100 percent sure about the results? "Um, he passed...well, sort of. It's complicated, see..."
No way. That would never fly. I had to know for certain before I left this room.
"Parker." I sat up and faced him, trying to look serious and provocative at the same time. "I'm not going through any motions. I want what you want. I think you just have to decide what you want."
There. I put the ball right back in his court. It wasn't the ultimate fix, but it would hopefully give him something to chew on for a while.
Then I had another thought. One far more sobering than any of my others. What if he had been tipped off about me? Intercepted by someone in the course of the night. Giving away my true intentions. Revealing everything.
If that were the case, it would mean Parker was just playing along, going through the motions, setting me up to fail. Slow playing me!
There was an awkward silence between us.
He looked over at me, obviously wondering what was going through my head. Funny, I was wondering the same thing about him. I wasn't sure which one of us was more desperate for a mind-reading device right about now. Especially when my internal one was failing me so miserably.
My superpowers had never been so out-of-tune in my life. Like Parker Colman, of all people in the world, was my kryptonite. Everything felt chaotic. As if someone had placed a magnet next to my compass and the needle was spinning in crazy circles.
Because, for the first time tonight, I had absolutely no idea what he was holding in his hand. The cards on the table were meaningless to me now. It wasn't as easy as having the nut flush when you're pretty sure your opponent is holding three kings. And when you don't have a clue what the person across from you is playing with, there's no way you can know how much to bet.
I tried to mask my anxiety as he continued to study my face. As if trying to map out his next play based on what I could possibly be hiding.
Trying to figure out if I still had those two hearts in my back pocket.
And then realization and relief washed over his face.
"Wait a minute," he said with a knowing smile. "Okay, how much are my friends paying you?"
I smothered a gasp. "Excuse me?"
"You're an escort, right? My friends paid for you. But they were sure I wouldn't sleep with you if I knew who you really were, so they told you to pretend you were all into me and shit, right?"
My eyes widened. And just as I was about to throw the whole thing out the window, fold my hand, leave the table, and for the first time abandon the job half finished out of pure pride, something in me clicked.
Parker had just made the ultimate poker faux pas: He had showed me his hand before the game was over. And suddenly I had the edge I was looking for. I knew exactly how to play.
I violently pulled myself off the bed and started huffing and puffing around the room in search of my shoes.
I made sure that every aggravated, insulted, emotionally wounded bone in my body was perfectly visible and audible.
"Oh my God! I have never been so insulted in my entire life!"
Parker's face immediately turned bright red, realizing his utterly horrendous mistake. He panicked and jumped up from the bed, reaching out to grab me and pull me close to him. "Wait, don't leave. I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that."
I shoved him away. "You think I'm a hooker?"
He stammered. "I'm sorry. I just sensed a change in you. I didn't know what it was. I overreacted. I got paranoid. It was the alcohol talking... not me. Please don't leave! I really want to spend more time with you."
I placed my hands on my hips and glared at him, seemingly deciding whether I had it in my heart to forgive him. Seemingly deciding just how much I wanted to have sex tonight. And then my voice softened slightly, to an almost vulnerable murmur. "Do I look like a hooker?" I asked, with hope of reconciliation in my eyes.
"Of course not! You are so beautiful and sexy and... classy! God, I want you so bad, it's driving me crazy." He put his arms back around me. This time gently, affectionately, with a forced adoration he prayed would be convincing enough to keep me from walking out the door. To keep me in his rented bed.
It worked.
Somehow I knew it would.
The pout on my lips slowly eased into a forgiving smile, and he once again placed his lips on mine. I didn't fight it.
His kiss was tender at first. It had to be. And he knew that. But he wasted no time bringing it back to the intensity it had been only half an hour ago. And I wasted no time reciprocating.
After all, I was tired. And ready to go to sleep. It had been a long night.
My performance from then on didn't matter. He believed me. He had no other choice.
Roger Ireland and his daughter would at least have a clear answer when I got back to L.A. Even if it was a heartbreaking one. Because when Parker crossed that point of no return, I knew for sure why he had failed. And it certainly wasn't because I had.
But this time, in this game, when I finally revealed these two hearts in my pocket, he didn't offer me any polite, "good hand"–type of gesture. I guess he wasn't in a very sportsmanlike mood anymore.
But I didn't mind.
That's just the nature of the game.
12
Letter Labels
AS I closed the hotel room door behind me, I knew it would only be a matter of time before Parker Colman found the black business card I had left on the dresser. A small reminder of the events that had come to pass. A souvenir, if you will.
&n
bsp; No doubt he would see it from his place across the room, exactly where I had left him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his head hung low between his knees, his guilt palpable, and for the first time in his life... feeling vulnerable. He would lift his head momentarily and the shiny black surface of the card would catch his eye. He certainly hadn't remembered it being there before.
After a few moments his curiosity would get the better of him and he would muster the energy to pull himself off the bed and approach the mysterious foreign object.
He would frown with bewilderment as he looked down upon my little souvenir. Not quite sure what to make of it. On the topside of the card he would simply see the letter "A" printed in an ornate, crimson font. Almost calligraphic. He would then reach down and pick up the card, feeling the raised surface of the elegant lettering against his fingertips.
And it wouldn't be until he turned the card over, dialed the toll-free number printed on the back, and listened carefully to the recorded message that he would finally understand.
The remorse would wash over him again... this time, unbelievably, ten times stronger, causing him to stagger back toward the bed, slowly lowering his body onto the comforter, using his hand to steady his shaky form.
The black telephone receiver would hang lifelessly off the edge of the nightstand, the automated female voice playing on its continuous loop still faintly audible from his new position only a few feet away.
The 866 number is the fourth and final listing in my repertoire of phone numbers. Although this one never rang through to any home line or cell phone. This one never connected the caller to any type of voice-mail service. And this one was, by far, the most untraceable number I owned.
The female voice on the other line wasn't my own. It was a computer program that generated voices just human enough to make people feel comfortable, but at the same time, just digital enough to inform the caller that this message was not recorded by an actual person, and therefore there was no use in trying to match it with any voiceprint database in the world.
And until Parker Colman found the energy to stand up and physically hang up the receiver, the continuous loop would play on forever: "The card you've just received indicates your involvement in an undercover fidelity inspection."
I often wonder if any of them actually keep the card. Although, I somehow doubt it. It's not exactly the kind of souvenir you hang on to and store in your top drawer for memory's sake. But I've always been especially proud of my little black calling cards.
The procedure with the card all depends upon my mood. Sometimes I tell them exactly who I am and why I'm there, then
I hand them the card. Double whammy. And sometimes I just walk out and leave the card for them to find...on top of the TV, the nightstand, or slid underneath the door.
I considered the routine fairly lenient. After all, I could just sew the letter right onto the front of their shirts before I leave. But I think that ritual might be just a tad bit outdated.
With Parker I chose to tell him to his face. Mostly because tonight I wasn't given any convenient opportunities to sneak out the door. So I simply stopped his hand as it began to wander up my dress, pushed myself off the bed, stood in front of him, and while staring him straight in the eye, confessed the truth: that tonight was a setup. An inspection. And his results were "unfavorable."
Then I picked up my bag and walked out the door. I don't even think he noticed me place the card down on top of the dresser. But one thing's for sure: This was certainly the worst card he'd been dealt in a long while.
I walked down the hotel hallway, hypnotizing myself with the brightly colored carpeting that seemed to go on forever. I reached the elevator and pushed the call button. I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.
Thank God, that's over, I thought to myself as I checked my watch. It was 2:15 in the morning. Early night for Vegas, I would imagine.
The doors opened and I stepped inside, quickly scanning the daunting selection of numbers until I found the one marked with the number 24. I pressed it and then leaned against the back of the elevator as the doors slowly closed. I thought about the suite on the twenty-fourth floor that was waiting for me. The white cotton sheets, the soft, fluffy pillows, the...
Suddenly a hand reached between the closing doors, barely avoiding an amputation. I jolted to an upright position, somewhat irritated by the unexpected company on what had promised to be a very peaceful elevator ride. Most likely at this time of night it was a group of drunk twenty-somethings who could barely stand up and would probably start pressing all the buttons like a Ritalin-deprived ADD child...or worse yet, another bachelor party.
But when the doors opened there was only one person standing on the other side. And he was now sober as hell.
It was Parker.
And he definitely did not look happy.
I swallowed hard and eyed the doorway, wondering if I would be safer out there or in here. Spatial logic told me a wide-open hallway with an endless supply of doors to bang on was a much better bet than an eight-by-eight-foot elevator with an emergency stop button glowing in red.
"We need to talk," he said matter-of-factly, his hand still holding the door open.
I struggled to keep my composure, staring him straight in the eye, just as I had done only a few hours before at the poker table. I'm not afraid of you, my glare said. But the truth was probably far less heroic.
I said nothing, letting the silence speak for itself.
"I love Lauren. We're getting married in three weeks. And I'm not going to let you and your stupid little fidelity – whatever the fuck it is – get in the way of that."
"Probably should have thought of that before you attempted to put your hand in my crotch," I shot back, and then immediately regretted it. The best way to deal with an outraged husband or, in this case, fiancé, is to say nothing. Keep calm and add nothing to the conversation that might fuel his rage.
"It's my bachelor party!" he shouted back, as if this was supposed to convince me to walk away and forget the whole thing.
"Unfortunately, I don't think my client sees it the way that you do," I replied coolly and evenly.
Parker groaned. "Lauren would never do this. She would never hire someone to set me up. It had to be her father. He was the one who hired you, wasn't he?"
I didn't respond.
"Roger Ireland is a stuck-up old man who will never find anyone good enough for his precious daughter."
I stood strong in front of him, my stance confident, my eyes unyielding. "If you'll kindly remove your hand from the door, I'd like to leave now."
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the number 24 still lit up like a beacon guiding everyone and anyone right to my hotel room. I prayed he wouldn't step into the elevator and notice the illuminated button. He couldn't know that I was staying in this hotel, or worse, what floor I was staying on. He had to think what all the men think, that I mysteriously disappear into the night like a figment of his imagination, never to be seen or heard from again.
Parker's once-reserved irritation suddenly erupted into full-blown rage. "Okay, this is ridiculous." His voice level rose at least three decibels. "I'm not going to just let you walk out of this hotel and run home to tell my fiancée and that freak of a father of hers that I 'almost' had sex with you." His mocking intonation on the word "almost" left no question of his sentiment regarding this procedure.
Thankfully during his mini-rampage he had thrown his arms violently in the air, releasing the doors in the process.
I took a step backward into the center of the elevator car and pressed down hard on the Close Door button. "With all due respect, Mr. Colman. You don't really have a choice."
The doors began to close on cue, and just when I thought I was in the clear, his hand came through the crack again and pushed them back open, stepping menacingly into the elevator with me, now even more pissed-off than before.
That's when my heart rate started to speed up. I had dealt with angry men i
n the past. It was an obvious part of the job. It's not like a husband who has just failed his inspection is going to say something like "Oh well, my bad. Thanks for helping me realize what's really wrong with my marriage." Most of the time they get angry, so it normally doesn't come as a surprise when they do.
But this guy was taking it too far. And I wasn't about to be in a confined space with him in this condition. Plus, he had been drinking all night. Excessive alcohol plus knowing your fiancée is probably going to call off your wedding in a matter of days, plus, well, let's face it, blue balls...is not a happy combination.
Parker stepped right next to me and clamped his large hand around the upper part of my left arm. His grasp was tight and filled with warning. It felt like I was getting my blood pressure taken at the doctor's office and the new nurse on staff had no idea when to stop pumping air into the armband.
"I don't think you understand what I'm saying." He spoke softly but ominously.
I knew my next move had to be fast in order to catch him off guard.
He turned his head slightly and I immediately sprung into action. I reached up with my right hand, grabbed the wrist he was using to hold on to my arm, and twisted it swiftly and forcefully opposite the way it was intended to bend. His grasp immediately loosened as his body fell forward. As soon as my other arm was free I rammed it upward, making full contact with his nose. He toppled over in pain and, most of all, shock.
"What the hell...?" he yelled, reaching for his bleeding nose and struggling to stand upright. But the impact with his nose was not helping his balance. He stumbled toward me. I knew that with him at six foot two and approximately two hundred pounds and me at five foot six, and barely passing the 110 mark, I was no match for him physically. So I had to use my present position to my advantage.
My knee popped up, hitting him squarely between the legs. He staggered backward out of the elevator from the blow and slammed into the wall behind him, doubled over in excruciating pain. I could see the cloud of rage and humiliation slowly begin to cast a shadow over his face. But by the time the room stopped spinning and he could even comprehend what had just happened to him, the elevator doors were closing again.
Fidelity Files Page 16
