Her Last Chance

by Stephanie Belafonte

  I won’t lie, I felt like a porn star, standing there in nothing but my heels, running my hands over my breasts and down between my legs, wanting to suck on his bottom lip, wanting his mouth on my chest, my nipples. Kissing me where another’s lips hadn’t been in almost two years. Instead, he backed away and slipped his t-shirt off, putting on a show for me, allowing me to take it all in¸ just as he’d done to me the day before.

  His chest, abs, and arms were so defined that there were valleys between the muscles. Hardened and sculpted. Strong. A protector.

  Hairless too, perfect for my tongue.

  He unbuttoned his jeans and motioned for me to come closer.

  I strutted confidently across the room and leaned into him, inhaling his masculine scent.

  Roman took my hand and slid it inside his jeans.

  I squeezed.

  He whispered into my ear, “That’s what you do to me.”

  ***

  Later, when we were lying on the floor staring at the ceiling, exhausted and enjoying the afterglow, I rolled over and put my head on his chest.

  “Do you think Alice heard us?”

  “Probably, but she won’t say anything. You might get a wink on the way out.”

  I traced a finger down the line between his abs. “I didn’t sign the contract yet, but I will if—”

  He interrupted me, saying, “I know you will. That being said…”

  He gently pushed me away, rolled over, tossed the used condom in the trash, and then reached for his clothes. He stood and began to get dressed, adding, “Now that I’ll officially be your employer—”

  The room went cold. It smelled like sweat, sex, and disappointment.

  I knew what came next.

  “—this can’t happen again. It’s not good for business.”

  It hurt, deeply, way down inside me where desire and hope held hands, but I couldn’t let him see that. I wanted him to see, but if I were to survive, mentally and emotionally, in my new line of work, I would need to learn how to bury things.

  I got up from the floor and dressed, saying, “That was business, Roman.” I have no idea where that came from. It just seemed like the most coy, calculating thing I could come up with.

  “It didn’t feel like it.”

  “Maybe to you.” More snark. More manufactured venom.

  “How so?” He picked the contract up from the floor, rearranged the pages, and then laid it on his desk.

  “You have to pay for the Ferrari, remember? You want this,” I said, pointing at my chest, “to come work for you? Double my cut and I’ll sign it right now, no questions asked. You said it yourself, we’re going to make a lot of money together.”

  I had no idea where that came from either. I was risking my possible salvation by allowing some unfamiliar internal strength to take over. Double? Was I nuts? I thought about that flicker of power I’d noticed during my little display with Ronnie. That had to be it. That moment, that genesis, was a lightning bug. This was a light bulb burning brighter.

  He blinked, snickered, and angled his head back with one eyebrow raised. “Double? You’re joking, right?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” Where was it coming from—such potency, such strength, in the face of potential ruin? If he pointed at the door and shooed me away for being such a silly little girl, then Dreama’s spare bedroom would become our new home. It was either that, or get evicted from the apartment within a month. I may have been bitter, stubborn, and completely fed up with her bullshit, but I wasn’t stupid. I talked a big game, sure. However, no matter what happened, there was Joey to consider first and foremost. My son, my little boy, would never sleep in a cardboard box, somewhere down a dark alley.

  Roman grabbed the nearest chair, sat down, and put his hands behind his head, looking up at me with a disbelieving grin.

  I stood there, defiant, with my hip cocked and my hands on my waist. I glared, challenging him, silently daring Roman to tell me no. I waited. The antique clock, mounted on the wall near the bookcase, went tick-tock, tick-tock, counting down the seconds. Holding my ground like that, it was maddening, but I’d come too far to give in now, to say, “Sorry, kidding, just wanted to see if you’d say yes!”

  Roman huffed, shook his head and leaned forward with his knees on his elbows, clasping his hands together so tightly his knuckles were white. “You’re something else,” he said.

  “Get used to it, boss.”

  He chuckled and got up from the chair, putting his hands in his back pockets as he stared out the window. I could tell that it was hard for him to look me in the eyes. He was beaten and he knew it.

  I let thirty seconds pass before I said, “Well?”

  “I’m not giving you half. Twenty-eight percent.”

  I laughed in his face. Literally. I walked over to him and went, “Ha! Hahaha!” with as much condescension as I could muster. “Honestly, Roman, low-balling me is beneath you. Don’t be so pathetic. You’ve already screwed me…now negotiate like you have a pair.”

  On the outside, I was a stone-faced businesswoman, powerful and in control of the situation. Now that I’d found whatever this was—vigor, confidence—I realized that I would’ve done well at any of those Silicon Valley startups, standing up in front of a boardroom full of filthy rich old men in expensive suits as they tried to haggle with a woman young enough to be their granddaughter.

  On the inside, I giggled with excitement, like a child riding her bike for the first time without training wheels. The discovery of a new skill—I can do this, I really can—filled me with complete and total joy. Watching a man, who assumed he was in command, squirm underneath my thumb…it was fun. Unbelievably fun.

  And he still wouldn’t face me.

  Coward.

  Roman said, “Thirty percent.”

  I walked around his desk, pulled a pen from the black ceramic cup, and then sat down in his chair, sliding the contract in front of me. “Try again.”

  “You’re not getting fifty.”

  “Try…again.” I clicked the top of the pen. Down and up, down and up.

  “Thirty-five.”

  I shook my head.

  “Kim, that’s already more than some of the women make that have been with me for ten years. Ten years! I’d have an—an exodus on my hands if any of them found out.”

  “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  “No. No, I—”

  “Forty,” I interrupted. “Forty percent and I’m all yours.”

  Roman hung his head. “Okay. You win. Forty percent. Give me the contract, damn it.”

  I handed it to him and watched as he flipped through to the proper spot, scribbled some adjustments on the paper, and then initialed it. He shoved it across the desk. “There. Forty. Now sign it, and get out of my chair.”

  Once my signature was scrawled across the line, I got up, neatly arranged the papers and then strolled over to him, victorious. But I didn’t rub it in. Not too much, anyway. “Good decision,” I said, then slapped his ass.

  His voice was heavy, positively loaded with sarcasm. “Right. Pleasure doing business with you.”

  And in another bold move, I traced my fingers down his chest, then gently cupped his crotch in my hand, lifting and holding. “The pleasure was all mine.”

  “That’s obvious. Forty percent. Jesus.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Congratulations are in order, I guess.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d gotten away with it. Who was that girl, the one that showed up out of nowhere and negotiated like a ballbusting professional? I’d never acted like that before in my life. I’d never had the confidence to do such a thing. Not with Dreama, not with anyone. Hell, I usually kept my mouth shut when someone cut me off on the highway. Whoever she was, I hoped she stayed.

  Desperation is a double-edged sword, but sometimes it brings out the best in people.

  “So what’s next?” I asked.

  “Alice has some paperwork for you to complete so we
can get you into the system, and then you wait. I’ll call you.” Brusque, formal, annoyed, and then he softened. “I guess I shouldn’t be pissed. You’re worth it, and I can see you getting a lot of work. It’s just that…”

  “Just what?”

  “I’m not used to being—I don’t know—manhandled like that. Railroaded, beaten down, whatever you want to call it.”

  I wasn’t sorry, and I wasn’t going to thank him, because I’d earned what I’d gotten from him. But I felt a twinge of pity, enough to take his hand and say, “I’ll take it easy on you next time.”

  He squeezed twice and let go. “I doubt that. Oh, I almost forgot something.” Roman reached into his back pocket and removed a small slip of paper, then unfolded it in front of me. There it was, the promised check for ten thousand dollars.

  My heart fluttered. I’d completely forgotten about it, too.

  “Your advance,” he said. “No negotiating—it’s all you’re getting, and I’m dead serious, understand? I’ve already set up an appointment with Lana for you, for this afternoon, if you can make it. Use some for her, go shopping, get a nicer apartment, whatever you want to do. Rules are rules, though, and I’m not budging on this…you have to earn out before you start making anything else. Got it?”

  The new me, the one that had shown up unannounced and thoroughly handed Roman’s ass to him, she briefly thought about asserting her dominance. But I chose not to, and instead, I allowed him the small victory. Keeping him happy, as long as it was on my terms, that was fine. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  I took the check and slipped it into my purse, then said, “I’ll use it wisely, I promise.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Roman put his hand on the back of my neck, pulled me closer, and gave me a soft peck on the forehead. It was friendly, kind, like we hadn’t just had sex on the floor and then fought over the money he would be paying me to open my legs for someone else. If…if I ever decided to go that far. I didn’t know how to interpret it, and didn’t know if it was worth wasting the energy to try. We were in an awkward situation. I was attracted to him, immensely, and he to me—I was sure of it at the time—but we were involved in a tawdry profession. Would it ever work? Would he ever want something between us? Would I?

  And again, was that simply my naïveté?

  We were good together once.

  Or, well, maybe twice.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  With the advance from Roman, I got the makeover he requested—hair, nails, various treatments and peels, eyebrows—every possible thing a woman tortures herself with to magnify her beauty. If he thought I was stunning before, he should’ve seen me when I walked out of Lana’s salon. Even I was impressed.

  Lana took some headshots as well and sent them into Roman—something for the clientele to peruse. I equated it to online dating—shopping for people.

  His final request—a Brazilian wax, because apparently the clients preferred it—went as well as those things can. I’d never had one before, mostly because it was an unnecessary expense, and Michelle often complained about how painful they were. But, to tell the truth, I actually enjoyed it, at least the aftereffects, once I was finished nearly biting through my lip and wiping my watery eyes. After the initial pain subsided, I found that I loved the feel of the soft cotton fabric against the newly exposed skin. I probably could’ve done without the “little girl” look down there—the thought brought with it a certain sense of weirdness—but hey, if that’s what the clients wanted, and they would pay extra for it, then so be it.

  Supposing they ever got to see it, obviously, but I’ll get to that.

  Why the change of heart about what I would be doing?

  I don’t know—I guess I felt different when I walked out of Roman’s office that day. Before, I was completely and utterly apprehensive about the idea of becoming a professional escort. What was I getting into, what would it be like, could I look myself in the mirror, stuff like that. But once I saw how Roman responded when I asserted my dominance, things began to fall into place somewhere within my psyche. If someone who was supposedly as unbendable as Roman could surrender to unwavering demands, it occurred to me that I should have no problems interacting with, and standing up to, men who weren’t quite as self-assured.

  I wish I’d understood how ridiculous that notion was at the time. Senators, governors, billionaires, and celebrities…they’re made of cocky overconfidence. It defines them. I had to learn that the hard way.

  But let me back up a bit. In the week following my makeover, I didn’t hear a word from Roman; I began to wonder if I’d pushed too far, thinking he was avoiding me on purpose, punishing me by not offering work because I’d beaten him into submission. Would he be that petty? I didn’t think so—it didn’t make good business sense.

  Tried and true, never let your emotions get in the way of money, right?

  I spent my time shopping for high-priced dresses and evening gowns, new lingerie (just in case) and heels. I enjoyed the look of surprise on each and every snooty, bratty store clerk’s face when I’d pull out a handful of hundreds to pay for my items.

  It didn’t help that I went in wearing ratty mom clothes with Joey in tow—I don’t blame them. I would’ve turned my nose up and gotten snippy if I’d been on the other end of the shopping experience, too. After it happened a couple of times, I started doing it on purpose. Dressing sloppy, leaving Joey’s food stains on my shirt. It became a game to me, to see how much I could viscerally offend a patronizing shop owner before flaunting enough cash to make their week.

  I heard things like, “Miss, I’m not sure that’s—well, let’s just say that it’s probably not in your budget. You know, with the little one,” and, “Miss, might I suggest our discount rack?”

  One clerk, this uptight, white-haired woman with posture so rigid she could be a ship’s mast, had the audacity to tell me, “Miss, I assure you, you cannot afford this,” as she held a gorgeous red low-cut dress away from me. I didn’t want to go overboard—it wasn’t like I’d won the lottery or anything—but the look of defeat on her face was worth more than the thousand dollars I paid for the pleasure.

  I started shopping around for a new apartment, too. I wasn’t ready to move just yet, because I figured that if I did too much too soon it would arouse suspicion with Dreama. Little bites, tiny nibbles of situational improvement would prove safer. And besides, Joey and I had lasted in that shithole apartment for so long, waiting it out for another month or two was no big deal.

  I’d give it a couple of weeks, then inform Dreama that I had gotten a proper job, doing what I was qualified to do, at some place she’d never heard of and leave it at that. I was certain she’d insist on visiting me at my fake office, so I planned to tell her that my fake company had a bunch of fake offices and I’d be hard to pin down.

  If it ever got to the point where she demanded to come see me, I could always agree and then cancel at the last minute. Who knew how long I’d be able to keep the façade alive, but I hoped it would be long enough to stash some earnings away and then leave Roman and Midnight Fantasy if I needed to, in case things got too dicey with Dreama. I had no idea how she would react if she found out.

  It all seemed simple enough. I was already deep inside a house of lies and it didn’t seem like too much trouble to live there a while longer. Dreama didn’t deserve the truth. I wouldn’t go as far as saying it was mental abuse, but after years of listening to her subtly—and not so subtly—complain about my inadequacies and making me feel less and less worthy, I had no desire to give her another opportunity to lose her mind over one of my decisions.

  Although, the idea occurred to me that I should tell her about what I’d done, that I’d agreed to become a professional escort. If wearing the dress she’d given me to the interview was a perfect example of silent defiance, then telling her about my chosen profession would’ve been a stinging smack to the face.

  The only thing that stopped me was Joey and the thought of los
ing him, because I wasn’t so sure that Dreama wouldn’t call Child Protective Services on her own daughter.

  I couldn’t risk the truth. Lies were safer.

  I began to work out again during that week of waiting. According to Roman, I looked fantastic already, but joining Michelle for yoga and a few other exercise classes made me feel better about my own self-image, and that certainly never hurt anyone. I was able to afford better food at the grocery store also, and did a quick, giddy happy dance when I got on the scale and saw that I’d already dropped two pounds.

  Small victories.

  By the time he finally called, I’d worked myself into a bit of a frenzy wondering why I hadn’t heard from him.

  I was sitting on the living room floor, playing peek-a-boo with Joey late one afternoon when my cell rang. I didn’t recognize the caller ID, so I answered with a hesitant, “Hello?”

  “I’ve got a job for you if you’re available tonight.”

  “Roman! Hi! God, I was getting worried that I’d never hear from you. What took you so long?”

  “Sorry about that, but you’ll never believe me if I tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “It took me a couple of days to get you into the system, but once I had the time my phone started ringing off the hook. Ten different clients, all asking who the new girl was and if they could request you for a night.”

  “Noooo…” I said, letting the word trail off in pure disbelief. I still had trouble grasping it. Why me? Could it really be true, that I was that desirable? And if so, Jesus, what had Dreama done to me psychologically over the years? A therapist would have a field day.

  “It’s the truth. I let them know up front, like we agreed, that your first trip out into the jungle would be date-only, and it didn’t matter. Some backed off when they found out, but four—four—different clients begged to be your first. I normally assign jobs on a first come, first serve basis, but it seemed like the perfect time to try something new.”