Her Last Chance

by Stephanie Belafonte

  I could go into every creepy, tantalizing, strange, erotic detail—some believable, some so mind-boggling that you could swear I was making it all up, that I’d done research on sexual deviancy and had borrowed stories from the most obscure corners of the internet. But, I’ll spare the primmest, most proper minds. It’s unnecessary to sully the imaginations of the uninitiated. Call me a martyr, but I suffered so that someone else didn’t have to.

  Was the financial reward worth it? Yes, to the tune of about one-point-five million dollars. It’s amazing what people are willing to pay once they’re behind locked doors, in the trusted company of someone capable of fulfilling their most scandalous fantasies.

  Mentally, were those three months worth it? Overall, no, not in one-point-five million years.

  When I was caught up in the moment, after a couple glasses of wine or a shared joint, I enjoyed myself, like I mentioned. The control—it was invigorating. I guess it can only compare to what some athletes refer to as the zone. You’re unstoppable because you’re outside of yourself, performing on a different level, but once the game is over and reality envelops you like a scratchy blanket, you’re just another person. It was like stepping off a roller coaster, all that adrenaline and excitement dissipating. It was like having your feet back on land after a hurtling ride in a speedboat, the way it feels strange and grounding.

  Some nights, I cried myself to sleep because I’d seen too much of the underbelly of humanity. I’d seen too much of what people are capable of doing to themselves (and me to them) in order to achieve sexual gratification. What happened to them? What event in their past would cause someone to only get erect at the sound of a blender chopping ice cubes?

  I would slip into my son’s room after Gertie left and sit on his bed, softly caressing that silky blond hair, worried—no, terrified—that something would damage him and fifty years from now, he’d be paying someone like me because he couldn’t share the secret with his wife of thirty years.

  The thing that bothered me the most about his future was the lack of control. I knew I couldn’t keep my eyes on him for the rest of his life, and that I would have to do the best that I could. And for that, I needed money. More of it.

  I had cash, but not enough for what I wanted. Private schools and colleges, trust funds so that he would never have to worry or struggle. Maybe it was irrational, thinking that money might prevent him from being affected by some random stranger or some unknown event while he attended summer camp, but it sure as hell could help to afford the best counselors.

  And now that I had enough to implement the idea that I had thought of months ago, as I drove away from the “little girl” incident with Roman, it was time.

  I couldn’t take any more of fulfilling the lecherous dreams of my clients.

  However, what I could do was leave Roman’s harem and start my own service—one that catered to the type of perverts that I knew…where the real money was. I could hire escorts to do the dirty work for me and go home at the end of the day feeling like a businesswoman, rather than an immoral enabler of decadence.

  Were my motives misaligned? Possibly. I would still be contributing to the depravity of human nature, but the people I knew…they weren’t bad people. They simply had needs that couldn’t be met by the pure-hearted members of society.

  They had a problem, I had a solution, and everybody would be happy.

  My hands would stay clean (literally) and I would be running a business, like I was meant to do.

  And best of all, Roman’s dirty, filthy paws would be nowhere near my bank account, taking sixty percent of what I legitimately earned. If he’d ever learned of the million and a half I’d squirreled away right under his nose, I’m sure he would’ve pried the money out of my lifeless fingers and laughed at my dead body.

  ***

  I woke from a nap on a cold, snowy Thursday afternoon, completely exhausted from the long night before. My best client—an Economics professor with a penchant for watching me roll across a cheese-puff covered floor in a sling bikini—had taken so long to get off that I had cramps in my back and cheesy dust caking the inside of my nose.

  Believe me, the life of a high-priced escort, who caters to the seedier side of sexual deviancy, isn’t as glamorous as the movies would have you think. It’s not all red wine and white gloves.

  My back ached. My skin was greasy and cheese puff remnants gathered in uncomfortable crevices, much in the same way that you can never really wash all the sand out after a long day at the beach.

  Gertie had taken Joey out for ice cream so that I could get a little more rest. By that point, she’d begun to expect that there was something more to my professional life than seating snooty rich people at a fancy French restaurant. If she had any real ideas, though, she kept them to herself. She was concerned that I wasn’t getting enough sleep, but that was the extent of her fretting. I assured her that it wouldn’t be much longer, because I was starting my own business soon and I’d be home more often. I’d planned to tell Roman I was leaving that day.

  I rolled over, opened my eyes, then screamed and nearly flung myself off the bed.

  Michelle sat at the end, looking entirely flawless in yoga pants and a thin jacket. Makeup perfect. Hair perfect. Even the way her eyebrows dipped angrily toward the bridge of her nose was perfect.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” I said, once I was able to breathe again. “How’d you get in here?”

  “I have a key, remember? And besides, I can’t come visit a friend I haven’t seen in ages?”

  I sat up, scooted back to the wall and pushed the hair out of my face. “I didn’t mean it like that, but yeah, it’s good to see you. What’s up?” Thoughts zipped around inside my head. Why was she in my apartment? Why had she snuck in like that? Why did she seem so angry with me?

  In truth, we hadn’t seen each other much over the past couple of months. She worked out during the day, I “worked” nights, and in most respects, it was easier to avoid her than accidentally broach the subject of what I’d been doing with myself.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I replied. “Too much.” So many nights, I wanted to tell someone, anyone, about what I’d been doing and had been tempted to call Michelle time after time. I needed the cathartic release. I could’ve gone to a therapist, I suppose, but I looked at that like a sign of weakness. I wasn’t broken. I needed a friend.

  “So how’s the new job going?” she asked. The expression on her face hadn’t wavered. She knew something. There wasn’t the slightest bit of a friendly, how-are-you-let’s-catch-up tone in her words.

  I’d lied to her as well—told her that I was working as a waitress at La Fleur. I’d made the lie a little more elaborate to avoid too many questions. I’d said that after a blind date stood me up, I ran into Eric Landers and he’d taken pity on me.

  I could’ve picked some other restaurant, any place that Michelle wouldn’t dare set foot in, but I had to make the lie believable for her. La Fleur seemed like a perfect choice because Michelle didn’t like French food and they couldn’t afford it. Besides, it was easier to keep the stories straight.

  Dreama, on the other hand, had been more difficult to manage. I told her I’d gotten a temporary job refilling vending machines—yet another disappointed sigh from her—while I waited to hear from the multitude of companies that were scrambling to hire me. I’d said I needed the money, but it kept me on the road most nights, driving from spot to spot, location to location, and no, she wouldn’t be able to visit me at work.

  So far, the story had stuck with her.

  But with Michelle? Something was amiss. I’d never seen her look at me that way before. Not in the nearly twenty-two years that we’d been friends.

  “Well?” she said.

  There was a chance she didn’t know anything and I briefly considered trying to slink my way around her questions, testing her, prompting her, trying to learn what she knew. After a few futile
attempts, I decided against it, because if anyone would understand, if anyone would be sure to offer a comforting shoulder, it would be her.

  Sometimes people you’ve known for decades can surprise you.

  And, in this case, that door swung both directions.

  I gave her a non-answer. “I’ve been so busy, I know, and it’s all my fault for losing touch over the past couple of months.”

  Michelle crossed her arms. “That’s not what I asked, Kim.”

  I shrugged limply and shook my head, pretending to be confused. “I mean, well, the job…it’s great, I guess. Why?”

  She glared at me, nostrils flaring, the corners of her mouth turned down. Hurt, disappointed, and angry. Her eyes glistened. “I can’t believe you’d keep something like this hidden from me. I mean, God, we’ve known each other since we were in matching cribs.”

  My stomach wobbled. My skin prickled with an embarrassed heat. She knew. My God, she knew. But how?

  “Mish,” I said, reaching for her. “Let me—”

  She pushed my hand away. “How could you do something like this? If you needed help, all you had to do was ask, Kim. You know we have the money.”

  I scooted closer to her, got up onto my knees and tucked my feet underneath me. “How, um, how much do you know?”

  Michelle looked away, followed it with a disbelieving laugh. “Too much.”

  “How’d you find out?” I’d been so careful to hide all of my tracks. When Roman offered clients, I made sure to check out their backgrounds and if there were any chance of a possible connection, I’d refuse. There’s no way Dreama could’ve found out. Maybe Michelle and my nosy mother had swapped stories about my new job, discovering that I’d told them separate lies.

  That was the most likely scenario. Damn it. Why had I done that? Why didn’t I keep my stories consistent across the board?

  Michelle pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. She was hurt, and I hated that I’d hurt her—the one person I should’ve turned to before I’d considered getting myself into this situation.

  “Did you forget something?” she asked, without looking me in the eye. “Some important date, recently?”

  I clawed through all the things in my mind that I could’ve forgotten lately. Dreama’s birthday, my sisters’ anniversaries…anniversaries. Oh, no. I’d completely missed Michelle and Aaron’s anniversary. What an awful, horrible friend I’d become, all in the name of money, sex, and control. And I knew this—I knew I’d messed up—but back there in the shadowy corners of my mind, my reasons were justified. “Your anniversary,” I admitted. “I’m so, so sorry. I feel—I feel horrible.”

  Michelle stood up and tucked her hands into her armpits, hugging herself tight, and then walked to the window, watching the snow fall. “Aaron got reservations at La Fleur,” she said. “You know I don’t really like French food, but I thought it would be fun to go see you, you know, since I hadn’t gotten a call or even one tiny text—I mean, I understand you’re busy. You work, you’ve got a son, and I told Aaron…I told him, ‘Maybe it just slipped her mind, but let’s go to La Fleur and rub it in a little.’ When we got there, we found out we’d have to wait hours for a table. So we thought, hey, if we drop your name, maybe they’ll let us in.”

  “Mish, I—”

  “They’d never heard of you. They had no idea who you were, so we left, and of course I thought it was strange, but I figured that maybe you’d given them a different name or something. I mean, how in the hell was I supposed to know, right?”

  I walked over beside her, put my head on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be,” she said, “because do you know how embarrassing it was to find you the way we did?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I led Michelle over to the couch and sat her down. “Tell me,” I said, “then I promise, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Is it too early to drink?” she asked. With her half-smile, I couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious, but I quickly fixed her a White Russian, regardless. I made myself one too, because it would be necessary for the conversation to come. “Thanks.” She took a sip and cleared her throat.

  “So.” I pulled my legs onto the couch and checked the wall clock. We had a couple more hours before Gertie and Joey were expected home.

  “Right. So.” Michelle lifted her glass, drained it, and then wiped her mouth with the back of a shaky hand. She rarely drank alcohol. Too many wasted calories to ruin her perfect curves. A glass of wine on a special occasion, but that was about it. “I—well—we…no, that’s not true. What I’m trying to say is…”

  I took her hand, squeezed it. “Trust me, whatever it is, I can assure you that my side of it will be infinitely more embarrassing.”

  “Right, um, okay. Aaron and I—we wanted to experiment. He wanted to experiment with—with a threesome. Another woman. He’s been begging me for years.”

  “You never told me that. And it doesn’t bother you?”

  Her cheeks flushed. She giggled. The alcohol was already working. “Don’t you dare tell him this, but…no. I have to let him think it was a hard decision. Anyway, I was curious too, and I didn’t really know why, but I thought that it wouldn’t hurt, just this once. We’re not swingers and don’t have any intention of becoming swingers, right? I thought it’d be the perfect anniversary present. After we left La Fleur, he was bummed that I was so pissed off, thinking you’d lied to me, and I didn’t want to ruin our night, so I took him home and told him that I was giving him a threesome as his gift. Once he picked his jaw up off the floor, we tried to make plans…and…God, are my cheeks red?”

  “Like a strawberry.”

  “The thing is…your name came up.”

  I gulped, laughed, choked on my drink, and snorted all at the same time. “Me?”

  “Don’t laugh,” Michelle said. “It’s already embarrassing enough. I—I can’t believe I’m telling you this. Aaron’s always thought you were hot, but I brought up your name because if it was going to be something special, I wanted someone close to me, and someone I could trust.”

  I didn’t know what to say, and I told her so. In all our years of familiarity and friendship, all the times we’d kissed the same boys, we’d never come close to approaching anything sexual together. It just never came up. And I didn’t feel weird about her suggesting me, as strange as that sounds. I felt flattered—flattered that she was willing to trust me in their bed. (Not that I would’ve agreed. Not so close to home. Thinking and doing are two different things. Just ask Walter Wickam III.)

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know what to say either,” she admitted. “Aaron said you were the perfect choice, but he couldn’t see himself doing it and actually, I think he was more weirded out by it than I was.”

  I giggled and took a sip of my drink. “We’ll have to write this down. It may be the first time in history a man has thought with the big head instead of the little one.”

  “Yeah. And especially him. It’s more of a miracle than anything.”

  “Okay, so now that we’ve established you’ve got the hots for me”—Michelle rolled her eyes—“how did you find out about…the, um, the job?”

  “I know it sounds strange—”

  “After the three months that I’ve had, nothing sounds strange anymore.”

  “Once we decided you weren’t the wisest choice, we couldn’t think of anyone else that we agreed on, so we decided to do some, uh, partner shopping until we could figure it out. Like, trying to figure out what we were both looking for. Anyway, long story short, we found your picture on the Midnight Fantasy website. Right there on the homepage.”

  All the air went out of my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. I sat up straight and slammed my drink onto the coffee table. The stack of nearby magazines got a White Russian shower. “What? It’s not supposed to be on there!”

  “There was a link. It had this big, flashing red button that said, ‘New’ and underneath it, a link to the ‘Fea
tured Girl’ or something.”

  “I mean, Jesus, what if somebody I know saw me—never mind, that was dumb—I don’t want my picture out there for the world to see. I am so telling Roman where he can shove it today.”

  “Who’s Roman? Is he your….your p—pimp?” She had trouble saying the word. It came out in a stuttered whisper.

  “No, it’s not like that. I do things, um, differently. But yeah, Roman, he’s my employer, kind of like the male version of a madam, I guess.”

  “And that’s not a pimp?”

  “Look, I have to go, okay? Gertie will be back with Joey in a bit and I have to get to Roman’s office. Like now. Like ten minutes ago.” I leapt up from the couch.

  “Wait, no,” Michelle said, grabbing my arm. “You can’t go now, not after what I just told you. We need to talk about stuff, like about how you’re gonna quit this crap and let us help you.”

  “Later, please?”

  “Whatever.” She let go and flopped back on the couch. “Just promise me you’ll quit. Promise me that you’ll get out of this business.”

  I promised, but it wasn’t one that I was able to keep. Not for long, anyway.

  ***

  On the way to Roman’s office, I called to make sure he was there. Every now and then he reserved Thursdays as a mid-week break, since he was often in on the weekends, which were some of the busiest days. It was a good move. Alice informed me that Roman was at home for the day, and after a little prodding, she relented and gave me his address.

  He lived in a high-rise downtown. It wasn’t too far from many of the pricier hotels I frequented with clients, and I knew the place. I’d even been there a couple of times.

  Roman’s condo was on the top floor, way, way up high where the cost increased with each passing level. It had to be worth millions, simply for the view alone.

  The elevator chimed as the doors slid open. I stepped into the ornate hallway. Thin, beige carpet inlaid with crimson designs. Lush green plants resting on mahogany tables. Paintings of still-life fruit and nature scenes hung on the walls. It was the kind of place where even the hallway was fancier than my apartment.