My heart ached.
What had I done? I knew better. I should’ve known better.
How many times had I been through something like this with him already?
We weren’t a couple of goddamn birds under a temporary truce.
We were human beings with flawed emotions and psyches.
We were like a cake without all the proper ingredients. It may look pretty on the outside, but once you’ve taken the first bite, you know it’s going to be something awful.
I’d done the right thing. I think. It was time to walk away from Roman and Midnight Fantasy. I was ready to leave, to get away from the sleazy, seedy side of the industry. All I wanted to do, all I’d ever been good at, were business-type things. I loved numbers and projections and possibilities.
I didn’t love licking the eyeballs of the richest man in Wyoming when he came into town every other Wednesday.
Could I have taken the money I’d saved and started a normal company? Of course.
But would that have allowed me to get revenge on Roman for grinding my heart into tiny pieces?
Of course not.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It took me a couple of weeks to recover—not as long as it did when Finn disappeared from my life, but it was a wasted two weeks nonetheless. I thought about Finn a lot during that time, too, while I refused to get off the couch and begged Gertie to stay for another hour or three, or five. She always did. She didn’t know the whole truth, but she understood that I’d been through something horrible, and bless her, she was willing to give me the time to work through it.
Briefly, I considered the idea of hiring a private investigator to find Finn because I had the money and could afford such frivolous flights of fancy. But, I decided that if he’d wanted to be found by me, I would’ve heard from him long ago.
And God, how long had it been since our chance encounter in the coffee shop? Nine months? Ten? I’d already lost track of the time. It fouled up my mood even worse when I grasped the idea that I was pining over a guy who’d been nice enough to cheer me up on a single, shitty day; a one-off, one-time event. We’d clicked, and then he’d vanished, which inadvertently drove me into the arms of Roman and the world of professional escorts.
The way I saw things, it wasn’t a stretch to suggest that my life would’ve turned out a whole lot differently over the past year if the prospect of Finn as a beacon had been there to guide me.
Grow up, Kim. Accept responsibility for your actions, right? I get it, I do, but in the absence of a specific motivator, free will doesn’t always give us room to make the proper choices.
I tried not to care that Roman didn’t want anything more from me than an easy, eager, willing hole. I thought I was able to let it go.
Thought was an understatement. The truth was, it hurt. A lot. I don’t deal well with rejection. Never have. Call it a byproduct of Dreama’s constant disappointment and her demands that I live up to her expectations, but Roman’s total rejection of my misguided advance was the icing on the foul-tasting cake.
I don’t know how long the rut would’ve lasted if it hadn’t been for Michelle.
I’d given her part of the story, enough to satisfy her curiosity, and had managed to keep her at bay until I felt decent enough to interact with another human.
She came over one afternoon while Gertie and Joey had left to try out this new indoor playground that had opened recently. I’d promised myself over and over again that I was going to be a better, more involved mother than I had been over the past months. I’d promised and promised. I didn’t have the energy. Not yet.
Depression is a bitch when you have responsibilities. Thank God for kind souls like Gertie; people who are willing to allow you the time and room to recover and have the presence of mind to offer encouragement without making you feel guiltier.
Michelle walked into the apartment—perfect as always, chewing her gum with the intensity of a sewing machine—and crinkled her nose when she found me on the couch, sulking in sweatpants next to a half-eaten carton of Neapolitan ice cream.
“Kim, sweetie, don’t take this the wrong way, but…dayum.”
“That bad, huh?” I avoided eye contact, preferring to scrape around the vanilla third of the carton to get at more of the chocolate.
She didn’t sit down. To do so would’ve invited more time on the couch and less time getting my shit together. “Come on,” she said, grabbing my arm. “Up. Up you go. Shower time, then we’re going shopping.”
“I don’t wanna shop,” I whined. “It sucks out there.”
“Out where?”
“Outside.”
Michelle chuckled, wrapped both hands around my arm and leaned backward, pulling me with her as she went. “You’ll feel better once you buy me something nice.”
***
Once I’d showered—and shaved my legs for the first time in two weeks, benefitting all of humanity—I checked in with Gertie. Joey was fine, she’d said, absolutely enthralled with the playground swings, and did I even need to ask her if it was okay to go out for a while? I had been certain she wouldn’t mind, but I didn’t want her thinking I was shirking my parental duties. In fact, she encouraged me to get out of the house. Fresh air mends a broken heart, she intoned.
Or, something syrupy like that.
Michelle and I went to the mall and strolled from store to store, arms locked, drinking chocolate milkshakes, pointing out cute boys. It’d been an old pastime of ours, and we probably hadn’t done it since high school. It was exactly what I needed. I felt like me again. I felt like Michelle and I were us again.
Lunchtime rolled around and we made our way to the food court, loaded down with bags of tops, skirts, dresses, and heels, all paid for out of my own pocket. She’d protested over and over, insisting that she’d been kidding about buying her something nice, but really, it felt good. No, it was fantastic, having the freedom to spend money I’d earned, with no regret about blowing cash that could’ve been used for the next meal.
With a million and a half in the bank, what’s a couple thousand on a new wardrobe? Like Michelle said, “This is more effective than therapy.”
Calories be damned, I ate four slices of pepperoni pizza, and started on a fifth, because it was the first full meal I’d had since what we’d dubbed, “The Incident.”
Michelle watched with envy, picking at her salad.
Around a mouthful of cheese, I teased, “Want a bite?”
“And ruin this?” she replied, pointing at her waist. “Hell yeah, gimme.”
I laughed and handed the rest to her. She chewed, moaned, and went in for another bite.
I asked, “Almost better than sex, huh?”
She smirked and swallowed, handing me the crust. “Sorry, I have to say it. You would know!”
“Not funny.”
“You have to laugh about it, Kim, otherwise it’ll have power over you. That’s the only way to get rid of the crappy feelings. And besides, you owe me a freakin’ ton of explanation, and I mean like, almost four months of it.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes, you do.”
“I thought maybe the clothes would be enough.”
“You aren’t getting off that easy. Dish. Now.”
I sighed, sipped my root beer, and told her everything. I told her about that first desperate phone call in the car, and about the stress of wondering whether or not I could actually be an escort. I told her about flipping through the lineup book at the Midnight Fantasy office, and about how nice Alice was, and about how weird it was that somebody’s grandmother was wrangling and scheduling a bunch of high-class escorts.
I told her about negotiating with Roman, with my mind and with my vagina to get the job and the pay I wanted. I told her about how I really did meet Eric Landers as my first client, and how embarrassing it’d been.
I told her about all the perverted things I’d done to (and for) people, as the go-to woman for the taboo-seekers that were willing to pay ex
tra for what they truly wanted.
I watched as she scrunched up her nose, shook her head, rolled her eyes and said, “Oh my God,” and, “You didn’t,” and, “He wanted you to pee on him?”
I told her about my last encounter with Roman, and how I’d foolishly, and childishly, approached him about our future. I even told her about the anal sex, which I thought would really send her into orbit, but she sheepishly admitted that she enjoyed it more than she wanted Aaron to know. We laughed about it, and I continued, explaining everything Roman had said to me before I stormed out of his million-dollar condo.
“Your bonus check?” she asked. “That mother-effer.”
“I know, right? Prick.”
I told her about how I decided a long time ago that if I ever got to the point where I could do it, I was going to leave his company and start my own, because good grief, the real money to be made was in running the show, catering to the perversions of society’s elite. That was the original idea, but now, it was more about revenge than the money, because I felt like he’d broken something inside my being.
“Hmm,” Michelle said, squinting at me, studying my face. I was familiar with the look. She was trying to decide if I was serious or not. I’d seen it before on Dreama’s face. “Are you sure you want to do that, Kimmikins? I mean, seriously, do you honestly have more than a million dollars in the bank?”
I nodded and took another sip of root beer. I think in some way I was hiding behind the cup’s rim.
“Why don’t you just buy a franchise or something if you want to run a business? That’s probably a safer bet than running a glorified whorehouse.”
“Safer, maybe, but slapping ham and cheese between a six-inch bun isn’t going to ruin Roman.”
“Right. I guess not.” She picked at her salad, lifting a piece of lettuce to her mouth, then dropping it into the bowl again. “I read somewhere that revenge is only a bandage, that it doesn’t heal the wound.”
I shrugged. “Then just call me the Queen of Gauze, because I’m going to wrap it so tight around Roman, he’ll look like a mummy.”
“Your mind’s made up?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t care that it might be a waste of money?”
“The business itself won’t be a waste, Michelle. People will pay out of their asses to have weird things shoved into them, trust me.”
“And I can’t change your mind?”
“No. Getting out like this, talking about it, seeing it for what it was…it really helped me figure out that it may not be the right thing to do, you know, trying to ruin Roman financially. But, the thing is, it’s what I want,” I said, holding my hands in front of my chest, squeezing them, like I was desperately grabbing something. “It’s what I want, and that’s something I haven’t had the luxury of in a really, really long time.”
Michelle smiled, moved into the closest seat, and hugged me. “Then, please, let me help, because he screwed with you and that means he screwed with me, too.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I don’t want to pee on any old, wrinkled cowboys, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ll keep my lady bits to myself, if you don’t mind. I’ll just be your devious, evil, genius partner. Will that work?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“And besides, as much as I hate to say it, a girl can only work out so much before it gets boring and repetitive. I could use a little excitement.”
If she only knew.
***
It didn’t take long for Michelle and me to lay the groundwork for our new venture together. I provided the startup funds and took care of the professional side of things, like writing the business plan and getting a business license secured, which ultimately took some crafty wording and a touch of stretching the truth. We provided “entertainment,” not “prostitution.”
Obviously.
Michelle, since she’s so detail-oriented about her personal aesthetics, proclaimed that she was going to find us the ideal office location and decorate it to an immaculate perfection. “It’s all about image,” she’d insist whenever I reminded her that we didn’t actually have a bottomless pit of money to pull from. Were the plush leather waiting room chairs—worth five thousand apiece—really necessary? Apparently so, because she wouldn’t budge.
They went into this corner office we found that wasn’t too far away from Roman’s condo. High up on the twelfth floor, with floor to ceiling windows that provided a terrific view of the city below, it was the perfect spot to entertain clients if they required a more discreet, secure meeting than arranging something over the internet.
There were two offices, one for each of us. Dark walls with sliver trim. A modern style that absolutely exuded pricey, expensive, and privileged.
And it was, too. It’s almost embarrassing to admit how much money I allowed Michelle to spend. But, it was worth it. If it was all about image, then we were certainly projecting ourselves as two professional businesswomen who definitely knew what they were doing.
Michelle was gone so much from their home while she was working out (her body would not suffer) and helping me get everything established that questions arose. She couldn’t get away with hiding the truth from Aaron, and eventually, we sat him down and explained what we were doing. It took some convincing, but as long as Michelle wasn’t involved with any clients, other than assigning them to an escort, he was supportive. In a sense. He didn’t come right out and give his blessing, but the promise of so much money kept his objections to a barely audible minimum.
As for Dreama, the only contact we had was when I took Joey by her house for visits. I lied, and lied, and lied some more. I don’t know why she didn’t press the issue. On some level, I think she’d already given up on me. Thank God for small miracles.
A month later, we were almost ready to open the doors of Secret Desires.
I had been recruiting on the sly, arranging meet-ups with talent from other agencies under the false pretenses of a young, curious woman wanting to experiment. They weren’t offended that I’d tricked them into a meeting, but at the same time, none were willing to commit to a brand new agency with no history. They had steady, solid clients that would be wary about giving their money to a different company that may not be as reliable. It was understandable. It was that same, maddening catch-22 of job hunting—you need to have experience to get experience.
“No offense, honey,” one escort named Ellen had told me, “you may have it all figured out when it comes to the numbers, but you really don’t know shit about the psychology.”
When I’d asked what it mattered whether she was with her current service or ours, she offered, “Here’s what you need to understand, okay? You’re selling a fantasy, true, but you’re also selling trust and loyalty. Both of those things are fragile. Most of my clients are sneaking around in secret. They have wives and families. They prefer to keep things as simple as possible.
“They’re loyal to me because they trust me, but change freaks them out, even the slightest thing. It’s all such a delicate balance and I appreciate your offer, you’ve got some amazing terms, but something as simple as changing where the money flows could ruin a client base that it took me years to build. I can’t give that up.”
“So what do you suggest?” I’d asked. “I don’t want to do something like putting a classified ad in the paper because I’m trying to recruit a certain type.”
“You said you used to work for Roman, right?”
“Yes.”
“God, I hated that man. Maybe I have an idea for you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I waffled with Ellen’s suggestion for a couple of days, and considering what happened, I wished I had blown it off and stuck to my original plan. Ultimately, all I wanted was to be better than Roman at his own game. I wanted to hit him where it hurt the most—right in his wallet. He had no heart to damage.
I wanted to outmatch him, outwit him, and out-earn him so I could swagger i
nto his office one day and explain why some of his wealthiest clients had left him with empty pockets.
What I ended up doing was poking the badger, as they say. When I took Ellen’s advice, I crippled Roman, and most know that there’s nothing more dangerous than a wounded, cornered animal.
The truth is, I underestimated him and the depths he was willing to go in order to win his war.
People got hurt.
***
Michelle and I sat in my office one morning, not long after my meeting with Ellen, sipping cappuccinos and watching the city come to life far below us.
I’d had over a month to think things through. I’d moved through just about all the stages of broken heart recovery: Depression, Ice Cream, Shopping, Anger, Makeover, and I was just shy of the final one, Letting Go. I still had every intention of making Secret Desires the best it could possibly be—there was money to be made, after all. We’d blown through over half of my illicit earnings getting set up. The coffers needed replenishing. I needed to secure Joey’s future. Michelle, while she didn’t require, nor ask, for a salary, deserved something for her time and sacrifices.
We had the whole business ready to go, but without a menu to choose from, we were simply two young women, sipping overly sugary coffee drinks, waiting on the phone to ring for something we couldn’t provide.
“Her suggestion…it’s too risky,” I said, shaking my head and wiping the foam from my upper lip. “What if one of them rats on me? He’ll find out, and if he does, we’re screwed. The next thing you know, we’re hiring that lady down on Fourth Street to visit clients.”
“The one with the missing teeth? Always stands in front of the bagel shop?”
“Yeah.”
“No way. We’re not stooping that low. And besides, don’t forget that you—we—started this whole operation just to get back at Roman. The money’s a bonus, nothing more.”
“You hold a grudge longer than I do.”
“He’s gotta burn, sweetie, and not only because of you. He’s probably done the same thing a hundred times before and he’ll do it a hundred more. We’ve already come so far, and if it’s not about your revenge anymore, it should be about protecting all the ones that’ll come behind you.”
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