Mrs. Robinson (Mrs. Robinson #1)

by Seth King

  I stared at our stupid bird as she sat in her golden cage, hating herself. “Okay,” I said dully, the voice that came from my mouth sounding alien even to me.

  “Sorry again, I’m just so slammed. I’ll make it up to you. We can-”

  I heard giggling in the background.

  That filthy fucking whore is giggling while her boyfriend is on the phone with his wife, I thought.

  “Ah, the interns need me, gotta go,” Richard said, and I thought I heard a smile in his voice. “Why are you up to tonight, anyway?”

  Something dark and hot and angry stirred within me. I could say it, I thought. I could totally say it.

  The woman you think is your powerless little socialite wife is about to use your money to get banged by a younger, hotter, and more virile man than you. How’s the weather?

  But I didn’t.

  “Not much,” I said instead, but this time my voice wasn’t broken down and burned-out – it was cold and clipped; frozen in anger. “Maybe some laundry and a good book.”

  “That’s great. Have fun.”

  ‘That’s great?’ I asked myself. That’s what you give your wife on your twentieth anniversary? ‘That’s great?’

  I narrowed my eyes as my inner monologue ramped up.

  I love you so much, and I am going to ruin your fucking life for doing this to me.

  “Love you, too,” I said in my chilly new voice, and then the line went dead. A ball of white rage formed at the pit of my stomach, spreading flames that licked across every inch of my body, filling me with a burning hatred I had never felt before. And for the first time, I really considered using Hookd. Richard deserved this. A searing montage flashed through my mind of all the times he had left behind a trail of badly-hidden clues to flog me with; whether it was letting that bitch laugh in the background of our conversation or leaving a smudge of foundation on the sleeve of his shirt for me to notice or leaving a phone number in his pocket for me to find on laundry day. Richard was no lost, neglected man searching for love – he was hurting me, at least in part, because it was feeding something inside of him. That was so clear now. And all at once, I decided to quench his hunger once and for all. If he was pushing me away, I was going to run.

  I took out my phone and searched the word “Hookd” in the App Store. Soon the icon popped up, red and sexy, on my screen. Maybe I’d been wrong: maybe I wasn’t some pathetic cougar by dipping into the younger guy pool. After all, it was a new century, a new era. I had everything I needed to throw aside my moral hang-ups and become a Hookd client: I had the money, a big house to myself, and a wounded, willing, and wine-soaked heart. Grace Phaedra Robinson would be nice no more – it was time to have a little fun. And maybe, just maybe, have a little sex, too.

  As I stared at the screen, a newfound sense of purpose settled into my bones. Crazy bitch, I’d heard Richard call me earlier, and not for the first time. And maybe I was a little crazy. I’d been an artist in college, and I was always the girl who Felt Too Much, who let things affect her deeply and thoroughly – and as a woman, that made me fucking insane in the eyes of the world. Meanwhile men were praised for the same surplus of emotion – they were sensitive writer-types; soft-spoken artists. Van Gogh was a “passionate lover” for sending his own ear to an ex, while Taylor Swift was a “deranged psychopath” for writing songs about the guys who fucked her and then dumped her. Any woman who wore her emotions on her sleeve and didn’t play the part of Cool Unaffected Hot Chick was a “Crazy Bitch,” a bitter harpy who kept giving her opinion long after men wanted to hear it – and now I was about to take that title and fuck up Richard’s life with it.

  This Crazy Bitch is about to take a lover, Richard. How’s that for crazy?

  I tossed aside my book for good – it was time to take charge of my story and go from helpless to heroine. In a world where women were told to stand down, I was going to stand and be brave – and slutty. As blood hummed in my ears and adrenaline pooled in my veins like an oceanic thunderhead popping up on the edge of the horizon on an August afternoon, I cursed the day I had ever heard the name Richard Paul Robinson III and then pressed Download.

  5

  Ben Bradley

  Twenty minutes after singing some papers and stopping by the Neiman Marcus in McLean to “smarten up my look,” as Carol had called it, I sat in the back of the SUV next to her while she barked arrangements into her phone.

  “He’s new, but he’s perfect,” she said, glancing over at me. “He’s got the soul of an artist and the body of a fighter. Soon every woman will know his name, and moan it in bed while having sex with her husband. Yes, his client just signed up tonight, she submitted everything and has already been verified…of course I’m letting her start early, she seems legit. The payment came from a fake name and a pretty obscure wire transfer that not even Colleen in security could trace, so God only knows who she really is, but she’s clearly loaded…the boy? Just found him, but, um, yeah, he’s been cleared and tested, he should be with us for a while. His name is Ben, by the way, and he’s a little worried about his future…”

  I fidgeted in the coat Carol had bought me, which fit like a dream. I still couldn’t even believe this whole shadowy world existed, where powerful single women outsourced their sex lives to some service that delivered beefcake to their doors like pizza. I mean, I was totally cool with the feminism movement, and I wanted my sister and (hopefully) future daughters to have all the same rights I enjoyed, but this seemed a little brazen even by my liberated standards.

  Suddenly my phone pinged again – it was another email from the hospital’s administrators, no doubt demanding payment on yet another bill for Claire. But I pushed away the wave of anxiety that formed in front of me. I’d finally found an opportunity to save Claire, and all it required was doing something I did all the time, anyway. All I had to do now was drink this champagne until the sick, guilty feeling at the bottom of my stomach subsided…the feeling that reminded me I was about to become a male hooker…

  “Okay, we’re good,” Carol said, and then she hung up and leaned toward the driver. “Head to Georgetown, and hit it hard,” she said, referring to the fanciest part of Washington, the townhouses that lined its cobbled streets easily reaching the ten million range on the market. As we sped up and changed lanes, I felt a tremor rise up my leg. This added a new layer of danger, because in a city where status was derived by proximity to power, this woman probably had both to spare. If I were to get caught, my name could be ruined forever – or worse.

  “Alright,” Carol told me, “now for a few last-minute details. Don’t get too nervous – this woman is a first-timer, too. You don’t know her, do you?”

  She showed me a photo of my client. The image was a bit blurry, but the lady actually seemed kind of sexy, with intelligent eyes and long dark hair. Actually, she was really fucking sexy, I decided as I inspected the photo and pictured how her hair would feel as I pulled on it while eating her from behind, and imagined what her pussy would taste like as I wrapped her legs around my shoulders and licked her until the sun came up…

  I often thought of the time a cousin had teased me for liking older women “because of my mommy issues,” as the thought was so uncomfortable, but whatever the reason, I definitely had a thing for cougars. Society these days seemed to be obsessed with doe-eyed Victoria’s Secret models who looked like they’d been in diapers six months ago, but to me, there was nothing sexier than a lady with a few decades on me, who knew about the world and could show me the ropes. And maybe even take out some literal ropes, too, and do unspeakable things to me with them…

  “Nope, don’t know her,” I said, and Carol nodded.

  “Good. It’s a simple process, then. She’ll probably be a little uncomfortable, too. Just walk in, have a glass of wine, make some small talk, and then get to business. You know the drill.”

  “Small talk?” I asked. “But I thought-”

  “Yeah, you’re not supposed to get too deep, so keep the ta
lk very small. To break the ice, just discuss the weather, the state of the economy, the Redskins or whatever they’re called now – anything but her personal life. Or yours. Frankly, our clients find that they don’t even want to know much about you most of the time. You’re there to offer a lonely woman companionship, sure, but you’re mostly just there to make her come.”

  “I can do that,” I said with a little smile, as a jolt of something terrifying and exhilarating ran up my leg.

  “Our women expect a lot, though. You’re going to have to perform.”

  “Relax,” I said, glancing at the driver to make sure he wasn’t listening. (Still, something told me that even if he wasn’t, someone else was.) “I know what I’m doing. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  But she does, I thought to myself with a shudder.

  We got off the highway, navigated some side streets, and then pulled up to a dark cobblestone lane with three-story townhouses lined up on either side. Actually, they were more like mansions, I decided, with towering brick walls and softly lit sprays of ivy bursting from their vast windowsills. Sleek black sedans and SUVs sat outside each front door, no doubt waiting to ferry their owners off to work at Capitol Hill or the White House in the morning. I felt poor even breathing on such a wealthy street – every sidewalk seemed to exhale influence, every brick appeared to bleed power.

  “Let me see you,” Carol said, and then I got out and stood in the light from the SUV as she messed with my hair and outfit. “Usually you’d have already had sessions with a hairstylist, waxer, airbrush tanning technician, personal shopper, and trainer, but I guess some Bumble & Bumble will have to suffice for now,” she explained as she fluffed up my hair with some waxy stuff from a jar and then started adjusting my coat. It was soothing, the way she was fussing over me, and something about her made me think of my mother. I shook the thought from my head.

  When Carol was finally pleased with my appearance, she sat back and crossed her arms. “Okay, remember, this woman asked for someone young and inexperienced with all this, and that’s the part you’re playing. Go slow at first. Not that the ‘young’ thing will be hard for you, anyway.”

  “Got it.”

  “And don’t leave the house,” she told me. “If you do, we’ll know, and there will be problems.”

  “How will you know?”

  “Don’t ask. Do you have our number?”

  I nodded, fingering the business card in my pocket that she’d given me.

  “Good. And finally, there’s one last – and very important – rule,” she said somewhat ominously.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t make her fall in love with you,” she said, and just like that, she slammed the door and the SUV sped down the street and turned into traffic.

  Okay then. I turned to the row of townhouses in front of me and scanned the gleaming numbers on their mailboxes. 568 – yep, there it is.

  I took one last pause as I looked into the woman’s windows, in disbelief that I was even doing this. What was waiting for me behind those butter-yellow curtains? And how had I even gotten to this point? I’d ended up so far away from what I’d hoped and planned for my life, and this was just blowing me further off course. Even though I had a lot of responsibilities and felt pretty old most of the time, I was still a lot younger than I felt. I didn’t even have to shave my stubble every day yet, my voice still squeaked whenever I got nervous, and I woke up with wetness in my boxers more often than I’d like to admit. Was I even old enough to make a decision like this?

  I bit my lip and decided the only thing to do now was just man up and plow through whatever was about to happen. I had no more options – it was this or failure. I climbed the front steps, knocked twice like I’d been instructed, and then pushed open the door as a single stocking’d leg came into view.

  6

  Grace Robinson

  After signing up for Hookd and getting all my paperwork in order – I had a recent checkup on file from my doctor’s office, which helped expedite things – I spent the evening hiding pictures of Richard, glamming myself up as best I could, and drowning my anxiety in even more wine. I went for a look that said socialite-with-a-side-of trashy, with big voluminous hair, a DVF wrap dress, pounds of David Yurman diamonds, and sexy black Louboutin pumps. To top it all off, I added a golden Cartier bracelet with one end that was shaped like a cougar on the prowl – I was reclaiming the title. Still, my whole body tingled with a terrifying, dizzying case of adrenaline all the while, and I simply couldn’t believe what I was doing.

  I’m paying for sex tonight! some voice in my head kept telling me. Oh my God I’m paying for sex tonight oh my god what am I doing.

  All sorts of other questions buzzed through my brain as I prepared to meet the guy I’d selected, a young, square-jawed former model who looked as anonymously handsome as possible. The payment had already been made, from a semi-secret account I kept separate from our joint stuff whenever I was having a bad week and wanted to escape to a mountain spa in the Shenandoahs for the weekend. It’s not like Richard cared or even noticed when I left – actually, come to think of it, he probably preferred having me gone, as it freed him to indulge in his skank brigade with nobody around to hide things from. But what if this boy didn’t like me? What if he thought I was ugly or fat or old? It was all happening so quickly I couldn’t get a grasp on anything, and as nine PM rolled closer, I was basically guzzling wine while pacing back and forth in my foyer. What was I doing? This was crazy. I was officially a psychopath. Here I was, a successful, capable, attractive adult, paying for sex from some seedy hookup app. What if he was an axe murderer? What if he was uglier than his pictures? And worst of all…

  What if I liked him?

  The self-doubt was the worst, and it made me chug even more wine, as it often did. I’d spent hundreds of nights wondering what had made Richard stray from me all those years ago – was I not sexy enough? Was I somehow lacking in some area? – and in the end, I’d guessed it was because he’d gotten too tired to keep pretending to be the guy I’d wanted him to be; the guy I’d thought he was. Facades fell away, we stopped playing games, and one day I’d woken up and realized I’d married a stranger. But after all this time, and even after all these ignored calls and those furtive looks he’d share with the secretaries when I’d visit his office, his rejection still stung like a wasp. Because I’d lost his love, I feared I’d lost the ability to love myself – perhaps forever.

  But I had no time to worry about all that – at 9:05 I heard someone walking up the steps and promptly freaked the fuck out. As my insides squirmed with terror, I took a deep breath and went to the door. If it was excitement I’d wanted, I’d certainly gotten it in spades. No more doubting myself – it was time to stop reading about other peoples’ lives and start living a life worth reading about.

  I, Grace Robinson, wife of one of the most famous men in the country, am about to take a male escort.

  I silenced my inner monologue and stood taller just as the door opened.

  “Oh,” I said, caught off guard. I bent down to cover my stocking with my black Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress with leopard print accents. “I, uh…I wasn’t expecting you to open the door, sorry.”

  The boy in front of me smiled, and it was catchier than a cold in February. I hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this. He was tall, muscular, and gorgeous…but young. So, so young. In combat boots and a simple trench, he had short, coppery-blond hair, a sharp jawline covered in faint stubble, and intelligent hazel eyes under a small black mask that all the Hookd boys wore to their “meetings.” Despite his height, there was something distinctly boyish about him, like he’d been caught somewhere between adolescence and manhood and hadn’t quite made the jump yet. In fact, he didn’t look much older than my nephew, a high school junior.

  “Hello,” he said. “Sorry I surprised you. Your client was overbooked, so I came in his place. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I think I’ll
live, I thought to myself.

  “Hi,” I said, as a dizzying whoosh of a feeling sank into me. “I’m Grace. Grace Robinson.”

  Oh, shit. Why’d I tell him my last name?

  “Ben,” he smiled. “Nice to…uh, meet you.”

  I shook my head and blinked. Was it the wine or the hottie that was making me woozy? I put one hand on the door jam and just stared at him, and soon panic erupted in my chest cavity along with the lust. I could just see it now: Cynthia Villa, the neighborhood gossip, peering through her curtains at us from across the street as she dialed Richard’s number, setting into motion the chain of events that would leave me with nothing. Or perhaps my husband’s part-time security force was already watching instead…

  Calm down, I told myself. You’re doing nothing Richard hasn’t done twice a week for a decade. Or more.

  “Listen,” I said, letting another worry of mine escape from my brain into my mouth. “Before you come in, I want to tell you something. If you don’t want to do this – if I’m not pretty enough, or whatever, just tell me now, and I can-”

  “You’re beautiful,” the boy said simply, silencing me with the earnest intensity in his hazel eyes. I smiled.

  “Oh, well, um…thanks.” Because my brain was more social than my body, I never did quite get a hang of the whole “being in public” thing, and I let most of my human interaction happen in my books, leaving my social skills in a less-than-ideal state. “Come in, then?” I asked.

  “I’d love that.”

  He stepped into my foyer and closed the door. He had both the easy confidence of a frat boy and the blazing eyes of a suffering artist – an alluring combination, to say the least. I studied him, trying not to stare, as I considered my current situation.