by Clara James
“So, you're not mad?”
“About what?” I sighed.
He was quiet for a few moments, as his finger circles grew smaller and faster. “The other night,” he eventually murmured, glancing over his shoulder to ensure our little ones weren't in hearing distance.
Abandoning dinner for a minute, I turned to face him. Leaning the small of my back against the counter top, I studied his face. So he did have some conscience. It might have been infinitely small, but it was there. He did know the way he'd treated me was wrong, he did remember using my body with a complete disregard for the fact he was hurting me. “I thought you said it was no big deal,” I pointed out, my arms reflexively crossing beneath my breasts.
“Well,” he hedged, his eyes nervously moving everywhere in the room but on me. “I didn't mean-” he abruptly cut himself off, before taking a breath and a different tack. “I've had some time to think and I was selfish, it shouldn’t have been all about me.”
I wanted so badly to tell him that all evidence suggested the contrary. I wanted to ask him whether the many women he'd fucked during his business trips had found him selfish, too. However, I bit my tongue. I had to keep that knowledge to myself. If he realized what I knew, things would get even more complicated than they already were. No, I had to remain quiet and patient. I would get my revenge on him, eventually. It would just take some time. I could be patient, I had three children.
“Jules,” he muttered, the shortening of my name was something he hadn't done for years. “Say something.”
“It's fine,” I said, almost choking on the words. It was far from 'fine'. “Like you said, it was no big deal. And maybe I've been putting too much pressure on you,” I conceded, turning my back to him again, as it became increasingly harder to lie. “I don't mean to smother you; you're busy, you need time to unwind. I've been expecting romance and affection and it's just not realistic, is it?” I continued to speak as I grabbed a pan and placed it on the stove. “So, I've made a decision to give you some space,” I explained, hoping that would both suit him and answer his question about why I was behaving differently. “Now,” I sighed, tossing my head quickly over my shoulder. “You promised the children you'd spend some time with them,” I reminded him.
He waited for a moment, his head gently rocking to one side. He looked like he was about to argue, to ask another question. However, he must have thought better of it. “All right,” he said, smiling. “Shout when dinner's ready,” he added, as he left the room.
For a moment, my fingers were still. If only I'd known that the way to get him to treat me better was to be a little frosty toward him. The old mantra, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen, may actually have some truth to it. But perhaps it was fortunate I hadn't known that before. If everything had been peachy between us, I wouldn't have found out what he was doing and would be obliviously drifting through life. No, as painful as it all was, it was much better to know.
Later that evening, I remained pretty quiet as we ate; reflecting on how much the children loved their dad. Of course, they were all still at that age when you believe your father is the most amazing man in the world. They'd yet to discover that he was human; flawed and not in fact invincible. Still, it was going to be hard to take them away from him. How would I explain it to them? Would they grow up hating me for it? It was all too much to comprehend at that moment, besides I had so many other hurdles still to leap. My escape from Paul was far from a done deal.
I deliberately stayed up, professing a desire to want to watch something on TV, when Paul suggested it was time for bed. “You go ahead,” I urged. “I'll be up in a little while.”
Uncharacteristically, this seemed to bother him. Obviously our chat in the kitchen had done little to allay his fears that something was wrong. It occurred to me that I would have to be much more careful; I had to go back to behaving as I had before, because if I didn't, he was going to start getting suspicious.
“You're not tired?” he asked, standing by the end of the couch with his hand rested on the back.
“Not as much as I thought I'd be,” I hummed thoughtfully. “I've been having a hard time getting to sleep these last few nights.”
“Really?” he muttered, concern creasing his brow.
“It's nothing to worry about,” I said with a wave of my hand. “Just one of those things.” Reminding myself to act 'normally', I lifted my butt from the couch and kissed him gently on the lips. “Really, it's fine. I'll be up in a bit.”
That seemed to appease him somewhat. “All right,” he sighed, before yawning. With a quick bend at the waist, he placed his lips to the crown of my head.
Without another word, he turned and began to walk up the stairs. That was more like it; that was what 'normal' had become for us.
I didn't settle down to watch the TV, though. Instead, I leaned forward and grabbed my phone from the coffee table. With a few quick tips, I logged into the email address I'd set up specifically for communicating with potential clients. One message was from David, the man I'd seen the night before; my very first client. He thanked me for a great night and reminded me once more about his offer to pay for me to travel across the country and meet him wherever he happened to be working.
I was so tempted to take him up on it. He was a nice guy and, I had to admit, I was very attracted to him. So much so, I would have been prepared to see him again free of charge. Nevertheless, I couldn't risk taking a long trip. If the kids stayed with someone for longer than a night, Paul would wonder what was going on. No, I had to think of the bigger picture. So, I wrote back to David, telling him that I had an amazing time and that I appreciated his offer, but could not accept. I added that if ever he was in the state again, I would be more than happy to hear from him.
With a slightly sad sigh, I closed his email and scrolled down. Lower, I found three new emails. One was spam, but the other two seemed interesting. The first was from a man who called himself John. He lived a couple of towns over and said that he'd hired a couple of escorts in the past, but was looking for someone new. He asked me to meet him at a hotel the following Friday. The second email was from Steven, who told me he was an investment banker. Apparently, he was in the state for a job interview, and wanted some help relaxing the night before the big day. He wrote that he would not arrive for another couple of weeks; the 19th to be exact.
Jumping to my feet, I kept a tight hold of my phone as I wandered into the kitchen. Next to the fridge was a calendar, which my eyes quickly scanned. Paul was due to go away again on the 18th. He wasn't getting back until the 23rd. Steven's visit would fit perfectly within that timeframe.
I quickly wrote back, telling him that the date was good for me. While I was there, I replied to John, expressing my regret that I could not make the date that he wanted and asking if he would be interested in meeting a little later in the month.
Before I went to bed that night, I had two dates arranged for Paul's next trip. This time, rather than dreading him going away again, I was excited. Steven and John might not be able to live up to the very high standard set by my first encounter; but I was no longer worried about being able to 'perform' with a stranger. If all else failed, I had the memory of David going down on me. That mental image would be good for all kinds of scenarios.
Besides, I silently told myself, as I jogged up the stairs; I was quickly learning that there was an inner slut in me; a woman who loved sex and was excited by the prospect of it with strangers. Getting through my dates with those two men was not going to be the problem. It was getting through the next two weeks that would be hard.
Chapter Two
Kinky
Flutters of excitement became more and more pronounced as the day of my date with Steven drew closer. Like David, he asked to meet in a hotel. Although his interview was local to the area, he wanted to travel some distance for the sake of privacy and discretion. All of this was fine with me, and understandable.
As he'd asked, when I got to the hotel, I made my way
to the bar. Perching on one of the high stools, I ordered a martini and tried to affect a demeanor of cool. My real emotions were quite the contrary; jittery, nervous, anxious and just a little bit aroused. Nevertheless, I calmly sipped on my cocktail, people watched, and waited for Steven to introduce himself.
What I didn't know at the time was that Steven was already in the room. He'd been there since I arrived, and had also been watching and waiting. It was five minutes before he made his move and, as he approached me, I assumed he was just some guy looking to chat me up.
I noticed him out of the corner of my eye; a middle-aged man, who must have been edging on fifty. He still had some color to his hair, but most of the brown had succumbed to the growing wealth of gray. It's silly to say, but it made him look more distinguished somehow. He was trim, obviously liked to stay fit, and was dressed quite casually; a dark pair of jeans and a pale blue polo shirt.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a low, confident rumble. “How are you?”
“Umm,” I hummed, tossing a glance over my shoulder. “I'm fine, thanks,” I said, my face slowly moving back to him. “How are you?” I added through nothing more than politeness.
“I'm great,” he said, smiling and showing me a healthy set of bright, white teeth. “Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.
“Yes, actually,” I replied, nodding. “A friend,” I explained.
“Oh,” he nodded his understanding. “Well, that's nice,” he mentioned, the smile growing broader. “I'm glad that you consider us friends already.”
“Excuse me?” I muttered, believing I must have misheard him.
Rather than respond right away, he reached his hand out to me. “I'm Steven,” he explained.
“Oh,” I chuckled, “right.” I continued to laugh lightly as I took his hand and gave it a brief shake. He wasn't aware of it, but I carefully monitored the way he grasped my fingers; not too tightly, but quite firm. His hand was mostly soft, but the fingers were a bit coarse, leading me to wonder what he did for that to be the case. However, it was not my place to ask. If he wanted to talk about his job or his hobbies, fine. But I'd realized it wasn't right to bring that, or anything else up, until the client did.
“Arianna, you are even more beautiful that in your picture,” he commented.
“Well, thank you,” I smiled, not finding myself quite as embarrassed as I had been when David called me 'beautiful'. Although it's terrible to say, I think the reason I didn't feel as awkward with Steven is that I didn't find him as attractive. He was a perfectly handsome man, but that special something; that chemistry that is either there or not, just wasn't present with him. And while that chemistry was definitely helpful during my first job, it had also proven to be something of a stumbling block. It was much harder getting into the 'role' of an escort, when I was so taken aback by the magnetism I felt for David.
This time, I thought to myself, things would be different; and maybe they'd be better, because I wouldn't feel so clumsily bashful every time Steven spoke to me.
“Can I sit down?” he suggested, gesturing to the bar stool next to me. It was strange the way he behaved, as if he'd just met me, as if this wasn't all staged and it would actually be very peculiar if my answer was 'no'. But if he wanted to pretend, that was fine by me. The whole date was a pretense, after all.
“Sure,” I smiled, tipping my head towards the seat.
Two days earlier, Steven had sent a brief email asking me to have a certain 'look' on the night itself. So, following his instructions, I was dressed in a simple, black shift dress, with my hair up in a French twist. My fingernails and toes were painted a deep shade of red, and I wore a lipstick that matched it. It was clear to me that Steven had very specific ideas about what he wanted the night to be. In a way, that was helpful. If an escort knows what a man wants her to be, then it's far easier for her to play the role. It's when she doesn't really know what turns him on, that she's forced to think on her feet and play by ear.
As Steven sat at the bar, he stretched his left hand out on the counter top in front of him. He was wearing a simple gold band on his ring finger; the only piece of jewelry, other than a watch, that he had on.
For a moment, I froze. This was not exactly a revelation; I'd realized that plenty of men who hire escorts have wives and children. Yet I'd made the mistake of assuming they hide it. What I didn't know about, I could assume didn't exist. I know it was silly, burying my head in the sand didn't change anything. But somehow, knowing that Steven had a wife; knowing that she was just like I had been, oblivious to my husband’s affairs, left a very bad taste in my mouth.
I guess the change in my expression and the direction of my eyes didn't go unnoticed by him, because he soon slipped his hand back and hastened it into his pocket. “It's not what you think,” he mumbled.
I tried to give him a naïve look to suggest I didn't know what he was referring to.
“I'll explain,” he assured me, with a confident nod. “It's...umm,” he added, before pausing. “Well, it's not as bad as it looks.”
“It's absolutely none of my business,” I said, taking a sip of my drink. “You don't owe me an explanation.”
“Maybe not,” he accepted. “But I'd like to give you one anyway.”
I shrugged, indicating that it was up to him what he told me and how much. “I'm just here to enjoy your company,” I added, focusing on the job at hand and sweeping all other thoughts from my mind. It wasn't my responsibility, I silently told myself. I can feel sorry for his wife, but it's not going to alter the fact that he's cheated; probably many times – he definitely seems familiar with the process of hiring a call girl. I wasn't the first and would not be the last.
We shared a couple of drinks, and moved the conversation onto less problematic topics; the weather, his love of golf, the kind of music he liked and the literature he enjoys. It was comfortable, it was easy. And as we talked, I was careful not to drink too quickly. Getting tipsy the first time was understandable, but now I had to learn to do this without the crutch of alcohol. Otherwise, I was heading for a world of trouble; not least the hangovers that would haunt me the next morning.
It was about an hour until he smoothly suggested we move the chat upstairs to his room. The bartender must have overheard, but he didn't bat an eye. I did, however, notice the stare of a couple of women who'd been sitting in the corner of the room. They were my age, perhaps a little older and had been tossing glances at me and Steven the entire time. Maybe they guessed what I was, or maybe they thought I was just a slut. Either way, the pair of them flashed me a dirty look.
As we passed them, I smiled and looped my arm through Steven's. I was beyond caring what people thought. They had no right to judge me; no one has the right to judge until they've been trapped in a situation with only one way out. We all have a price, don't we? My price isn't what I charge per hour. My 'price' is the ability to leave my husband and keep my children with me. For that, I would sell anything.
Steven, meanwhile, led me to the elevator and pushed the circular silver button to call the car. “I think those women were jealous of how hot you look,” he commented casually.
I hadn't even realized he'd noticed them, much less seen the look they tossed their eyes our way. Looking up into his gaze, I smiled gratefully. “Perhaps they were jealous that I was with you,” I retorted, with a sultry voice and a saucy grin. It was all about making the client feel good, and, who knows, maybe those women did think I'd landed a silver fox. He was a handsome guy, with a George Clooney-like charm. Now, George Clooney might not have rung my bell, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate a well put together man when I see one. And there were many, many women who would kill to be with old George.
As he smiled, a little wider than he had all night, I saw that one of his back teeth was gold. With all of the others in such great condition, I found it hard to believe it fell out or was removed for health reasons. It was a silly thing to wonder about, but wonder I did. Was there a good story behin
d that tooth? Because I had such a short space of time to get to know him, it was the little things that I was drawn to.
“Come on,” he encouraged, as the elevator doors slid open.
Unhooking my arm from his, he placed his hand on the small of my back, gently guiding me into the car. “Are we going far?” I asked, making small talk with a deliberate double entendre to it. It wasn't overt, it wasn't said with a nudge and a wink – if he construed anything sexual, it was him and not me that had done so. It was subtle and, I hoped, classy.
The mischievous quirk of his lips told me exactly where his mind had gone. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to.
We traveled to the sixth floor and he chivalrously insisted that I exit the elevate car first. Then, we walked in step toward his room. Conversation had dried up, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence; on the contrary, it was the kind of quiet that descends when words simply aren’t necessary.
I’d assumed they would be even less necessary when we got into the room. However, as he carefully closed the door and invited me to sit, he apparently had other ideas about what was and wasn’t needed.
“Now,” he sighed, watching me lower myself into an armchair, while he perched on the edge of the bed. “About...” he left the word hanging, lifting his left hand and indicating his wedding ring.
“I meant what I said,” I told him, smiling. “It really hasn’t got anything to do with me.”
“That might very well be true,” he nodded, lowering his hand. Pressing both together, he slipped his hands between his slightly parted knees. “But I want you to know that I love my wife.”
It seemed like such an incongruous thing to utter that I was speechless. The me of a month or more ago wouldn’t have been able to hold back the thought that was rolling through my head: ‘You can’t possibly love your wife and want to sleep with other women’. The new me was quicker to bite her tongue, but not just because she was being paid to do so. The lines between right and wrong were becoming a little blurry.
