by Clara James
Sighing, I glanced at the roof of the car’s interior, a large expanse of smooth gray. “Listen,” I told him quietly. “I don’t-”
“You don’t want to,” he supplied, with an understanding nod. “That’s okay. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed it.”
“It’s...” I breathed, faltering. “It’s a little more complicated than that,” I offered, not wanting to hurt his feelings by letting him assume that he was just another client and, therefore, I didn’t want to let him get to close. Of course, there was an element of that – no question. But it was much more complex. “Men who hire women like me, are buying more than just an evening with a person.” As I tried to put the thoughts racing through my head into coherent sentences, I stared at my hands entwined in my lap. “They’re buying a fantasy. Who I am, what I am; it’s all in their heads. I just become whatever it is they want.”
He looked at me pensively, digesting that. “I’m sure that’s the case a lot of times,” he nodded. “But what if what I want is you. Just you,” he added for emphasis.
“You don’t know that,” I good-naturedly argued, flashing him a sideways glance.
“That’s true,” he conceded, smiling. “But neither of us will ever know if I don’t get to know the real you.”
I never replied; didn’t exactly know how. The truth was I didn’t know who the real me was any more. I was no longer the wife I thought I’d been, wasn’t the good girl who had only ever slept with one man. I didn’t have anything beyond a high school education; I wasn’t employed in a worthwhile job. Maybe Scott was right. I was nothing, except a warm hole for men to fill. The real me was nothing, no one, a whore.
I don’t know if I looked troubled by my thoughts, but Preston didn’t push the subject any further. Instead, he chatted about inane things throughout the rest of the journey. I joined in when I could – a nod here, a ‘yes’ there or something more if I felt able to contribute an opinion. But it was all done on autopilot.
When we arrived at the Hilton, Preston offered me his hand and helped me out of the car. He then placed his palm at the small of my back, which I felt sure was just to guide me into the hotels massive ballroom. However, his fingers moved in gentle circles, seeming to silently reassure and comfort me.
He introduced me to a handful of people, offered me some champagne and I stood in a loose circle with him and five others, as they talked about the charity and its aims.
“I definitely think we need to do more,” Preston insisted passionately. “It’s not enough just to give them hot meals for a few weeks and expect them to be able to get on their own feet. They need the support to get them back into school or into work if necessary.”
“How do you propose we do that?” a silver-haired man asked.
“Education,” Preston replied simply. “We teach them the skills they need, basic reading and writing – whatever it is that’s preventing them from being able to get off the streets.”
“Most of them are on drugs, Preston,” a silver-haired woman, presumably the man’s wife, commented sharply. “They don’t want to better themselves, they want to get their next hit.”
“Or maybe they want their next hit, because their lives are so awful they feel that’s all they have,” I offered, not thinking before I spoke. For a second, I stood with my mouth hanging open, wondering whether I should take it back and swinging a panicked look in the direction of my date.
He didn’t look concerned. In fact, he looked pleased, he was positively beaming.
“Well,” the woman mumbled grudgingly. “Well, perhaps,” she admitted. “But I still say we need to get them clean before we can do anything else.”
“Perhaps,” I offered, with a quirk of my head. “And perhaps, while we stand here swigging fancy, French champagne, we have no right to judge.”
“Amen,” Preston instantly blurted. “There but for the grace of God, right Mrs. Campbell?”
The woman looked as though she’d just been slapped round the face. Everybody else in the group was silent. I noticed a couple of them smiling, but the others looked just as scandalized as Mr. and Mrs. Campbell.
“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Preston announced, placing his champagne on a passing waiter’s tray. “We’re going to take a spin on the dance floor.” He took my glass from me, and handed it to a man whose name I don’t think I was ever told. Then, he carefully offered me his hand and led me away from the group, some of whom stared daggers at us.
When we found a pocket of space on the dance floor, close to the band, he wrapped an arm around my back and pulled me close. He raised his other hand, which clutched mine, to the height of his shoulder. “Do you dance?” he whispered hurriedly.
“Yes,” I giggled in return. “I can dance.”
“Good,” he grinned, as he began to slowly sway in time with the music.
Little was spoken while we danced, but we shared smiles. And before I knew it, I was becoming quite intoxicated by the feeling of his body against mine. We seemed to fit together, in a way I’d never experienced dancing with anyone else. Every movement was in sync, no stubbing of toes against the others, no awkward banging of hip bones. It was all smooth and effortless. It was becoming easier for me to forget what had happened with Scott. It was even becoming possible for me to look forward to what would happen when we got back to Preston’s apartment. Perhaps it was foolishness on my part; an assumption that any adolescent girl would be proud of, but it seemed to me that if our bodies moved so well together while upright, he would be equally sensual and tender when it came to the bedroom.
Chapter Ten
Captivated
I was sad when Preston suggested we take a break and leave the dance floor, but tried not to show it and smiled as he took my hand. While we were heading to the bar, we were stopped by a photographer. With my hand reassuringly tucked in his, I leaned into him as a couple of shots were quickly snapped. That was my second mistake.
Unfortunately, it was several more hours before we could leave. There were a couple of auctions and several speeches that had to be sat through. Eventually, at around twelve thirty, the room began to empty.
“Are you ready to leave?” Preston asked, getting up and unbuttoning his jacket.
“Sure,” I nodded, lifting myself out of my seat.
“Okay,” he said tipping his head towards the entrance and offering me his arm.
Without needing to be asked twice, I reached out and looped my hand through his arm. And without realizing I was doing it, I nestled closely to him as we wandered from the ballroom, across the lobby and out the revolving front door.
The limo was once again waiting and we were able to quickly slip inside. When we’d pulled away from the hotel, Preston slid his hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. He rummaged through a stack of cash before pulling it from its leather sleeve and handing it to me. “I meant to give you this earlier,” he said with a smile. “Sorry about that.”
“No, it’s fine,” I responded, accepting the money and quickly tucking it into my purse. I didn’t count it, didn’t spend any time lingering over how thick it felt and how incredible it was that I’d been paid so much for an evening’s work, because I didn’t want to think about being paid for ‘work’. The night had been great. Even the boring parts of the evening, had been made fun simply by being with him. He was kind, sharp-witted, intelligent and generous. I’d been able to forget everything: my horrible experience with Scott and Paul’s affairs. Not to mention, the fact that I was with Preston because I was being paid to be. The stark reminder that it was, indeed, about money made me very uncomfortable.
“You were incredible tonight,” he said, his hand lying casually on my knee. “I had a lot of fun.”
“Me too,” I responded, feeling the need to cover his fingers and keep them on my leg. The warmth of them was easily seeping through the thin fabric of my dress and I enjoyed the sensation. I needed to be touched like that; a gentle, affectionate touch. It was wha
He glanced at my fingers, entwining with his and keeping them captive, then looked back at my face. “I have a feeling that I saw glimpses of the real you tonight,” he commented smoothly. “I hope so,” he added, “because I like her.”
I reluctantly gave him a half-smile, but refused to be drawn further into that discussion. As far as I was concerned, it was still my job to be what he wanted me to be. If he wouldn’t outright tell me what that was, I’d have to figure it out on the fly. But figure it out I would, because being myself was not part of the gig. Never had been, not even the very first time, although admittedly there had been more of ‘me’ in the woman who had sex with my first client.
“Do you go to those sorts of things often?” I asked, very deliberately changing the subject.
He leaned back in the seat, causing his hand to move a little with him. Thankfully, it didn’t lift from my leg, but it crept from my knee up to my thigh. “Not very many,” he shrugged. “I always help the needy when I can, and they tell me those sorts of things raise a lot of money, but I can’t stand being around all those snobs.”
“Yeah,” I responded thoughtfully, as I studied his face. “They don’t really seem like your crowd.”
“Hmm,” he chuckled, with a tired nod. “I enjoyed this one, though. Thank you for coming with me.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” I responded quietly.
The atmosphere in the back of the car was beginning to change, it was becoming more intimate and I wondered for a moment whether he was going to kiss me. However, he didn’t move. Instead, he continued to look at my face, smiling amiably.
Our drive back to his apartment building was quicker, the traffic was much lighter I suppose. Either that, or I was that much more comfortable on the return journey. In any case, the car was soon drawing to a halt.
I expected Preston to grab the door and immediately jump out. After waiting all night, he must have been aching to get me upstairs. However, he didn’t move. For what felt like an eternity, he just sat there. “Listen, I...umm...” he eventually mumbled, his eyes drifting to his hand on my mid-thigh. “I wanna say thanks again.”
It crossed my mind to say something smart like, ‘Don’t thank me yet!’ but I remained quiet. It was clear he hadn’t finished what he wanted to say.
The leather seat squeaked as he shuffled forward and kissed me once more on the cheekbone. It was as tender and pure as the first. As he pulled away, he used his free hand to stroke the spot his lips had just touched. “You’re really something special,” he whispered, his dark eyes locked onto mine as he spoke.
Grinning shyly, I felt heat flush my cheeks.
“Goodnight, Arianna,” he whispered.
“Goodnight?” I queried, confusion creasing my brow.
“Thanks for a wonderful evening,” he nodded, slipping his hand gracefully out from beneath mine.
“But,” I mumbled. “I thought...” I stopped when I realized I didn’t have a tactful way to say it.
“It’s late,” he offered kindly, with one of his brightest, widest smiles. “I think maybe we better call it a night.”
“Are you sure?” I gabbled. “I mean, I thought you paid for...” Again, I didn’t finish the sentence, I just left it hanging there. I’d yet to be hired by any man that didn’t want to have sex in some shape or form at some point during the evening. I certainly hadn’t been offered the kind of money Preston had just given me to simply hang on someone’s arm all night.
“I paid for the pleasure of your company,” he told me simply. “And that’s exactly what I got.”
I tried to wrap my head around what was happening, as he smiled once more and began to pull open the door handle.
“Let Darren know where you want to go,” Preston said, as he lifted himself from the seat and turned back to face me. Bending, he leaned his upper half through the open doorway. “I’ve asked him to make sure you get home safely.”
I hadn’t known the driver’s name was Darren, but the context left no other explanation. “I’m fine,” I quickly assured him. “I’ll get a cab. I don’t want to put Darren through the trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” Preston insisted, the finger and thumb of one hand adjusting his glasses.
For several seconds, I stared at him; his genuine, honest, open face and the smile that he continued to lavish me with. He was like no other man I’d ever met. And I don’t just mean like no other client I’d met. I mean, he was like no other man I’d known in my life. It was incredibly hard to fight the way I was drawn to him.
“Please,” he urged, assuming I suppose that I was still grappling with whether to let his driver take me home. “I just want to know you get back okay.”
“You know,” I sighed, leaning forward and taking my turn to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re something very special, Mr Verrill.” I smiled at him as I sank slowly back into the seat. “I don’t think they make ’em like you anymore.”
With a lopsided grin, he cocked his head. “I’m not sure about that,” he mumbled. “You take care,” he added, suddenly righting himself and shutting the door with a heavy clunk.
During the drive back to my place, I was in a trance-like state, imagining what could have been if he’d invited me upstairs. He would never have just fucked me, of that I was certain. It wasn’t in him. And God knows, if that’s what he wanted, he could have had it. He could have had it before we even went to the function.
No, he would have taken his time. He would have caressed me, kissed me, and made love to me. The thought of it sent heat radiating throughout my body and I was forced to crack the window open.
However, those pleasant thoughts and that warm sensation began to leave me when I questioned what had happened. I was glad he didn’t just want to use me for a quick screw. But it seemed he didn’t want me at all.
Why?
Did my behavior during the evening turn him off? Was it simply the thought that I slept with men for money that gnawed away at him all night and then, ultimately, he couldn’t go through with it? Did he think, like Scott, that I was just a worthless hand-me-down; a filthy whore?
No, that didn’t make sense. If he thought of me as nothing, then why was he concerned about my safety, why had he kept grinning at me like that and why had he said unnecessarily sweet things? So, what was wrong with me?
I arrived home at just before two in the morning. I dashed to the shed in the yard, changing into some gym clothes, removing most of my makeup and taking my hair down, before entering the house. As it turned out, the charade was a waste of time, because Paul was fast asleep on the couch. He didn’t rouse when I shut the front door, nor did he stir when I climbed the stairs.
Usually, when I’d been working, I’d have a shower as soon as I got back – even if I’d been able to have one before I’d left my client. That night, I wandered straight down the hall, opened each of the kids’ bedroom doors in turn and wished them a quiet, hushed goodnight that they never heard.
I had everything I needed to go. I had enough money to get away from Paul and start a new life. I would never have to sell myself again; not to a stranger and not to my husband. I was finally free. I told myself this repeatedly, as I shuffled back to my bedroom and slowly peeled off my clothes. It didn’t matter whether Preston wanted to sleep with me or not. In fact, it was good that he didn’t. It meant I got paid, and didn’t have to give away a part of myself that I’d never wanted to offer in the first place.
I got involved with the business, because I felt I had to. I’d then deluded myself into thinking that it was something I enjoyed – when the painful truth is I always knew that it was slowly eating away at my soul. Bit by bit and night by night, I was chipping away at my moral foundation; who I was and what I held dear. I only had to think about my two girls growing up and doing what I’d been doing to know that I was thoroughly disgusted by what I’d done.
Was I sorry? No. Did I regret it? No. It was worth the sacrifice.
What bothered me was that I couldn’t stop thinking about Preston. It frustrated me that a part of my brain, a stupid vain part, wouldn’t stop feeling rejected by the fact he’d chosen not to take me to bed. That part of me was starting to create an anger deep within, because the unruly voice went against everything else I believed in.
Paul never came to bed. I never got any sleep. I slipped beneath the sheets, but stared at the ceiling, until the sun rose. When I wasn’t thinking about Preston’s kind, brown eyes, I was busy wondering how I was going to leave Paul. If I made a run for it, I’d lose the kids. If I told him I was leaving, he’d still fight me for the kids, but there was a good chance a fair judge would give me primary custody; after all Paul spent a third of his time jetting all over the country and even when he wasn’t, he worked twelve hours a day.
Eventually, I decided that it would be better to buy a house, before I announced the news to Paul. That way, I’d be able to leave right away. As it stood, if I waltzed downstairs and told him I knew he put his dick in just about every woman he’d ever worked with, I still had nowhere to go – at least not immediately.
Technically, I might have been free. But there were still a few hoops to jump through, before it was truly a reality. While I was morosely contemplating that fact, I heard the buzz of my cell phone vibrating against the bedside table. Initially, I chose to ignore it. But every few seconds, the phone would remind me that I had an unread message, vibrating perpetually until the noise was driving me crazy.
“For Christ’s sake,” I muttered, flipping over onto my side and grabbing the phone angrily. I jabbed it roughly with my thumb and the text opened up on the screen.
‘Arianna, at the risk of overstating it, just wanted to say I had a really good time last night. I was hoping that I’d be able to see you again. Same price. Any time. Let me know.’
In my sleep-deprived state, I had to read the message three times, before I was certain I understood it. Preston was willing to pay another $25,000 for an evening with me. I’d been wrong in assuming he didn’t like me or was turned off by what I did for a living. That didn’t, of course, explain the game he was playing.
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