Never is a Promise

by Winter Renshaw

  “Bronwyn,” he said. “Couldn’t think of a better hooker name?”

  “I’m not a hooker,” I spat. “And it’s my middle name.”

  “Is it safe for you to be giving out your real name like that?”

  “If it makes you feel better, you can call me any name you want,” I said, the corner of my lip curling up into a teasing grin. My first name was Elinor – Nori for short. But he didn’t need to know that. “My name isn’t all that important.”

  “Names are everything.”

  “That why you won’t tell me yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “So who’s name will I be screaming out tonight?” I flirted, though attempting to flirt while blindfolded felt rather ridiculous.

  “John. Call me John.”

  “Original.”

  “You’ve got a mouth on you.” His hand gripped my chin without warning, his thumb tracing over my bottom lip.

  My heart leapt. Most of them men I spent time with didn’t like a girl with a mouth like mine so I usually kept it shut, but something about his raw energy made me act out of the ordinary. He sounded young. He couldn’t have been much older than thirty. Most of the men who requested my company were sexually depraved, middle-aged politicians who bought my exclusivity until they were bored with me or their bank statements were looking rather bleak, and then they passed me onto someone they knew.

  In my business, referrals were everything. I didn’t need a pimp. I didn’t need to walk the streets. My services more than spoke for themselves, and what fifty year old man didn’t want a twenty-four year old honey on his arm with natural DDs, bee-stung lips, and an angelic face framed by silken blonde waves? Their own personal Marilyn Monroe. Not to mention I could carry on an intelligent conversation courtesy of my B.A. in Art History from Georgetown.

  I didn’t think of myself as a hooker or a prostitute anyway. As far as I was concerned, I was a high-class sexual concierge for the well-to-do. I supposed if someone absolutely had to put a label on me, they could call me a sugar baby. But this guy was too young to be a sugar daddy.

  Much, much too young.

  “How’d you hear about me?” I asked, curiosity getting the best of me.

  “Not at liberty to say,” he said.

  I’d had four clients in the last five years. It had to have been one of them or someone close to them who knew what they did under the veil of night.

  A man had been standing outside his door when I’d arrived, dressed in black as if he were with the Secret Service. “John” was much too young sounding to be the president, but whoever he was…he was someone important.

  “Take off your dress,” he commanded, his voice sending a commanding chill down my spine that prickled my skin and sent a curious smile to my mouth. “Small talk is over.”

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