Midtown Masters

by Cara McKenna

  “I can tell you exactly who was on deck, actually.”

  “Thank God.” She pulled open the desk drawer. “Hang on, let me find something to write on.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  She paused, Post-it pad in hand. “Why not?”

  “The sessions were cancelled.”

  “Which ones? Not all of this week’s?”

  “All of this week’s, all of next week’s. All of them in perpetuity.”

  “Jesus, everyone cancelled? Why— Oh my fuck, have we been hacked?!”

  “No,” he said, laughing. “No, no. They didn’t cancel. I did.”

  “What?” They’d never canceled on a client, not even when Meyer had had the flu for two weeks. “Why?”

  “Because we’ve outgrown it,” he said. “Or rather, because you have.”

  “I never said that. Is this about last night?”

  Meyer had called her out after three consecutive half-assed performances, and she’d admitted that she wasn’t exactly feeling it. “I just said I was . . . I dunno, that it wasn’t as fun as it used to be. I never said I wanted to stop.”

  “Give it a minute’s thought,” Meyer said, so gently it didn’t sound like him. “Tomorrow we were going to cam for Richard. Were you really looking forward to getting your toes sucked for an hour?”

  “Not especially. But I was looking forward to getting paid.”

  “Not good enough. When we started camming, we did it for the thrill. When we started charging for it, we said we’d do it for a year or until it wasn’t fun anymore. And I know you. You’re my best friend, and you’re embarrassingly transparent. I know precisely what thrills you, Suze, and it’s nothing to do with the site, now.”

  “I’m a little offended by how patronizing you’re coming off, here.” But also a little defensive, because something about what he was saying rang true.

  “Sorry. But I had an epiphany last night, and it felt very clear, and very right.”

  “And what’s that, then?”

  “I may not be a romantic in practice, but I’m not blind. What we do,” he said, “it brought you and John into each other’s lives, but it’s also going to get in the way if we keep going with business as usual.”

  “Slow down,” she said, laughing, more befuddled than amused. “I don’t know if John even wants that. Something serious. I don’t know what I want, either.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I— We don’t even live in the same city.”

  “But you live in the same state. How very handy for your accreditation. Perhaps you ought to move to Philadelphia and fall in love and finally open your own practice.”

  She shook her head, blindsided. “Hold up—are you mad at me? This feels really . . . I don’t know. Weird. And pushy.”

  “It was a joke. But not one without some basis in reality.”

  “It better be. There’s way too many assumptions going on here. For one, that John even likes me that way—”

  “He does.”

  “And for another, that I even want that. Monogamy, and commitment.”

  “You might.”

  “And I don’t know that I want to move, or that he would, or that either of us is up for something long-distance.”

  “No, you don’t know,” he agreed. “But listen. I know you. Inside and out. And I’ve never seen you like this, the way you’ve been these past few weeks. You fell for this man before you even knew he was a man. You were hot for his words before you ever found out he’s gorgeous. His brain sets your pussy on fire, and you’re well on your way to turning him into a great fucking lay. And if you don’t think he feels similarly, you’re deluded.”

  “I don’t— This is all too fast. Too rash. Why’d you have to cancel our sessions? John doesn’t mind what we do. If he and I wanted to give dating a shot, we could’ve managed that and honored our professional commitments at the same time. Wound it down, instead of just yanking the plug.”

  “It’s not fun for me, either. Not anymore, not the way it used to be. It—” He huffed, gentle tone giving way to exasperation in a breath. “Listen. You can take this as narcissism or you can take it as jealousy, I don’t care. But us fucking, and knowing there’s someone out there you’d rather be with, and could be with . . . ? It’s time, Suze. We said a year, or until it stops being fun, and to that I’ll add, or until one of us has feelings for someone else. You should see where things go with John. And I should be free to fuck everything with a cock in Pittsburgh. We did a damn good job at this, and we had a damn good time, but it doesn’t fit anymore.”

  She was about to come back at him, searching for an argument for why he was wrong, why it was unfair of him to have made this decision on his own, without unpacking it with her first . . . But nothing much came. If it didn’t feel right to Meyer, what could she say? She could argue his insistence about knowing what she wanted for herself, but she couldn’t argue with his own feelings. And did it sound like a relief, shutting down the site? Just a tiny bit . . . ?

  And did she want a chance to find out if John wanted more from her?

  “He might not be interested in me that way at all,” she said. “What happens if he’s not? Do we start the site back up?” Another argument for phasing it out slowly.

  “No, it’s done. Now’s the time.” Meyer sounded very sure. And very done talking about it. Suzy couldn’t say the same.

  “It just feels very sudden,” she said limply.

  “It is. And all this stuff with John, that’s been sudden too.”

  “I guess. Relatively speaking.”

  “You like him. I’d be shocked if he doesn’t feel the same way.”

  “Wish I had your confidence.”

  “Listen, how about an assignment to help sway you to my side?”

  She sighed. “Go on.”

  “You’ve got all your chats, any e-mails you two exchanged, texts, recordings of all the video exchanges. Take a walk down memory lane. Remind yourself why you were so obsessed with Miss Lindsay in the first place, and why you fell for this man enough to invite him where no other client has ever been asked.”

  She imagined doing so, nodded grudgingly to herself. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “No, it’s not . . .” His tone softened once more. “Listen, I’m sorry I pulled the plug without consulting you, but you know me. I don’t like hemming and hawing. I like action, and it felt like the time. Don’t be mistaken—I’m going to miss your pussy like the deserts miss the rain, but Mr. and Mrs. Parks need to step aside, and let Suzy do Suzy.”

  “And what about Meyer?”

  “Yes, he’d like to do Meyer for a while, I’ll admit. We’ve had a lot of fun and made a lot of money, and I don’t need to worry about the rent for a year or more, so I’m ready.”

  And Suzy’s mom’s mortgage balance was down to eight grand. She could write that check now and still have enough to float her through a few months’ job searching. And when she thought about it . . .

  “You’re right. It’s time. No matter what John says, it’s time. We’re both restless and in good shape financially, so fine. I’m with you. But on one condition.”

  “Lay it on me, darling.”

  “We need to celebrate. Some night soon, maybe cook a big meal, or splash out someplace nice, fuck one last time before we both go back to condoms?”

  “Oh, naturally. Let’s fuck like we’ve never fucked before. Like we’ll never fuck each other again. Since we may not.”

  “That’d be a shame.”

  “True, but possibly the price of admission as far as John’s concerned.”

  “I doubt that. Look how he met us.”

  “In any case,” he said, “I will fuck you so hard your legs will fall off.”

  She smiled. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear, Mey.”


  “Go now, my child. Read through your old messages. Then call John and ask him if he’d like to take you out, wine and wooing and hours of fumbling, hesitant, charming coitus. The whole shebang.”

  “I will. I’ll let you know what he says.”

  “Yes, you will. Later, Suze.”

  “Thanks. Later, Meyer. Oh—enjoy whoever you take all your homoerotic frustrations out on.”

  “No worries there.”

  “Bye.” She ended the call, and for long minutes she sat on her couch, staring at nothing in particular as she mulled it all over. Both the assignment and task of speaking to John.

  Finally, she slapped her thighs and stood. Strode down the hall and into the Parkses now-former bedroom, and plopped herself into the chair before the laptop.

  “Okay, here goes.”

  Starting with the very first contact. Miss Lindsay’s request message. She should have known from that very first line that this client would be different—a dozen roses laid on the steps of a brothel. She should have known this one was special.

  And she should have known even then that she’d been a goner.

  I hope this message finds you well. I’m writing to inquire about booking an hour’s performance. I’m interested in something along the lines of your “Passionate Lovemaking” sample. I’m a fairly shy person, so I’d prefer the text-to-voice option, if that’s amenable to you . . .

  Chapter Twenty-four

  John rubbed his temples, frowned at the page glowing out at him from his computer screen. This chapter ending just wasn’t right. Not so much a cliff-hanger as a stumble off the curb. Had he cut things off too soon? Or did it need—

  The old-timey jangle of his phone’s ringtone. He grabbed it from the coffee table and checked the screen. “Oh.” Suzy.

  Smartphones were so odd. He always felt silly, acting as though he didn’t know who was calling, but boorish just blurting, Hi, so-and-so. He cleared his throat. “Hello?”

  “Hi, John. It’s Suzy.”

  “What a pleasant interruption. How are you?”

  “Oh, sorry. Is this a bad time?”

  He wasn’t even sure what time it was until he glanced at the computer’s clock. Four forty. “Not at all.” He saved his document and shut the laptop. “You’re a welcome excuse to abandon this plot snarl for the moment. How have you been?”

  “I’m fine. Are you in Philadelphia?”

  “I’m rarely anywhere else.”

  “Oh good. So am I.”

  He frowned, and the fingers that were idly stroking his computer’s satiny finish stilled. “You’re in Philadelphia?”

  “I am.”

  His heart gave a nervous thump, and instinctively he made an inventory of his clothes. Passable, despite the five-thousand-word writing day. A touch rumpled, but probably presentable. And he’d showered, thank goodness. “How . . . unexpected. What brings you to my neck of the state?”

  “You, actually. Are you free for an hour or two?”

  “I could be free for the rest of the day. Where are you?”

  “Nicetown-Tioga.”

  He laughed softly. “Ah. Well, you’re in Jacob’s neighborhood, but not mine. I live in Spring Garden.”

  “I knew it was a long shot, but I wasn’t sure where else to tell my GPS to aim.”

  “You should have told me you were coming.”

  “I needed the whole drive to think. Can I have your address? Or a coffee shop or someplace near you?”

  He gave her his street address, swiveling to scan the front room as he did. Not terrible. The housekeeper came twice a month and was due tomorrow, but aside from a few books strewn about, it wasn’t too hopeless.

  “This is a nice surprise,” he said. She’d said she was here because of him, but that couldn’t be the entire story. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Just wanted to see you.”

  “Oh. Did we . . . I didn’t miss a call, did I?”

  Now it was her laugh that warmed the line. “No, you didn’t. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  A spur of the moment that resulted in a five-hour drive?

  “I’ll explain in person,” she said, “if that’s all right. I’ll see you in however long it takes to get from Nicetown to Green Street. With a stop to buy wine.”

  “It’s not close, I’m afraid. I’ve got some wine on hand. I’m not sure what, precisely, but a few bottles of red and a couple of white.” As always, the greater Lindsay clan had grossly overbought last Thanksgiving when John had hosted the dinner, and he nearly never drank alone. Though alone was precisely what he was, three hundred and fifty-odd nights a year. “Are we celebrating something?”

  “Not necessarily. But if you’re going to drop in unannounced, you ought to bring wine, right?”

  “It never hurts, but unless you’ve got your heart set on something, please don’t bother. I have plenty.” Just thinking about wine made him light-headed. The last few times he’d drunk it, he’d wound up naked with Suzy Park. He rose. She liked pinot grigio—if he had a bottle he ought to get it chilling, stat. As he crossed through to the pantry he told her, “I’d rather you spend those extra ten minutes with me, if it’s not too cheesy of me to say.”

  She laughed. “I like cheese.”

  He smiled. “In that case, I have a very nice Camembert in the fridge.”

  “I guess I’ll get going then. See you in . . . twenty-four minutes, says my phone.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Bye.”

  They hung up, and John rooted past the bottles of red to the three whites in the back. No pinot grigio, but a pinot gris. Those came from the same grape, didn’t they? His sister would know, but there wasn’t time to worry. He carried it to the kitchen and put it in the freezer, vowing not to forget it was there.

  Okay, that left twenty-three minutes to pace. No, wait, shit—he clomped up the creaky old steps to the bathroom and shaved, wet and combed his hair, and brushed his teeth. He strode through his bedroom next. The bed was made but the hamper was a mess. The floor could stand to be swept, but there wasn’t time. If they wound up needing this room he imagined he’d be too distracted and too grateful to care about dust bunnies.

  That done, he did a walk-through of the bottom floor. John did most of his living there, and books and printed articles were festooned between the study and dining area, like a trail of breadcrumbs marking his daily comings and goings. He gathered them into a pile on the hutch.

  “What else, what else?” He glanced to the adjoining kitchen, where breakfast dishes waited. Or ought he put on music? That seemed like something normal people would—

  Bonnggg. The doorbell.

  “Fuck it.” Music was out, and though cleanliness was next to godliness, it paled at the prospect of seeing the object of one’s desire.

  Wait.

  She’s definitely here for something good, right?

  The thought struck him mere steps from the door.

  Don’t be stupid—you can’t get dumped in person if you’re not actually in a relationship with someone.

  They were lovers, nothing more. That might be a monumental role to John, but to Suzy it wasn’t nearly such a novelty.

  Plus, who brings wine to a dumping? Like he’d know, but still. It seemed unlikely.

  He opened the door, pasting on his finest imitation of an effortless smile. “Welcome.”

  “Hey, stranger.” Any nerves melted away in the warmth of that smirk.

  He stepped aside. “Come in.”

  She did. She looked beautiful, the beginnings of a tan glowing on her skin and setting off the mango orange of her tank top. It was a hot day, heralding the impending and official arrival of summer.

  “Goodness, it’s warm,” he said. “I haven’t left the house yet, I’m sorry to say. I had no idea.”
/>   “Yeah, it’s gorgeous.”

  He shut the door, leaving the inner one open to let the sun in. “We can sit in the back garden, if we like. There’s a patio.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him, black eyes making an eager inventory of his den. “Jesus, what a cool house.”

  “Thank you. I spend most of my time in here. The third floor’s barely furnished.”

  “You own the whole house?” She seemed to catch herself. “I mean, duh, of course you do. Can you tell I still think like a student?”

  He laughed. “It’s novel to me, as well. I always knew I’d be a writer, and I’d always expected to make due with a writer’s wages. And not a best-selling one, mind you. The day I closed on this place and let myself in with the keys for the first time . . . Well, it still delights me, let’s just say.”

  “Rich and appreciative. A rare and charming combination.” She smiled, then did something John probably should have—she went in for a kiss. She rose up on tiptoes and he took the hint, their lips meeting briefly, sweetly.

  He warmed, filling up with pleasure from the floor to his glasses. “Hi,” he said, rather stupidly.

  “Hi. May I use your bathroom?”

  “Absolutely. Let me show you where it is.” He led her down the hall to the right door. “I’ll be in the kitchen, just there.”

  “Thanks.”

  While she freshened up, he checked his white wine glasses for spots and pulled the bottle from the freezer. “Close enough.”

  “Wow.”

  He turned to find Suzy at the threshold, taking in his kitchen. It was a beautiful room, he knew.

  “Thank you. I can’t claim much credit for any of the decorating, really. It’s had a long string of very responsible, very somber owners.” There was a lot of fine woodworking, the same dark molding and baseboards the house had been built with, he bet.

  “The whole street is gorgeous.”

  “I know.” He found the corkscrew and started on the bottle. “When I was still a student I used to walk around this neighborhood with a coffee and fantasize I might ever live somewhere like this. I thought the best I could do would be to set a book here.”

  She pulled out a tall stool at his breakfast bar. “Yet you make Jacob live in Nicetown.”