by Pam Godwin
Mutually enjoyed? For an entire year? Not likely. “You’re telling me you’d put me with someone I can tolerate?”
“I’m guaranteeing you’ll be paired with someone you enjoy.”
“How? The application didn’t ask for my preferences. You have no idea who and what I enjoy.”
The form focused on limits, triggers, sexual orientation and practices, and relationship history. My answers could be summed up to straight man with an aversion to anal and monogamy. That tells her nothing.
“Let’s see…” She looks directly in my eyes. “I know you can sweet talk your way into any woman’s bed, but you prefer a challenge—”
“Why would you—?”
“The chase is your favorite part. Once you catch them, you lose interest.”
“None of that was on the application.” I stand and pace to the windows behind her desk, my nerves raw with suspicion. “Are you stalking me?”
“We have over a hundred employees, all of them selected through careful screening.” She swivels her chair, facing me. “I excel at my job, Decker, because if I disappoint a client, or worse, if I create a scandal in his or her life, they have the power to destroy everything we’ve built here. Our clients are influential, extremely wealthy, and they pay a premium for the highest level of service and confidentiality. Their friends and family don’t even know about us. Which is why I make it my business to know my employees.”
I cross my arms and lean a shoulder against the floor-to-ceiling glass. “Why would Infidelity want to hire a guy like me?”
“You’re physically appealing. If I may be so bold, you’re the epitome of masculine virility. There isn’t a client in our portfolio who wouldn’t be taken with you.”
Her smarmy sales pitch makes my insides curl, and I consciously force myself to relax.
“You caught Evan’s eye,” she says, “and he’s picky.”
Evan fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m not…”
She arches a brow.
“Okay, yeah, I’m picky.” He blows out a breath. “I also have a knack for choosing the heart-breakers.”
“I don’t believe Decker’s a heart-breaker.” She studies me with a thoughtful look on her slender face. “In fact, I think he’s extremely loyal to those he lets in.”
“You don’t know me.” I slip my hands in my pockets and direct my gaze to the Manhattan skyline.
“I investigated the Contender Sports scandal,” she says. “You stood by those kids, going as far as to pay their legal fees to ensure not only justice for what was done to them but financial compensation.”
“It was the least I could do.” My chest squeezes.
“You didn’t have to, and you bankrupted yourself to make sure Adam Lamont never touches a child again.” She stands and joins me at the window. “I’ll be honest, Mr. Gabrielli. You passed the psych evaluation and medical exams, but you don’t have the pedigree or noteworthy résumé I’m looking for. While you may be the most physically attractive applicant to ever walk through these doors, your looks aren’t enough.”
The verbal punch is enough to hitch my breath, but I keep my lips pinned and my expression neutral. It’s not like I wanted this job.
Except the idea of it is growing on me. Maybe it’s the professional way she laid out the expectations or the guarantee that the relationship would be mutually enjoyed. Or maybe it’s the most desperate incentive of all: Money.
“It’s your integrity,” she says, “that makes you extremely desirable as a candidate. Knowing you’ll respect our code of conduct, ethics, and confidentiality carries more weight than a degree from Harvard.”
My mouth dries, and my pulse speeds up. Is she offering me a job?
“Please.” She gestures for me to take the seat beside Evan. “We have a lot to discuss.”
I return to the chair and sit forward, elbows braced on my knees. “I haven’t accepted the job.”
“You will.”
“I’m not—”
She holds up a hand. “You need income, and you’re too smart to turn this down.”
My nostrils flare. “I want to choose the woman.”
“No. Client profiles are classified. You’ll be introduced to one client only—the one we choose for you.” She removes a three-page document from a folder on the desk and places it in front of me.
A quick glance confirms it’s a contract, dated and filled out with my name. I don’t touch it.
“If we broker this agreement,” she says, “Infidelity will pay you twenty thousand dollars a month for a year. Will that sufficiently cover your outstanding attorney fees and dig you out of destitution?”
It’s more than enough. More than I could ever make slinging beer or mopping floors. It would give me a fresh start and maybe enough seed money to start up a new business venture.
“Yes,” I say, with a thick layer of hope in my voice.
“Beyond the financial benefit, Infidelity will create opportunities for you. You’ll dine with important constituents and socialize with powerful people who are always looking for entrepreneurial ideas to invest in.”
Shit, I hadn’t thought of that. And they won’t know I’m a paid escort, since secrecy seems to be the most valuable service Infidelity offers.
“Your signature legally binds you to this agreement.” She nods at the papers and reclines in the chair. “Sign the last page if you agree to a one-year relationship with the client you’re assigned.”
She walks through the physical abuse exception, how the agreement continues or terminates at the end of one year, and the mandatory monogamy—all of which Evan already explained.
“Will the one-year pledge of fidelity be a problem for you?” She sets a pen on the papers and locks her fingers together in front of her.
“No.” I’ve never been in a committed relationship, but that’s not the reason my stomach hardens with reluctance. “What if I’m not attracted to her? I don’t want to sound like an asshole, but a woman can have sex when she’s not into it. A man…” I share a look with Evan. “We have to be aroused to make it work.”
“I promise,” she says without a hint of embarrassment, “a virile man like yourself will have no problem performing.”
“How the hell do you know?”
“I’m rarely wrong.” She lifts her chin. “But on the small chance I am, there are pills for erectile problems.”
Fuck that. Every molecule of male pride inside me cringes.
I can’t do this.
Except it’s only a year.
But what about my fucking dignity?
There won’t be a shred of dignity left when I’m standing in line at a homeless shelter.
I slide the agreement toward me, read through it, and let myself consider the offer.
For the next hour, we go over the fine details, such as the possibility of me relocating to another city or state, potential traveling and fancy parties, living conditions, schedules, responsibilities, and media exposure.
If I do this, I’ll be reduced to arm candy, the dude in a tux accompanying the big-shot politician or celebrity at social events. Can I live with that emasculating stigma for a year?
“Sign here, if you agree.” She taps the paper. “And initial here and here.”
I stare blankly at the agreement, my stomach a snarl of nerves.
What if I hate the woman? What if she’s a total bitch? What if I find her nauseating and have to endure a year of her groping?
I picture Shelby at Blue Dixie with her hands on my dick and the cloying scent of her desperation fumigating my personal space day and night. Karen assured me I would enjoy the relationship, but if Infidelity wants me badly enough, she’ll tell me anything to make me sign.
“Mr. Gabrielli, what’s your answer?”
CHAPTER 5
DECKER
What’s my answer?
An obscene amount of money, enough prestige to potentially repair my reputation, and monogamous sex—that will be my i
ncentive plan for the next year.
I pick up the pen and sign, trying to keep my hand from shaking through each stroke.
Evan grips my shoulder and squeezes. “You made the right decision.”
I’m not so sure. I might not have sold my soul to the devil, but I just signed an agreement that sold my body to a woman I’ve never met.
After Evan and I shake hands and say goodbye, Karen sends me down the private elevator with her assistant to get photos taken for a passport and Infidelity’s records. I fill out more forms in a conference room, providing details such as bank account information for direct deposits.
Two days ago I faced eviction and unemployment. Before that, I lived paycheck to paycheck, without electricity or frequent meals. Now I’ll be earning a six-digit annual salary, living rent-free, and eating like a king. I feel wildly knocked off balance.
Karen’s assistant pokes her blonde head into the conference room and smiles. “All finished?”
“Yep.” I stand and head toward the door. “Do I just wait for a call?”
With the interview check in my pocket, my next stop will be the phone store.
“Actually,” she says, “Ms. Flores would like to speak to you before you go.”
She escorts me back to level I and waves me into Karen’s office, closing the door behind me.
Karen sits behind her desk, laptop closed, and expression expectant. “Take a seat.”
I lower into the chair, narrowing my eyes. “Did something happen?”
“I have good news, Decker.” Her grin is wide, her voice damn near breathless. “Normally, the medical evaluation and background check comes after the interview, but when Evan called me two days ago, I expedited the process.”
My brows pulled together. “Because of my financial situation?”
“No. Let me reiterate that our clients pay a high price for a successful coupling. It can take weeks or longer to find the perfect match. We don’t always have employees on hand that fit every profile. Sometimes we have to look outside of our existing staff to make these perfect pairings possible.”
My heart pounds in my chest as I register the meaning of her words. “That’s why you pushed so hard for me to sign. You hired me with a specific client already in mind. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There’s an order to these things, Mr. Gabrielli. After your interview, I had to make some calls. Frankly, I didn’t expect everything to line up as seamlessly as it did.”
“Everything like what? You told me it could be a month before you matched me with someone.” Fuck, I’m not ready for this.
“I have a female client who requires a specific kind of companion. We don’t have many male employees, which has made the process of filling her needs even more challenging. I’ve been searching for a profile like yours for a long time.”
“What are her needs?” My palms slick with sweat. “Who is she?”
“I’m not authorized to say. What I can disclose is she flew into town this morning to meet you.” Karen slides a square card across the desk. “You’ll meet her tonight.”
Waves of dread and excitement roll through my gut. If this woman doesn’t live in town, that means I’ll be moving. Doesn’t matter in the scheme of things, but it’s another big adjustment in the reckless whirlwind I’ve found myself in.
I glance at the embossed phone number on the card. “What’s this?”
“If you need to report abuse, that’s the number you call.” She squares her shoulders. “The client received the same card.”
A warning, probably one with more concern than usual, given my combat training. She knows I can defend myself against any man or woman and gave this to me as a reminder to keep myself in check.
“A car will pick you up at your residence at six tonight. Pack an overnight bag.” She stands and offers her hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Gabrielli. Today is the first day of your one-year agreement. You’re officially employed at Infidelity.”
We shake hands, and I follow her out of the office, where she calls the private elevator. I try not to think about what comes with packing an overnight bag, but when the metal doors open, my nerves get the best of me.
“At least tell me what she looks like.” I wink at her and flash my most charming smile. “Come on, Karen. Just a hint. Is she attractive? Old? Obese?”
Her expression gives nothing away, but there’s a slight flush in her cheeks. “Good luck, Decker.”
Fuck. I step into the elevator and catch the doors right before they close. “What do I wear?”
She gives me firm eye contact, her expression severe. “Be yourself.”
CHAPTER 6
DECKER
That night, I bounce my leg in the back of a limo as the tree-lined streets of the Village dissolve into the darkness behind me. When the driver picked me up in front of my apartment, he said nothing beyond a curt Good evening, Mr. Gabrielli. I could’ve made him walk the eight flights of stairs and meet me in my tiny studio, but I needed the frigid air to cool off my nervous energy.
It didn’t help. My stomach’s a mess, and I’ve chewed the hell out of my cheek. I don’t know where the driver is taking me or why I’m alone in this pretentious car. Evidently, my soon-to-be companion is too busy or important to make the ride across town.
If I had to guess, my destination is somewhere private and secure, a place conducive to sex, like a hotel.
My overnight bag sits on the seat beside me, mocking me. Will I even need a change of clothes or will she keep me naked, on my knees, doing tongue exercises between her flabby old legs?
My gag reflex kicks in, and I drag a hand down my face, focusing my thoughts on anything but that.
I didn’t leave much behind in my apartment. Just a couple boxes of clothes and combat sports gear. The rent’s paid through the next two months thanks to the twenty-thousand-dollar advance that was deposited into my account a few hours ago.
Twenty grand, and I’m dressed like a hoodlum. My Danzig t-shirt should’ve been thrown out years ago, and my jeans are so worn the holes have holes. Faded converse, black leather jacket, and a studded belt—all of it says I don’t give a shit. But Karen Flores said to be myself, and I wouldn’t be caught dead shopping for clothes to impress a woman.
For the next fifteen minutes, I tap my fingers on the armrest and keep my thoughts on the end goal. Whoever this woman is, I’ll charm the fuck out of her, keep her satisfied, and rub elbows with her wealthy network of friends. If I can drum up enough clout and money behind me, I might be able to open another combat sports school.
My chest expands with a rush of excitement. I have the experience to train all ages and skill levels. Raised in Brownsville, Brooklyn by a single mother, I learned how to scrap at a young age. It was run, fight, or die on those pot-holed streets, and I was never much of a runner. While my mom failed me in many ways, the year she put me in mixed martial arts lessons was everything. It gave me confidence, ambition, and focus when I needed it most.
Karen Flores was right about the Contender Sports business model. Children athletes are where the money’s at. As it turned out, I discovered a passion in working with kids. I miss training with them, teaching them life skills, and watching them find their footing through tough adolescent years. While I might not be able to instruct another child again, maybe I can find an investor willing to fund a school for all ages. Maybe I’ll find my passion again.
The limo motors along Central Park and stops in front of The Mark, a swanky hotel with a gold-trimmed overhang and a grand entrance. The driver hops out, but I don’t wait for him to open my door. Grabbing the duffel bag, I step out and find another man in a suit, wearing a small receiver in his ear.
“Follow me, please.” He leads me through the lobby, his shiny shoes moving silently across the black-and-white striped flooring.
Instead of pausing at the bank of elevators, he continues down a corridor and uses a badge to access an elevator tucked out of the way. When we step inside the lift,
he swipes the card again to take us to the only upper floor available.
The other buttons lead to lower-level service floors and a parking garage, presumably a private garage. Why did he bring me in through the lobby? I guess the client isn’t concerned about her association with me? Or maybe she’s not as high-profile as I assumed? Maybe she slipped into the hotel through the private garage and no one knows she’s here?
“Do you travel with her?” If I can coax this guy into conversation, I might be able to find out who she is or where she lives. “Or does she hire local security when she’s in town?”
He stands sour-faced and statuesque like the Royal Guard at Buckingham Palace. So much for prying anything out of him. I might’ve tried harder, but the elevator slows to a stop.
The doors open to a contemporary lobby that’s larger than my entire apartment. A winding staircase leads to a rooftop terrace, and several hallways trail off into more rooms and hallways. Dark wood floors, nickel lighting fixtures, and a profusion of white. Feels a little cold and a lot unwelcoming.
Footsteps approach from around the corner, and a man appears, wearing a perfect smile with sparkling white teeth.
“Decker Gabrielli.” He shakes my hand. “I’m Reese Cromwell. Welcome.” He flicks his wrist, gesturing me to follow him deeper into the suite. “How was the ride here?”
“Spacious.” I clasp my hands behind my back and match his strides. “I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you?”
Dressed in a collared shirt and designer jeans, he’s ridiculously stylish and good-looking. Clean-shaven, physically fit, and not a blond hair out of place. If I had to guess, he’s the same age as me, late-twenties, maybe younger.
