The Price of Mason

by Linda Kage

  But I’d made shit for tips tonight, and with school started, we would need extra lunch money for Sarah, and then more cash for the new evening sitter—for Reese—plus Sarah’s medicine had to be refilled in the next week or so. And I refused to dip into the stash I had tucked away unless absolutely necessary. I called that my fantasy escape money, because one day in my dream world, I was going to grab my mom and sister and escape this life with that money. Turning down easy cash would just be plain stupid.

  Swallowing the acid that rose up my throat, I typed my reply.

  Mason: Code?

  Despite how desperate I was, I’d cracked down a lot on security lately and accepted new clients on a referral basis only, meaning they needed to know the secret password to get an audience with me.

  When the reply came back, I closed my eyes and cursed under my breath.

  Unknown: Firecracker.

  Damn. Someone had given her the right code. I was dealing with a legit customer. After replying with a thumbs-up emoji, letting the client know I’d be at the back door of 318 Willowbrook Terrace tonight at 11:30 p.m., I shoved the phone into my pocket.

  I was so not in the mindset to play adventurous pool boy, or pizza delivery guy, or whatever the fuck this woman wanted from me. But it was barely nine now. I had two hours left at the Country Club, then half an hour to prepare and get to Willowbrook Terrace. I’d have to figure out a way to get my head in the game by then.

  For some reason, my mind strayed to Reese. I wondered what she and Sarah were doing. If all the stars aligned perfectly, they’d be curled up on the sofa, watching Hawaii Five-0 together and eating popcorn right about now. A longing ache tore through my chest, wishing I could be there with them, instead of preparing to meet a complete stranger for sex.

  At 11:25 p.m., I killed the engine to my Jeep at the curb of the five-hundred block of Willowbrook Terrace. The streetlamps were the typical, fancy neighborhood style that provided more decoration than actual illumination, so it really felt like I was slinking through the dark for my illegal rendezvous with whoever might live at three-eighteen.

  No one else was out and about, and I could only imagine what anyone in the neighborhood would think if they glanced through their windows and saw me walking by on the sidewalk at almost midnight. So far, I’d never had the cops called on me for loitering where I obviously didn’t belong. But maybe I looked clean-cut enough in my valet uniform that I didn’t arouse suspicion.

  I knew I tempted fate every time I responded to a call. But my family owed no debt, so I’d probably keep on doing this until my good luck ran out. Because I still wasn’t convinced I’d ever reach a point where I’d feel safe enough to stop completely.

  Reaching the yard of 318 Willowbrook Terrace at almost exactly 11:30, I took in the immaculately trimmed yard with roses growing in the front flower bed and I did a quick compass calculation in my head before moving stealthily along a fence line to get to the northwest corner of the house. There didn’t seem to be any guard dogs or booby traps about, so I made it to my destination without any issues. But I still paused when I reached the door I’d been told to go to.

  Did I really want to do this? Fuck, no. But was I going to, anyway? Yeah, I guess I was.

  Closing my eyes, I drew in a deep breath. You got this, Lowe. You fucking got this. You’ve done it a hundred times before. You can do it again.

  I don’t know why I always had to give myself that same mental pep talk, but this shit never got any easier. My heart pounded as I slowly reached out a fisted hand and knocked quietly.

  I had no idea who would answer. Had the police discovered my activities and set up a sting operation to trap me? Had the client’s spouse figured out I was coming and was actually the one waiting on the other side of the door with a loaded gun? Or would the person who’d sought my services be just another Patricia? I honestly didn’t know which one of those scenarios would be the most horrific to live through.

  But then the door began to open, and I held my breath, my anxiety nearly smothering me as light spilled out onto the dark yard.

  When no one appeared to invite me inside and the door remained open, I exhaled steadily through my nose and stepped forward, ignoring the slight trembling in my extremities.

  Inside, a single woman stood in the center of a mudroom—a sterile, white clean laundry room with a washer, dryer and not a single speck of dust anywhere—wearing a rose-colored silky nightgown that fell to her knees. She seemed to be in her mid to late forties with dark hair she had combed down to her shoulders and probably dyed so no gray showed. She didn’t have a bra on under the V-necked gown and her nipples poked through the silk as if she were freezing cold in this Florida August heat, or maybe she was just that happy to see me.

  What surprised me the most was how beautiful she was. But I’m not sure why that still managed to shock me. Most of the people who employed me were attractive, at the height of fashion, and kept themselves bright, and shiny, and polished.

  When I had begun this job, I had stupidly thought I’d get more clients who weren’t so visually appealing, that had a harder time attracting someone to their bed; they were just so desperate they had to pay for it. And honestly, I think I would’ve respected them more and been more willing to do business with them if that had been the case. But more often than not, my customers took care of their appearance. They were tidy, rich, and stylish. There was no way they had any trouble getting sex for free and no godly reason they’d ever have to pay for it.

  Made me think sex had nothing to do with this; it was more of an ego trip for them. Buy a few hours with the young, handsome toy to play with and control, then go brag to your equally rich and vain cohorts about what you’d done. Companionship and filling a physical void played no part into the equation. I swear I was just a notch to punch into their social-status Prada belts.

  When the woman sent me a calculating smile, I knew this stranger was just like the majority of my clientele, and I instantly resented her.

  “You must be Mason,” she said, drawing in a deep, appreciative breath as she took me in from head to toe.

  Showtime.

  I quirked her a glance that I’d practiced a lot, a glance that made it appear as if I were equally as interested in her as she seemed to be in me: a lie to put food on my mom’s table.

  In the huskiest voice I could manage, I said, “If I wasn’t before, then I definitely will be now.”

  Confession #7: One name. That’s all it took to ruin everything.

  My client shivered as if pleased by my answer. Then she crooked her finger, beckoning me forward as she turned away and started out of the mudroom and into a hallway. “Follow me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I murmured quietly, moving in close so she’d be sure to feel me right behind her.

  This was my first test. Initial meetings were always tricky. I had to decipher immediately whether a client preferred bold behavior or coy. And the way she responded to me breaching her personal space would be her tell.

  When she glanced over her shoulder at me, I made sure to make eye contact, reading her expression and body language. There were zero fuck-off-and-give-me-room vibes, no I-didn’t-say-you-could-do-that arch of the eyebrows. In fact, she smiled encouragingly as if she liked having me there.

  She didn’t mind me making a move, so I immediately scratched dominatrix off the list. She wasn’t going to tie me up and do all the work herself. She at least wanted some participation. But how much, I still had to discover. Did she want me to tie her up and do everything, or was she into equal parts labor between us? This was something I was going to have to learn before we started. And I had to figure it out without asking.

  A hundred percent of the time, I knew the client had an idea in her head of how she wanted this to go down. But asking directly never worked out well. I’d learned early on not to come right out and say, “So, how do you want it?”

  Maybe that way lacked subtlety and sounded too crass to their ears. Or maybe
asking made me come off as if I didn’t really care, didn’t want to be there, and just wanted to get this over and done with so I could collect my money and go home. And as true as that might be, it wasn’t a good way to run a business. Not this kind of business, anyway.

  So I never asked.

  On the other hand, not asking was a total no-no as well. In the beginning, I’d bungled my way through, trying what I wanted, always to be slapped down and reprimanded for doing it wrong. It didn’t take long to realize what I wanted had nothing to do with the transaction at all. The meeting was all about fulfilling the client’s wishes. I was just a tool to accomplish that.

  So, over the last year, I’d learned a fail-safe trick that never steered me wrong.

  As soon as she led me up a set of back stairs and through a hallway into a dimly lit bedroom, I stepped up right behind her, set a hand on her waist, and moved my mouth next to her ear, where I paused dramatically before whispering, “So…what’s your fantasy?”

  That had become my signature phrase. Every other question seemed to spill out wrong. But inquiring about a “fantasy” seemed to put the client at ease. It made the moment more personal for her, gave her options, put her in control, and it relaxed her enough to tell me the truth, because after all, fantasies weren’t real. She could convince herself she was just confessing a hypothetical daydream to a stranger…until I actually started to act the daydream out for her.

  No matter how many times I asked it, the client always responded like a cat who’d gotten the cream, smiling decadently, damn near arching her back and stretching in pleasure, ready to be petted. Didn’t matter if it was the first time I asked them the question or the tenth, they always loved it.

  On cue, tonight’s client watched me from hungry, glittering eyes. I knew it wouldn’t be our last encounter. She liked me already.

  “They told me you’d say that,” she said, running her gaze down my body. “And yet it still managed to send a shiver straight through me. Very well done, Mason.”

  The condescending tone she used rubbed me all wrong, as did the way she said my first name. I hated it when they used my name.

  Patricia had a tendency to give women my full name. She must’ve been the one to refer this client to me, which made me even more leery of the stranger in front of me. Any friend of Patricia’s was not someone I wanted to spend any amount of time with.

  But I was here for a job. My second semester of college wasn’t going to pay for itself. Neither were Sarah’s medical expenses or utilities on the house.

  I stepped toward the woman, managing to keep good eye contact. The right amount of eye contact was key.

  “So you’ve already had time to think about your answer.” Reaching out slowly, I touched her wrist, then slid my thumb along the side of her hand and across her pinkie.

  She gave a visible shudder. “Damn,” she murmured, licking her lips. “You’re good at that.”

  I stepped closer still, my gaze on nothing but her as my smile turned playful and mischievous. “At what?”

  She set her hands on my chest and smoothed them down, over the slopes and dips that made up my pecs and abs, so she could feel each muscle through my Country Club polo.

  This is where a part of me checked out. Touching them had never been a problem. Like a dentist or doctor, I could treat touching like some kind of clinical chore. Call me a gynecological masseur, if you will. But it was when they started touching me back when things turned tricky.

  I don’t think I was a typical guy. I didn’t like being touched.

  No, revise that. I just didn’t like being touched by them.

  I could snuggle with Sarah twenty-four hours a day, and if my mother ever gave me a hug, I’d probably drop dead from the euphoria. I had a feeling I’d make a touchy-feely—probably even a constantly horny—kind of boyfriend too, if, you know, dating actually ever happened to me.

  But I swear Patricia had broken something inside me when she’d started me down this path. Because anytime anyone who was paying me for the opportunity to put their hands on me actually touched me, their touch just felt…vile. This creepy shiver would pass over my skin, and my stomach would revolt.

  Every time.

  Made me feel like a swimmer afraid of water or a firefighter scared of fire.

  To overcome, I had to trick my mind and think about other shit before my body could respond in a way that actually pleased the client.

  Fighting back the instinctive urge to curl away as her fingers made it to the waistline of my pants and she dipped a few inside before gripping denim and tugging me closer, I chuckled to make her think I liked the move.

  Then I traced the back of my knuckles down the side of her neck and along her collarbone. “You ever going to tell me about that fantasy?”

  “Mmm.” She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, a small smile playing across her lips. “Yes. I want compassion.”

  I paused at her shoulder.

  Compassion?

  What the fuck did that mean?

  Usually, women told me they wanted to be on top or liked it from behind or wanted to be spanked. Shit like that. Compassionate sex was not an answer I’d ever gotten before.

  Since I hadn’t exactly been planning on being cold and callous, I pulled back to look at her, no clue how to respond.

  She smiled at me like an adult amused by a child’s ignorance. Then she reached up and stroked my cheek.

  “I didn’t marry my husband for love,” she explained. “I married him for the money. Unfortunately, he’s a very selfish lover who’s never once considered what I needed. So I want someone to give instead of take. I want to know what it would feel like if someone who actually loved me and cared about my pleasure were fucking me.”

  O…kay.

  Personally, I thought she’d have better luck going off and actually falling in love with someone to experience that from him instead of relying on me to fake it. But hey, it wasn’t my place to judge. I just had to give the lady what she asked for.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured her as I leaned in to set my mouth against hers, because people in love kissed on the mouth, right? “I’ll make sure you come harder than you’ve ever come before.”

  Grimacing, she pulled her face back and lifted her finger to set it against my mouth, stalling me.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head and straightening again when I pulled away from her. “I don’t want you to just be nice and make sure I come. I said I wanted you to act as if you fucking love me.”

  Huh?

  I shook my head, clueless. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure—”

  She sighed and waved her hand, shutting me up. “How about this?” After studying my face a moment, she stroked a finger down my jaw. “Is there a special lady in your life?”

  Reese’s face flashed into my head before I could stop it.

  Stupid brain.

  She wasn’t special. I didn’t even know her. Why did I immediately think about her? Probably because she’d been the only person to actually stir something in me in quite a while. Plus I’d just seen her tonight, so she was fresh in my mind.

  Yeah, that was probably it.

  No other reason.

  But a smile flickered across my client’s mouth as she pointed at me. “There,” she murmured. “I saw that look. There is someone. What’s her name?”

  I shook my head. No way in fucking hell was I giving this woman—this friend of Patricia’s—anyone’s name. Certainly not Reese’s.

  “No,” I said, laughing uneasily. “There’s not. I don’t have a girlfriend.” Did she honestly think a gigolo could maintain a relationship with anyone?

  I guess maybe some guys could, I don’t know, but I wasn’t one of them.

  “She doesn’t have to be a girlfriend. Maybe just someone you crave.”

  I continued to shake my head in denial, but the client patted my cheek as if she already knew she was right. “Whoever’s in your mind, making you deny it so forcefull
y…use her.” Moving closer, she whispered into my ear, “And while your hands are on me, touch her.”

  An unwanted ripple of desire flowed over me. My gut clenched and cock hardened. Touch Reese, an eager, greedy part of my psyche whispered.

  Outwardly, though, I shook my head, resisting temptation. “But, uh…” With an uneasy smile, I furrowed my brow. “That doesn’t exactly seem fair to you.”

  The woman in front of me only smiled as if she knew something I didn’t. “Trust me,” she said. “And close your eyes.”

  Since my clients always got their way, I mentally shrugged before closing my eyes.

  I could feel her step closer, and my muscles tensed in apprehension. Yet all she did was murmur, “Now… Don’t think of these as my hands on you, but hers.”

  When she touched me this time, it didn’t feel quite so vile. It didn’t creep me out.

  Telling myself this was Glowing Girl with her silky straight, dark hair, bright blue, curious eyes, and exuberant, lively laugh, a thrill of need raced through me. Her fingers moved under my shirt and up my chest. Her thumbs rasped over my flat nipples, making them harden. Nails bit into the flesh at the tops of my shoulders. Her breath fell on my throat, just under my ear.

  I released a breathless groan.

  “You like her touching you, don’t you?”

  I swayed toward Reese, wanting more. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Reese kept touching me, the occasional scrape of her nails causing my blood to heat.

  “Is she making your mouth water, your heart race? What about your pecker?” A hand moved between my legs and clutched me through my khakis, making me hiss. “Just how much do you want to pound this huge, hungry cock inside her? Bury it as deep as it will go? Are you desperate for it? Mindless? Wild with the need to show her how much you want to fuck her?”

  God, yes.

  I surged forward without knowing I was even going to. Reese gasped in surprise—but a delighted kind of surprise. I gripped her waist and picked her up, carrying her to the bed where I tossed her down.