by C. C. Piper
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve been making some pretty impressive strides since you arrived. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
I tried to disguise my inner glee. I’d hoped for some recognition while at Liddell Industries back home, but had never once been acknowledged. It was like I was invisible or something. Still, I kept my reaction to a small grin. I couldn’t afford to overplay my hand.
“I appreciate you saying so.”
He nodded his white blond head. “Feel free to keep doing what you’re doing, but at least one night a week, go home on time. If you burn your candle at both ends for too long, you’ll run out of wax and wick. So save your wick. Just sayin’.”
Was he making some weird-ass pun? Between wick and dick, maybe? Humor filled his tanned Scandinavian features. I laughed, and then he was gone.
I had tons of work to do this week, but I should be able to let off the accelerator a little next week. I went back to my desk, putting out any fires. Once satisfied, I texted the mature woman known for making wishes come true.
Moved to Manhattan. Do your services still apply here? I sent.
It was only a moment before I received her message back.
Of course.
Can you have someone for me by a week from Saturday?
It’ll be arranged. I’ll contact you with the details.
I stretched the muscles in my back and shoulders as I took a deep breath in through my nose and blew it out through my mouth. Then, I smiled.
It felt nice to know relief was officially in sight.
3
Jessie
As I crossed to the bulletin board outside Professor Shirley’s office, I felt like I’d swallowed a boulder. The midterm scores were in, and since this one counted for ten percent of my overall grade, I needed for it to come back as at least an eighty percent or higher. I did the best I could, but since I had such a rough freshman year, I’d had to work constantly to repair my damaged GPA. Every piece of homework, every project, and every test accounted for so much.
I chewed on my inner cheek, nervous. Please, please, please …
There was a scrum as classmates scrambled to see how they did, but I stood my ground. And finally, I zeroed in on my student number. I received a score of ninety-two percent. Yes! An A!
Thrilled and frankly a bit dazed, I wandered off to my next class. My final semester would be all about student teaching. I’d be in an actual classroom, with children ready to learn what I taught them. Like little sponges, they’d absorb some of their more significant and fundamental motor and language skills.
I couldn’t wait.
We had half a semester before winter break. Before finals. Suddenly, nervousness clutched my stomach tightly again. It felt like one of those dreams where you were attempting to get somewhere but the door kept moving farther away. So close, yet not quite in reach.
“Miss?” came a creaky-sounding voice from behind me. But I didn’t pause until she spoke again. “Ms. Souza?”
“Yes?” I took in an elderly-looking woman, stumbling along with a cane. I didn’t recognize her. Women in her age bracket were either professors, visitors, or non-traditional students. Which could she be?
“You don’t know me, but I was wondering if I could speak to you. Do you know of somewhere more private?”
“Um, sure.” I led her over to an outdoor courtyard, sheltered by the high walls of the buildings on three corners. Currently, the courtyard was abandoned. Once we were seated on a decorative concrete bench, I asked, “What’s this about?”
“This is an opportunity. I specialize in providing goods and services for people—all sorts of goods and services. One of those services is companionship. Essentially, what I’m asking of you is whether you’d be interested in offering your time as a dating escort for men?”
“No way,” I blurted out, appalled. Who did she think she was asking me this? Who did she think I was? Wait, was she one of those madams? Like a female pimp or something?
Gross.
“This could be extremely beneficial to you. Financially.”
How did she know I was struggling to make bank? How could she possibly know? “I’m not a prostitute,” I hissed at her, not wanting to be heard.
“I never said you were, dear. But the pay for a two-hour date would amount to five thousand dollars, even with no sex involved. A longer date would pay more. A date involving sex—consensual only is my policy—would pay a minimum of ten thousand dollars, regardless of how long the date was. And I’ve never had any trouble with my clients confirming whether or not any sexual activity has taken place.”
My ears rang with her words. Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars. With that kind of money, I could pay off the rest of my college education, even if I only did it once. But I couldn’t. It was so … tawdry.
“I can assure you that you would be given any pertinent information, particularly if you agree to the date involving sex or DIS for short. DIS clients must submit to blood testing, and they must communicate their expectations. Condoms are required.” She handed me a card with the words “The Wish Maker,” as well as a ten-digit number emblazoned underneath. “If you decide to go forward, give me a call.”
Then, though her footsteps had been so halting previously, I peeked up to find her gone.
I went to my afternoon classes feeling as if that episode in the courtyard had been some surreal Twilight Zone type of hallucination. Had I dreamed all that up? Had I been roofied? Had I accidentally allowed myself to get high?
It’d all been so strange and out of the blue.
But then, I’d finger the business card she’d given me, and I knew that meeting hadn’t been some peculiar figment of my imagination. It’d been real. This woman wanted to pay me thousands of dollars to do this. And I didn’t even have to do a date with sex if I didn’t want to. Thousands of dollars. It just seemed so impossible. And yet the woman had been so straightforward that I couldn’t really call the incident creepy.
Still, I wouldn’t do it. Even without the sex, I’d be entrusting myself to the utter unknown. The old lady was unknown to me, and so would be any of the men I’d be meeting up with. Or hooking up with. No. Not going there.
After finally finishing all my classes, I went home. The cutback in my hours meant I didn’t have a Zumba class tonight like I used to. It was disheartening, but what could I do?
A week later, I checked my email for my Friday payment notification as I jogged up the three flights of stairs that led to the two-bedroom apartment I shared with Ashley. It was a decent yet small place in Brooklyn, nothing like the delipidated and crime-ridden apartment complex I’d been raised in. There it was, my message from PayPal. Only once I saw the amount, my feet jammed to a stop. It was half of what I’d been getting. Half. How could I live on so much less?
Short answer? I couldn’t.
Not only was this not enough to cover the expense of my classes, it wouldn’t cover my part of the rent, either. What the actual hell?
Huffing and puffing, I unlocked the door and slammed it behind me.
“Whoa, you look cheesed off,” Ashley commented. “What happened?”
Instead of responding, I asked her a question of my own. “Why are you home? Don’t you have economics right now?”
“It was cancelled. Professor injured himself playing racquetball.” She giggled, her skin turning the color of a tomato. “Sorry, it’s just that the rumor mill said he pulled his groin.”
Ow, was my first thought. My second thought was picturing some guy pulling on, well, himself, until that particular portion of his anatomy was as bent out of shape as a piece of Laffy Taffy. I snorted, and the two of us laughed like tweens for a minute. It felt good. I needed to laugh more often.
“Anyway,” she said, once back to herself. “Why are you cheesed off again?”
Oh, yeah. Back to our regularly scheduled programming. “You know how I told you the CrossFit gym cut my hours?”
“Yea
h.”
“Well, I guess I hadn’t realized just how detrimental that would be to my pay. I knew it’d go down, of course, but …”
“But?” Ashley prodded.
“But it’s less than half of what it was.”
“Cheese and crackers,” she exclaimed.
Unlike me, Ashley grew up in a strict household that didn’t believe in cursing. She didn’t get offended when I cussed around her, but she never did it herself, especially not with the Lord’s name in vain. So instead of using a garden variety expletive, she’d say some variation with “cheese” in it. In the case of “Jesus Christ,” for example, she used the phrase “cheese and crackers” with the same emphasis. It actually sounded quite similar when I thought about it.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. And I really was.
For a moment, her features pinched together, her brows scrunching in distress. I knew she was contemplating going to her mom for help with this newest monetary crisis. Yet this rankled. Ashley and I were both twenty-one. Grown women. We’d been doing our best to be independent.
Still, when we ran into trouble like this—oh, who am I kidding, when I ran into trouble like this—Ashley often went to her mom to ask for some additional funds to keep us afloat. I hated that.
I hated it with every fiber of my being.
Her mom, while financially sound, was not especially well off. She and Ashley had been the ones to see me at my worst, and without hesitation, they’d pitched in to help. And not only with money, either. They’d provided me with a permanent shelter, clothes, and food. They’d also provided me with unending moral support. I loved Vanessa and Ashley Winter more than anyone else on this earth.
But Vanessa had moved to California for a job opportunity a year ago. She was doing her best to make things work while Ashley and I remained across the country from her. The last thing I wanted to do was make Ashley feel obligated to go to her mom and ask to borrow some extra funds. Again.
For a moment, I felt like shit. One of these days, Ashley would get fed up with me and kick me out of her life for good. I’d lose the only family who cared about me, as well as my best friend in the world. The back of my eyes and nose burned at the thought. Losing the Winter women would hurt me even worse than what happened with my mom.
But then, I stuck a hand in my jacket pocket. My thumb brushed up against the thick paper of the business card that odd woman had given me a week ago, and I gasped. I didn’t have to cost the Winter family any more money if I didn’t want to. I had another alternative, even if thinking about what this would entail made my stomach do a queasy backflip. It would be worth it, though.
Vanessa shouldn’t have to pitch in to support me anymore. Enough was enough.
I touched Ashley’s arm. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “There’s this other job I can take that’ll make up for it. It’ll all work out, I promise.”
My friend smiled at me, her eyes brightening. “Another job? Already?”
“Yeah. I uh … heard about it recently. Think I’ll give the place a call. Find out about hours and so forth.”
“Where is it?”
“Not sure of the address, but it’ll probably be here in the city. I need to find out the specifics.”
“Okay. Sounds cool. I’m gonna go study, Jess.” Ashley gave me a quick hug then padded into her room.
I watched her go. Ashley was like a sister to me, and I loved her to death. She’d given me so much, while I took over and over. It was long past time for that to stop. So, I would go through with this date thing. I could prove to myself that I no longer had to be a drain on anybody’s resources but my own. I pulled out the business card and plugged the number into my phone. Then, I sent the Wish Maker a text.
I’m saying yes. What do I do next?
4
Trevor
I straightened my silk tie and glanced around the restaurant, taking in my environment. New York, like New Orleans, was a city known for its food. Where my hometown was famous for specifics tastes like Cajun, Creole, and barbecue, the Big Apple was basically a smorgasbord for any foodie on the planet.
Other than a brief text from the Wish Maker, I didn’t know much about the lady friend I’d be sharing my night with.
Look for a young woman with dark curly hair. Her name is Jessie. She’ll be wearing green.
And that was it. All I knew. But I sort of liked it that way. It upped the mystique. The intrigue of the situation. What’s romance without a bit of mystery?
Though the term “romance” might be a stretch. This would be a hookup. No more, no less. I needed some stress relief, and I needed it now. But I’d gone through these evenings on many, many occasions. I knew the rules, and I liked the game. Being raised a Southern boy, I also liked to behave as a gentleman.
Yes, I was paying this woman for her company. And yes, she was a sure thing. But there was no need for me to be crude or for her to feel anything but comfortable in my presence. Call me old fashioned, but I liked to wine and dine my Wish Maker dates. Was it required? No. But it was good etiquette.
I might be a dom, but I wasn’t a dick. Or at least, I made a concerted effort not to be.
Usually, I really enjoyed spending time with the women the Wish Maker chose for me. Not enough for a repeat, but still. What bachelor in his twenties would shy away from a date with an attractive woman he could then have his way with however he wanted? I liked the guarantee of that; of knowing with certainty what would happen. The fun part was seeing how it all played out.
As I sat with my back to a wall, so I could spot my mystery woman with her dark curly hair and green dress, I found myself judging the eatery’s interior. The name of the restaurant itself was Buddakan, and it was a high-end Asian fusion place. I’d chosen it because it got such high online reviews, but now that I was here I was somewhat overwhelmed by the décor.
Not that there was anything wrong with the décor per se, it was just a bit much for my tastes. It reminded me of something Jax’s parents might’ve liked. The place wasn’t stuffy, but it was opulent, even flamboyant. It was—how could I describe it—flashy. Yes. The location was split into two enormous rooms, one of which had a sparkling clean and colorful bar. But it wasn’t the room with the bar that was so over-the-top. It was the room I’d been taken to.
This room was high-ceilinged—and we’re talking twelve-foot, at least—with candles on every table, and I shit you not, Beauty and the Beast-type chandeliers overhead. Like, a line of four of those suckers with a span of about five or six feet each.
Below them was a massive golden table spread down the center of the space. The thing reminded me of something you might see in a castle, and so did the intricate designs molded into the plaster walls. The whole locale gave off a kiss-my-ring-sir-knight impression.
The good news was that I’d already perused the menu, and I couldn’t see how I could go wrong. There was everything from traditional dishes of egg rolls and lo mein to sushi, dim sum, and Peking duck. The cocktail menu was extensive, too. As was their wine list.
I couldn’t imagine any woman not finding something she could enjoy here.
I spared a glimpse at my watch and noticed that it was five till eight. My date should arrive any time now. I’d come early, so I knew I’d have to wait. I’d given the hostess the same description the Wish Maker had given me, and I was certain my date would also give the hostess my name since I used it to make this reservation. I felt anxious, but not in a bad way. More like in anticipation.
Then, I saw a woman who I believed must be her.
Dark, no black curly hair, rioting around her head like a puffy cloud, and a pale green—so pale it was almost white, in fact—dress that clung to every inch of her. And that was from the back. When she turned, my heart stuttered. My God. She was the most enchanting woman I’d ever seen.
She had rich copper skin than appeared soft as butter. Though she was petite, she had deliciously rounded hips with full breasts, and most stunning of all, light g
reen eyes that matched her high-necked mandarin-style dress. What color was that, anyway? It wasn’t emerald or lime. No. The word leapt abruptly into my brain. Jade. My nana had some jewelry made out of that stone. Yes, jade. Definitely.
Wow. Just … fucking wow.
The Wish Maker had more than earned her commission on this one.
I’d been with a lot of women. I mean, a lot. All of them at least hitting the spectrum somewhere near pretty. But this woman was more than pretty. She was more than beautiful. More than hot.
Damn, maybe I’d been lonelier than I’d thought.
Jesus, get it together, Keller.
The hostess was bringing her over, so I rose to my feet.
“Jessie?” I asked her, offering my hand palm up.
“Yes.” She had a deeper voice than most women. Sultry. Luscious. But still distinctly feminine. She clasped my hand as if to shake it, but I turned it so I could press my lips briefly to her knuckles, instead.
“Trevor Keller.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Her tone came out the teeniest degree stilted, but I was too distracted by my physical reaction to her to notice. The second we’d made contact, I’d gotten hard. Not like a semi, either, but full-on hickory tree stump from my backyard at home hard.
Normally, I would’ve remained standing so I could pull out her chair for her, but due to my visibly observable condition, I didn’t this time. I slammed down into my chair with enough force to almost topple the stupid thing, then lamely kicked at the feet of her chair so it would scoot backwards across the carpeted floor.
Smooth move, asshole.
She stared at the jerky movement of her chair, then sliding a hand over the back of her dress, sat with far more grace than I’d shown. Okay, so I hadn’t been this awkward on a date in years, particularly not a Wish Maker date. But I would recover. Still, it was difficult to think of things I could do that would be suave or charming when all the blood was missing from my brain.
