Strum Me

by Allison, Ketley

  My half-closed, swollen eyelid saves me from appearing startled when I feel the seat shift with weight on my left, and she settles herself beside me.

  “My name is McKenna,” she says tightly while staring straight ahead, her arms folded over her bag while balancing her coffee. “But you know that. Mason.”

  My top lip lifts into an automatic sneer. “I don’t do names. Or small talk. If you’re gonna sit there, do me a favor and shut up like a good Catholic girl, yeah?”

  I expect another wince, but instead get a clash of green against my blue. “Do you always talk to people like this?”

  “No, because people are usually smart enough not to start a conversation with me.” I point to my fractured eye socket. “Since they usually end up with this.”

  “Then I guess whoever you spoke to last got to you first.” She angles her head. “Did you get a swing in, or were you knocked out cold?” She stares down at my knuckles. “Too bad. The evidence shows you didn’t even get a scrape in.”

  My throat swells. My cheeks go hot. She can’t know she’s talking about my dad and that he was the one who threw the punch—he always makes the hits—but I’m furious with her, anyway.

  “Get up.”

  She raises a brow. “Excuse me?”

  “Get the fuck out of that seat before I throw you on the floor.”

  Finally, the wariness I’ve been waiting for settles behind her expression. “Relax, Mason. I was only—”

  “You don’t know me.” I get right in her face. “And you don’t get to sit your Princess ass down and pretend to spar with the poor boy to make yourself feel better for doing a good deed. Are you gonna offer me your homework, next?”

  She squeaks when I grab for her tote bag, unbuckling the straps and shaking out the contents, including a MacBook Air that makes a satisfying sound as it hits the floor between us.

  “My laptop!” McKenna cries.

  I stop her from reaching for it by grabbing a spiral-bound notebook that’s toppled onto her thighs and briefly fan through. When I see her words and notice that it’s actual prose, I hesitate, realizing she writes down her thoughts in a lot of the same ways I do, but that beast of mine reels the niceties in—the one that hates and loathes and can’t stand happiness—and I tear out the pages and rip them in half in front of her.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t need your school notes,” I say. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not made for education.”

  Her lower lip shakes, but her gaze doesn’t back down. In fact, she stares steadily at me, defiant sparks going off in those cat eyes, and my cheek tics angrily at the sight.

  Then, because I can’t help myself, I grab her coffee from her hands, lift up the lid, and splash it all over her while stepping over her legs and swinging around to the middle exit so I can get off at the next stop.

  Gasps abound, including some dude in the back yelling, “You turd fucker! C’mere and try doing that to me, little man!”

  That’s me. Mason “Turd Fucker” Payne.

  “You!” the driver screams, his glare lasering through the rearview mirror. “I’ve had about enough of your disrespect! Get off my bus!”

  We’re not near any stops, but the driver brakes hard and yanks open the doors. “I said, get out, you delinquent motherfucker!”

  Gosh, I love New York.

  On the last step off the bus, I say to the back of McKenna’s trembling ringlets, “Nice talking to you, Big Mac. Send me a wink the next time you see me in English class, yeah?”

  And then I’m gone.

  3

  McKenna

  This guy is new.

  I’ve vetted him, of course. Since going independent instead of using an escort agency, I’ve had to be extremely cut-throat and expeditious when it comes to taking on clients, and my rules are fairly simple: They must’ve used girls before.

  I’m usually contacted through email or my website, and as part of those contact requirements, the men provide at least three referrals from girls they’ve employed previously. Once I receive them, I pour myself a glass of wine and look up those women via their official website and ask them directly how the client is, their behaviors and preferences, and whether the girls were treated right. If all three get back to me with positive notes, then I put the client on my roster.

  Eight years of honing smarts and skills has lead me to this place of entrepreneurship. I have my own two-bedroom apartment on the twenty-ninth floor on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, a steady, questionably taxable income, and I’m my own boss.

  I finish applying scarlet lipstick in my bathroom mirror, fix the straps of my ruby red dress, slip on my black Louboutin pumps, and I’m out the door by 7 PM.

  Giles Bennett has sent a black car to pick me up, and it idles near the curb once I exit the building. The driver dips his chin as he opens the back door and I gracefully slide in.

  We don’t drive for long. Mr. Bennett has asked that I come directly to his apartment, no social meet-and-greets required. He wants to get down to business, and I’m okay with that, so long as an envelope filled with cash is unobtrusively set aside for me as soon as I arrive.

  Once in the expansive marbled lobby, I’m directed to the private elevators where the security guard keys the doors open, presses the button for the fourteenth floor, and I’m neatly sequestered inside.

  The ride up is quiet. No music or muzak plays in hidden speakers. Only a light ding sounds out once the fourteenth floor is reached and I step out onto a carpeted hallway. Apartment 1 is directly ahead and the only unit on this floor. I knock, then smooth down my hair as I wait, in case the summer wind has coaxed out any rebellious flyaways in my mercilessly flat-ironed hair.

  Sometimes I wear wigs. Other times I wear colored contacts. But my favorite costume is straightening my wayward curls and going almost natural. That way, my scalp doesn’t itch and my eyes don’t feel like they’re being scratched out by silicone discs.

  The door opens, and Giles matches his online profile exactly. Thin and distinguished with a slight beak of a nose, his hair is ebony shot through with gray. His eyes are the same overcast, stormy color. He wears a white collared shirt that he’s unbuttoned at the neck, no tie, and holds in one hand a short glass of whiskey.

  “Miss Landers,” he says, his laugh lines deepening in his tanned, angular face. “You’re right on time.”

  “Punctuality is always my aim.” I try on a lingering smile.

  He steps away from the door. “Do come in.”

  I think I detect a light British accent, and I focus on that delightful feature as I enter his home and prepare my personality for what can only be described as stranger sex. It’s what I do with these men of mine. I find something appealing about them and latch onto it tight, throughout the entire date, so when I pretend to come, or exert deep interest in what they have to say, they’re convinced I mean it.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” he asks as he wanders ahead. “White wine? Whiskey?”

  “Pinot Grigio if you have it,” I say, and as I pass an antique side table in the hallway, I surreptitiously slide the envelope made out to Jane Landers with impeccable penmanship into my clutch. It’s thicker than what I’m expecting—much thicker—but I’m not one to count bills in front of my clients. I only serve high-salaried men, and many would take finger-combing through their money as an insult. That, and my vetting process is thorough. I personally met with four of Giles’s previous girls—women I knew as reputable, high-class escorts—over brunch, and I was comfortable with everything they had to indulge about him.

  “Sauvignon Blanc all right?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Make yourself at home, darling. Take a seat in the library and I’ll be right there.”

  Giles heads into his chef’s kitchen and I hear bottles and glasses clinking as I find a side room filled with wall-to-wall bookshelves and two velvet couches. I take a seat in one, cross my legs and set aside my clutch. I don’t
read the spines of the books closest to me even though I desperately want to. That’s something McKenna would do. Instead, I raise the hem of my dress enough that the defined muscles of my thighs show, and maybe a slight peek of what’s to come.

  Giles walks in with a full glass of wine and a top-off of his own. He’s not shy and sits directly beside me, his suit pants brushing against my bare legs, and trails a finger down the side of my face.

  “My, you are a beautiful one, aren’t you?” he murmurs, close enough that I smell his aftershave mixing with the whiskey on his breath.

  I lean into his touch, the tip of my tongue licking my top lip. “I have to admit, you are incredibly handsome.”

  “I bet you say that to all your clients,” he says with a tight-lipped smile, then hands me my drink.

  I take the wine, recrossing my legs and angling toward him. I don’t normally bring up other clients—ever—since I’m meant to be his and his alone, so I brush off Giles’s statement by reaching over and laying a hand on his thigh.

  “No,” I say. “You are especially handsome.”

  “Mm.” He leans back and spreads his legs, giving me full access.

  I take the lead and my fingers trail delicate, sensitive circles as I move to the center, but he surprises me by catching my wrist.

  “Tell me, how did you get into your own business?” he asks.

  I jolt, but keep it inward, the way one would tense at a loud, familiar noise heard in a comfortable household. “Are you asking why I’m not with an agency?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m asking. Isn’t there better safety precautions when you’re with a company?”

  I remove my hand and settle back into the couch. If Mr. Bennett wants to make idle conversation for a while, I’m more than happy to oblige. Though, he doesn’t strike me as a man who is nervously delaying sex with an escort, and I’ve had many of those.

  “It’s more about their take,” I respond. “I started out with an agency, but thirty percent or more of what I made went directly to them. After doing some research, I decided I was better off creating my own company.” I smile over the rim of my glass. “That way, I keep one-hundred percent of the profits.”

  “Makes sense,” he says. “But, how do you clean the money?”

  My brows tic up before I can school them into submission. Bending forward, my manicured fingers dance across his inner thigh. “Dear Mr. Bennett, are you asking me if I launder money?”

  “Well, it would make sense, wouldn’t it? The cash you receive from men is black market. So, how do you whiten it? You can’t possibly be claiming an escort service on your tax returns, now can you?”

  I lick my lips, my hand retreating again. But my mind works overtime. I decide to punt his original question over to him. “I bet you ask this of all your girls.”

  Giles laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll admit, I do try. But most are with agencies, or paired with some boss or pimp or another. You’re the first one I’ve found who is truly entrepreneurial. Yet, I couldn’t find your company name in any records.”

  Find? He searched for my private data?

  Mildly uneasy, I respond, “I don’t normally provide that information. It’s business-like and boring, when you should be in it for the pleasure.”

  I make sure my tone lilts at the end, tantalizing and seductive.

  “Sure, of course.” He laughs again. “Forgive me, it must be my mind for business, but I just find your occupation so interesting. How do you get the IRS on your side, for example? How do you stay under the radar? What’s your secret, besides a smart brain? I truly admire your skill, you know.”

  I smile, but don’t show my teeth. The conversation is getting tiring, and if he really is innocently curious, I’ll nip this in the bud pretty quickly. Besides, I often receive great financial advice from clients. “Real estate.”

  Giles cocks a brow. “No kidding?”

  I nod. “I have a real estate business, a license, and even do a few showings on weekends. Sometimes renovation projects.” I shrug. “That’s how I ‘clean’ my money, as you say.”

  “Fascinating. And inspiring. Of course that’s how you do it. So much cash exchanges hands in real estate transactions. A good amount of all-cash down payments, too. And with renovations, you can spend fifty grand, then up-sell the unit for seven-hundred grand, and no bank or government would be the wiser. Wonderful, Jane. That is truly independent.”

  Uh-huh. “Enough idle conversation, Mr. Bennett. I’m feeling … parched. And hungry.”

  Giles’s brows furrow. “You still have a full glass of wine, darling.”

  I rake my gaze over his body. “That’s not what I’m craving.”

  “Mm. I see. Perhaps once you’re finished cleaning the seventy grand I gave you, then you may suck my dick.”

  My startle reflex isn’t as contained this time. “I—excuse me?”

  “The envelope I gave you.” Giles makes a benign motion towards my clutch as he uses his other hand to sip his drink. He swallows, then continues, “It contains that exact amount. Clean it within the week and I won’t report you to the authorities or have someone kill you and drop you in a vast, off-shore ocean. Then, if you’re a good girl, we’ll up the next payment to one hundred. Then two. Do you see where I’m going here, Jane?”

  My face feels ashen. I stiffen. “No. I do not.”

  “Then I need to make myself more clear.”

  In a whiplash motion, Giles is off the couch and hovering, his hand clamped around my neck as he grinds the back of my head against the couch cushions. The wine glass falls to the floor and shatters. My fingers scrabble for leverage on his forearm, scraping and pulling for oxygen.

  He still holds his whiskey in one hand and sips idly as I struggle against his hold.

  “Here is what you need to learn, darling. Simply because I was kind to a few other girls, gracious and courteous as they sucked me off before I rammed myself into their assholes, does not mean I am kind in business. I have some dirty money I need access to. My accounts have been flagged, and I’ve been diligently searching for a way to claim what I am owed. I happened upon you, after asking many whores for an independent one who works only for herself. A smart one—and believe me, whores with brains are difficult to come across. Yet, your name kept coming up. Or, your pseudonym.” His focus slides all the way down my body and back up. “You possess way too much delectable sin to really be named Jane.”

  “Agh—ugh—” I’m trying so hard to speak. To breathe.

  “Perhaps you need more incentive.”

  He applies more pressure. My legs kick out uselessly.

  “I’ve found your father,” Giles says.

  Despite my struggles, my body goes stiff.

  “That’s right, darling. I know where he is, and more importantly, I can get to him. He may not die by my hand, but he could very well perish through another’s. Favors go so far these days, especially to those on the inside.”

  “N-No—” I can barely breathe, never mind speak.

  “I’m thinking I should claim your body tonight.” Giles sets his drink aside while still choking me. He uses his free hand to cup my privates. “Bare as the day you were born. I love it.”

  I squirm away, but I’m trapped under his grip.

  This may sound shocking, but I’ve never been raped. Not by any clients or when I lived as my past self as a friendless, quiet schoolgirl who did her homework like clockwork. The idea that this man could do to me what everyone in the world thinks happens to escorts who must be asking for it is so gut-wrenchingly terrifying, I don’t need his chokehold to stop breathing.

  Giles cocks his head, thinks about it, then lifts his hand. “Never mind. Torture and BDSM were never my style. I am a kind man in bed, you know.”

  He releases his grip on my neck.

  Gasping, sputtering, I spear off the couch and sprint for the door, well aware that at any moment Giles—if that is indeed his name—could pounce and drag me un
der again.

  “I’ll go after your father first, darling!” he calls down the hallway. “And I will stalk you, harass you, scare the bejesus out of you, until you do what I want.”

  I reach the front door. Scrambling, I try to unbolt the chain locks with shaking fingers, my breaths hitching.

  His voice sounds behind my ear. “You forgot something.”

  “No. No!” I pound on the door. “Help! Somebody!”

  Giles tsks-tsks. His arm reaches around to unlock the last deadbolt. He swings the door open with such violence, I’m forced to step back and knock into his hard chest. “I’m merely giving you back your purse, darling. There. That’s a good girl.”

  I take the sparkling clutch, an impulse buy I remember purchasing months ago. The woman working in the exclusive store magically came through the wall and offered me a mimosa. Patience surrounded the minimalist space with shining, imported flooring. I chose this bag high on power, money, and belonging.

  “Remember what’s in there, hmm?” Giles says, tapping the hand-sewn crystal case. “I’ll be in touch. Off you go, now.”

  My hair falls haphazardly across my forehead. My throat is flayed like torn, raw meat.

  “Go on,” Giles says kindly.

  I won’t be told a third time. I rush to the elevators, my ankles bending dangerously in my heels, and when I can’t find a stairwell to access and sprint down, I bang the DOWN elevator button multiple times.

  Get me out of here.

  Giles doesn’t shut his door. He waits, right up until the lift slides open and I fall inside, pressing myself against the far wall.

  “Bye, now!” I hear him call as the brass elevator doors slither shut.

  I feel my cheeks. They’re wet and hot. I swipe under my eyes with full knowledge that I resemble a terrified animal. Sifting through my clutch, and groaning at the thick envelope nestled inside, I find folded tissues and use them to dab at my face and pull myself together.