Strum Me

by Allison, Ketley

  I grab my luggage, throwing my duffel over my shoulder and dragging my roller case behind me, right when a knock sounds at the door.

  I open it with my free hand, and there’s Jess, her tablet out.

  “Good. You’re ready to leave,” she says as greeting.

  Nodding, I drag everything, including myself, into the hallway.

  Jess starts moving and talking at the same time, keeping a comfortable space in front of me with long strides.

  “I’m to escort you to a car downstairs. It’ll take you to the airport, where you’ll board the nine a.m. flight to LaGuardia.” Jess glances back. “Economy seat.”

  “Sure. Fine,” I say.

  We stop at the elevators where Jess uses a long, manicured-black fingernail to press the down button. I’m content waiting in silence, sure that Jess, given the opportunity, would lecture hard and long about my choice of occupation.

  “I hope you know the contract’s null and void,” Jess says while staring at the closed elevator doors.

  I adjust the strap of my duffel, also staring forward. Chin high. “Yes.”

  “Because it’s illegal,” Jess clarifies.

  I sniff. “Yes.”

  Jess turns her head and I feel her consideration of me sliding up and down my profile like tiny spider legs. “You’re taking this rather well.”

  “I don’t stay where I’m not wanted. I’m happy to go home and figure this mess out on my own.”

  “I wouldn’t go straight home if I were you.”

  I flick a glance her way.

  Jess wrinkles her nose like it pains her, but she says, “The press will be there. They’ll be everywhere you regularly haunt. You should go some place they don’t know. A friend’s. A hotel. Get your bearings before you face them. Maybe even hire a lawyer.”

  Slowly, I nod, suspiciously grateful for the unsolicited advice. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Unfortunately, you won’t be getting the money agreed upon, so you’ll have to figure out another way to finance this mess.”

  I snap my head around. “Excuse me?”

  Jess shrugs, which definitely doesn’t pain her. “Like I said. Illegal. Null. Void. We don’t have to give you any of the funds agreed upon. You’re lucky we’re paying for your ticket home.”

  So you can get rid of me faster and attempt to untarnish Mason’s questionable rep.

  Except, that’s not my top concern. “I just spoke to Mason, and he said—”

  The elevator doors ding open and Jess sweeps an arm out for me to go in first. “You’re not getting the cash. End of story. So don’t make a scene.”

  Jess enjoys this brief spurt of power. It’s written all over her expression. Usually, her mean-girl satisfaction would bounce against my smooth-as-marble exterior, but her words dig a hole in my gut.

  “That’s not what Mason—” I start to say, but I’m sidelined by the person leaving the elevator who nearly runs me down.

  “Shit—sorry! Jeez, you’re so large, too. With bags, I mean. Large with bags. Should’ve missed you by a mile. Sorry, Mack.”

  After rebalancing my luggage, I glance up and notice Wyn. A woman dangles on his arm, dressed from the night before. She offers me a smeared-lipstick smile.

  “No problem,” I say to Wyn. “I’ll just … sneak past …”

  Wyn shuffles out of the way, clad in low-riding jeans and a muscle shirt. His longish, sandy hair is un-styled and swept to the side. “I’ll get out of your way. Let me help, though.”

  He untangles his arm from the woman, lifting my roller case and setting it inside the elevator. He looks to Jess as he does it. “How come no one’s helping her? We have like eight security men a piece. Someone could be assisting in getting Mack comfortable.”

  “She has me,” Jess clips out.

  “You gettin’ some muscles by doing some bicep-curls with that iPad? Why don’t you put them to use?”

  Jess doesn’t smile. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Wyn steps out of the elevator, but presses a reassuring hand against my shoulder. “It sucks how this all went down. We didn’t really associate in high school, you and I, but I know what you did for Mason back then, and I see what you’ve done now.” He spares a glance at Jess. “Don’t be ashamed about any of it. Mase needs a girl like you to kick him sideways. Otherwise, he never sees the light. We’re going through a rough patch now, but I really do think your presence made a difference. I don’t want you to go home. I think Mase needs you more than ever.”

  My brows pinch together. “Thanks for those words, Wyn, but I just saw him, and he seemed fine with my exit strategy.”

  “You and I both know he puts on an act when he’s faced with something he doesn’t like. It was a double-whammy for him. First he finds out about the leak—which I don’t judge, by the way.” Wyn sends a wink over to his girl. “Then, Rex tells him we’re disbanding after the tour.”

  I stiffen. “Rex told him?”

  Wyn nods. “Rex got a black eye to show for it. And a swollen cheek after Mase blamed him for leaking your information to the press.”

  My mouth drops. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Wyn, move along.” Jess says. “McKenna has a plane to catch.”

  “Jeez, woman,” Wyn says, but does as Jess asks after he squeezes my shoulder first. “You were good for him, Mack. I’m sorry we’re repaying you by sending you packing. If it means anything, it wasn’t my vote.”

  I offer him a half-smile. “I appreciate it. I’ll, uh, see you around.”

  “Yeah.” Wyn walks backwards down the hallway for a few steps, hands in his jeans, his “date” toddling beside him. He studies me the entire time it takes for the doors to slide shut between us.

  I’m gifted with a few floors of silence before Jess speaks again.

  “Even if the section containing your payment is void,” Jess says beside me. “The NDA is not. You’re not to whisper any of what you’ve learned to the press, especially about Nocturne Court’s planned separation. Not in retaliation or revenge or pettiness. Got it?”

  “If you bothered to know me at all this past month,” I say to her, “You’d understand that’s the last thing I’d do to those men.” I turn to her. “I am the epitome of discretion. I fuck powerful men for money. My job demands it.”

  Jess’s cheek twitches.

  I’m distracted by further barbs when an incoming alert sounds out on my phone. Pulling it from my purse, I notice it’s from my bank.

  An amount of $250,000 will be deposited in my account, pending authorization.

  With a subtle smile, I black out my screen, my phone dangling at my side.

  I got what I wanted.

  Therefore, all signs point to being done with Mason Payne.

  I wish I felt any sort of satisfaction.

  27

  McKenna

  I’m glad I stuffed my hoodie in my purse.

  Jess, ice queen that she is, allowed me the decency of leaving the hotel via the private entrance so I could avoid the media. The driver of the black car didn’t recognize me—or didn’t care, making the trip a comfortable, silent ride.

  It’s when I’m dropped off at airport departures when things go haywire.

  I’m recognized immediately, both by passengers and waiting press. The stares and pointing, I can deal with, which is what most plane-goers and their companions decide to do. But the vulture descent of cameras and microphones take me back to when Dad was arrested and the incomprehensible, explosive newsworthiness of my family.

  Of course, they’ve made the connection.

  “Miss Beckley! McKenna! How do you feel, following in your father’s criminal footsteps?”

  “Are you two gonna be penpals in prison?”

  “Were you so damaged by your father’s conviction you had to turn into a sex worker?”

  “Who are your other famous clients, other than Mason Payne?”

  “Did any other men from Nocturne Court use your services
? Was there ever a threesome? An orgy?”

  “Will you sell photos of your clients? Sell your client list?”

  Relentless questions ping against my arms and shoulders, worse than bee stings, more terrible than a backstabbing knife.

  Who did this to me?

  I scramble for my hoodie, shoving my arms in and throwing the hood over my head, burying myself in the familiar-scented fabric as much as I can.

  Once I’m through the inner doors, the swarm disperses, but not the voices. They’re shouted through the glass, enough to bring the attention of more onlookers, and I scurry through check-in and security, pretending its someone else who’s dirty laundry has been exposed.

  A cloying silence descends after walking through to the gates. I have less people, an off-season ticket, and no access to unauthorized individuals to thank for the brief solitude I’m given.

  Jess booked me a middle seat, but after speaking to an attendant at the gate, I’m able to move to a window. I pretend the stuttering in my voice is from fatigue as I explain that I’d really like to curl up against the plane’s hull and sleep for the majority of the trip.

  At some point, I expected this. Living such a high-risk lifestyle brings about high stakes.

  I only wish karma didn’t come for me so soon.

  When boarding commences, I disappear into the line of passengers, no longer an obvious sore spot among regular commuters. Blending in is something I became quite good at about a decade ago, and I use it to my advantage now.

  I take my seat, burrow deep into my hood, and quietly slumber until the plane’s wheels hit New York City.

  After collecting my luggage, I call a car through my phone’s app and tear through the arrivals section, noticing a cluster of press and beelining past before they realize it’s me.

  I find my waiting car, dart in, and breathlessly confirm my address with the driver. Tilting my head back, I take a deep, exhausted sigh as we pull out, passing another media crowd.

  The car drops me off in Chelsea, in front of a brick building with cast iron windows and doors. I buzz up, wait for the acknowledging beep of the door unlocking, then haul my bags and myself up two floors.

  I knock once at door B2. It flies open.

  “Dee,” I say through a quiet burble of tears.

  Her dark brown eyes soften. “Baby girl,” she says, and sweeps me into her arms.

  * * *

  “How could this have happened?” Dee asks as she hands me a glass of chilled white wine before settling beside me on the couch. “You’re always so careful with your identity.”

  “I’m honestly at a loss.”

  I’m cupping the wine close to my face like it’s soothing and warm with mint tea fumes hitting my nose.

  I tip it to my lips for a long, much-needed swallow.

  Well, at least I have the soothing part down.

  “Mason wouldn’t do that to you, would he?”

  “I don’t think it was any of the guys. Because of this, Mason’s getting a lot of unwanted attention, and so is Nocturne Court. They wouldn’t do this to themselves on their last—I mean, on their tour.”

  “So, none of them knew. No one but Mason.”

  I nod, then amend, “Well. Rex did. But I don’t think it was him. He’s got enough going on in his own life.”

  Dee leans back against the cushions, nursing her wine glass. “Someone gained access to the information, a person wanting to look deeper into who you are. Were you a threat to anyone there?”

  I lower my brows. “I’d bet money it was Mason’s stupid assistant, Jess. She didn’t like me from the beginning.”

  “Could be. Wait a minute, you don’t think…” Dee’s eyes go wide as she mulls something over. “Giles?”

  The mention of his name causes wine to burn my throat when I forget to swallow. In an automatic motion, I search for my phone beside me and check the screen for any notifications from him. I’ve yet to tell Giles I’ve landed or that the money’s on its way. The media frenzy had me all sorts of frazzled and only now is my brain tipping back on its axis.

  “Shit,” I say. “I have to call him. Let him know I’m here—”

  Dee lays a hand on mine. “It can wait. Get some sleep, first. You look like you’ve had none of it.”

  I squeeze my phone tighter. “I shouldn’t make my blackmailer wait, Dee.”

  “Giles doesn’t know you’re here, right? Sure, he’s probably aware of the news, but you’re not at home, and he has no idea where I live or who I am. You’re safe here. Use this time wisely.” Dee pats my knee before standing. “Sleep, for God’s sake. You’ve been through the wringer.”

  Dee’s motherly tendencies are nothing new. She’s always looked out for me, especially at the start when I was just getting into the business. We’re the same age, but she’s the one who introduced me to the escort world. She was my roommate in college, and when shit hit the fan with my father (Dee’s first real exposure to media madness), and Dee witnessed not only my family’s, but my, downfall, she tentatively confessed what she’d been doing to afford her tuition, food, board, and line-up of designer bags she displayed on her single shelf in the dorm.

  She’d done it as I was boxing up my side of the room to leave campus in disgrace, and muttered the truth so softly, I had to stop folding my sweaters to catch it. True fear lit her eyes when I asked her to repeat it, then say it again so I could absorb what Dee was actually proposing I do.

  It wasn’t even her confession that was most shocking … it was my reaction. I slowly sat on my stripped mattress, clutching the edges at the seams, and considered her avenue of funds.

  I like sex. There’s a part of me that becomes extra horny when illicit toys, words, or places are introduced. I wouldn’t say I love it rough, but I gravitate toward different from the regular missionary. The way I lost my virginity proves that.

  I never looked at my dad’s car the same way again.

  It was difficult, at first, to accept strange men into my figurative bed, but after a while and with Dee’s training, I was able to turn it into giving and receiving orgasms, a skill-set, a pleasure center, a way to get off without the strings of a relationship tangling me at the center.

  Eight-ish years later, Dee no longer works as an escort. Even though we worked the same job, the major difference between her and me was that she stayed and graduated college with a finance degree she now uses in a sky-rise in lower Manhattan.

  There’s no further need for her to languish in a devilish place with illicit cash.

  Dee’s straight-laced life is also why she’s sitting here, telling me to catch some zzz’s before transferring a quarter million dollars to a dangerous man threatening to kill my father and who will make my life hell unless I give him what he wants.

  She’s gone soft on me, my Dee.

  I nod and smile at her anyway as she leaves for her room. She’s already set out bedding for me to use on the couch, but I doubt I’ll need it. I’m too wired, too uneasy, to even think about dreaming, and I send another furtive glance to my phone.

  Get this over with.

  The glass of wine has settled like a calm blanket against my shoulders, but it hasn’t affected my trembling fingers. I text fast, before I can second-guess my intentions.

  I’m back in NYC. I can have the money for you by tomorrow. Send me the details and I’ll wire it to you.

  My phone shocks the bejesus out of me when it vibrates with an incoming call instead of a text.

  It’s from a private number, but I’m well aware who could be calling right after I send a text confirming my presence and a large amount of cash.

  I swipe to open the call and hold the phone to my ear. “Yes?”

  “No. I want to meet.”

  Giles’s smooth voice filters through, but the sound sends shudders down my neck. In a pure defensive move, I summon Jane. My alter knows how to handle men like this and keep them calm, because it’s men like this that become the most brutal if they feel they’re
being mismanaged.

  “There’s no need,” I respond. “In this day and age we can wire the funds and be done with each other.”

  Giles chuckles, and he might as well have sent ice cubes tumbling into my ear canal. “That’s where you’re wrong, darling. I’ve seen the news. I know how compromised you are.”

  “That shouldn’t affect our transaction.”

  “It affects my ability to trust you.”

  A rock drops into my gut with a plink, but I mentally kick it away. “It shouldn’t. I was able to secure the funds despite the media leak. And I can prove it by sending you the full amount tomorrow.”

  “And if you do not, you maintain the ability to disappear. Even now, I don’t know where you are, Jane—I mean, McKenna.”

  His use of my true name, and the way he says it, so delectable and slow, sends bile into my throat.

  “I simply can’t have that,” Giles continues. “And so, we will meet, and you will wait until I’ve confirmed the funds are in my account. Only then may you depart my company.”

  “I’d never do that—disappear. Regardless of where I go, my father’s a sitting duck to you. I won’t compromise him.”

  “Again, darling, there’s no way I can know that for certain. Words are pithy things, aren’t they? Come to my apartment tomorrow afternoon. You remember where that is? And wear the same dress as last time. You were absolutely divine in that outfit.”

  The outfit you strangled me in? “I’d rather meet somewhere public, if all we’re going to do is stare at our phones while the cash is transferred.”

  Giles tuts through the speaker. “Sweet McKenna. I’m amazed you’re the same woman as the mature, sleek vixen that entered through my door mere weeks ago. I cannot be seen with you in public. You understand.”

  It’s not safe. I’m not safe.

  The warning blares behind my forehead with blinding fortitude, but I don’t know what else to do.

  “You know,” Giles says, “despite the current time, special visiting hours are still in place at the penitentiary. If you shake hands with the right people, of course. Shall I give them a call?”