My Son's Girlfriend

by Cassandra Dee

  “Thanks Mom,” I said. “This batch is going to be terrific.”

  Trudie smiled.

  “You know it,” she said, leaning forwards to push the brownies into the oven. “We make the best team, sweetheart.”

  So as you can tell, my mom and I bonded over food, especially when times were tough. We didn’t have much but at least our small home was always filled with the good smells and love.

  The problem is that unexpectedly, my mom had a massive heart attack last year. There was no reason for it except that Trudie was round and didn’t exercise much. But losing my best friend so suddenly shocked me, and I sprang into gear immediately.

  “Oh my god,” I sobbed. “I have to start running, walking, and biking all the time. I have to get my butt in gear otherwise the Grim Reaper’s coming for me too.”

  So with determination, I started working out like a madman and the pounds slipped off. It was slow at first, and a lot of hard work. Plus, I was absolutely devastated by Trudie’s death, so there were many times when I was tempted to give up. It seemed easier to seek solace in a jelly donut or a pint of ice cream rather than to haul myself back to the gym for another tortuous session.

  But it’s been a year now, and I’ve gotten some great results. I’m still big, but now it’s a nice kind of big. My breasts are huge and soft, and I have a big butt still, but at least my rump is toned and in shape. Yes, I still have thunder thighs and big upper arms, but guys like a little to hold at night, right? It doesn’t seem fun to be in bed with someone who’s nothing more than sticks and bones, so I kinda like the extra heft on my frame.

  This has all been good timing too because next week’s my high school reunion. Ah, high school. It was only five years ago but the memories are still fresh. Jennie Bong Bong, was one of the names I was called, not to mention Ring-Ding, Ring-Dong, and Big Dong. The sad part is that the names don’t even make sense. I’m don’t have a dong, nor do I use bongs. But trust the mean girls to come up with nonsensical monkers that can make you cry.

  So I want to triumph next week at my reunion. I want to walk into the hotel ballroom and show off my new shape with a sassy swing to my hips and a sparkle in my eye. I want to show them that there’s a new Jennie Lake in town, and make all those bitches twist with jealousy as their eyes go green.

  The only problem is a date. Most girls from South Carolina get married early, and I know for sure that Savannah Sherman, my worst tormentor, married some hot guy with a cleft to his jaw and a preppy-sounding name. What was his name again? Reginald? Reggie? It’s something annoying yet uppercrust at once. Exactly the type of guy who never saw me.

  And I know what you’re thinking. My desire for a date is so old-fashioned and backwards. But that’s the thing. This isn’t New York City where Carrie and her friends spend decades going to cool art parties and bars lit up with fluorescent lights. This is Charleston, South Carolina, and below the Mason-Dixon line, people still judge women by how far you’ve come in life. Or more specifically, whether you’ve landed a husband by age 21. Doesn’t matter if he’s a loser who’s never worked a day. Doesn’t matter if he guzzles beer and never takes a shower. Just so long as you have that ring on your finger.

  So desperation courses through my veins. Aaron, my gay friend had promised to feign being straight for the event, but now he’s sick with a severe case of bronchitis. I’d make him come anyways, except that he looked really bad last time I saw him. His usually sparkling blue eyes were faded and cloudy, and his slick brown cut looked like a rat’s nest when he opened his front door.

  So what am I going to do? Frankly, I have no idea. In desperation, I flip open my laptop and surf to Facebook, browsing idly. Oh shit. Here’s a pic of Savannah Sherman herself, and the air in my chest grows tight. Because not only is she happily married according to her profile, but her husband is gorgeous. Male model type of gorgeous with a strong jaw and a flashing, bright white smile. I almost want to throw up because I can see it now. Me, striding into a hotel ballroom with my head held high in a stunning cocktail dress. But they’ll be there too, gathered in a corner and casting sly looks my way.

  “Jennie thinks she’s so high and mighty, moving to the big city after high school,” they’ll whisper maliciously. “But bless her heart, she doesn’t have a man. Doesn’t she know how hard it is to find a guy in New York City? She should have stayed down here in Charleston. Big mistake moving,” they’ll sneer while shielding perfectly-lipsticked mouths.

  Uck. Fuck ‘em. I hate the mean girls, and the rage makes me see red. So with a vengeance, I click over to the Craigslist classifieds. I know it’s a bad idea because Craigslist is filled with scammers and thieves allegedly. The only thing you can use it for is to sell furniture, and even then you have to be careful not to get ripped off.

  But I scan the personals section while holding my breath. Maybe I can find someone within the next week to take to reunion. We’ll meet on Monday, go out again on Tuesday to make sure we’re compatible, and then by Friday, we’ll jet to Charleston together and wow the old crowd.

  But I know this is pure folly because the ads are pure ridiculousness. Things like:

  Sixty but you must be thirty or under. Young ones only. I can promise a lifestyle that you won’t regret.

  Or:

  Looking for a live-in housekeeper. No rent necessary, but you’ll have to do your chores in the nude.

  What the hell? Who answers this kind of stuff? I can see that some of the ads have been posted multiple times on multiple days, like they’re hoping that some girl who’s desperate will respond.

  But the thing is, I’m the girl who’s desperate, so with an exasperated sigh, I click over to another section. Maybe if I look at some furniture for sale, I’ll be able to take my mind off this drivel before me.

  But my mouse slips and instead, I click on the women for men section. My eyes pop open because this section is even crazier than the men for women. In fact, these ladies are straight up prostitutes. The ads run the gamut from:

  $$$ SWEET THING AVAILABLE $$$ Call-in or meet-out.

  To:

  You got the cash? Then I got the booty! Dial 555-5555 for fun timez!

  I’m not one to judge. After all, this is the oldest profession in the world, but at the same time, my eyes bug and I gasp as seeing the pictures the girls have posted of themselves. Most have their head cut off, but some even leave their heads on, and it’s photo after photo of beautiful girls with amazing bodies in skimpy bikinis. They all have perfect skin and narrow waists, and all of them invariably have a come-hither gaze that would make even the sturdiest man melt.

  Suddenly, inspiration strikes. These women are for sale. They’re clearly offering a service for money, and as a woman of the world, I should use my brains and leverage this to my advantage. After all, the times in the past when I’ve felt outraged at some injustice or other, it never turned out well if all I did was fume and sit on my butt. Instead, the times things got better was when I used my brain and made something of the situation.

  So taking a deep breath, I open a new browser and hesitantly look at the screen. What should I say? There’s no delicate way to phrase it, so I type out: MALE ESCORT.

  Immediately the browser responds with dozens of sites. There’s one for escorts available in the Caribbean, the model on the page a bronzed god with tribal tattoos all over his arms and chest. Oh, me likey. A cut guy with tats always makes me salivate.

  Then there’s NYC Gentlemen, where a man in a suit greets visitors digitally. He’s dapper with a gleaming white smile and black suit, but when I click on the site, warning lights start flashing and a pop-up informs me that my computer has been infected with a virus. Hurriedly, I close the window before who knows what’s pops on my screen.

  Okay, that didn’t go well, but I’m not a quitter. Especially not so soon in the game. So I open another new browser, and this time I type MALE ESCORT SOUTH CAROLINA. This time, there are relatively few results, and one at the top catches my eye
. It’s called Southern Charm written in elegant script font, with a picture of exactly the type of guy I’m looking for. He’s tall with dashing, dark brown hair and a charming grin. Plus, he’s dressed Charleston-style with a pair of red pants and a windowpane check shirt. I know it sounds cheesy, but that’s what guys down South wear.

  So hesitantly, I click the button to enter, and immediately, my screen loads with a bunch of thumbnail icons, all of them with pictures of handsome men on them. Hmm, there’s Charley with the curly brown hair and impish smile. Then there’s Shep, who has straight blonde hair and is handsome in an Abercrombie and Fitch kind of way. But my cursor’s magnetically drawn towards a handsome man in the lower left corner who doesn’t look like your usual South Carolina guy. This one has a dangerous look in his eyes, and he’s not smiling. Instead, the camera captures the hard angle of his jaw, along with a smoldering sense of determination.

  Of course, I click, and his profile pops onto the screen:

  TYLER.

  33, single.

  Enjoys golf, skiing, and margaritas under the sunset-filled sky.

  Available immediately.

  Even I can tell this profile was written by someone else. What alpha male says stuff like “sunset-filled sky”? I know it’s not him. But taking a deep breath, I click on the button that says “Book Me Now,” and the air whooshes out of my chest because evidently, it costs two thousand dollars a night for Tyler’s services. What in the world? I was thinking something along the lines of two hundred dollars, or maybe five hundred maximum. After all, I’m an editorial assistant in New York City and it’s expensive to live here. Sure, I work for a famous magazine, but the publishing industry is under siege right now from a number of different angles. So while my lifestyle looks glamorous from the outside, in fact I’m living in an apartment the size of the shoebox.

  Longingly, I stare at Tyler’s profile picture again. My mouse clicks through a couple more photos of the man, and he’s absolutely gorgeous. There’s one of him standing next to a big, black motorcycle. What would it feel like to have that monster rumbling beneath my legs as I press my breasts against his back, the two of us zooming down winding roads? There’s also one of him stroking what I think is a llama at Macchu Picchu. Even the llama loves him, nuzzling his hand. He’s that charismatic.

  So I sit back in my chair to think. How much am I willing to pay to put it to the mean girls at my high school reunion? Tyler’s definitely out of my budget, but maybe if I scrimp and save, I could manage it. It would mean eating beans out of a can for the next six months, but two thousand dollars isn’t impossible.

  And with a deep breath, I decide to do it. After all, these girls made my life living hell for years. It’s worth every penny to show up at the event with a handsome man on my arm. They’d fall over each other in envy, sputtering with their eyes going green.

  So before I can change my mind, I dial the number listed on the site.

  “Hello,” comes a chirpy woman’s voice. “This is Southern Charm.”

  Perfect. I summon my most queenly voice and say, “Yes, I’m calling for Tyler please.”

  The woman giggles.

  “Hun, that’s not how things work. Tyler’s doesn’t answer the phone, I do. But if you’d like to book him, I can make an appointment.”

  I gulp. Oh, of course. Duh. This isn’t like calling up your best friend at home.

  “Um, yes,” I mumble, thoroughly chastised. “Sorry, I haven’t done this before. Would Tyler be available next Saturday at 8 p.m.?”

  “Hmm, let’s see,” says the girl. I can hear the tip-tapping of keys on the other end. “Yes, in fact he is,” she says brightly. “What type of event?”

  I gulp again.

  “High school reunion,” is my reply. Oh god. I’m such a cliché. I bet hundreds of women call every week for exactly the same reason. And of course, the woman doesn’t seem surprised at all to hear I’m looking for a date for my high school reunion.

  “Okay, we’ll let him know,” she says in a friendly manner. “Where will it be? Will it be black tie or casual?”

  “At the Grand in Downtown Charleston,” I say. “They’re having it in the ballroom, and the dress code is something in between they call “dressy casual.””

  “Oh perfect,” says the girl, typing away. “I’ll be sure to tell him. All of our gentlemen have clothes for every occasion, so you don’t need to worry,” she reassures me. “Now can I get your credit card number to hold the reservation?”

  But before we move on, I blurt out a question.

  “Um, would it be okay for us to meet beforehand?” I ask hastily. “I know that it’s two thousand dollars for Tyler’s services, but I was wondering if that included any add-ons? Because it’s my high school reunion and I want him to be my boyfriend, so it’ll be really awkward if we meet for the first time that night.”

  Again, the woman doesn’t sound startled at all.

  “Of course this is something that you can request for an additional fee,” she says. “Let me see. How about a one-hour conversation with Tyler at a coffee shop before your Saturday rendezvous? That’ll be an additional five hundred dollars.”

  I grimace. Only five hundred dollars? I was hoping along the lines of fifty bucks. But Southern Charm has me in a clinch, and they know it. So reluctantly, I agree and give her my credit card number to seal the deal.

  “Well that’s it Ms. Lake!” she says chirpily. “Thank you so much for your booking. I assure you, Tyler is a professional and you’ll enjoy his companionship. Please let us know if there’s anything more I can help you with.”

  “Um, no,” I mumble. “Thank you very much.”

  And with that, I hang up, the cell phone dropping lifelessly to the table. Because did I really just do that? Did I just book a male escort to accompany me to my high school reunion? This is a bad idea for sure. We only have one session to meet and practice before the curtain comes up. So what happens if he’s terrible? What if he’s barely sentient, and unable to string two sentences together?

  But it’s too late because Southern Charm has probably already put the charge on my card. So unless I want to show up and be labeled “unhappily single NYC woman,” then the handsome male is my only choice.

  Client Number Six is LIVE! Get your copy here.

  A Sneak Peek: Sold at the Auction

  By Cassandra Dee

  Want to hear about my newest illicit romance? Addicted to virgins and alpha males? Join my mailing list at http://www.subscribepage.com/alphamalesontop and get a FREE BOOK unavailable elsewhere!

  Chapter 1

  Ellie

  “Seriously El, you can’t wear that,” said my friend Rachel.

  I looked back at her, a little miffed.

  “Why not?” I asked plaintively. The jeans I had on were nice, a dark denim wash, and I’d paired them with a long-sleeve top, crushed velvet with a scoop-neck. “Looks okay to me.”

  Rachel snorted.

  “Seriously El, we’re in Vegas for the week. We’re going clubbing at a place that doesn’t even have a name, it’s so hot. You can’t wear the stuff you usually do, now take it off,” she commanded.

  I thought about refusing flat out, putting down my foot and digging in. But the thing is my friend is the one with the fashion sense, Rachel always looks amazing, knowing exactly how to do herself up for every occasion. In comparison, I was a little frumpy, dazed and confused most times, my brown hair unfashionably curly, my curves unfashionably round. So yes, I got invited to good parties because I was Rachel’s friend, but I didn’t look like any of them, skinny minnies all.

  And frankly, it was amazing that Rachel and I are friends at all because we’re so different, she’s swan-like, thin and elegant, with a modeling portfolio, whereas I’m round and small, an A-student. So our interests are poles apart, not to mention our paths in life. But we’ve known one another since we were five, and have seen one another through thick and thin again and again. Take last year, for example,
when Rachel’s parents got divorced. I was her confidante, her therapist, and her anchor when she was lost at sea, adrift on waves of sadness. And I know she’d do the same for me if our situations were reversed. So despite the fact that outwardly, it looks like we have nothing in common, in fact we have a bond that goes deep, far further than mere clothes or personalities would suggest.

  And since my body changed, my friend’s fashion advice was even more important. Because gone was the old Ellie from two years ago, an underweight mouse shaped like a broomstick, and in her place was the body of a woman, like Venus de Milo incarnate. I have big boobs now, a huge ass that sways when I walk, and generous hips making it hard to fit any type of pants. In fact, it’d been a struggle getting into my jeans tonight, I’d had to hop up and down desperately a couple times before they squeezed on, and the button was threatening to pop off any second.

  So I sighed again.

  “I don’t have anything else,” I repeated plaintively, gesturing with open palms. “There’s nothing else, look at my suitcase, nothing, nada.” And flipping open the purple travel case to reveal the interior was uninspiring. There was nothing haute couture or racy, just a couple more colored tops and a pair of grey jeans to mix things up.

  Rachel pulled a face.

  “Really, you didn’t bring a dress? Something a little slinkier?” she asked, picking through the stuff in my bag.

  I shook my head.

  “Nope, you know I don’t wear dresses that often,” I reminded her. “I’m more of a tomboy.”

  Rach pulled another face.

  “Tomboy, schmomboy, El, you’ve got a body now that’s decidedly not tomboyish anymore,” she emphasized. “Come on, you’re gonna have to wear something of mine then.” And with that she began pawing through her things, flipping through the closet where she’d hung a million outfits, each one colorful and gaudy, some even with pom-poms and sequins.