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4
Bruce
The buzzing of my cell phone against my thigh alerts me to an incoming call, and I almost don’t take it. It’s been a hell of a week, and I hate having work encroach on what precious little free time I have these days.
But that’s the reality of being a successful entrepreneur: the CEO lifestyle has its perks, but work-life balance isn’t one of them. Maybe I should have considered that before founding my company, but I’ve never been someone to back down from a challenge, even if it means making sacrifices. Yet I can see that the caller is my buddy Hank, so I answer.
“Is this a bad time?” comes my friend’s sly voice.
The corner of my mouth turns upward. “You know it is.”
“What can I say?” the asshole laughs. “I just want to make sure everything goes well. I did refer you to the agency, after all.”
“Well, it’s a little early for reviews,” I drawl, grinning a little. “She hasn’t even arrived yet.”
“Seriously?” Hank sounds disappointed. “Damn. And here I was, thinking I’d be interrupting the fun part. Hopefully, with your hand down her shirt.”
“You’re so full of shit,” I tell him. “Besides, it’s not even eight.”
He harrumphs.
“Dang, your escort’s not even five minutes early? Tell her to get on it. It’s a job for her, after all.”
I snort and shake my head, but steal a glance around the room to see if anyone’s listening. I’m seated at the bar of the Roosevelt Hotel’s Dog and Spoon lounge, a quiet, upscale establishment on the Upper West Side. I’m staying at the hotel for the night to relax, since I’ve been working so hard recently. It’s worth it, and I have plenty of funds.
Besides, the Roosevelt is nice. While I might not flaunt my wealth, I enjoy the finer things in life, and occasionally find opportunity to indulge. Right now, the bar is quiet, although more and more well-dressed couples have begun to filter in. The hum of low voices fills the air, and jazz music from the live band gives the place a classy ambience. Perfect.
“I’ll give her ten more minutes,” I say. “If she’s a no-show, Hank, it’s on you.”
“Don’t be like that,” my friend gripes. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when she wears you out. Those City Girls can get pretty frisky.”
“We’ll see,” I drawl with amusement. “I’ll talk to you later, Hank.”
“Tell her I say hi,” he says quickly, and I can hear the smirk in his voice as he hangs up.
Sighing, I check for texts from the agency. None have come in, and they forbid asking for the escorts’ personal contact information, so all I can do is sit here, nursing my bourbon on the rocks, and wait for my mysterious companion.
I can feel women in the room sliding coy glances my way, and it’s par for the course. I’m well-aware of my appeal, and there’s no need for fake modesty. I’ve never pretended to be anything other than what I am, which may intimidate some, and attract others. After all, I like my suits well-tailored, my whiskey strong, and my women beautiful.
The issue, as it so often is these days, is time. When you’re a CEO, time is your most valuable asset, and I live a busy life. After all, I started my e-cigarette business, Vapopen, a couple years ago, and managed to single-handedly grow it into the national, multimillion-dollar company that it is today. Business has only been increasing these past few months, especially with the planned merger that’s coming up, and I’ve been working a lot. Too much, maybe, but I have my own ways of handling stress. Namely, female companionship of the paid kind.
After all, I don’t have the energy to look for a date, so when Hank told me about an escort agency with unbelievably hot girls, of course I was interested. At the very least, I’ll get a pleasant conversation with an attractive woman out of it. Maybe even sex, if she’s cute enough and willing to go that route. Assuming she shows up tonight, that is.
I look around the bar again. It’s getting more crowded, but so far, no one resembling her description has arrived. I notice a woman at the far end of the bar eyeing me over her martini glass, but she’s a skinny blonde with a designer purse clutched to her ribs who might as well have the words “gold digger” written on her forehead. She smiles coyly when she sees me looking, but I don’t return the gesture. I’ve been down that road before, and it’s never ended well. Besides, the woman I’m supposed to be meeting is a buxom brunette, just the way I like them. Anna, the agency said her name was.
Anna, I think, and shake my head wistfully. Once again, the memory of a woman from my past is creeping back again, and as always, it fills me with frustration. What happened to Annemarie, the curvy, sassy brunette I met in that Springdale dive bar two years ago? I’m not someone who usually pines over women, but there was something about that girl that got under my skin. I wasn’t even planning on hooking up when I arrived at the club; I just needed a place to relax for a while. I had just gotten off a long-haul flight from a business conference in Sydney, Australia, which landed at the Newark airport. Trust me, New Jersey is not my jive, but Springdale was on the drive back and I needed a break. Was I planning to go to the grungiest place this side of the Hudson River? Hell no. But I needed to release some tension, and that’s how I found myself watching drunken coeds and frat boys hump each other on a dance floor that night.
