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I don’t ask what will become of my marks when the assignment is complete. Sometimes they are the actual target, and sometimes they’re the means to an end. I don’t know which Elliot Parker is. Either way, my job is the same.
He isn’t sure whether I’ll be at the bar and that’s why I am. When he finally spots me, I’m thankful that he wastes no time getting down to business because, as usual, my mind is on getting home. I’m aware that if I turn up empty-handed it will only prolong the situation, and quite frankly, I need for this to work. I have to keep Sean happy, to the extent that such a thing is possible, if only to buy me time to figure out my next move. Of course, this means I’ll have to come up with a stellar excuse about why I didn’t go away with the mark as instructed. But there’s time for that.
I’ve intentionally left the bag my husband packed with my driver. My husband may be stronger than I am, and he may have more resources, but that does not make him smarter. If I’d shown up with a suitcase, Elliot Parker would have been put off and/or put on notice. Too much, too soon, as they say. With any seduction, it’s important that even the planned—especially the planned—seem spontaneous.
This is why I tell him I only have an hour. It keeps his expectations low, and it keeps him on edge. He doesn’t realize I’m lying because I’ve been truthful each time I’ve said it before. What I’m working here is a simple formula—a dance. Two steps backward, one step forward. If you’re not conscientious about varying the rhythm—if you let your partner become too proficient—they’ll soon grow bored and want to learn a new dance.
So far, so good. Tonight he’s quick to invite me up, and I’m quick to follow. “I want to teach you to have an orgasm,” he says as he closes the door to his apartment, and I realize my job could be a whole lot worse. It doesn’t hurt that I’m attracted to him. It’s a smoother ride when I don’t have to fake that.
“Any objections?”
I shake my head, and then I smile because I can tell he’s spent some time thinking it over. It’s good news; not only has he thought about me and about what he would say, he’s made plans, and his plans come neatly packaged with a clue about who he is and what he desires. Elliot Parker has a deep-seated need for approval. It doesn’t tell me why, exactly, but desire is a funny bea
st this way. He may not even know himself. It doesn’t matter, truthfully. He has a need, and I can fill it.
“This isn’t about me…” I say, baiting him.
“You’re right,” he offers. “But there’s no reason you shouldn’t benefit.”
“You’re different,” I reply, because everyone, man or woman, wants to hear this. As I set my handbag in his foyer, I scan the apartment. The sofa is gone. Apparently he is a man of his word. I don’t mention this, and I don’t ask questions. I know my place, and I’m not here to step outside of it.
I kick off my heels and walk over to where he’s standing. He runs his hands down the length of my arms. I wait for instruction. Rarely is it verbal.
He studies my face. The bruise is minimal, but it makes me self-conscious nonetheless. If he asks questions, I’ll have to offer a seed of truth. There’s a time for lies, and this isn’t it. Finally he takes my hand and leads me to a bedroom, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
He releases my hand just shy of the bed and peels me out of my clothes. There are no personal effects, so I doubt it’s where he sleeps. But you never know. When he’s finished undressing me, he steps back, giving me the once-over before crossing his arms. For a moment, I think he’s not sure what he wants, or maybe he’s going to call the whole thing off. Then he gets that look in his eyes—it’s one I know well. I can see the decision has been made; the plan is set. There’s no hesitation in his voice when he asks me to lie down, so I do. The watch on my wrist reads 6:28 p.m.
He doesn’t ask me what I like; he doesn’t have to. This is not good news, not for Elliot, and not for me. I may have been inexperienced coming in, but I’ve learned a lot in my time as a Siren for New Hope.
I’ve learned that desire comes in all degrees of intensity, and I’ve seen enough to know this is too much. The distance that separates pleasure from ecstasy, enjoying from craving, determines whether desire leads toward satisfaction or self-destruction. There is no in between, no margin for error. There can only be one person doing the latter here, and that person cannot be me.
At 7:12, he stops exploring and asks for another hour.
“I can’t,” I say, propping myself up on my elbows. He doesn’t seem surprised, and if he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it.
“Do you have a preference?” he asks, hovering. “Any particular position?”
“No,” I reply, and maybe it’s the endorphins or maybe I’m getting sloppy, but the rest of it just slips out. “But I have to ask why you care?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “If I pay for something, I expect it to be good.”
“Show me,” I say, and he does.
At the door, Elliot stops me. “Is it that you avoid letting go on purpose or is it that you just can’t?”
“A little of both.”
He narrows his eyes. “Is that how it works?”
“How what works?”
“Is that how you get by?”
“Maybe,” I answer honestly. “It’s business, for me. All of it. Nothing more, nothing less.”
He looks away and then back. “If you could kill someone, how would you do it?”
I laugh, even though it isn’t funny. I’m not expecting the question, and it seems very out of context—but also like a warning. Truth is, I’ve been thinking about this myself. “I’d make it look like an accident, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
