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I am, however, back to blonde, at the client’s request. This tells me a few things. He’s important to the church. Only the largest donors get their way regarding hair color. Most of them don’t care one way or the other. The dangerous ones, they always do. Danger is subjective, of course. Something to be measured carefully. In ounces, if you’re smart. Better that than pound for pound. Let it get to that point, and you’re in real trouble. I learned the hard way.
Typically I see one or two clients per day. You learn a lot about people with the right amount of variety. Client seventeen is not too keen on much of that. He’s careful. Precise. Nevertheless, tonight he wants me in a restaurant with a piano and people everywhere. So maybe there’s hope yet. Whatever the case, he picked the place, and I don’t hate it. I can’t say it always turns out like this. My clients often pick the locations; it comes with the territory. Helps them feel in control. Still, there are limits, and every appointment, client, and location is carefully vetted. The Men’s Alliance assures me of this.
A man approaches me. “May I join you?”
He’s handsome. Dark hair, interesting green eyes. Tallish. Solid, through and through. Not my type. But handsome nonetheless. Not that I have a type. Even if I did, he wouldn’t be it. I finger the stem of my wine glass, drawing his attention away from my face. In my line of work, it’s better not to be too known. “I’m expecting someone.”
He looks disappointed, although he had to have expected as much. Sometimes they sense what I am, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes it’s subconscious. “That’s too bad.”
He goes on to introduce himself, which is annoying. I don’t care if he’s the King of England. I have to get rid of him before my client gets here if I want to look professional. It’s quite possible—likely even—someone from the Men’s Alliance is watching, and this little inconvenience will only lead to trouble.
It’s unfortunate, but the more unrealistic part of me chooses otherwise. Maybe I’m just tired, or bored, but I decide to have a little fun with the disruption. Let it serve as an easy opener to the “this is strictly sex just in case you had any notion as to it being anything more” conversation with my client. It’s also possible his mere presence will do the trick, and it needn’t come to that. Men either love or loathe competition, so I have to be careful. It’s a risk that can backfire easily. Sometimes they only chase harder.
Number seventeen arrives, and thankfully it goes exactly as I’d hoped. When the guy excuses himself, I can see my client has seen me for what I am. I almost feel bad. Seventeen looks different, younger in this setting. Early fifties. Unmarried. My least favorite kind of client. The more difficult kind. I prefer the married ones. They have the majority of their needs met elsewhere.
Alas, number seventeen does not.
“I’m not sure about this place,” he says.
“No?” I survey the room. I like it just fine. But he’s paying by the hour, so what I like is irrelevant.
“There’s something about it.” Paranoia has always been a strong suit of his. Perhaps my worries are unfounded. Perhaps that’s the reason for the switch-up.
I glance at the time. “We could just head out,” I say. Time matters to him, for obvious reasons. Me, in this case, not so much. He isn’t a member of New Hope, but he is a target although his donations are such that the time limit in which I have to recruit him is not as stringent. In other words, the Men’s Alliance has not determined he is actually worthy of membership. This is why I must report even the most minute of details. This is why I agreed to meet for the drink. I’m almost grasping.
There’s a hotel two blocks down, he mentions. He tells me he’s already checked in. I’ve settled my tab, so we waste no time heading in that direction. People on the street pass us. He doesn’t take my hand, but he sticks close. To the untrained eye, one might assume we’re a couple out for date night. But when we arrive at the entrance, he sets things straight when he asks me to wait seven minutes before following him up. Like I said, he’s nothing if not precise. He doesn’t want to be seen together, at least not here. Not in the context that comes and goes within the hour.
In his room, he doesn’t make time for small talk. I’m not offended. Seventeen prefers sex in a ritualistic manner. Meaning, the same every time. First, he asks me to disrobe. Then he ushers me to the shower where he sets a timer and proc
eeds to scrub my body clean using a special loofa he packs in the lining of his suitcase. I don’t ask why he hides it, and he doesn’t say. What I do know is it’s never the same one, which is too bad because this way you never break them in.
He scrubs until my body is raw. He hums a tune. He is hard the entire time. He prefers my hands at my side and my mouth shut. He wants my eyes straight ahead. When he’s satisfied with the washing, he finishes by massaging soap into every crevice, slowly and carefully, as though I might break. He has no idea.
From there he takes me by the hand and leads me to the edge of the bed where he orders me onto my knees. He mounts me from behind. He lasts anywhere between twenty-three and thirty-seven minutes. We do not change positions, and he prefers complete silence. He brings his timer from the bathroom. Seventeen never goes over his hour. He doesn’t want to pay the overtime fee.
Chapter Four
Elliot
The sun is just barely peeking through the clouds when I nudge the blonde with my knee. “Jenny?”
She doesn’t stir. She doesn’t open her eyes. If I couldn’t see the rise and fall of her chest, I might start really panicking.
“Jenny.” I nudge her again. “Jenny, I have to get to work.”
As I prattle around the room, making unnecessary noise, she wakes slowly. Painfully so. Eventually, she sits up and rubs her eyes.
“I’m late for work.”
She blinks rapidly, as though the idea never occurred to her. When I hand over her clothes, she shrugs. “I can just hang out here…”
“Um…no. You can’t.”
She lowers the sheet and arches her back. I’ve seen strippers be less obvious. “I’m very good at occupying myself…”
“I have to go out of town.”
Her eyes narrow. “Am I going to see you again?”
