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Arora likes to vape after we fuck. Most times, I join her out here, as we have some interesting conversations. On our third “date” I asked her why she entered her profession. She replied it was on the advice of her grandmother. I lost my skepticism after Arora told me several stories about the woman who’d raised her. From what I gather, her grandmother could have easily rivaled Gramps in the art of ruining lives.
“Tomorrow,” I say, watching her small chest freeze as she holds the vapor in her lungs. “I’m leaving New York for three months.” Arora is my go-to call girl, and she knows who I am in the real world. Sometimes, I get a session in with someone new, but rarely.
She exhales what sounds like a resigned sigh. The smoke billows around her face for a second, then dissipates into the late August wind. “Yeah? That’s too bad, I’ll miss our sessions.”
I hesitate only a second with springing the news of my upcoming nuptials on Arora. She’s proven herself to be discreet, so I know she won’t run to the gossip rags. “Oh, and by the way, I’m getting married.”
She tosses her head and the lighter strands of her hair gleam in the setting sun. “You’re getting married? Really? Congratulations!”
Arora seems genuinely happy for me, and I’m glad I haven’t rubbed off on her. I’d only ruin her in the end.
“Thank you, and when I get back, you’ll come here on Wednesdays, from four to six, just like you always do.”
“You still want me to visit you?” Arora asks with a dubious expression. “Even after you marry?”
“My fiancée and I have… an understanding. You and I won’t have to tiptoe.”
Arora flicks her hand like a diner in an old movie who is intent on getting the server’s attention. “That’s highly unusual. You wouldn’t believe some of the elaborate lies some clients tell their partners. I swear I’ve heard it all.” Her gaze drifts to the sky and she lets out a giggle. “A couple of years back, a guy flew me to Hawaii for a long weekend. His wife shows up with her mother, wanting to surprise him. She got a surprise all right. Me on all fours and him pumping into me with a silly grin on his face.” She shakes her head. “They let me go without a scratch, but they tore into him like there was no tomorrow.”
After another giggle and an even longer inhale, Arora continues, speaking through gritted teeth as she tries not to pass the smoke. “I heard the wife took him to the cleaners.” She waits a few beats, stands, and lets the air escape from her mouth, then nods as if to herself. “Your fiancée is something special. Does she like to watch?”
I smile, thinking of the comical face Tif had given me when I had suggested it last week. Shit still cracks me up.
“Uh, my fiancée isn’t into that, and besides, she won’t be living with me for the foreseeable future.” Tif is adamant about keeping her place in the Village, claiming she needs her space.
To be honest, I don’t know why. My place is so huge; I’d have to send out a search party if she were to get lost. For now, I’ll abide by her wishes, but I hope to convince her to move in with me after we get married. I like the thought of coming home to someone.
After smoothing her skirt over her thin legs and looping her bag over her shoulder, she squeezes mine in farewell. “Regardless, she seems like a real daisy.” With a last parting wink, she leaves and I’m alone.
I rise and place my hands on the metal railing of my balcony. It’s the blue hour. The time between light and dark. New York comes alive when darkness falls.
Will Austin be the same?
Not sure, but I plan to take on whatever it offers.
Family Ties that Bind
Royce
Myphoneringsonmy bedside table, rattling like a chainsaw in its insistence. It’s the front desk. I asked them to give me a wake-up call at 8 AM as I like plenty of time to dick around, but not at...
WTF? 6:22?
I’m about to tear someone a new asshole when the thought of “Gramps” crosses my mind. He is stronger than two horses, but yeah, he’s still old.
I answer, trepidation in my voice. “Grayson, here.”
“Mr. Grayson,” Teresa, the early morning concierge, says. “I’m so sorry. I know you asked me to call you at eight, but—“
A male voice rides over her explanation. “Just tell him I’m here already.”
Thomas. That prick.
“Send him up, Teresa.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you,” she says, relief clear in her voice.
To make up for Thomas’s rude-ass behavior, I type a reminder in my phone to send Teresa some flowers. That done, I head to my closet and pull on a pair of black drawstring pants and a black muscle tee. The loose clothing will allow ample room for my arms in case I have to swing on Thomas’s ass.
