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Fingers crossed this meets his standards.
I extend a foot.
Since skyscraper heels are a staple in a high-priced escort’s wardrobe, thank God I didn’t sell these secondhand-shop-find Christian Louboutin shoes in my quest to keep afloat.
My eyes move from my shoes to my phone at precisely a quarter past six. My escort-gig-only phone flashes a text message from my first client.
Bryce: Amanda, when you arrive, please make your way to the Trouble’s Trust bar area. I’ll be sitting at a table and I’ll have an unlit cigar in an empty cognac glass. I’ll see you soon.
Amanda.
Right.
Must remember I’m Amanda Hardy. Not Sofia Herrera.
Show time!
I stride towards the doors of the hotel I’ve been standing in front of for twenty, nail-biting minutes. The automatic doors open, and I head for the bar area. I know Bryce is paying for my services for the night and since I get an outrageous hourly rate, I shouldn’t be too picky, but still, I hope he looks… decent.
The Towers at the New York Palace Hotel on Madison Avenue is one of the city’s top-rated luxury hotels. It’s the hangout spot for the elite, wealthy, and influential. The Trouble’s Trust exclusive cocktail bar is renowned for its ambiance and the ultra-rich clientele who choose to relax in this premier location. I’ve heard of this place and I’ve read about it on so many blogs, but I’ve never been inside until tonight.
All of New York is here.
You can smell the money in the room.
As I walk by a tall blond guy who gazes at me with a flirtatious smile, I can’t help but blush. He’s probably in his early forties, and dressed in one of the finest suits I’ve ever seen on a man. For a second, I wonder if it’s my first client.
No.
This guy is standing.
Bryce was clear about the fact he’d be sitting at a table.
I flash him a shy smile in return, secretly proud of the fact I look good enough to elicit this kind of reaction from a stranger.
I scour the room for Bryce. Even with my five-inch heels, I’m still short and it’s difficult to make my way through the crowded bar and nearly impossible to locate my date.
An older gentleman approaches me. “You look lost, my dear.”
“Yes, I’m trying to find a friend.”
“I wish you were looking for me.” There’s a sparkle in his brown eyes. “The beautiful ones are always taken,” he says with a touch of disappointment.
I don’t know what to say.
He points to the corner of the room.
I get on my toes, but a wall of people blocks my view.
The older gentleman gently pushes aside a few of the dressed to kill New York socialites to allow me to see the man waiting at a table. “The lucky fellow over there might be the one you’re looking for.”
“Thank you. I’ll see if it’s him,” I say before walking towards the man sitting alone.
As I approach him, my eyes drop to the cigar in the cognac glass.
My client.
My heart skips a beat when the man turns to look at me.
