AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Dyla McAlister might be a player but at his roots he’s a former church baby. What is a former church baby doing hiring an escort from a high-priced agency? Color me intrigued.
I hit up Google, search ‘Images’, and hunt down a few photos of Dylan hanging with his family on a pretty summer day on the steps of a gaudy cathedral. Father and son are cut from the same cloth: high cheekbones, full heads of hair, classically handsome. The house of worship, on the other hand, is an ostentatious palace of metal and glass with crosses beveled into the windows, with another gigantic cross erected on the front lawn.
The Lighthouse Cathedral is framed against a blinding beautiful Texas blue sky, the sun streaming down around it like even God himself is blown away. The brand screams money.
The same search reveals details about dollars enthusiastically deposited into the church’s many collection plates, sizeable dollars inked onto checks, hundreds of thousands of green, green dollars reverently submitted via credit cards for church events and conventions. And then there are the millions dropped on the series of inspirational self-help books that his dad has probably dictated to a ghostwriter.
Money.
Beautiful money.
Come to Jesus money.
I find pictures online of Dylan’s casually pricy Texas wedding to a petite, cute, coiffed blond girl, with dimples from here to eternity. His dad presided over the afternoon ceremony. A good-looking guy, who has to be his brother, served as his best man. His mom wore her Sunday best and beamed in the official wedding photographs, hanging onto Dylan with one hand, the other touching her husband’s arm.
They look like a nice family. A handsome family. A happy family. What has pushed Dylan out of his marriage, out of Lighthouse Church? What has pushed him into a life of high stakes poker?
The vast majority of men that pay big money for a high-end escort are lonely. Something or someone is missing from their life, or they need their ego built back up. No judgment. I know lonely. I speak wounded ego. But staring at Dylan’s photo I don’t get it.
He’s around 6 feet, with thick chestnut hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles on his sun-kissed cheeks. His body lean, hard, and hell yes, darling, rocks a pair of blue jeans and a fitted T-shirt. He’s smokin’ hot in a three piece suit, his pants happy to be skimming his tight ass. What is Dylan McAlister doing hiring an escort, let alone a new one because he sees something in her eyes?
I skip to the ‘About Event’ page. He is traveling to Chicago for an underground poker game and wants a ‘date’ for the event. Someone trustworthy. Someone discreet. I open the envelope containing his instructions, half expecting to see something that might not have sounded suspicious to Madam Marchand but would raise my freak flag.
But the only weird thing is that his instructions are simple and handwritten:
“Dress elegantly. Look stunning. Wait, you already do. Hold intelligent, engaging conversation with attendees. Be witty and discreet. The job will last 16 to 24 hours. You will be compensated for the full 24 if the gig ends early. Bring a wrap. The room gets cold. And get plenty of sleep the night before, Evelyn. Can’t wait to meet you, gorgeous.”
My stomach flutters. I flip the switch on the fan up a notch and return to reading about him online. Dylan McAlister split from the church after his divorce and now he’s one of the most successful players in recent years on the private poker circuit. He’s legendary for spending small fortunes and winning even larger ones during games that last up to a few days. He tips generously. No known ties to Mafia, doesn’t abuse drugs, alcohol, and is only called an asshole by people that squander their fortunes to him. The gorgeous, brilliant man with the thick chestnut hair and smattering of freckles has the Midas touch.
I stare at his picture, my heart thump thumping against my ribs. I could fall hard for those pretty blue eyes. Enjoy running a finger over the smattering of freckles on his sun-kissed cheeks, making my way down to his lips. I wonder what it will feel like the first time he kisses me. I suspect it will be magical – lips tingling, cheeks flushing, my body bathed in stardust after a meteor shower blows through.
Dylan McAlister is beautiful. If he wanted lips wrapped around his cock he could walk into any bar, or swipe right on a dating app. If he wanted to plunge his dick into someone warm and inviting, a dozen women would happily service him at a poker game or in a choir loft after 8:30 a.m. early church vespers and before the 10:30 a.m. late service. Who are you, Dylan McAlister? Who are you and what do you really want from a girl from an escort agency let alone a girl who has “a look in her eyes?”
I beautify for all my dates but I prep the holy hell for this one. I visit my fave budget salon. I’m still paying for Mom’s medicals, so nothing fancy or overpriced for me. I pop for highlights, a cut, a blow dry, a mani pedi, and undergo the whole waxing ordeal.
Back at my dump, I turn on my bedroom window AC unit. It chugs along, coughing in fits and spurts as I rip through my closet searching for the perfect thing to wear. Clothes fly onto my bed, piling in miniature mountains. This outfit looks sleazy. That dress too old-fashioned. The purple skirt makes my ass look fat. The top I like on the hanger is too low cut making me look slightly slutty. I text Amelia.
Evie: Panicking. A date. A new client. Absolutely nothing to wear.
Amelia: I doubt that.
Evie: Everything’s too sexy or not sexy enough.
Amelia: Come to my place, Cinderella, and shop in fairy godmother Amelia’s closet.
Evie: Yes, please and TY.
I throw on jeans and a T-shirt and catch a ride to her new, two bedroom condo in Greektown. Escorting’s been good to Amelia. She not only paid off all her debt, she’s now a property owner. She lies back on her queen-sized bed swiping on her phone while I try on skirts, tops, and cocktail dresses. “Nothing works,” I say. “I am tragically un-dressable.”
“Stop, drama queen.” Amelia tosses her phone, jumps up, and walks to the closet flipping through hangers. Half the stuff still has the tags on. Nordstroms. Saks. Bloomingdales. She pulls out a garment bag, unzips it, and pulls out a dress. “Here.”
I take it from her and stare at it. This dress. Good God, this dress. It’s red, fitted, mid-length, with thin straps and a deep V in the back. “Pretty,” I say. Stunning is more like it. Out of my league is probably the best description. The only time I’ve laid hands on a dress like this is in the pages of a magazine.
“Try it on.”
I pull it over my head, down my chest, and wriggle it over my hips. I turn and face the full-length mirror. “Wow. I look like a different Evie.”
“You look like the same Evie to me,” Amelia says, falling back onto her bed and returning to texting. “Albeit wearing a two thousand dollar dress. That’s the one. It shows off your shoulders, and makes your waist look amazing. Your boobs are good, not too exposed. And it hugs your ass.”
