AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Absolutely,” I say, getting in, knowing in my bones that I’m missing the puzzle piece that desperately needs to be snapped into place. “Sounds good.” I so dearly want to be the person who figures it out but I’m not, and my failure makes me so mad I could stab myself. What is wrong with me?
I pray on this kind of shit. I meditate on it. I get it done. After all, I was in the car that ran over the boy I loved. I could blame my mom. I could blame her disease. But at the end of the day part of me believes I broke Wyatt Wolfe.
I made myself stumble past his old brother Easton – so mean, so cold – when he lay bloody, broken, and twisted like a liar’s lies on the white, hard ground. I broke Easton Wolfe.
Oh sure, I sought redemption, sought healing. I shook like jelly but still managed to unzip Wyatt’s coat, place a hand on his bare patch of chest, and did my best to save him. Paramedics hauled him away in that ambulance.
I might have been a kid but I knew that half of his bones and organs were shattered, and that he’d be messed up forever and ever amen. Yet I got down on my knees and prayed every day and night: ‘Please, God, please save Wyatt Wolfe.’ I would have given anything, done anything. I would have sacrificed myself on God’s jagged, bloody, tear-stained altar if He would have just saved Wyatt Wolfe.
Eleven years later I am still seeking redemption. I long to help another person I care about, but I’m still tragically clueless. And I’m so angry about it that I swallow fat, five-thousand-dollar-poker-chip-sized tears whole before they rip a hole in my chest and bust out like a geyser.
“You were wonderful, Evie,” Dylan says, standing next to me at the curb. “Thank you. I hope to see you again. Soon.” He shuts the door with a harsh thud.
My driver pulls into traffic. I roll the window down, and wave. “Yes,” I say, and immediately feel like an asshole, a disheveled homecoming queen visiting last night’s float before the janitor tosses the dime store decorations into the trash. The driver turns a corner and I can’t hold the tears in any longer. I wipe them away as fast as they trickle out.
I bite my lip to center myself. It’s done. Dylan’s gone. The arranged date’s over. He hired me through Ma Maison Escort Agency. It’s not like he swiped right, or his grandmother introduced him to me, or he really cares. Get a grip, Evie. Get on with it. This thing happened so fast you’ll never really know what you missed. Build the wall. Survive. At least you can do that.
I roll up the window and focus on erecting an emotional barrier between myself and Dylan. I will not be a weakling. I will not be an idiot. Boundaries are the best way to keep one’s sanity in an insane business.
I arrive at my crappy apartment, climb the rotting wooden steps two at a time, and slam the door so hard the walls rattle. I lock the cash tip in my safe, and ditch the dress, tossing it onto my bed in a heap. Funny, it doesn’t look like a two thousand dollar dress anymore. I turn on my shower as hard as the piece of crap plumbing can handle and lean under the shower head. The water pours over me, washing away the stress, the dirt, the regret. I just wish it could wash away all the pain.
I prided myself on burying my empathic ability years ago. Why is my freak flag rearing its ugly head now? Probably escort attachment syndrome. Ugh. Terrific. Predictably, laughably, I’m falling for the hot, charismatic client with the full lips and muscular shoulders. I need to shut this down. Get my mind and my heart off tonight, off Dylan McAlister, and get back to uneventful, bland, and boring.
I text back and forth with Ruby. She’s visiting Mom at the Institute tomorrow at noon, wants to know if I want to meet up. I pass. It’s all just a little too much right now. Besides, I’m paying the bills. I’ll see Mom in a bit.
And, it’s back to the grind. A spur of the moment date with a dentist on Monday. Cocktails with a foreign dignitary at the Brazilian consulate on Tuesday. I get a text from Madam Marchand.
Dylan contacted Ma Maison and asked if I was available this Thursday and I practically fall of my chair. He apologizes for the last minute request, didn’t realize he’d be back in Chicagoland so soon. He understands if I’m busy and no, he doesn’t want anyone other than me.
I text back faster than a game show contestant in a lightning round. “Yes.”
***
7
Midas Touch
MIDAS TOUCH
I pick up Dylan’s handwritten instructions the next day at Ma Maison.
Madame hands me the white linen envelope. “The engagement is in St. Charles on Thursday.”
“The suburb?”
“Yes.”
“That’s an hour west of the city. I can train it out there.”
“I’ll forward him that information.” Madame says. “He likes you. Two dates in one week? Impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say, slipping the envelope in my purse and practically bolting for the door.
“Evelyn,” Madame says.
“Yes?”
“He comes from big money, you know.”
