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“Want another slice?” she asked.

“No. Thanks to you I can’t get fat ever again,” I said, smelling the fresh basil mixed with freshly grated cheese, my stomach growling. “I should still do this, right?”

“Yes. Do you really have other options?” she said. “Besides, some guys love curvy girls.”

“Fuck you. Give me a slice of pepperoni.”

She grinned and passed me a plate.

“Thanks. You’ve been doing this for a while. You know the ins and outs, no pun intended.” I tore into a piece of pizza. “I’m the new girl, and I doubt they’ll hire me for my ability to pull someone’s thumb out of their mouth, or convince a five-year-old to lay down on his mat and take a nap.”

“You’d be surprised how often the thumb in the mouth and the napping thing cross over.” She sat back on her sleek, designer couch and pointed to the TV. “Resume streaming please. I love Notorious with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman.”

I signed up for the Ma Maison agency the next day. I helped the tech girl fill in my fictitious bio, got my hair and makeup done and took the boudoir pictures. I reminded myself that sex with clients was not required because that would constitute prostitution. Ma Maison didn’t want to get busted and neither did I. Besides, I’d been assured that sex with clients was optional.

I’d date. I’d pay my bills and pay for my mom’s psych treatments. And everything went according to plan – for a while: Arm candy for middle-aged men in town for a convention, an engagement with a lonely guy returning for his high school reunion. Lots of prepping to look polished. Hair. Nails. Waxing.

I taught kindergarten in the morning and went on dates on nights and weekends when Ma Maison booked me. I earned decent money but didn’t get big tips. I didn’t make the big bucks because I wasn’t banging clients. When I had sex with a client. If I had sex with a client, I wanted it to be with someone special. Someone I’d always remember. Maybe that was old-fashioned. I didn’t care. I’d been accused of worse.

But everything changed when I met Dylan McAlister. Life shot a come to Jesus, Hallelujah sized hole through my chest when I met Dylan McAlister. Hard to believe that was nearly two years ago.

Now Madam Germaine pushes the envelope across the pretty antique desk toward me. “This man needs you.”

“You say that about all the men.”

“Open it. Take a look.”

I reluctantly pick it up, fantasizing about casting a fishing line onto that Wisconsin lake. Feeling the tantalizing tug on the pole when I get a bite. The satisfaction of reeling dinner in. Pan frying it over the BBQ on the deck. Tossing back a few beers with some friends and my sister. After debilitating, exhausting years of bipolar depression, Mom’s finally smiling again. I take mental snapshots, but when I hold one too close, one of her smiles threatens to melt my heart.

Now I hold the packet, solid in my hands, and suddenly my longing for fish fries, cold beer, and hanging with a relatively normal version of mom is replaced with a stirring of blood in my veins, goosebumps on the backs of my arms. And I know in my bones that this envelope holds the details of another broken man who – if the stars align – I’ll uncover the bitter belief that shut him down. I’ll help him heal.

I, Evie Berlinger, am no longer an average escort. I’m not paid to drop to my knees behind some shitty House of Pies and dispense blow jobs to sad men in town for a hardware show. My services are retained by powerful, privileged, wealthy men at the top of their professions who have lost their way; their self-confidence; the spark that made them great.

These titans could spend years in therapy paying brilliant shrinks to hack away at their issues. They could travel thousands of miles in their desperate search for answers. Vision quest to Peru, climb Macchu Picchu, drink the ayahuasca and trip the light fantastic.

Or, they could pay Ma Maison an ungodly amount of money to spend a few weeks with Scarlett, Lily, or me. We have the ability to help them uncover the screwed up core belief that shut them down and we do that quickly. If we take a liking to them they might have the best sex of their lives. Trip the light fantastic in a different kind of way.

“Do you mind if I look at this for a few minutes?” I ask and tap one finger on the white linen envelope. But I already suspect my vacation at the lake house is going to be put on hold. “Meditate on it for a few?”

“Take your time,” Madam says.

I stand, hold the packet tight to my chest, already absorbing who this man is. I leave Madam Germaine’s office and walk past her assistant. “Hey, Jay. Is there an open room?”

“Number four,” he says. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m good. Thanks.” I enter room number four and close the door. I shut the blackout curtains, settle on a chaise lounge with the envelope resting on top of me, put on earphones and hit shuffle on my phone. Whatever music comes up is meant to be. And then the song starts to play. The one that reminds me of the man who changed my life.

I close my eyes, memories tripping through my brain. Memories of how I got here. Memories of Dylan McAlister. I let them dance around awkward and breathless and exhilarating like they are happening again for the first time. I slide into the deliciousness of Dylan McAlister: gorgeous, brilliant, tormented player.

***

3

Tycoon

TYCOON

Two years ago

Source: www.allfreenovel.com