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When a request for a ‘date’ comes into Ma Maison from a new client, a non-refundable deposit is collected and the potential patron is vetted via the usual sources. Background checks are conducted for income, proper references, and a clean record for rape, murder, domestic abuse, and human trafficking.

Once cleared, a client (or if they choose to remain anonymous their representative), reviews and signs the standard contract. Then Madam Marchand and her assistant select the first batch of candidates. Most guys are looking for a few things when they hire from an exclusive escort agency: A beautiful girl on their arm to impress their friends, a girlfriend experience, or a young woman who can wrap her lips over their cocks and make them forget their sadness for a short, but glorious period of time.

In ninety-nine percent of the cases, the customer selects his date from the first batch of women presented to him in confidential files and documents. A pretty face, impressive breasts, shapely legs. Throw in decent conversation and it’s not rocket science.

But Dylan McAlister is the odd man out.

I’ve only been with Ma Maison three months when he picks me. I normally wait ten minutes in the foyer for an appointment with Madam Marchand but this time her assistant ushers me into her office immediately. I don’t think this guy is an average client.

“Why me?” I ask. I’m the new girl on the block. I’m not a client’s exotic fantasy girl. ‘No kink’ is spelled out in my bio. I don’t submit to dom fantasies. I don’t crawl blindfolded across the floor holding a stick in my mouth. Nor do I flip roles, insist a client call me ‘Miss Evelyn’ while they kneel at my feet as I grind a heel into their ass cheek and beat them with a switch.

I am the girl next door they always wanted to ask out but never found the courage to. I am the fresh-faced high school cheerleader they always dreamed about screwing. I am the step sister fantasy. I am not the sought after Prom Queen because that role has already been locked down by Victoria, Amelia’s frenemy. I don’t really care because alpha girl status has never been my goal and I couldn’t care less about becoming Ma Maison’s head bitch.

This whole escort gig was going great until a week ago when I discovered during a random conversation that I was making a quarter of what the other girls made. I wasn’t being considered for primo gigs because I wasn’t actually fucking clients. I was pissed, half tempted to have more than a word with Madame Germaine, but she calls me into the office and beats me to the punch. I’m petrified she’s going to fire me but instead she offers me a gig.

Madam slips off her cat-eye glasses, places them on her desk and rubs her temples. “I don’t know for certain why Mr. McAlister picked you,” she says. “He said he had a gut instinct. I pressed him a little. He said you had something special in your eyes.”

“Probably eyeliner and mascara,” I say, keeping a straight face while I mess with Madam Uptight. “Don’t all the girls have that?”

“Remind me to highlight quirky sense of humor in your profile. Ask Mr. McAlister yourself when you meet him,” she said, passing me the usual white linen envelope.

Ma Maison is old fashioned in that they don’t transfer contracts via email. Apparently different laws could be broken via transferring information over the internet. “Mr. McAlister also requested that I give you a brief list of instructions of what he wants you to read before your first date. I took a peek. Nothing seems objectionable.”

“Thanks,” I say, sliding the envelope into my purse.

“Evelyn,” she says, her frosty tone stopping me cold.

“Madam?”

She arches one thin eyebrow. “You’re not technically a virgin, are you?”

I break out coughing. “No.”

“Too bad. We could have gotten a lot more money for that kind of date.”

“Sorry. My V card’s already been punched.” I practically bolt toward the door.

“Evelyn.”

The room grows colder and goose bumps prickle on the backs of my arms. “What, Madam?”

“You’re a pretty girl. A smart girl. You’re the dream for the men who select you.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Find a way to thank them. I’m certain you’ll be richly rewarded.”

I escape her pristine office, pound my fist bam-bam-bam on the elevator button and blow out of the pretty prison. I leave the frosty AC chilled building and step out into the swamp air of Chicago’s humidity central summer. I catch the subway home to the Southside, keeping one possessive finger on the envelope tucked into my bag.

I slap the envelope on Mom’s Formica table, pour a glass of lemonade, and fashion my long, thick hair into a loose bun, securing it with a stick. I turn on the rotating fan, positioning my face in front of it for a few seconds. Then I lean back and read Dylan’s bio.

Dylan McAlister. Gambler. Player. Thirty-eight. Married once for five years, divorced for another five. He hails from a small town in Texas and his parents are church people.

Rich church people.

Tycoon rich church people.

About twenty-five years ago his dad moved up the ladder and became one of those superstar TV evangelist pastors at a mega-church that telecasts its services on cable. The McCalister’s have money that can buy islands and mansions and private jets.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com