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“I will.”
“So, how about if I come over in about an hour, and we have some fun? We can do as much or as little as you want to on our first time out.”
Even though panic immediately welled up in me, I managed to say, “I’d like that.”
“Great, so text me your address,” he said. “Also, do you have any requests?”
“Requests?”
“Yeah, you know—would you like me to dress a certain way, or is there anything I should bring along?”
“I have no idea.”
“Okay, so then I’ll—”
“Wait—I thought of a request. The day you hurt your back, your hair was different. Is it naturally curly?”
“Yeah, it is. I usually straighten it before work.”
“Would you mind leaving the curls? They were beautiful.”
“Will do. Text me if you think of anything else, and I’ll see you soon.”
After we ended the call, I took a deep breath and whispered, “Fucking hell, this is really happening.”
6
Timothy
It was as if Aleksei lived in the pink Victorian’s evil twin. The house was the same general style and size, but it was dark gray with even darker charcoal gray trim, and there was absolutely nothing out front to personalize it.
I climbed out of the Lyft and studied the façade for a few moments, while I rolled back the sleeves of my purple button-down shirt. Then I took a deep breath and climbed the stairs to the front porch.
I’d spent most of the last hour showering, shaving, douching—basically acting like I was getting ready for a date. But it finally hit me that this wasn’t a date at all. Money was changing hands. There were going to be certain expectations.
I was about to cross a line, one I’d never even considered crossing before.
My heart was racing. I’d been acting so casual about this, like it was no big deal. Go have sex for money. Sure, why not? But there were a million ways this could go wrong, a million ways for me to end up sad, or humiliated, or—
It startled me when the front door opened. I barely recognized Aleksei. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, and his usually perfect hair was slightly disheveled. But the most striking thing about him was the fact that he looked absolutely terrified.
“I saw you pull up, but then you didn’t knock,” he said. “Are you having second thoughts? If so, I understand. This is a lot. So much more than I realized.”
Somehow, knowing we were both scared made this easier. I’d told myself I was going to let him initiate contact, but instead, I stepped over the threshold and drew him into an embrace.
When he exhaled, it sounded shaky. But he wrapped his arms around me, and after a moment I felt him relax. Then he whispered, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me, too.”
He stepped back a few moments later and said, “Come in. Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure.” I followed him from the empty foyer through a series of rooms with gray walls, crisp white trim, and not a single piece of furniture in them. “Did you just move in?”
“A little over a year ago. My ex-wife wanted our house, so I bought this one. My only requirement was that I wanted someplace move-in ready.”
At the back of the ground floor, the kitchen and an adjacent den showed signs of life. The latter contained a sofa and coffee table, a single club chair, and a wall of boxes, all of which were labeled “books.” An open box beside the chair held a paperback collection, mostly mysteries and thrillers. Somehow, I took it as a good sign that he didn’t just read boring business journals.
“Make yourself comfortable while I check what there is to drink,” he said, as he gestured at the dark blue couch. At least it wasn’t gray. “I don’t know if I should suggest alcohol, since it’s barely noon…”
“Throw some booze in orange juice and we’ll call it Sunday brunch,” I suggested, as I removed my messenger bag and took a seat. He went into the kitchen while I pulled a piece of paper from the bag and put it on the coffee table, beside a stack of books.
He joined me on the couch a couple of minutes later, handing me a glass as he said, “I made screwdrivers. Mimosas would have been more brunch-appropriate, but I didn’t have any champagne.”
“This’ll work. Cheers.” I raised my glass in a toast before tossing back some of my drink. It tasted like it was ninety percent vodka, so I was proud of myself for not instantly coughing and embarrassing myself. Then I indicated the piece of paper and said, “That’s the signed nondisclosure agreement. It all seemed pretty straightforward, so I didn’t make any changes or anything. I also emailed you the results of my STD screening.”
“I received it. Thank you.” He seemed embarrassed, and he stuck the folded paper inside a book, as if he wanted to forget about it. “I’m sorry for asking you to sign a form.”
