Ceasefire (10 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

What
followed was about three months of such debauchery that I had trouble
processing it all.  There was the high-profile lawyer I’d seen on television a
number of times who begged to be tickled with feathers while he was strapped to
a gynecologist’s table with his legs in the air; a well-known senator from New
York that liked to have me to step on his testicles with a pair of red heels as
he masturbated while wearing a spiked hood and a leather dog collar; a
brilliant, wealthy heiress from Seattle that paid me extra to cover her in rose
petals and pretend to play the violin, wearing nothing but a special pair of
diamond-encrusted pumps she’d brought along for the occasion. 

I
didn’t mind undressing for the female clients so much.  Less of a threat, and
the compliments were more genuine and flattering.  I walked away with the pumps
and a hundred thousand dollars.

I
could go into every creepy, tantalizing, strange, erotic detail—some
believable, some so mind-boggling that you could swear I was making it all up,
that I’d done research on sexual deviancy and had borrowed stories from the
most obscure corners of the internet.  But, I’ll spare the primmest, most
proper minds.  It’s unnecessary to sully the imaginations of the uninitiated. 
Call me a martyr, but I suffered so that someone else didn’t have to.

Was
the financial reward worth it?  Yes, to the tune of about one-point-five
million dollars.  It’s amazing what people are willing to pay once they’re
behind locked doors, in the trusted company of someone capable of fulfilling
their most scandalous fantasies. 

Mentally
, were those three months worth it? 
Overall, no, not in one-point-five million years. 

When
I was caught up in the moment, after a couple glasses of wine or a shared
joint, I enjoyed myself, like I mentioned.  The control—it was invigorating.  I
guess it can only compare to what some athletes refer to as the zone.  You’re
unstoppable because you’re outside of yourself, performing on a different
level, but once the game is over and reality envelops you like a scratchy
blanket, you’re just another person.  It was like stepping off a roller
coaster, all that adrenaline and excitement dissipating.  It was like having your
feet back on land after a hurtling ride in a speedboat, the way it feels
strange and grounding. 

Some
nights, I cried myself to sleep because I’d seen too much of the underbelly of
humanity.  I’d seen too much of what people are capable of doing to themselves
(and me to them) in order to achieve sexual gratification.  What happened to
them?  What event in their past would cause someone to only get erect at the
sound of a blender chopping ice cubes?

I
would slip into my son’s room after Gertie left and sit on his bed, softly
caressing that silky blond hair, worried—no,
terrified
—that something
would damage him and fifty years from now, he’d be paying someone like me
because he couldn’t share the secret with his wife of thirty years.

The
thing that bothered me the most about his future was the
lack
of
control.  I knew I couldn’t keep my eyes on him for the rest of his life, and
that I would have to do the best that I could.  And for that, I needed money. 
More of it.

I
had cash, but not enough for what I wanted.  Private schools and colleges,
trust funds so that he would never have to worry or struggle.  Maybe it was
irrational, thinking that money might prevent him from being affected by some
random stranger or some unknown event while he attended summer camp, but it
sure as hell could help to afford the best counselors.

And
now that I had enough to implement the idea that I had thought of months ago,
as I drove away from the “little girl” incident with Roman, it was time. 

I
couldn’t take any more of fulfilling the lecherous dreams of my clients.

However,
what I
could
do was leave Roman’s harem and start my own service—one
that catered to the type of perverts that I knew…where the
real
money
was.  I could hire escorts to do the dirty work for me and go home at the end
of the day feeling like a businesswoman, rather than an immoral enabler of
decadence.

Were
my motives misaligned?  Possibly.  I would still be contributing to the
depravity of human nature, but the people I knew…they weren’t
bad
people.  They simply had needs that couldn’t be met by the pure-hearted members
of society.

They
had a problem, I had a solution, and everybody would be happy.

My
hands would stay clean (literally) and I would be running a business, like I
was meant to do.

And
best of all, Roman’s dirty, filthy paws would be nowhere near my bank account,
taking sixty percent of what I legitimately earned.  If he’d ever learned of
the million and a half I’d squirreled away right under his nose, I’m sure he
would’ve pried the money out of my lifeless fingers and laughed at my dead
body.

***

I
woke from a nap on a cold, snowy Thursday afternoon, completely exhausted from
the long night before.  My best client—an Economics professor with a penchant
for watching me roll across a cheese-puff covered floor in a sling bikini—had
taken so long to get off that I had cramps in my back and cheesy dust caking
the inside of my nose. 

Believe
me, the life of a high-priced escort, who caters to the seedier side of sexual
deviancy, isn’t as glamorous as the movies would have you think.  It’s not all
red wine and white gloves.

My
back ached.  My skin was greasy and cheese puff remnants gathered in
uncomfortable crevices, much in the same way that you can never really wash all
the sand out after a long day at the beach.

Gertie
had taken Joey out for ice cream so that I could get a little more rest.  By
that point, she’d begun to expect that there was something more to my
professional life than seating snooty rich people at a fancy French
restaurant.  If she had any real ideas, though, she kept them to herself.  She
was concerned that I wasn’t getting enough sleep, but that was the extent of
her fretting.  I assured her that it wouldn’t be much longer, because I was
starting my own business soon and I’d be home more often.  I’d planned to tell
Roman I was leaving that day.

I
rolled over, opened my eyes, then screamed and nearly flung myself off the bed.

Michelle
sat at the end, looking entirely flawless in yoga pants and a thin jacket. 
Makeup perfect.  Hair perfect.  Even the way her eyebrows dipped angrily toward
the bridge of her nose was perfect.

“You
scared the shit out of me,” I said, once I was able to breathe again.  “How’d
you get in here?”

“I
have a key, remember?  And besides, I can’t come visit a friend I haven’t seen
in ages?”

I
sat up, scooted back to the wall and pushed the hair out of my face.  “I didn’t
mean it like that, but yeah, it’s good to see you.  What’s up?”  Thoughts
zipped around inside my head.  Why was she in my apartment?  Why had she snuck
in like that?  Why did she seem so angry with me?

In
truth, we hadn’t seen each other much over the past couple of months.  She
worked out during the day, I “worked” nights, and in most respects, it was
easier to avoid her than accidentally broach the subject of what I’d been doing
with myself.

“I’ve
missed you,” she said. 

“I’ve
missed you, too,” I replied.  “Too much.”  So many nights, I wanted to tell
someone, anyone, about what I’d been doing and had been tempted to call
Michelle time after time.  I needed the cathartic release.  I could’ve gone to
a therapist, I suppose, but I looked at that like a sign of weakness.  I wasn’t
broken
.  I needed a friend.

“So
how’s the new job going?” she asked.  The expression on her face hadn’t
wavered.  She knew something.  There wasn’t the slightest bit of a friendly,
how-are-you-let’s-catch-up tone in her words. 

I’d
lied to her as well—told her that I was working as a waitress at
La Fleur
. 
I’d made the lie a little more elaborate to avoid too many questions.  I’d said
that after a blind date stood me up, I ran into Eric Landers and he’d taken
pity on me. 

I
could’ve picked some other restaurant, any place that Michelle wouldn’t dare
set foot in, but I had to make the lie believable for her. 
La Fleur
seemed like a perfect choice because Michelle didn’t like French food and they
couldn’t afford it.  Besides, it was easier to keep the stories straight.

Dreama,
on the other hand, had been more difficult to manage.  I told her I’d gotten a
temporary job refilling vending machines—yet another disappointed sigh from
her—while I waited to hear from the multitude of companies that were scrambling
to hire me.  I’d said I needed the money, but it kept me on the road most
nights, driving from spot to spot, location to location, and no, she wouldn’t
be able to visit me at work.

So
far, the story had stuck with her.

But
with Michelle?  Something was amiss.  I’d never seen her look at me that way
before.  Not in the nearly twenty-two years that we’d been friends.

“Well?”
she said.

There
was a chance she didn’t know anything and I briefly considered trying to slink
my way around her questions, testing her, prompting her, trying to learn what
she knew.  After a few futile attempts, I decided against it, because if anyone
would understand, if anyone would be sure to offer a comforting shoulder, it
would be her.

Sometimes
people you’ve known for decades can surprise you.

And,
in this case, that door swung both directions.

I
gave her a non-answer.  “I’ve been so busy, I know, and it’s all my fault for
losing touch over the past couple of months.”

Michelle
crossed her arms.  “That’s not what I asked, Kim.”

I
shrugged limply and shook my head, pretending to be confused.  “I mean, well,
the job…it’s great, I guess.  Why?” 

She
glared at me, nostrils flaring, the corners of her mouth turned down.  Hurt,
disappointed, and angry.  Her eyes glistened.  “I can’t believe you’d keep
something like this hidden from me.  I mean, God, we’ve known each other since
we were in matching cribs.”

My
stomach wobbled.  My skin prickled with an embarrassed heat.  She knew.  My
God, she knew.  But how?

“Mish,”
I said, reaching for her.  “Let me—”

She
pushed my hand away.  “How could you do something like this?  If you needed
help, all you had to do was ask, Kim.  You know we have the money.”

I
scooted closer to her, got up onto my knees and tucked my feet underneath me. 
“How, um, how much do you know?”

Michelle
looked away, followed it with a disbelieving laugh.  “Too much.”

“How’d
you find out?”  I’d been so careful to hide all of my tracks.  When Roman
offered clients, I made sure to check out their backgrounds and if there were
any chance of a possible connection, I’d refuse.  There’s no way Dreama
could’ve found out.  Maybe Michelle and my nosy mother had swapped stories
about my new job, discovering that I’d told them separate lies. 

That
was the most likely scenario.  Damn it.  Why had I done that?  Why didn’t I
keep my stories consistent across the board?

Michelle
pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath.  She was hurt, and I
hated that I’d hurt her—the one person I should’ve turned to before I’d
considered getting myself into this situation.

“Did
you forget something?” she asked, without looking me in the eye.  “Some
important date, recently?”

I
clawed through all the things in my mind that I could’ve forgotten lately. 
Dreama’s birthday, my sisters’ anniversaries…anniversaries.  Oh, no.  I’d
completely missed Michelle and Aaron’s anniversary.  What an awful, horrible
friend I’d become, all in the name of money, sex, and control.  And I knew
this—I knew I’d messed up—but back there in the shadowy corners of my mind, my
reasons were justified.  “Your anniversary,” I admitted.  “I’m so, so sorry.  I
feel—I feel horrible.”

Michelle
stood up and tucked her hands into her armpits, hugging herself tight, and then
walked to the window, watching the snow fall.  “Aaron got reservations at La
Fleur,” she said.  “You know I don’t really like French food, but I thought it
would be fun to go see you, you know, since I hadn’t gotten a call or even one
tiny text—I mean, I understand you’re busy.  You work, you’ve got a son, and I
told Aaron…I told him, ‘Maybe it just slipped her mind, but let’s go to La
Fleur and rub it in a little.’  When we got there, we found out we’d have to
wait hours for a table.  So we thought, hey, if we drop your name, maybe
they’ll let us in.”

“Mish,
I—”

“They’d
never heard of you.  They had no idea who you were, so we left, and of course I
thought it was strange, but I figured that maybe you’d given them a different
name or something.  I mean, how in the hell was I supposed to know, right?”

I
walked over beside her, put my head on her shoulder.  “I’m sorry.”

“You
should be,” she said, “because do you know how embarrassing it was to find you
the way we did?”