Random Acts of Trust (33 page)

Antiques cluttered the space, a lot of the furniture pushed up against the walls to accommodate the huge number of people there. Music blared; that was the whole point. I was supposed to walk up to the door and pretend to be a cop answering a noise complaint. And then, the party
really
began. Liam, waited around the corner with Aaron and Jack in full costume as I marched up to the door and pounded loudly.

“Police! Open up!” I said in my most authoritative voice, and this was the part where something inside me clicked. I
became
the cop, I became this other Sam who got to strut, and dance, and show these ladies a good time.

Was this what I aspired to when I went off to UMass and worked three or four jobs for four years trying desperately to finish a degree that my father had told me I was too much of a loser to ever get on my own? Hell, no.

Would my dad have a heart attack if he knew what I was doing now? Maybe. I think my mom would stroke out and be dead before she hit the floor if she knew that I was dry humping women her age as they tucked $5 and $10 bills into a piece of underwear that was so thin it told people my religion.

Those thoughts had haunted me after my first night. They stopped, though, when I saw the smiles and counted the money. And so, here I was, pounding on the door and announcing that these women had been very,
very
bad.

The door opened and the woman who I could only guess was the future bride answered, flustered and worried. It was the same look I’d seen in the eyes of plenty of hosts and brides as we played out this game. She really thought I was a cop. Again, that burst of energy inside me, that sense that I could play someone other than me, that I could try on a different personality with no risk, fueled something inside me.

“Y- yes, Officer?” she stammered, “I- I’m so sorry. We...we’ll turn the music down.”

“I’m afraid that’s not enough,” I said, my voice deepening, turning into a growl. I reached down to my waistband and her eyes followed, and then her tongue parted her lips as she licked them. It was a move I’d also noticed so many times before, and one that couldn’t help but remind me of Amy. As my hand reached for the handcuffs on my belt I unclicked them and held them up, letting them dangle from one finger as her eyes searched for mine and widened. It was fear, but there was always something else in their eyes. I started to twirl the handcuffs around my finger lazily. “I’m afraid you’ve been a very, very naughty girl.”

And then Liam, and Aaron, and Jack came from around the corner and we burst into the room.
Showtime.

A woman in the back with long, straight brown hair, large black rimmed glasses, and bright red painted lips waved frantically, arms sweeping in the air like someone trying to alert a search plane. I knew to pay attention to the room and to follow that cue because that was probably the person who had paid for our performance. Liam and Aaron followed; Jack just sort of looked around clueless. I couldn’t blame him—it was his first time. I had to remind myself that this was only my seventh performance. I, too, had been that green.

But how quickly, how
startlingly
quickly, this had become second nature.

We followed her out onto a larger-than-expected patio with a pergola, with beams wrapped in Christmas lights and some kind of vine I couldn’t identify. It gave the whole outside a European feel, as if we were sitting in some sort of a beer pub in Germany. There were picnic tables everywhere, elegant picnic tables, the kind of thing that you would find at an antique store, or some high end place on Newbury Street.

The crowd came out onto the patio and she pointed to a semi-stage area for us where we would be under the pergola and yet in full view of the whole crowd as they gathered round to watch. And then our cue, this had been planned in advance. “Young man...” the song began, and then we were The Village People.

Performing the song “YMCA” had an incredible level of irony to it, when you thought about it, for a bachelorette party. But hey,
we
didn’t choose it. We just showed up, collected our tips, and gave everyone a good time. The average age in the crowd was probably thirty-five. The bride was a pleasant, giggly woman who reminded me of a blonde version of Amy, if Amy had been raised on the Back Bay of Boston. Then again, every client reminded me of Amy. Hell, every woman I walked past on the street reminded me of her. It made life both easy and hard, all at once.

As we danced I heard a voice cut through the music and it threw me off guard.
Darla?
Was Darla here? I could hear it faint and floating on the wind, but I had to ignore it. Maybe a guest just happened to have her accent. It was eerie. It set me on guard.

I knew that Amy and Darla were out for the evening, Darla had told me so I hadn’t worried that I was abandoning Amy for the night. It had given me a sense of security in keeping my secret for another night, because it was one more evening where maybe I could stall before letting her know.

A woman in a long, flowing burgundy outfit, the skirt jagged on purpose, some sort of a fashion style, came up to me and pressed her body against my leg as I ground my hip into hers. “Do you do extras?” she whispered in my ear, the scent of Shalimar overwhelming.

I looked at her and did exactly what Louise had taught me to do, which was to give her a half-smile, a cocky grin, and say, “Sorry, but I’m taken,” and then to thumb toward Jack. He’d made it clear when he was hired that he would do
anything
. When I’d first learned that some guys did
anything
, I’d felt a sense of disgust. How hypocritical is that?

I’d take the hypocritical label over what those guys did, though. Not my thing. And yet, I couldn’t judge any more. Women wanted them, women paid them for more than a look or a quick touch, and everyone walked away with a happy ending.

So to speak.

Amy

I reached down into my front pocket and felt for my phone. I could check it again but...why? There wasn’t going to be a new text. It had only been seven minutes since I’d checked it last. This quiet from Sam was bothering me. I wasn’t deeply worried, but more something rattled around in my mind that told me that things weren’t quite what I thought they were, on the surface at least. Sam wasn’t like that, he didn’t bullshit people. What you saw was what you got, and so, there was something cagey about him lately, as if he were keeping a secret.

As a cool breeze swept in, made my bangs fly into my eyes, I pushed them aside and thought of how Sam did the same with his hand, especially in between songs when he played. Everything these days reminded me of him. Everything should remind me of Sam, because everything
was
Sam. This busyness on a weekend, when he wasn’t playing, though...that wasn’t Sam.

Where was he? He obviously wasn’t here with me, and I had no reason to doubt him. It’s not like he was out screwing some other girl, right? He wasn’t the type.

Darla walked back out onto the balcony and said, “Hey, come on in. Have a drink.” She peered down. “Whoa—that’s one hell of a bachelorette party, huh?” I followed looking down, and tracking her eyes. A group of people crammed a ground floor patio, a set of four guys acting like they were The Village People. Women pressed their bodies up against headless torsos, the men’s upper bodies obscured by an awning. Whatever was going on down there, it certainly looked like fun. More power to them.

Darla grabbed my elbow and pulled me in. Somehow, she magically conjured an Amaretto Sour and gave it to me with a big grin. “How’d you know?”

“That’s what you were drinking when I met you that first night in the bar.”

I narrowed my eyes. Maybe that’s why she was so popular with people. She paid attention. Maybe I needed to pay more attention to other people, and less attention to myself. Or maybe I just needed to pay attention, period. “Thank you,” I said, meaning it deeply.

“You’re welcome.” We looked around the crowd. There were a number of people who looked just like us, except more sophisticated. That awkwardness that poured into my cells when I was at a big party began to fill me. Darla sensed it. “We don’t have to stay if this isn’t your thing.”

Jane appeared out of nowhere, looking more and more like Wednesday Addams with red hair. “Darla, may I have a word with you?” she said pleasantly, her voice modulated and friendly, her face a mask of neutrality.

“Sure.” Darla shrugged. “Be back,” she said to me, and I nodded.

Drawn by an invisible force to the balcony again, I stood out there. Three or four people smoked cigarettes, in animated conversations it was obvious I wasn’t meant to join. That was okay. The cold iron of the railing was a balm, and I looked down on that giant party again, now watching women about ten years older than me stuffing bills of undetermined amounts into the waistbands of guys with physiques that reminded me of Sam’s and Liam’s.

They were wearing hats, and...was that red hair under one of them? And surfer blonde hair under another? I couldn’t see their faces but something really familiar was making an alarm bell go off in me. I closed my eyes and shook my head quickly.
Stop it, Amy
, I told myself,
this is ridiculous. You’re creating shadows to be afraid of.
What kind of demented mind did I have that I would try to make a couple of male strippers into the two guys that I kept fantasizing about, one of whom was my bedmate...and maybe my soulmate.

I tried. I really, deeply tried. I drank the Amaretto Sour. I looked out on the river and watched a small boat go by. I even pretended to care about the rantings of some Libertarian next to me who was talking about convincing fifty thousand people to move to New Hampshire, and take over the state. For the next thirty minutes, I tried. And I failed.

As the party downstairs got louder and louder, I finally heard someone shout, “It’s a Diana sandwich!”

Whoever Diana was, she wasn’t going to be the meat rubbing up against any two pieces of bread I might know. This was silly, I knew it, but it also gave me an excuse to leave. I gently found my way back to the front door and didn’t even bother to try to find Jane, who was pointing to a disturbing bit of watercoloring on her wall that appeared to be different shades of blood. Darla found me just as I was walking down the hallway.

“Where ya goin’?” she asked.

“It’s just too hot in there,” I said.

“But you were out on the balcony.”

“I- I need to go...I’m going to wander and just get some air. I’m not leaving for good.”

“Okay,” she said.

I stumbled down to the stairway, meandering slowly, the drink hitting my head faster than I thought. The stairs and hallway were extremely narrow and not well-lit, unless you were right in front of an apartment door. Dark, stained oak trim and molding made the hall seem tiny, and my body pitched a bit. That was one stiff drink.

Giggles, Muffled groans. Blurred characters, smashed against the wall, were a giant mass of limbs, bare men’s arms wrapping around a woman, but then there was someone else, too. I struggled to see what was going on, until I heard a name.

“Diana,” the voice said, a man’s voice full of tight emotion. Ah, so this was the mysterious Diana in her man sandwich. Lucky girl. Who wouldn’t want a threesome on a hot night at a party? Her mouth pressed hard as she stood in red leather come-fuck-me-pumps pushed up as she stretched to reach the mouth of the guy against the wall, her body writhing and smashing into him, his arms not quite embracing her.

And then the light became clearer.

All. Too. Clear.

Diana was the meat in a Sam-and-someone sandwich.

Oh, God.

Work, huh?

Some fucking job you’ve got there, Sam.

“Sam?” I choked out, hoping that just saying his name would make it all be untrue, that this was the amaretto sour creating a stupid, intrusive image, but when Diana pulled back I saw his shocked face, lips raw from the kiss, mouth in an “O” of surprise.

What do you do when you run out of good choices?

You run.

Sam

One minute I’m dancing on the patio and the next I’m inside, sipping a soda and trying to get used to letting all these women just touch me when they want to, like I’m a toddler, or a statue, or a pet dog.

Caress. Stroke. Finger walking up my pecs. Each touch comes with cash attached, which they tuck into the little string at my waist, so no complaints. My pants were back on, the top half of the costume hanging from my hips, the hat at a jaunty tilt on my head.

They love that.

I love it, too. Making them happy, that is. No job I’ve ever had involved so much hedonistic fun. The most excitement you can have without doing something illegal (
the occasional scent of pot excepted
). My body, my time, my increasing bank account.

And my Amy, off at a party with Darla.

A pang of guilt smacked my chest at that thought.

Er—that was someone’s hand.