Wicked Dirty, Page 3

  And maybe that's silly, but it's important to me.

  So, no.

  Sex isn't just sex. It's big and it's confusing and it's messy and it's complicated.

  And I can't.

  "Yes, you can," Joy says firmly when I tell her as much. "It's not like you're dating anyone."

  "That's your main consideration?"

  She rolls her eyes. "Actually, my main consideration is the ten grand you're about to give up."

  I freeze. "What did you say?"

  "You heard me." She puts a five on the table as a tip for Nessie before getting out of her chair on the sidewalk side. That's when I notice the double-parked Fiat with a ride share placard in the side window.

  "Is that for us?"

  "I called Marjorie while you were talking to David," Joy admits.

  "What?"

  "I figured she'd be able get you a gig or two, but it's even better than I expected. She's scrambling to find someone last minute for tonight--and this guy pays a premium even without the rush job."

  "But--"

  She holds up a hand. "You know what? I don't even want to hear it. For days you've been telling me that you're desperate to keep your house. And I've seen the numbers, Laine. You should be desperate, because unless you know different math rules than I do, you could work shifts at Blacklist twenty-four seven for a full month and still not earn enough to pay off that note."

  She heads for the car, tossing her words back over her shoulder. "Make up your mind, okay?"

  Ten grand. Ten. Freaking. Grand.

  Ten thousand dollars of debt knocked out in one fell swoop. Maybe even more.

  I stand beside my chair, my hand clutched tight on the backrest as I think about it. That, plus what I've saved so far, plus another two in cash advances from my credit cards will get me kissing close to fifteen thousand.

  That leaves sixteen thousand to earn in two weeks.

  And even though that's still a scary number, it's ten thousand less scary than it would be without this job.

  I think about my house and all the weekends I spent refinishing the wood floors and kitchen cabinets. I think about the claw-foot tub I spent weeks searching for. And the pipes that better not burst again in my lifetime, considering the time and money it cost to fix them.

  I think about my mother and the hours she spent landscaping the backyard. The way we laughed the day we painted the shutters.

  I think about everything I've lost over the last few years, and I know that there is no way I'll survive losing the house, too.

  And that's when I know that I have to do this thing.

  Just sex.

  Once again, Joy's words fill my head. And once again, I know that she's wrong. So very wrong.

  Sex is a tool, and it can either build or destroy.

  My first time, it was a wrecking ball that broke me into a million pieces.

  But this time...

  This time sex is a lever.

  This time, it's going to save me.

  3

  "Wow," I say as we step off the private elevator and into the foyer of Marjorie's high-rise condo. It's all marble and shine, sparkle and polish. "I mean, seriously, wow."

  "I'm glad you like it."

  The speaker's voice is low and melodious, and is accompanied by the click of high heels. I turn toward the sound and find myself staring at one of the most elegant women I've ever seen. Tall and model-thin with platinum blonde hair upswept into a chignon, perfectly lined red lips, and wide gray eyes with just a hint of gold.

  "I'm Marjorie." She extends her hand, her smile revealing brilliant white teeth that must have cost a fortune. "And you must be Sugar."

  "Laine," I correct as we shake hands, her grip firm and confident. "Please."

  She laughs. The slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes makes her seem more approachable, and I relax just a little. "You're right," she says to Joy. "She's charming. And as for your name," she continues, her focus returning to me, "all things considered, I think we'll call you Sugar."

  All things considered.

  "Right," I say, forcing a smile. "Of course."

  I've often thought my mom saddled me with a hooker's name. Considering the job I'm about to take, I guess I wasn't far off the mark.

  "Joy's explained to you what I do, I'm sure," Marjorie says as I follow her out of the foyer and into an equally elegant living room. This space, however, is designed as much for comfort as for appearance, with overstuffed couches and chairs, along with an area rug, a coffee table topped with water and wine, and the soft strains of classical music emanating from hidden speakers.

  All in all, much less intimidating, and I start to relax. Just a little, anyway.

  "So, um." I'm not sure if I'm supposed to sit or talk, so I do both. I take a seat on a silk upholstered armchair and tell Marjorie, "I think I know what you do. But maybe you should tell me anyway. Because I'm going to be really embarrassed if I'm wrong."

  She doesn't laugh, but I see a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. And somehow that small gesture relaxes me. Because her expression isn't mocking, but maternal. No matter what it is that's in store for me, Marjorie has my back.

  Or, at least, she's good at pretending she does.

  "It's quite simple, really." She takes a seat on the sofa, then gestures for Joy to do the same. Joy does, then kicks her feet up on the coffee table, her funky, paint-splattered sneakers in stark contrast to the ornamental glass vase and fresh roses.

  Marjorie, however, takes it in stride, merely lifting an eyebrow in approbation.

  Joy frowns, then tugs her feet to the ground. She looks at me and crosses her eyes, and I fight a laugh, immediately more at ease.

  "I act as a liaison. Nothing more. Nothing less." As Marjorie speaks, a tall, thin man with graying temples enters the room and sets down a tray with three flutes and a clear pitcher filled with something orange. "Thank you, Daniel. I can pour. Mimosa?" she continues, as Daniel leaves the room. "I know they're traditionally a breakfast drink, but they're my current guilty pleasure."

  "Sure. That would be great." Joy was right. I should have had that second glass of wine. "A liaison," I prompt as she passes me my glass. I take a quick sip. "So, men come to you, and you find a girl who--I don't know--matches some set of qualifications?"

  "Essentially. Yes."

  "And my job?"

  "Is simply to be a companion."

  I have a feeling it's not as simple as that, but I'm also not sure I'm ready for the nitty-gritty to be said aloud yet. So I dodge. "And you have a job for me already planned for tonight. How did you know I'd fit the bill?"

  "I didn't, of course." She leans back and crosses her legs. "But Joy told me a bit about you. You seem like a strong woman, which this particular client finds attractive. She sent me a picture, and you're certainly lovely enough to be on my roster."

  "Thanks," I mumble automatically. At the moment, I'm dressed in an oversized T-shirt and jeans, so I'm not exactly showing off my assets. And the truth is I don't show them off very often. I'm not prudish about sex--but I am discriminating. And it can be both overwhelming and frustrating to be constantly hit on.

  "Of course, looks aren't everything. But now that I've met you, I agree with Joy's assessment that you're charming and bright. Frankly, you're a perfect fit for Mr. Z."

  "Mr. Z," I repeat thoughtfully. "So, is he a regular customer?"

  "He's on my client roster, obviously. But I wouldn't call him a regular. He's not weekly. For that matter, he's not even monthly. And when he does call, it's always unplanned, like tonight, and I have to scramble to find him a suitable companion." Again, she flashes an elegant smile. "Of course, that's one of the reasons he's willing to pay such a premium over the usual rate for both your fee and mine."

  "The ten's all yours," Joy says. "Marjorie's fee is handled separately."

  "Oh." I feel strangely better knowing that not all her clients pay five figures to get a date.

  That sense of relie
f fades almost immediately, though, and I frown. "What's wrong with him?"

  "Not a single thing," she says.

  "Well, then why doesn't he just go to a bar and pick up a girl?"

  "He's a man who values his reputation and his privacy. A bar hook-up wouldn't suit his image at all."

  And sleeping with a call girl does?

  I don't say that out loud, of course, but Marjorie obviously understands what I'm thinking, because she says simply, "He's paying for discretion, of course. That's not something that tends to come with a more traditional one-night stand."

  I nod. Despite the oddity of this whole thing, I really do understand what she means.

  "So, who is he?"

  "I told you. Mr. Z."

  "Wait. I don't get to know his name?"

  "Not until you arrive at his suite. As I said, he's extremely protective of his privacy. Some of my girls report that he never formally introduced himself. They, however, knew who he was."

  "Oh." I'm not sure if that makes me more or less confused. "You're saying that basically he's a last minute, famous guy. Which explains why he pays so well." I lick my lips. "That, and for the, um, service. Because it's not just about being a companion, is it?" I glance toward Joy. "I mean, he's going to want more than just to play with my feet, isn't he?"

  "Laine..." Joy scowls at me, her eyes wide in an expression that is obviously supposed to be a signal for me to just shut the hell up.

  But, come on. If I can't say it, I can't do it. And so I take a deep breath, and say, "The bottom line is sex, right? I mean, I'd really like to be absolutely certain I know what I'm getting into."

  "Oh, my God." Joy looks like she'd give anything to sink into her couch cushion.

  I glance at Marjorie, afraid she's going to look perturbed as well. But to my surprise, she laughs, the sound musical. "Joy, don't you dare be frustrated with Laine. Of course, she's going to ask questions. I'd be more concerned if she didn't."

  "And yes," she adds, turning her attention fully to me. "It's likely he'll want sex. I'd go so far as to say it's probable. But I wasn't being coy earlier. I really am a go-between. He's paying me to find a date. I'm paying you to be his companion. And if you and the gentleman do choose to do what consenting adults sometimes do, that's between the two of you."

  "Oh." I consider that. "Does he--I mean, it's just sex-sex, right? Or does he like--"

  "Kink?" Joy chimes in, and this time, both Marjorie and I turn to glare at her.

  "I don't know specifics," Marjorie says, focusing again on me. "But I can tell you that all my girls have hard limits. He's never crossed that line--and under the terms of the NDA, they're not only authorized, but required to tell me if he asks them to engage in any dangerous activity."

  "NDA?"

  "Non-disclosure agreement." She leans forward and opens a drawer in the coffee table, then pulls out a thin folder, which she passes to me, along with a pen. "Part of my role is to also ensure complete discretion."

  I open the folder, then frown at the document, written in fluent legalese. "I'm not allowed to say anything to anyone?"

  "That about sums it up," she says as I skim the document. "But, then again, neither is he. As I said, if you have safety concerns, you can share those with me. Of course, we wouldn't consider things like spanking and light bondage to put you at risk."

  I look up, startled.

  "Oh, dear," she says, looking at my face. "Is that something you have a problem with?"

  "I--" I glance at Joy, then back at Marjorie. "Honestly, I don't know."

  I'm not completely naive, but my knowledge of anything other than vanilla with, maybe, the tiniest drizzle of chocolate sauce, comes exclusively from books.

  My head is spinning, and I take a long, deep breath as I hold onto the pen like a lifeline. "The thing is, this is all pretty unexpected and incredibly fast, and--"

  "I'm afraid fast is part of the job description, at least for tonight. You're expected by eleven. We still need to do wardrobe and make-up, not to mention taking care of some, shall we say, administrative loose ends. Which means you're out of time, Sugar. I need to text the client a confirmation in exactly five minutes." She glances at her watch, then eyes me. "What do you want me to tell him?"

  "I--"

  I cut myself off, not sure what I intended to say. Or, rather, I know exactly what I intended to say--yes. I'm just not sure I want to be that kind of woman.

  Even though we're getting down to the wire, Marjorie's smile is patient. "You won't believe me, of course," she says, "but I do understand. I've been there. Broke and uncertain and scared that if I make the wrong choice my entire world will come crashing down around me. No, don't be mad at Joy," she adds, when I glare at my friend. "She only told me that you needed cash--who doesn't? I guessed the rest. I've met a lot of young women, and I recognize the scent of desperation."

  "Being desperate doesn't make it right."

  "But it doesn't make it wrong, either. For that matter, who's to say what's wrong or right? I provide a service. He pays for that service. It's a free market transaction. What's cleaner than that?"

  I say nothing.

  "Nobody's telling a lie in a bar. Nobody's sitting by the phone wondering if he's going to call again. There's no worrying about whether he likes you or if he's married or about anything at all. Because that's not what's happening here. This isn't romance. It's a commercial transaction. It's no more emotional than buying a box of paperclips. But it just might be a little more fun.

  "And," she adds with a wink, "depending on how much fun you two consenting adults have, I would expect him to treat you very, very nicely."

  I frown, confused.

  Joy leans forward. "She means that if you get naked with him, then you can pretty much expect a tip."

  "Seriously?" As I look between the two of them, a stocky man with thick, curly hair enters the room. He looks about thirty, and has laugh lines around his eyes. There's really nothing remarkable about him. Nothing, that is, except the fact that he's wearing scrubs and carrying a tray with a syringe on it.

  "Ben, this is Sugar. Sugar, if you'd be so kind as to let Ben take a small blood sample..."

  I gape at her.

  "My clients are very safety conscious. Just another service I provide. Ben can have the results back to us before you're out of wardrobe. And as I mentioned, we're on a bit of a time crunch."

  I hesitate, then I glance at Joy, who nods and mouths, Do it.

  "Um, okay." I hold out my arm for Ben. "And Mr. Z? I mean, do you have this kind of information on him, too?"

  "Of course. To be honest, that requirement has cost me a few clients. But I'm not interested in putting my girls at risk. By the way, I assume you're on birth control?"

  "What?" I look away as Ben draws blood, his work swift and almost painless. He bandages the site, gives me a single nod of acknowledgement, then walks off. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine in that department."

  "Excellent," Marjorie says. "And now I'm afraid we're out of time. I need you to either sign that NDA or tell me you're not interested so that I can let Mr. Z know that he's out of luck this evening."

  I draw in a breath to buy a few more seconds, a little irritated with myself because I went through this whole thought process once already while we were sitting at Blacklist. But that was when the idea was vague and amorphous. Now it's real and dark and full of sharp edges.

  Honestly, it's not the moral ambiguity of having sex for money that's eating at me. It's the thought of being with a stranger. I did that once--only once--and I've been beating myself up ever since.

  But I'd been vulnerable then. And tonight, I'll be the one with the power. Because I can say no if I want to--and if I choose to say yes, it's because of the payday. A payday that can go a hell of a long way toward digging me out of my current financial hole. Especially if what Joy said about a tip is true.

  After my first and only time, I promised myself I was going to hold out for the right guy. A good guy.
/>   I don't know if Mr. Z is good or not. But if sleeping with him can save my house, then I guess that makes him the right guy. At the very least, he's the guy I need.

  "All right," I say, meeting Marjorie's eyes, and then exhaling loudly. "I'm in."

  "Lovely," she says, then taps out a quick text. "My dear, he's going to adore you." She stands. "Now, to get you ready."

  I follow her down a carpeted hallway to what would normally be the master bedroom. Here, however, it's filled with racks of outfits, a giant make-up station, and at least half a dozen trifold mirrors.

  "I adore this condo," Marjorie says, noticing my confusion. "But I use it as an office, not as my home."

  "Oh."

  "This is cool," Joy says, pulling a shocking red dress from one of the racks. There's probably less than a yard of material, and even if I did manage to wriggle into it, I doubt I could walk.

  "Uh, I'm not sure--"

  But I don't have the chance to finish before Marjorie interrupts. "That would be darling on her, I'm sure. But it screams sex. And while that may be in the cards, Mr. Z prefers a more elegant look. But set it aside, and I'll tag it in the database as one of Sugar's possible outfits."

  "Why--"

  "Tonight won't solve your financial problems," Marjorie says with a small smile. "And after the initial awkwardness, I think you'll appreciate being on my roster. Even when you're past this crunch, a girl can always use some pocket money."

  "Right, but if Mr. Z doesn't like that kind of--"

  She cuts me off with a sharp shake of her head. "He never sees the same girl twice. If you end up on my roster, you'll be introduced to other men, and most prefer to see a girl at least a few times. But," she adds in a lighter tone, "we're getting ahead of ourselves. Right now, you simply need a dress. How about this one?"

  She's moved to the rack opposite Joy, and she tugs out a pale pink dress with a low-cut bodice that buttons up, a fitted waist, and a flared skirt. It's simple, managing to be both classy and elegant.

  She passes it to me, and I realize it's exactly the kind of dress I might pick out for myself. "I like it," I say, and immediately feel better. No matter what I'm about to set out to do, at least I won't be decked out in leather and hooker heels.

  And, as an added plus, Marjorie tells me that I get to keep the clothes. Considering what I'm about to do, I figure I'm earning them. But still, the unexpected bonus makes me happy.