8
CASSANDRA
Like any girl (working or otherwise) I’d had my fair share of bad dates.
They were unavoidable, and especially so when you were a paid escort. No amount of background checks or precautions could filter out every bad experience. It’s just the way it was.
One of my worst was also one of my first. Some Wall Street executive whose enthusiasm ended up being poorly-hidden craziness. In the darkness of our hotel room he’d kissed me, and I didn’t taste the square of LSD on his tongue until it was too late.
“I want to show you God,” he said with awe in his voice.
That was the first time I’d ever hallucinated. All the stories were true: colors and swirls invaded me, a kaleidescope of shapes. I remember falling back on the bed with him and watching the psychedelic Cirque du Soleil play out in the air.
We didn’t even do anything sexual. He just wanted a pretty woman to trip balls with him.
But as mind-expanding as the experience was, it was a severe violation of trust. I was horrified the next day. What if he hadn’t had benign intentions? Watching my drinks wasn’t enough; I had to be on guard at all times, which wasn’t easy when you were simultaneously trying to set the mood.
And beyond that, hard drugs weren’t my thing. I preferred my sex lubricated with alcohol, not enhanced with psychedelics. What was the point of even hiring an escort if you didn’t remember the experience for what it was?
I don’t know. I guess some men had their reasons.
I thought about all of this as I walked home in the cold Chicago night. It had been a long time since I’d had a bad experience. How had Orlando done it? Maybe a tiny injection while I was riding him? I obviously hadn’t been facing him, and I was focused on what he was doing to my inside, not outside. I guess it could have happened then.
Maybe it was just the fresh air, but I didn’t feel any lingering effects. Drugs usually took a long time to leave one’s system. I felt completely fine. Still a little jittery, but not enough to explain hallucinating that a guy had turned into some monster.
I wrapped my coat around me tighter and sighed. Why did he have to be a weirdo? Why couldn’t Orlando have just been gorgeous and charming without any strange quirk? I’d been looking forward to an entire weekend with him. Especially after our first quickie in the hotel room.
I guess I should have been happy that I was safe, but all I felt was disappointment. In Orlando, in the ruined weekend, and even in myself for not seeing it.
Because even then, with my head clear, I wanted to trust him. I could still feel his hands running down my back, strong and warm. The memory of Orlando was intoxicating, like cologne lingering on the air.
Suddenly it made sense how people could join cults and ignore how crazy a leader was.
Shit, I would need to call my recruiter to let her know I was terminating the date early. She would understand, but I would need to give a detailed account of everything that happened. I didn’t want to do any of that.
What I wanted was a long bath.
I reached my apartment and decided to do just that.
I pulled a bottle of merlot out of the cupboard and poured a tall glass, then carried it straight into the bathroom. The sound of the bath water running filled the room, and I sighed as the steam hit my face.
Keeping my clutch within reach—my door was locked, but having a gun nearby made me feel safer—I sank into the scalding water and let my tension melt away.
Ten minutes with my eyes closed helped me feel marginally more normal.
I sipped on wine, and remembered that my gun wasn’t the only thing in my clutch. Water sloshed as I stretched out of the tub to reach it.
Orlando’s phone. There was no passcode required to unlock it.
Hey, what can I say? If he didn’t want his phone snooped in, he shouldn’t have been a creepy date.
I skimmed his email, but nothing particularly exciting jumped out. Then I switched to his text messages. He had a recent conversation with someone named Roland:
Orlando: Hey, buddy. This is Orlando’s number. I just spoke with Ethan. He told me you’re being resistant. Can I call you so we can talk about it?
Roland: Nothing to talk about. I’m not leaving Africa until Harriet’s done.
Orlando: But are you sure that’s safe? Ethan’s really freaking out about all this.
Roland: Good for Ethan.
Roland: I’m about to lose service. Don’t worry about me, mate. I’ve taken care of MY dragon. I’d be more concerned with handling your own, if I were you.
Orlando: That’s what we want—help understanding how to handle them!
Orlando: Can you call me the next time you have signal? I won’t try to convince you to leave Africa.
The last text had a red “MESSAGE UNDELIVERED” notification underneath it. None of that made any sense (Dragons? Was that code for drugs or something?) so I closed it and opened the next text message down, which was from the aforementioned Ethan and took place a day before the last:
Ethan: Maybe if you tried talking to him?
Orlando: I can try, but he’s never listened to me. Andy’s your best bet.
Ethan: Andy’s handling it even worse than Roland.
Orlando: Seriously?
Orlando: I expected Andy to be the trooper in all of this.
Ethan: Long story. I’ll call you.
Friend gossip wasn’t interesting when you didn’t know any of the people, and it wasn’t exactly juicy anyways. I closed his texts and looked at the other Apps he had installed, got bored, and slid his phone down to the bathroom tile.
I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but now that I was thinking of Orlando I couldn’t stop. I replayed the entire evening in my head. It had been going so well until he got naked on the roof! Even though I was there, that part just didn’t jive with the rest of the night. It made no sense! Like someone had copied-and-pasted an emoji onto a Michaelangelo painting. An anachronism that ruined the artistic illusion.
But it couldn’t just be hand-waved away, and there certainly wasn’t a logical explanation.
As stupid as it was, I wish I had given him more of a chance to explain himself. Even if he lied, or said something stupid, at least then it might have given me some closure. As it was, I was too damn curious to let it go.
And I couldn’t stop thinking of him. He was like a toothache that I couldn’t stop probing with my tongue. The more I thought about him, the more it felt like he was here with me. Just in the other room, waiting for me to get out of the bath so we could continue our date.
I shook my head and dipped under the water, soaking my hair. It was time to move on. Call the recruiter when you got out of the bath, give them all the info, and let it go.
KNOCK KNOCK.
Two polite taps on my front door, barely heard from the bathroom. I opened my eyes and froze, listening. Had I imagined it?
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Nope, someone was definitely there. My first thought was that it was my recruiter coming to check on me. The manager at the hotel probably called to warn her that the date hadn’t gone well. He was always looking out for me. And she was the kind of person to rush over here and make sure I was okay without even trying to call first.
Or worse: maybe Orlando had called her complain about my abandonment. Giving some fake story before I could tell mine. Angry at that possibility, I yelled, “Just a minute!” and stood in the tub, letting the water drip off of me. Then I grabbed a soft white towel, wrapped it around myself, and walked to the door on cautious feet.
In retrospect, I knew before I got there. I could feel him. It was the reason he wouldn’t leave my mind: because he had been drawing near the entire time.
It wasn’t my recruiter waiting at the door. When I looked through the peep hole, I saw an awkward black-skinned man smiling back at me.
“You have got to be fucking kidding,” I mumbled.
“Hey, Cassie?” he said. “I can see your shadow under the door. I just want to talk.”
“How the hell did you find me?” I hissed, trying to keep my voice down. I didn’t want to make a scene around my neighbors. Being outed as a high-priced escort was a good way to get my lease terminated. “Go away!”
“Can you let me in so we can talk about what happened?”
“What, so you can drug me again? Fat chance.”
“I didn’t…” His chest rose and fell in a long sigh. “Give me five minutes of your time to explain, and then I’ll leave you alone.”
“What I’ll give you is 20 seconds to leave before I call the cops.”
I was bluffing; the last thing I wanted was Orlando telling his story to the police. But I didn’t think he’d call my bluff.
I saw the panic on his face. He didn’t want the cops involved either.
“Look,” he said, reaching into his wrinkled jacket pocket to pull out the gryphon figurine. “I need to give this to you.”
“I don’t want your creepy fucking sex trophy!”
“It belongs to you,” he insisted. “You feel it, right?”
“Ten seconds,” I said.
“What happened tonight wasn’t a hallucination. What you saw was real. It’s as pants-on-head crazy for me as it is for you, believe me. IF you would just let me take you to dinner, to try to finish the rest of your weekend, I know it would all make sense.”
He was practically begging by the end, and I wanted to believe the words coming from his full lips and kind eyes. I fought against my better instinct. My hand flinched to unlock the deadbolt.
I got a hold of myself, and shook my head, though he couldn’t see me. “Time’s up. Get lost—and if you even think of leaving that thing on my door,” I added as he bent down, “I’m calling the FBI and telling them your a terrorist.”
He rose, the figurine still in his hand. “Well then at least give me my phone back!”
I considered telling him to go fuck himself, but then pawed back to the bathroom to get it. If it meant he’d leave me alone I didn’t mind giving it back.
I slid it under the door, then returned my eye to the peep hole. I saw his distorted body bend down to get it, and then he rose and lingered. For three heartbeats he looked back at me, through me, as if he knew everything about me. As if we had some connection that I couldn’t comprehend.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and then finally left.
I let out a breath I’d been holding and leaned against the wall. I felt strangely sad. Guilty for not giving him a chance.
Which was stupid, since he was the bad guy in all of this.
My wet hair was cold against my neck, so I went back to the bathroom and dipped a toe into the tub. The water was only lukewarm; my relaxing bath was ruined. And I knew from experience that my hot water heater didn’t have enough in the tank for another bath so soon.
Goddamnit. This guy was fucking up my night in more ways than one.
I frowned down at the foamy water. How did he even find me? Unless he’d climbed down from the roof of the building and followed me. Or maybe he had one of those iPhone tracking services to find your stolen phone. I guess it was a good thing I’d given it back.
I’d better call my recruiter and get it over with. She could contact Orlando and make some threats, if necessary. She always had my back.
I grabbed another towel and began drying my hair.