Ryder

 

As I stared at Mr. Whitaker from across the large, oak conference room table, I nodded in agreement, while rage boiled up inside me. Listening to him explain that men of my position needed to engage in more social affairs, but that I should consider finding a suitable escort to such events. More appropriate than I had in the past. Being told what to do was infuriating, especially when I was being told that, at twenty-four years old, I needed to find someone with the right resume or status to bring with me to events. Not to mention the fact that he was a client, not really my boss.

 

“Listen to me, Ryder. I'm not saying you need to get married, or anything of the sort. You're a young man. I understand needs. But here at Whitaker, we like to have a certain… look and feel that we like to convey. The playboy bachelor is not that look and feel. You get me?” Brad Whitaker raised his eyebrows to me, looking for my understanding.

 

“Of course, sir. I'll vet my escorts to events a bit better moving forward,” I replied with a tight-lipped smile.

 

“You do that, son. If you need help finding a suitable date for next week’s gala, let my secretary know. She's got a list of pretty, young socialites with a good reputation we can have her set you up with. Girls that know how to act at our corporate events and such.” He nonchalantly grinned, as if this was a normal conversation to have. What daughter of someone important could we pair me up with, simply to be seen. It was insane to me, and I had no desire whatsoever to be matched up with some dumb socialite that his secretary found for me. No thanks.

 

What this old man didn’t understand was that the Manhattan of today wasn’t like the Manhattan of forty years ago. The women in this town were power hungry and only about the money.. The ones that were appropriate escorts, as he so noted, also wanted more than I had to give. Not the type of woman you’d bring to a charity function or cocktail party without some kind of expectation for a relationship, which was most certainly not what I was looking for. My love was my work. I left my small town after college and after two years of graduate school, I was already one of the best security analysts in the city. Brad was my client, and while he was paying me a shitload of money to work for his firm, I could leave at any time.

 

Manhattan had a lot of new money, but it also had old money. Old money is what I was after. The typical aging baby boomer didn’t know shit about security systems, and I’d made my niche quickly by hacking their systems for free, and showing them their weaknesses. Then, for a ton of money, I’d show them how to address the holes that I found. I enjoyed my work, but somehow, I ended up going to more events and bullshit sessions than hacking systems after a while. Even though it sounded like I was complaining, it wasn’t a bad life. I had an obscene amount of money in the bank, especially for a hometown Jersey boy, and I was always busy.

 

The hole in my life was what most people filled with a relationship. My last relationship was in high school, and I didn’t care to go back. I chose a local college to try to make it work and she broke my fucking heart. Since then, I couldn’t be bothered with feelings or commitment. I was often in the company of beautiful, well-connected women, but they were never going to get more than a couple dates from me. Not only did I not have the time, I didn’t want to make the time. Relationships make you weak, and I would never be weak like that again.

 

After my conversation with Mr. Whitaker earlier that afternoon, I thought about how to handle the upcoming gala. In this day and age, there shouldn't be such a stigma on going stag to these events, but with old money comes old philosophies. They wanted me to have someone for their wives to talk to. Someone they could pawn their dates off on. Since Mr. Whitaker wanted me to find someone more suitable than the usual wannabe socialites I was bringing along to events, I decided to turn that process into a business transaction.

 

I’d heard of Infidelity from a colleague about a year prior, and couldn’t believe that in his drunken stupor over insanely-priced scotch, he told me he’d met his wife through a service. It wasn’t your average dating or matchmaking service, though. It was highly exclusive, and unless you drank too much scotch, it was also completely confidential. For a hefty sum of money, you are matched with someone suitable to play the part of your companion. It seemed that, for all intents and purposes, you were in a legitimate relationship with this person, as far as anyone knew, and it was a one year arrangement, stipulated by a binding contract that included confidentiality. For my colleague, this particular person was so well-matched that after the year was up, he married her. Now, that wasn’t at all what I wanted, but it would be nice to not have to deal with the hassle of finding someone to accompany me to things. Someone I could explicitly trust, because they were being paid to be trusted.

 

As I sipped on the mid-priced scotch my father had sent me, I mulled over the idea, which had become more and more appealing. The more I thought about it, having a stand-in girlfriend for the next year seemed like the perfect solution for my needs at work, but also because my family perpetually questioned me on my bachelorhood. It was the ideal arrangement for the next year.

 

It was settled. I was going to use my money to become a client at Infidelity.