THREE
Vibration from my pocket alerts me it’s time to go to work, and I welcome the reminder. The quicker I get my head back on straight, the better. Lowering my head to the cold, I jog the three blocks to the hotel I currently call home. A grand building with its dozens of floors decorated in golds and marble, the historic Estate is for the wealthy and stupid because nobody with a brain would pay the thousands of dollars a night to sleep here. Luckily, it’s generously provided for me by a client who happens to be part owner. As long as she’s happy, I can stay as long as I want.
Bright lights illuminate the carpeted entrance, and I’m momentarily distracted by the absurdity of having carpet outside in a place like downtown Chicago in the winter. Welcoming me inside, the old but apt doorman holds open a heavy gold and crystal door, staying just out of sight, allowing me to stroll past without acknowledging him. Having learned my brisk pace, the man usually rushes to get me inside and the door shut before I enter the lobby elevator. He is even quicker on the draw when I’m leaving.
Per my usual, I speak to no one, not the staff, not the patrons. Head down, I keep to myself and rarely make eye contact. This makes me a reclusive snob, I know, but it’s better than engaging in pleasantries only to be recognized, or worse, flirted with. What seems like forever with the ascension, I dart past the lift operator, punch in my security code, and pause just inside my suite to breathe a deep sigh of relief.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call out to the empty space.
Bitterness bubbles in my throat as I acknowledge, once again, I am alone. The same way I have been for years now, and how it will always be for me. Swallowing down the emotion, I proceed to get ready for the night’s events. After shedding my coat and boats and rubbing the cold from my hands, I wake up my laptop and make coffee. Once my favorite Godfather mug is full, I take the seat next to the window, propping my feet on the ledge, relaxing back into my usual position.
The view is nice with the Willis Tower and Lake Michigan for my backyard. The snow falls heavy now, causing those who brave the outside to huddle close together as they walk. Watching a couple and their dog rush down the sidewalk, I curse them for being covered in warm ski jackets and boots while the animal walks without protection. They could’ve provided some kind of boot or cover from the wind at least.
Watching the trio disappear around a building while I drink my first cup of coffee makes me wonder what that life would be like. The strange idea of sharing an umbrella with someone you care about in a snowstorm, dragging a mutt behind you hurrying to get home to eat together, fighting over the cap of the toothpaste tube and losing socks in the laundry. How very odd they all are, but I suppose I am the odd one. But is it odd to be in a relationship with the thing that matters above all others? Is money not the most fulfilling, most rewarding of all marriages? My union with my bank accounts is all that matters to me and, at the end of the day, it’s all I have. Friends lie, girlfriends betray, parents die, but money can buy me all of those and much more.
A vision of chestnut hair resting in long, loose waves down a narrow back briefly flashes through my mind followed by several rapid blinks back to reality. My life of solitude pleases me most of the time. I receive what I need with my clients and my off-shore bank accounts grow by the day. Yes, it is me with the envious lifestyle and they are the miserable fools. There’s no comparison; I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Pulling my laptop closer, I see the deposit has been made and everything is a go. I search my client’s profile and confirm via email I will arrive in my custom Armani tuxedo no later than 6:30PM in the limo for retrieval. Once the confirmation has been sent, I peruse through the client’s files in preparation for the night’s event, which consists of a boring public affair at the art institute, of all things. Just once, I’d like a client who wants to do something simple, like go to a ballgame or joyriding. But in truth, I’m needed for few things, and being the handsome date for appearances is but a small portion of what I offer for the right price.
Tonight, I will be escorting Mirana Perez, a woman of privilege and wealth beyond measure. These types of events can sometimes be challenging as I can be recognized. As uncomfortable as it is, however, it is a small price to pay for an evening compared to the payout in the end. This make the paranoia and uncomfortable questions tolerable. Lucky for me, the rich don’t bother themselves with forgotten college athletes, and it’s not often I am put in uncomfortable situations. Those special times are mostly reserved for locals of the city.
Glancing over Mirana’s information, I see her tycoon husband died two years ago of a massive heart attack while fishing off the coast of Maine. Her profile states her worth is close to a billion dollars, but not all of that is from the husband. Apparently, Mirana Perez is a workaholic who manages her husband’s many businesses, but she herself has a personal passion.
At the tender at of sixteen, Mirana made it to America from Cuba with her six siblings who all received asylum. Married at seventeen, she and her husband John raised her younger four brothers and two sisters. Mirana and her husband had worked hard, saving and investing in various endeavors until finally they struck gold, or plastic in this case, with a company that produces water bottles, of all things.
From there, it was an all-out sprint to buy up the competition. Twenty years later, Mirana finds herself widowed without children of her own, but with a passion for art she’s held secret for many years while under the pressures of caring for her family and businesses. With more than forty oil canvases just recently made public, she’s managed to set the art world a blaze with her talent. Tonight is Mirana’s first appearance since her husband’s funeral, and her long years of sacrifice are paying off as she is to be honored at a prestigious gala at Chicago’s Art Institute.
Reserved, shy, and socially awkward, her publicist hired me to “escort” the woman for the evening; which is a broad term used to say the woman needs to get laid and has neither the time nor energy to date around. I am not only a sure bet, I am discreet, lending only support, staying away from cameras, answering no questions. I am arm candy who delivers orgasms the way online retailers do all those books.
Mirana’s profile is light in comparison to most, but it’s telling me just enough to make certain I have all I need to make the woman’s every wish come true, at least for the evening. More than that? I would need to work up a new bid for my services, and I am not cheap. But judging by the down payment wired upon scheduling, Ms. Perez can afford me.
I set the computer aside and begin the ritual of dressing the part of a wealthy, good looking businessman from out of town. Luckily, these types of events attract people that are satisfied with only my first name and I can make up a last. Only on occasion do I get the odd look of recognition. Of course, I can play many roles, but this is the one most women prefer as my clients are all wealthy, and I am their favorite expense. Funny how I have no problem becoming a slave for a price. For an evening or a day, whichever the case may be, they own me, and I am perfectly fine with the exchange. These women are but a means to my own wealth, and the more I make, the more I want, never satisfied.