Chapter Two

Reed

“Nice legs. Shame about her face.”

I snorted and followed Milo’s gaze across the dark interior of Olive’s martini bar to see the object of his jackass commentary. A long-legged broad draped herself on a tall stool as she tipped back her glass and swallowed the olive at the bottom of it. Whole. Her skirt inched up to the crux of her thigh, leaving little to the imagination. Four-inch black stilettos wrapped her feet, reminding me a little of Robin when she’d first come on to me all those years ago, in a bar not dissimilar to this one. Except that had been in Duluth where the Caribou were based.

As soon as Jess had been diagnosed not long after Robin’s betrayal, I’d moved to a shabby apartment in Rochester to be close to the medical center. Milo and Tania had followed me, bless their tried and true hearts. Milo had quipped that a golf course was a golf course. The grass was the same whether it grew in Minneapolis or Rochester. But I knew better. Milo was afraid I’d reach the end of my pathetic rope and fall apart, so he needed to be close at hand to protect his adored goddaughter and pick up the pieces.

I shuddered, not wanting one nauseating thought about that traitorous bitch to cross my mind when our daughter was a few miles away fighting for her life.

All resemblance to Robin disappeared, as the woman turned her foggy gaze my way, wearing enough eye makeup to put Alice Cooper to shame. Robin had turned out to be a bitch, but I couldn’t deny she’d been hot as fuck when we first met. This girl spelled skank with a capital S. Not my type even on a bad day.

I turned my attention back to my eighteen-year-old single malt. Martinis might be the choice for women who painted themselves up to look expensive but were still cheap underneath, but this ostentatious establishment still stocked decent alternatives in libations. Milo didn’t mind picking up the tab. He still had all his assets from his career intact, and his investments growing like dandelions across a perfectly manicured lawn.

“I may be needy, but not quite that needy,” I said, taking another sip of my ultra-smooth scotch. “Besides, do you really think I give a shit about getting laid at a time like this?”

Milo dismissed my reply with a short grunt and busied himself scrolling through messages on his cell phone. “Maybe her friend suits you better,” he said idly. I curbed the urge to turn and take a second look. Neither of us were here for any pussy action. Milo had a girlfriend of his own to go home to, a great girl he truly loved, and I felt a ribbon of guilt whip through me that he was here keeping me company instead of spending time with Tania. He’d never had kids with any of his long-term female companions, and perhaps that was why Milo felt such an attachment to Jessica. I felt even worse at the thought that I was stealing his affection away from Tania.

“I doubt it,” I said, downing the last of the liquid gold in my glass and signaling the bartender for another. “You should go home and be with your girl. I’ll just have one for the road and catch a cab later.”

“You feeling better?” he asked, eyeing me closely. “Did you get all that paperwork done?”

“The parts I could fill in, but then I realized how much I needed a drink when I got to the price tag.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Each treatment is in the five figures. And there’s no telling how many treatments she’d needed before any signs of improvement. It’s different for each person, according to the medical explanation sheet.”

Milo flipped his phone into his pocket and clapped his huge bohemian hand on my shoulder. “My offer still stands, Grunt. You know that. But I respect your pride. Let me know if I can help any other way. I’ll do whatever is needed for that little girl. I love her like she was my own, and I always will. I’ll be there for both of you.”

Swallowing hard, I nodded my thanks as my drink arrived and Milo paid the tab.

“I know it’s hard but try to get some rest.” He squeezed my shoulder again. “Goodnight.”

As I watched him walk out of the bar, I didn’t know what I’d do without that guy. Milo had stuck with me through thick and thin. No one could ask for a better friend. We always had each other’s backs, fought for each other’s honor in the corners and along the boards our whole lives. We were fearless. And now when I faced the biggest fight of all, I was scared shitless.

“Hi. May I join you?”

I looked up from my glass to see a pretty blonde slide into Milo’s vacant spot next to me. Her thick platinum hair hung straight down to the middle of her back, and oversized drop earrings sparkled in the low light. She looked attractive enough, but I’d met enough hockey-camp followers in my time to know a come-on when I saw one. The muted light in the place didn’t quite hide the tiny crinkles around her eyes, but the cleavage bearing cut of her dress pretty much stole my attention away from them.

“Sure.” I had nothing pressing on the agenda. While I didn’t want to seal the deal with some random chick, it couldn’t hurt to draw my focus from my troubles with a little friendly conversation. “Something to drink?” I asked, hoping she’d say no. My wallet couldn’t withstand opening a new tab.

“I’m fine, thanks, but you look a little down. Anything I can do to help?”

“You sound like my friend who just left,” I answered with a long exhale. I must look like I’d been run over by a truck for strangers to be commenting on it. “I guess I didn’t realize that I looked like the boy who just lost his puppy. Thanks, but I think I’m beyond help.”

Seems I still had the ability to crank up the Reed Matheson charm dial with my signature smile. Old habits died hard.

“Oh, what makes you say that?” she asked, sliding her slim hand over mine as I rested it flat on the bar. Suddenly, I knew this was no ordinary chance meeting. Fuck. Did she recognize me from the news or from the rink? If she did, she’d know that a call girl was barking up the wrong tree looking for a paid gig with me.

“Just going through some personal shit. Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about.”

A sly grin formed on her perfectly made-up face. “How about you let me worry about your head, handsome? I’m good at that.”

I nearly laughed straight out. As good as a blow job sounded right now, I couldn’t muster the energy. I had to let her down gently without pissing her off. I wondered how a classy-looking woman like her got into this line of work. Everything from her Michael Kors dress to her Gucci bag reeked of money and class. I smiled politely and kept sipping my drink.

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I said. “Perhaps another time.”

She nodded with equal politeness and withdrew her hand. Clearly a professional working girl. “That would be my pleasure. Do you come in here often?”

I shook my head. “First time. How about you?”

“It’s fast becoming one of my favorites,” she said. “It’s new, but it’s been very good for business so far.”

“Really?” I said, curious. “Your business is doing well?”

“Very.” She twisted an expensive Tiffany bracelet encircling her wrist to draw attention to it. Shit. It looked like it had twenty or thirty diamonds encrusted in it. Then she reached into a tiny little purse at her hip. “You should try us some time,” she said, drawing a card from it and handing it to me. “Ask for Jewel.”

With a wink, Jewel slipped off the stool as gracefully and discreetly as she’d arrived. I stared at her for a minute. The front neckline of her slinky black frock was nothing compared to the plunging back side. I watched her shapely rump wiggle side to side as she walked away, the alluring shadow of her ass crack nearly revealed by the provocative dress. My cock jerked at the sight, independent of my disinterest in the woman herself. Some things never changed, but I realized my life had to if I had any chance of saving my little girl.

I glanced at the card she’d left in my hand. The imprint showed a stylized silhouette of an evening dress and a tux alongside the company name: Irene Sutton Formals. Someone was really clever, dressing up a high-class escort service as a formal wear shop. It occurred to me that tragic circumstances and economic downturns never fazed the world’s oldest profession. And fuck if it didn’t give me an idea. A crazy one. The answer to my problems could be right in front of my face.

Maybe my still chiseled face, gym honed body, and stellar set of bedroom skills might be a moneymaker, even if my blown-out knee wasn’t.

***

“Irene Sutton, please?”

“This is Irene,” a dark, sumptuous voice said, speaking in long, leisurely tones. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

It was ten in the morning, and it had taken me the better part of two hours to work up the nerve to make this call. I rubbed my sweaty palm on my jeans.

“Uh, before I say anything, are you… hiring… right now?”

Irene drew a long breath in. “We are always interested in recruiting new talent, Mr…?”

Shit. Should I give her a fake name? No. If I ended up interviewing or whatever they did for this line of work, she’d find out my identity. And my face… well, it was well-known enough that I couldn’t get away with faking it.

“Matheson. Reed Matheson. I got your card from a… an employee of yours, and well, she gave your establishment a great testimonial. Told me her job is quite… lucrative.” I cringed at my choice of words. Fuck, I sounded like a moron.

“Are you seeking employment, Mr. Matheson?” she said after a long pause. If I weren’t so nervous, I would have sworn I heard a hiss of recognition when I revealed my name. I couldn’t hear much over the throbbing in my ears by my racing heart. “We engage private contractors, and we are very selective. Would you like to schedule an interview?”

She sounded professional enough, old-hat, like she did interviews for sex workers all damn day long, but I still felt awkward. Was there training involved? I couldn’t imagine what that would consist of. All I knew were hockey drills and core workouts. And fucking. That I didn’t require any training in, according to all the women who had shrieked my name on the wings of their orgasm ever since high school.

“Yeah, sure. Great. But I’d like to start… contracting… as soon as possible. Even tonight, if you have any openings.”

“Well, Mr. Matheson. I give you top marks for enthusiasm,” Irene chuckled. “Why don’t you come to our studio for a fitting around six o’clock? If you’re suitable, there may be an opportunity for you. Please dress business professional so I have an idea of your style and how to best… flatter you.”

“A fitting?” I asked, then clued in, slapping a hand to my forehead while the other clutched the phone in a death grip. “Ah, right. Formals. Thank you. Yes. I’ll be there.”

I disconnected the call and shoved my thudding heart back into my chest from where it felt lodged in my esophagus. Not even game seven of a playoff series made me this nervous. I rummaged through my closet to dig out a suit. One of the few that my ex hadn’t auctioned off at a charity fundraiser and pocketed the proceeds. I used to love my custom Armani and had a stable full of them.

Heartless bitch.

She didn’t know the extent of Jessica’s condition, and I wasn’t about to tell her. The last thing my daughter needed was another dose of her mother’s poison to cause even more harm, ripping the scabs off wounds that I’d worked hard to heal.

Which made me all the more determined to meet with Ms. Irene Sutton. I showered, shaved, and dressed, and was on my way across town when Milo’s number flashed on my Bluetooth screen. I’d even indulged in a rare dose of expensive cologne. Couldn’t hurt to smell good before a meeting with a woman. One who didn’t yet know that she held my very life in the palm of her hand.

“S’up, you brainless bohunk?” I had many terms of endearment for my best friend. He embraced every one of them, regardless of how idiotic or borderline racist they might be. Milo knew everything that came out of my mouth was said with love.

“My mutual funds and my poker winnings. Where are you? We saved you your usual spot at the table—the pigeon stool.”

Damn, I’d forgotten about our weekly poker night. Had too much else on my mind. Not that I could afford to gamble—with my money nor my daughter’s health.

“Ah, shit. Sorry, Milo. I made other plans. I should have called you. You’ll have to find some other pigeon because this one’s had his wings clipped.”

“Too bad. I was looking forward to another dress-down of the Five Hole Stud.” I heard the shuffling of chips in the background. “Oh, wait a sec. You’re not on course for the Motel 6, are you? You were just kidding, right?”

Does he have some kind of freakish sixth sense?

“Yeah. Just kidding,” I said, wincing. Christ. The man had some kind of warped ESP where my extracurricular activities were concerned. “I gotta go. Enjoy fleecing your other suckers.”

“I will, but… listen, Grunt. You know I don’t have to win the pot to help you out. Help Jessica. Are you on your way to the hospital?”

I swallowed hard, knowing I should spend every spare minute I had with my little girl. Milo would cut a check in a heartbeat if I let him, and for a second, I felt I should. Just give in, trash this crazy plan, and not lose another precious moment to begin Jess’s new treatment. But only a second, and it passed more quickly than it should have.

“Just came from there,” I lied. “I’m on my way to a business meeting, and uh, if it goes well I’ll have some big money coming in. Golden opportunity. Honestly, Meathead. I won’t need your help. You can stop worrying.”

Begrudgingly, he let me off the call, just as I pulled up in front of the address Irene gave me for some high-rise executive condo. The kind that corporations rent for visiting CEOs and majority shareholders brimming with chrome, opulence, and Benjamins. I parked and walked in, taking the scenic elevator to the top floor. Me and heights were not friends. All my teammates on the Caribou had ridden my ass whenever the team flew to a game. My face would turn as white as ash while I spent the entire flight white knuckling it and trying not to puke while the rest of the guys played cards or slept. I faced the control panel the whole time to stay my writhing guts. With my knee, the stairs were rarely a viable option.

The suite housing Irene Sutton Formals featured a showcase next to the entrance with a designer tux and evening gown displayed on headless mannequins. It made a convincing front for what really went on inside, but I hoped it wasn’t a reflection of my future. Before even meeting her, I had to give the woman props for her business acumen and creativity. I inhaled a ragged breath to steady my racing heart. I needed to keep my head for better things.

Irene Sutton greeted me with the charm and aplomb of Princess Grace. I guessed her to be in her fifties, a bona fide cougar, but she looked stunning in a classic cocktail dress with her brunette hair styled into a sleek French knot. Gorgeous, really, with money dripping from every pore. And completely out of my league.

“Mr. Matheson, I presume?” she asked, holding out her hand palm-down as though inviting me to dance.

I was used to a more traditional handshake but clasped her outstretched hand in what I supposed was the appropriate way, hoping some knowledge of the fox-trot would not be required. Robin had loved watching that Dancing With The Stars bullshit. Every time she had it on, I’d retreat into my man cave to watch ESPN. “Miss Sutton.”

“Call me Irene,” she cooed, squeezing my hand gently then releasing it. “A pleasure to meet you.” She looked me up and down, and I didn’t miss her lingering stare at my crotch. Seemed we were going to get right down to business. Monkey business. “I see you keep yourself very fit. That’s a plus. How old are you, if you don’t mind?”

“Thirty-two,” I said, worrying my lower lip with my teeth. I hadn’t thought to ask about that. Maybe there was a short shelf life in this industry like in modeling. “Is there an age restriction?” I flashed the winning smile that toppled many a female tower revealing the spoils beneath the designer facade.

“Not at all. I just need to know if you’re comfortable meeting and talking with people of differing ages. Our contractors are expected to be highly skilled in social graces.”

“Of course.” I flashed another grin. “I’m no Miss Manners, but I’ve had experience dealing with the media and doing interviews across all modalities. Pretty good at thinking on my feet, I’d say.”

If she only knew how cold and sweaty my feet are right now, she’d tell me to turn the fuck around and find another occupation.

Irene nodded in satisfaction, a smile carving her botoxed face. She looked like she’d had some excellent work done and was able to afford it. This gig could be more lucrative than I thought. A jolt of excitement shot through me at the thought of being able to write out a check for Jess’s treatments without help from anyone else.

“I like your attire,” she said, her eyes taking another stroll down my length. “Although we do offer a high-end selection of jackets, tuxes, and slacks for every occasion, I think what you have on will do just fine. Turn around, please.”

I pirouetted like a wooden marionette and stifled a laugh. I might be exactly that if I got the job—a puppet with strings for Irene Sutton to pull. I just hoped she wasn’t pulling my chain about the pay.

“Thank you,” Irene said, a note of finality in her voice. I faced her as I completed my three-sixty. She crossed her arms and looked me in the eyes. Her perfect makeup enhanced her luminous browns, and they were trained on me like a long-range rifle. “I don’t normally do this, Mr. Matheson, but I’m going to make you an offer right now if you’re available. I have a client coming in tomorrow evening that I think you’ll be perfect for. I’ll need you to complete an online profile, review our guidelines, and sign an NDA, but otherwise, I think you’ll be able to handle it. Are you interested?”

Holy fuck. I told her I wanted to start as soon as possible but didn’t expect this. Even though my heart spasmed by the implications of heading down this road, I needed the money, and I needed it yesterday.

“Call me Reed. I don’t mean to be crass, Irene, but what’s the compensation for this type of… engagement?”

Irene beckoned me to follow her into her office. The wraparound windows provided a spectacular view, and any doubts I had about the escort business being profitable evaporated as I eyed the expensive accessories and artwork in the room. The walls in my apartment featured bank calendars and movie trailer posters to cover up the holes and cracks in the drywall.

Irene seated herself behind a sleek wood and chrome desk and donned a pair of designer eyeglasses that were lying on the desktop. She pulled some papers from a drawer.

“It varies by client, but you’re very lucky, Reed. Your date tomorrow night is very high profile, and since she’s asked for a very specific outcome, it is reflected in the fee. It’s ten thousand dollars, of which you will receive seventy-five percent. The normal rate is anywhere from two to five per engagement. You’ll be paid in cash at the end of each contract.” She looked up at me and slid the papers across the glossy surface of her desk. “I assume that will be satisfactory?”

My throat tightened at the thought of more paperwork, and the reminder of the evil stack of documents waiting for me at home, incomplete.

“Very,” I said, doing the math in my head. I could almost pay for the first round of drugs with this one appointment. Date. Whatever. “What exactly is the specific outcome?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t a threesome with another dude or heavy BDSM. My tastes were pretty vanilla in the grand scheme of things. It was hard enough to figure out the buttons to push on one woman without throwing another into the mix.

Irene smiled and placed a pen in front of me. “Please read through the guidelines and sign the TOA and NDA where indicated. You have until tomorrow to review our policies, the dos and don’ts while on an assignment. I think you’ll find this an easy one, judging by your…” Irene scanned me up and down one more time, her smile a bit more lascivious than before. I felt like a giant human lollipop about to be devoured in one bite, “Assets.”

She leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands together in a businesslike knot. “Like many of my clients, she wishes to have a sexual encounter. That won’t be a problem, will it?”