Chapter Two
In Between
I left the hotel and took a cab to my place in Tribeca. I needed my boyfriend. I needed normalcy and safety, and the knowledge that the date was really over. I needed home.
I didn’t usually let clients rattle me, but on the way up to our loft on the third floor, I admitted to myself that I was rattled. Nothing terribly bad had happened. He’d hurt my nipples, yes. He’d slapped me. He’d called me an idiot. He’d also kissed me and given me insanely strong orgasms. My brain was officially exploded. And my pussy…
“Simon?”
I put down my keys. The loft was dark, but that didn’t mean anything. Sometimes Simon painted in the dark. Other times, he waited weeks for the perfect light to work on a painting. Maybe he was out with some friends.
I hated when it was quiet like this.
“Simon?”
I walked through the living room, past the kitchen and the big cement table a friend had given us last year. Simon’s studio was in the back, near the floor-to-ceiling windows. I found him sprawled on the low couch against the wall, a paintbrush still dangling from his fingers. A few fresh drips mixed with the history of drips on the rough concrete floor.
He was working on something huge, twenty feet long. All his works were huge, although some were huger than others. This one took up an entire wall. Dark ochre and aquamarine streaks mixed with black, a frenzy of heavy color on the canvas. It was striking, even if I didn’t get it. I’d never gotten Simon’s art, but I loved the artist.
I loved him enough to let him sleep. I watched him for long minutes, feeling my soul calm. He looked so innocent, like an angel. The first time I’d met him at a friend’s party, that’s what I thought. He’s an angel. Long, wispy black hair, coal black eyes, an aquiline nose, and dark brows that had arched skyward when he looked at me. All he needed was wings. He’d touched my white-blonde hair while I stared at his night-black hair. We’d stayed up talking that entire first night, and spent the following day in bed.
When was the last time Simon and I had spent an entire day in bed? Life. It got away from you.
I tried to take the brush from his fingers without waking him, but he stirred and smiled at me.
“Baby, you’re back.”
“Don’t wake up,” I said.
He stretched and looked at me. Blinked. “You look pretty.” He reached to touch my breasts, but they still hurt, and he was high. I nudged his hand away.
“Don’t wake up,” I said again. That had become our life, Simon not waking up. He said he needed the narcotics for his art, the pills, the coke, the syrup, whatever he was taking on any given day. I’d have to lecture him later, because he wouldn’t remember anything I said to him now. You can’t change him, my friends said. You can’t fix him. You have to wait until he hits rock bottom. The thing was, most of those friends were also operating in a drug-fueled haze.
His eyes closed. I stood and left him, and dropped his paintbrush in the solution with the others.
I went into the bedroom and took off the dress W had given me, balled it up and tossed it on the floor. I hung up the jacket, even though the matching skirt had been destroyed. What did it say about me, that out of everything W did, cutting up the skirt seemed the worst offense?
I hadn’t grown up with a lot of money, so I valued my belongings, especially my expensive belongings. I collapsed on the bed with a sigh, and scrolled through my contacts to Henry’s number. I had to call three times before he picked up.
“Yes, love. What is it? How did your date go?”
“Shitty,” I said.
“Hold on.” I heard him speaking to someone, heard titters and cooing. His bed was always full of girls. If Simon was an angel, Henry was a God, or at least a minor deity. Golden bronze, beach tan, beach body, even though he was more businessman than Bahamas.
“All right. Tell me,” he said when he got back on the line.
“He was an asshole.”
“Aren’t most of our clients assholes?”
“No. Some of them are nice. This one wasn’t nice.”
“He tips well. Jesus, Chere, what did you do for him? He left you a hell of a gratuity.”
I waited. He waited. When he spoke he sounded kind, and concerned. “Did something happen? If I have to go after this fucker, I will.”
He didn’t mean going after him in a legal sense. He meant in a sense of calling his guys and making sure that W understood he’d behaved like an asshole. But that kind of action was reserved for extreme circumstances. W hadn’t really damaged me, not any more than I could bear, as he’d promised.
“He was just weird,” I said. “He wouldn’t let me see him. He wouldn’t tell me his name. It really bothered me.”
“About that…”
“Have you seen him? What does he look like?”
“I don’t know. He dated a few escorts through Prom Queen in Vegas, and they told me he was okay. Crazy about privacy, but okay. I’m sorry he was an asshole, and that the two of you weren’t a good match.”
“He was just…not my usual type of customer. I mean…”
Henry let a few moments pass before he prompted me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that he was really dominant, really commanding.”
“Maybe Nina would be a better match for him.”
Nina was our resident pain-slut BDSM enthusiast. She’d probably love W. He’d probably love her.
“I guess I’ll give him one more chance,” I said. I didn’t want him to date Nina, because then he’d be getting exactly what he wanted, and I didn’t want him to get exactly what he wanted. Jerk. Plus he still had to replace my skirt, not that I believed he was really going to do that.
“So am I to understand it’s okay for this client to schedule another date with you?”
“This client,” I repeated with an edge in my voice. “What’s so fucking special about ‘this client,’ that we can’t use his name?”
“I only have a pseudonym. Do you want it?”
Gah. “No. Yes. Fuck it. Yes.”
“E. E. Cumming.”
“He’s hilarious.”
Henry made a soft sound. “He certainly seems to have captured your fancy.”
I hated Henry sometimes, for the way he saw through me, the way he intuitively knew all his escorts and what made them tick. He was like an uncomfortably sexy father, only half the age.
“He hasn’t captured my fancy,” I said. “But he apparently tips well, and he’s not boring.”
“Speaking of boring, Mr. Linguard is hoping to see you next Tuesday night.”
Mr. Linguard was incredibly boring and incredibly sweet. He was just what I needed after the W trauma. “Yes, book him. I’m looking forward to it.”
“I’m sure he’ll look forward to it too.” I heard the tap-tap-tap of computer keys. Another date, another dollar. “Chere,” he said when he finished, “are you absolutely certain you’re okay with seeing Mr. Cumming again? Nina would be happy to take him.”
I made some vague, ambivalent noise that Henry would recognize as a total front. “I already have his stupid blindfold, to protect his stupid privacy, so I might as well do the date.”
“I imagine that blindfold requirement won’t last forever. He’ll probably reveal himself once he trusts you.”
I snorted. “Why do I have to earn the ‘honor’ of looking on his magnificence? That’s bullshit. He’s the one paying me.”
“I know. Don’t let it get to you. It’s probably just an ego thing.”
Well, W had ego in spades. I hardly knew him, but I knew his ego went far beyond the usual size. Along with his cock.
I heard feminine voices in the background, and Henry’s muffled reply. “Sorry, Chere,” he said. “I have to go.”
“Have fun.” I hung up and buried my face in my hands. For the second time that night, I had to ask myself “What the fuck just happened?” I’d called Henry to complain that W was an abusive, asshole client, and instead I’d signed myself up for a second date. Only to spite him, I told myself. He would have liked Nina so much better. Fucker. He wasn’t getting Nina. He was getting me.