Lucy
The decision was easy. I didn’t even need to think it over. One year of my time as the “companion” to a wealthy, well-connected man for a ton of money? It wasn’t really about the money at all. I mean, that was definitely going to help, of course. I was able to keep myself in high fashion through secondhand stores in the city, but what I really needed was to network. I wanted to rub elbows with the elite of New York City, finally making a name for myself. No more being the intern, no more fetching coffee. Mostly, no more ‘small town girl in the big city’. I would be on the fast track to notoriety, finally.
I left home when I was eighteen. School had come easy for me, and when I secured a scholarship to New York University, it was no surprise. My mom couldn’t afford to send me, and she wouldn’t have helped me, even if she could. She blamed me for my father leaving my entire life. I wasn’t even angry about that, or her abuse, anymore. I simply did what I had to do to get out of there. Small towns have a way of holding you back if you aren’t careful. Small towns breed small minds. I left it all behind and hadn’t been back in five years. In fact, I had no plans of ever returning. There was nothing left for me in New Jersey, except for maybe the beaches.
Everyone thinks New Jersey is all Hoboken and the wannabe shit part of New York, but it’s not. There’s a whole lot of New Jersey that’s all pine barrens, farmland, and beach. When the hurricanes hit is usually the only time anyone remembers we have beautiful beaches. My fondest memories of New Jersey all took place at the shore, and usually included my high school boyfriend. I left him behind too.
As soon as I moved to Manhattan, I stopped going by Lucy. No one in New York knew who I used to be, and it was my chance to reinvent myself. The Lucy of my formidable years was no more. I’d become Lucinda Quinn. For years, I’d daydreamed about moving from the small town to the big city, and while it wasn’t quite like I’d dreamed, I was one step closer to the woman I wanted to be.
I’d been working for a PR company as an intern - unpaid, of course - through the last two years of my undergraduate program. On top of that, I’d managed to find work as a cocktail waitress at a high-end nightclub downtown. I knew that the me I wanted to become was too good for serving drinks in a low-cut tank top, but I was willing to do anything to get where I wanted to be. Our nightclub was frequented by the ‘who’s who’ of Manhattan, and if serving drinks gave me even the slightest opportunity to meet the city’s elite, it wasn’t above me at all.
When the opportunity arose to interview as an employee for New York’s best kept secret, Infidelity, I wasted no time. Sharon, the owner of Seasons, the nightclub I worked at, told me she’d spent one year as the companion to a wealthy finance guy, and she agreed to be my sponsor. The thing about Infidelity, is that it’s much like Fight Club. The first rule of Infidelity is that it doesn’t exist. Confidentiality was paramount, and you were never to speak of it. Immediately, I assumed that it was a ‘sex for money’ exchange, and she corrected me immediately. In fact, she’d also become an employee to network around the city, and used the money she earned to purchase the nightclub she now owned. That kind of real estate doesn’t come cheap, and Sharon had turned a shitty, rundown property into one of the hottest spots downtown.
In simple terms, Infidelity was an agency that matched up companions. The client - in my case, a man - paid for my services. Those services could be attendance at events or general companionship, that sort of thing. Karen Flores, the woman I interviewed with, made it very clear that Infidelity was not in the business of prostitution, and that sex with the client was not a requirement at all, which was a huge concern for me. She had a standard line she must have said a hundred times: “At Infidelity, our clients buy poise, class, companionship, and compatibility.” She also went on to explain that the clients at Infidelity were exclusive and successful.
“Your contract is binding. When we find a compatible match, you will be, for all intents and purposes, in an exclusive relationship for one year. Do you understand that?” she asked me.
I watched her stare intently at me as she stood in front of the floor to ceiling glass windows in her office. Without hesitation, I acknowledged her directly. “I absolutely understand, and I look forward to the arrangement.”
I was paid five-thousand dollars for my time that day, and instructed not to contact her again. I had gone through extensive questioning during the interview, much of which highlighted my goals and ambitions, as well as my history, which she already knew much about. Apparently, the wealthy are well-equipped to investigate you and find out that you work an unpaid job, you serve cocktails, and they can even find out that your abusive alcoholic of a mother tries to call you once a month to ask for money.
Being honest to a fault was my greatest weakness, and I admitted my relationship with my mother was strained at best, garnering no evident reaction from Karen. It seemed that the questions about my past were mostly to ensure that I wasn’t lying, because she already knew everything I had told her.
“We are interested in you because, yes, you’re beautiful, but we like ambition in our employees. Our clients are smart, wealthy, and successful, and they want companions that can keep up. Your hustle makes you desirable, and I don’t think we’ll have to wait long to find you a suitable match. Do you have any more questions for me?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
“No, I believe I understand the contract, and the expectations,” I replied.
“Okay. Then we will call you soon. Do not reach out to me; I will contact you.” She looked at me sternly, and it was clear our interview was over.
“Thank you very much for your time,” I said as I stood up to leave. My heart was racing with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to get matched up with someone. And begin the next chapter of my future.
* * *
Chapter 2
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.