He wasn’t the man she had booked, based on the minimal facial features revealed in the portal photos. Not to mention, this one had blond, rather than borderline black, hair. Furthermore, he looked much too tame.
If nothing else, The Deep’s website was an excellent example of male objectification at its finest.
“You must be Kirby.”
And just like that, she felt as if she’d been stripped naked.
“How do you know my name? I thought anonymity was guaranteed.” In fact, she was sure of it.
The man remained gorgeously stoic as he walked around the desk and typed something into the iPad.
“You provided that info when you signed up. But don’t worry. I’m the only one who knows. To everyone else, you’re a number.”
I’ve been a number before.
“I’ll need your valet ticket,” he continued. “You’ll exit out back when you’re done, and we’ll pull your car around. We find most ladies like the extra privacy.”
She handed him the sad shrapnel of paper. “Sorry. Turns out the ticket isn’t very good on the dance floor.”
No response. Not even a smile. He simply turned his attention back to the iPad.
At this angle, his profile and the depth of his concentration seemed familiar.
“Have we met before?” she asked.
Might as well get it out in the open now. Otherwise, her cover could be blown mid-assignment. Better to forfeit the story before it began and cover the oil-and-gas scandal instead, even though this was the story she wanted. Make that needed. On so many levels.
“Not that I’m aware,” he said without so much as looking up. His fingers continued to glide across the screen.
A few more moments passed, but the familiarity wouldn’t allow her to drop the subject.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He glanced up from the tablet and evaluated her with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. Now those she definitely didn’t recognize, which was somewhat reassuring.
“Fabian.”
Yeah, right.
While she waited for Fabian, or whoever he was, to finish his task, she imagined what moniker she would have chosen.
The answer was easy. She’d been compared to Sandra Bullock at least a dozen times. Except, her own eyes were an ever-changing hazel instead of rich, movie-star brown. And her teeth were far from perfect, with both cuspids slightly overlapping their neighboring incisors. She’d shared that quirky trait with her mom. To correct it would mean losing her all over again.
“First time here, I see,” Fabian said.
“I guess that makes me a virgin. I don’t mean I’m a virgin virgin, I meant—”
“You booked Easy Ride to pop your cherry. Excellent choice.”
She gulped. But the knot of self-consciousness in her throat didn’t budge, and she could barely speak around it.
“So I’m paying for...sex?”
This story was going to be easier to wrap up than she had originally thought. She’d barely crafted a lede beyond something like “The Deep, an underground male escort service nestled within the popular country dance hall Deep in the Heart, is allegedly serving up more than longnecks and a shoulder to cry on. It is suspected as a front for prostitution.”
“We’re not that kind of club.” He punctuated the straightforward defense with a cordial smile.
“I was kidding. I crack stupid jokes when I’m nervous.”
She flashed her full-on genuine crooked-tooth smile, and he immediately softened. Yet another reason to avoid orthodontics. For some reason, her smile put people at ease, which was a good thing since her mouth otherwise managed to get her into trouble.
He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Nothing to be nervous about. Come with me. We’ll locate your friend for the evening.”
Friend. The casual way he said it rubbed her the wrong way. A real friend couldn’t be bought. Lovers, however, were a different story. Tailor-made for an exposé. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.
Kirby followed Fabian into the main room, where fat white leather-and-chrome Le Corbusier sofas sat empty, except for one in the far, dark corner. A well-dressed woman rested her head on the bare shoulder of a younger, shirtless man, who rubbed her hand as he whispered something to her.
Another man sat alone in one of two black Barcelona chairs, with an ostrich-skin boot propped on the matching ottoman as he sipped wine from an expensive-looking long-stem glass and pressed a cell phone to his ear.
Instrumental lounge versions of pop country singles skimmed the surface of her awareness. It was yet another thread that loosely tied the two establishments together.
Fabian led her out of the main room and into a softly lit hallway lined with closed and semiclosed doors and enclaves with curtains. A black-and-tan patchwork cowhide runner cushioned their footsteps.
As they walked, Kirby reviewed the details of her heartbreaking script. Her persona’s husband had been an emotional abuser, a withholder of affection. Her persona hadn’t had sex since her engagement. Not even on her wedding night.
If that didn’t bring out the so-called friend in a man, nothing would.
She never thought her own life story could be used for something good. Never thought she’d have the nerve to talk about the unspeakable situation she’d found herself in. Being untouched, unloved and disrespected by the person who had stood in front of God and everyone and promised otherwise.
Kirby swallowed back the unscripted tears, along with the shame they carried. This wasn’t the time or place to fall apart for real.
“You’ll find Ride to be a caring individual. And I can vouch for his integrity,” Fabian said as they entered a cozy room at the end of the hallway.
The room didn’t have a door. Only an extrawide gas fireplace on the far wall and a solitary tan Le Corbusier sofa facing it. An exit sign midway down the hall had caught her eye as they walked by. She didn’t plan on needing to make a quick exit, but the knowledge felt comforting nonetheless.
Fabian did a three-sixty. Confusion twisted the near-perfect features of his gorgeous face. “Ride is usually here. This is his territory.”
“You make him sound like some sort of animal.”
“I guess that would be a fair description. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll find him and let him know you’re ready.”
Fabian exited the room, leaving her alone. And uneasy. The positioning of the sofa, with its back to the door, made her feel like fresh meat in a lion’s den. But this particular assignment required bait, so she sat.
She placed her purse on the near edge of the coffee table, adjusted the camera bauble, then leaned back and waited.
The fireplace felt warm. Too warm. She slipped the elastic band from her wrist and wrangled her long strands into a messy bun on top of her head. It wasn’t as if she were trying to impress the guy. For what she was paying, he’d act impressed anyway.
The air-conditioning mercifully kicked on and soothed the back of her neck. In fact, the room started to feel a little too cool.
As she was about to release her hair from the elastic’s grip once again, a pair of warm hands slid onto her shoulders, and adept fingers slipped beneath the neck of her cashmere sweater and proceeded to massage her muscles.
Panic comingled with pleasure. The conflicting sensations swirled