Boyfriend for Hire: A Stand-Alone Contemporary Romance (Escort Files Book 1) (2 page)

Marion wedged a piece of her chicken onto a fork full of potatoes and said, “You have no comment there, I’m guessing.”

Amy shook her head and finally tasted her meal. It was divine. The capers popped on her tongue and the sauce simply made the entire dish a delight. She let out a little moan and said, “Oh, who needs sex when you can eat like this.”

Marion let out a guffaw of laughter so loud that a few heads turned, then said, “I could twist that in so many ways.”

“Whatever,” Amy said, intent on her super-high calorie plate of food. “Fuck you, my love. Just eat.”

Two

Amy’s foot bounced on the thick carpet of the waiting room. Her nerves were almost as shot as they had been the day before. Why did she schedule her doctor’s appointment on the same day as the sale? What had she been thinking? Maybe that it was best to get everything over with all at once. That sounded like her. Her face kept flushing with heat when she thought about her ob/gyn appointment the day before.

If anything was more awkward than asking your doctor to make sure your lady parts were formed normally, Amy couldn’t think of it. And the fluorescent lights just added to the torture.

Right as Amy lowered her forehead into her hands in remembered embarrassment, the door to Barbara’s inner office opened and she said, “Hello, Amy. Why don’t you come on in?”

Amy scooted in like someone might read her situation on her face, even though the outer office was entirely empty. As she’d passed through the shared reception area for the therapists and counselors in the building, Amy had barely been able to speak her name.

Why was she so embarrassed? Intellectually, she knew no one could possibly know what she was here for, but that didn’t change the fact that it felt like someone had written it across her forehead. In bright red marker. Permanent, bright red marker.

“Amy, you look uncomfortable. Are you?” Barbara began, handing Amy a bottle of water and settling into a chair. She waited patiently while Amy sat, then fidgeted.

Taking a swallow of water as a delaying tactic was really obvious, but she did it anyway. “Yes,” she finally said, twisting and untwisting the cap. “Ridiculously uncomfortable.”

“Can you tell me why?”

Here we go, Amy thought.

She answered and as the questions came and she verbalized her answers, she realized she felt better. Whatever tactic Barbara used, it was effective. Amy felt more at home answering questions that were concrete, things she could answer without delving into the deeper parts of herself. Lying with her legs spread under harsh lighting was a fact. It was something she’d experienced that was humiliating. It was easier to talk about that than it was to talk about what might have caused such embarrassment. The truth was, she had no clue why things bothered her so much.

She could tell when they were about to shift topics, and her fingers clenched a little tighter on the arms of her chair.

“Did you bring the homework I asked you to bring?” Barbara asked, her tone entirely neutral, as if she wouldn’t judge Amy harshly if she didn’t…or couldn’t…complete the assignment.

Slipping the small sheaf of stiff paper from her purse, Amy handed it over and waited while Barbara flipped through them, turning them this way and that to get the various pictures right side up.

She held up a photo of Amy from her college days, her younger smiling face beaming out behind sun-darkened freckles on a beach during spring break, her bikini clad body a thing long in the past. “Is this the picture you think is the best one of you?”

Amy nodded, admiring those firm thighs she hadn’t seen in ten years. That effortlessly pushed up pair of breasts. She sighed.

“And yet, you’ve said you had the same trouble with achieving orgasm even during the time this photograph was taken. Recently, you told me that you felt it was your looks that made you self-conscious, unable to fully engage in sex. Can you tell me why you would have felt that way during this time?”

Barbara had her there. How could she explain it? That feeling of needing to be perfect, to be exactly what the man in her bed expected and most wanted her to be. How could she really put into words what that constant hyper-awareness was like? When she was in bed with a man, Amy paid attention to what every move she made would look like from his perspective. Before she could answer, Barbara handed her the picture back.

All Amy could do was shrug and say, “Just what I told you before. I’m too nervous.”

Barbara had heard all this before and she didn’t push. Going through the other pictures, she turned them this way and that . “And these are all the men you’ve dated you found most attractive? Your ideal type, as it were?”

“I don’t have pictures of them all, but yes, that’s a good range. Tall, dark, and handsome, I guess.”

Instead of giving the photos back, Barbara put them face down on the table next to her chair. Then she leaned forward a little and said, “Amy, most therapists like to think they have a greater insight into their clients than they do themselves. Our value to the client lies in that we can get a sort of objective view of a client’s life and behaviors. That, in turn, helps to reveal behaviors or attitudes that are confused within the context of interpersonal relationships. When a person is in the thick of it, they’re too invested in the situation to see it clearly sometimes. In this case—in your case—I don’t think that’s true.”

Amy’s face fell, her heart close behind. Was Barbara about to tell her she couldn’t be helped?

Instead, she said, “In this case, I think you know your problem. And that friend you’ve talked about…Marion, was it?…has told you on many occasions as well. You need to relax. It’s very simple in theory, difficult in practice.”

Shaking her head, Amy said, “I don’t even know what that means. I mean, I do, but I don’t understand how to get there from here.”

Barbara saw her glancing at the clock on her phone and said, “For a start, try not to be so focused on every single parameter of your life. Like that clock. I’ve got no other appointments today and I think we have a lot to go over, so that clock doesn’t matter. We’ve already established that you don’t have a time limit today, yet you’re checking it as if you do. Can you leave that alone?”

Tucking it away, Amy said, “Of course I can.”

Barbara smiled and said, “Right. Well, I’m just going to give it to you straight, so to speak. My advice is a bit unconventional, but in this case, needed. Your doctor’s email was encouraging. You’re completely normal in terms of your physical development. There’s no hooding or anything, which is rare, but does happen and can occasionally interfere with pleasure. So, that’s out of the way.

“Next, you’ve said you have no problem reaching orgasm by yourself, right?” At Amy’s red-faced nod, she continued, “And your comments on your dreams indicate that you’re more than capable of experiencing it while your mind is with another person.”

“Best ever,” Amy broke in, smiling. It was too. There was one dream in particular she really wished would happen again.

Barbara smiled again, this time bigger, showing teeth. “So, in trying to isolate what might allow you that sort of openness while awake—which might help you to maintain relationships without pulling away because you’re tired of faking it—I’m going to suggest a rather unorthodox solution.”

Please don’t tell me to run off to a commune and have sex with dirty people
, Amy thought.

“I’m going to recommend a stranger, someone you don’t need to impress, someone who isn’t in a position to hurt you emotionally. A sort of temporary relationship in which you hold all the cards. Specifically, I’m recommending a relationship with absolutely no demands of any kind that begins and ends completely at your discretion.”

Is she telling me to pick up a random guy to have sex with?
That had been done…several times…and it hadn’t worked any better than a relationship. Her frown must have spoken volumes, because Barbara said, “I’m not talking one-night stands. I’m suggesting we talk about hiring a professional. We did already touch on this topic to some extent.”

Amy didn’t think Barbara was giving her the whole scoop. Clearly, they were circling around the whole sex therapist idea, but there was something else going on. It was best to just get it over with and ask the question. “Sex therapist. Okay, I’ve heard you on that, but what aren’t you saying?”

Barbara almost looked uncomfortable. Not entirely, but that absolute confidence wasn’t there either. Amy couldn’t wait to hear what would flap the unflappable Barbara.

“Well,” she began, then sipped her own water. “I can get you in with a male sex surrogate I think might be a good fit in New York. Likewise I have good professional contacts with surrogates in either southern or northern California. I just can’t do that here. North Carolina isn’t exactly a hotbed of progressive therapy. There aren’t very many and the one I might recommend is fully booked.”

“And?” Amy asked.

“There’s another solution, but I can’t officially recommend it. Nor can I arrange it. All I can do is give you this.”

With that, she handed over a business card from her table. Amy turned it over and saw the glossy writing, the overly flourished script, the ridiculous business name. Her mouth dropped open and she said, “A prostitute?”

Barbara raised an eyebrow at her choice of words and said, “An escort. A longer term sort of arrangement rather than a single appointment. I might suggest a week away. Someplace warm, where there are no pressures and nothing familiar. An adventure of sorts. It would be expensive, but no more than it would be to engage a sex surrogate for a longer period.”

“With a male prostitute.”

“With a paid
companion
. If you mention that you’ve been sent by Lisa, they’ll arrange for someone I think will be a very good fit.”

“Lisa? Who’s Lisa?” Amy asked, aghast that someone besides Barbara might know of her problem.

Barbara merely lifted her eyebrows. Ah, well, that was a wrinkle Amy hadn’t expected.

“You really think so? That this might work?” Amy asked, gripping the card in her fist.

“I think you want to have a relationship, that you want a close and loving relationship. Specifically, the kind of relationship involving a level of intimacy that includes sex. To have that you need the trust and openness that goes with it. I think that unless you can find yourself sexually, let yourself go and be happy with the things your body is capable of giving to you—and a partner—that isn’t going to happen. You need to let go. I don’t know if this will work, but it might. It just might.”

“But a prostitute?” At Barbara’s look, she amended her words to, “A paid companion.”

“Don’t go into this with the idea that you have to have sex, because that’s part of the problem. You don’t have to. You’re paying for his time and that’s all, unless you—and only you—really feel like you’re ready for more. And if you do, let him show you the way. Don’t rush it. Just let go and let things proceed at the pace they need to.”

Amy thought for a moment about what Barbara said, then remembered her last relationship. It was one that should have worked on paper. He had been great, a nice guy with a good future. He’d also really liked her. There was no question that it had been Amy who pulled away. Her growing resentment and the deep well of fakery she’d dug for herself had been a big part of that. How could she tell him after three months that she’d been faking it the whole time and…oh, by the way…could they start over?

Yeah, no. Better to break up.

But this, could she actually do it? She didn’t know yet, but there was one thing she absolutely knew. She couldn’t tell Marion or else she wouldn’t have a choice in the matter. Her best friend would probably dial for her and duct tape the phone to her head.

Three

“I can’t do this,” Amy said, blocking the suitcase so that Marion couldn’t stick anything more into it. Marion reached around her and tossed yet another pair of far-too-fancy panties into the case.

“Oh my god! I can’t wear those. I’ll look like an idiot. Do you not see these thighs?”

Marion snorted and grabbed Amy by the upper arms. “You are beautiful. You are lush like a woman should be. You have to forget all that other stuff. The ads, the commercials, the freaking binging and purging bitches who claim they’re born that way. Fuck them. They are wrong. You are right and you look right.” She let go of one of her arms, then quickly reached around and squeezed Amy’s butt. “Baby, I would totally do you if I were into women.”

Darting out of the way before Amy could push her, they giggled at her outrageous behavior. It was in fun, but Amy could tell that Marion meant the important parts. She wasn’t a size four anymore. Her metabolism had slowed and her workload had gone up. She’d been spending her days and nights tethered to a lab or the funding circuit instead of a beach towel or volleyball. But it was what it was and she either had to get over it or this whole experiment wasn’t going to work anyway.

“Right. Load up the ridiculously uncomfortable undies. But put some cotton in there because I’m not walking around with that stuff riding up my ass the whole time.”

Marion clapped and scooped the entire contents of the ‘I’m never wearing these again’ drawer into the suitcase. When Amy pulled out a pair of jeans so old they were almost in fashion again, Marion yanked them out of her hands and asked, “What are you doing? You have to wear nice clothes. Sexy clothes. You’re going to have S-E-X.”

Amy snatched them back and said, “I have my logic. And I may not have sex. Don’t pressure me.”

Crossing her arms, Marion asked, “May we be let in on this logic that involves old jeans?”

“Fine. Yes. I’m already paying a crap ton of money for this, especially if we include the airfare and the resort and all that. Right?”

Marion nodded, clearly not getting the point yet.

“I don’t want him thinking I’m some money bags. If he does, then he might do whatever it is they do to get a sugar-mama. If he thinks I’ve shot my load—so to speak—on paying for him and all that, maybe he’ll just view it as a straight up business arrangement. So, all my regular clothes. Nothing new.”