Ceasefire (11 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I
led Michelle over to the couch and sat her down.  “Tell me,” I said, “then I
promise, I’ll tell you everything.”

“Is
it too early to drink?” she asked.  With her half-smile, I couldn’t tell if she
was joking or serious, but I quickly fixed her a White Russian, regardless.  I
made myself one too, because it would be necessary for the conversation to come. 
“Thanks.”  She took a sip and cleared her throat.

“So.” 
I pulled my legs onto the couch and checked the wall clock.  We had a couple
more hours before Gertie and Joey were expected home. 

“Right. 
So.”  Michelle lifted her glass, drained it, and then wiped her mouth with the
back of a shaky hand.  She rarely drank alcohol.  Too many wasted calories to
ruin her perfect curves.  A glass of wine on a special occasion, but that was
about it.  “I—well—we…no, that’s not true.  What I’m trying to say is…”

I
took her hand, squeezed it.  “Trust me, whatever it is, I can assure you that
my side of it will be infinitely more embarrassing.”

“Right,
um, okay.  Aaron and I—we wanted to experiment. 
He
wanted to experiment
with—with a threesome.  Another woman.  He’s been begging me for years.”

“You
never told me that.  And it doesn’t bother you?”

Her
cheeks flushed.  She giggled.  The alcohol was already working.  “Don’t you
dare tell him this, but…no.  I have to let him think it was a hard decision. 
Anyway, I was curious too, and I didn’t really know why, but I thought that it
wouldn’t hurt, just this once.  We’re not swingers and don’t have any intention
of becoming swingers, right?  I thought it’d be the perfect anniversary
present.  After we left La Fleur, he was bummed that I was so pissed off,
thinking you’d lied to me, and I didn’t want to ruin our night, so I took him
home and told him that I was giving him a threesome as his gift.  Once he
picked his jaw up off the floor, we tried to make plans…and…God, are my cheeks
red?”

“Like
a strawberry.”

“The
thing is…your name came up.”

I
gulped, laughed, choked on my drink, and snorted all at the same time.  “Me?”

“Don’t
laugh,” Michelle said.  “It’s already embarrassing enough.  I—I can’t believe
I’m telling you this.  Aaron’s always thought you were hot, but
I
brought up your name because if it was going to be something special, I wanted
someone close to me, and someone I could trust.”

I
didn’t know what to say, and I told her so.  In all our years of familiarity
and friendship, all the times we’d kissed the same boys, we’d never come close
to approaching anything sexual together.  It just never came up.  And I didn’t
feel weird about her suggesting
me
, as strange as that sounds.  I felt
flattered—flattered that she was willing to trust me in their bed.  (Not that I
would’ve agreed.  Not so close to home.  Thinking and doing are two different
things.  Just ask Walter Wickam III.)

“Yeah,
well, I don’t know what to say either,” she admitted.  “Aaron said you were the
perfect choice, but he couldn’t see himself doing it and actually, I think he
was more weirded out by it than I was.”

I
giggled and took a sip of my drink.  “We’ll have to write this down.  It may be
the first time in history a man has thought with the big head instead of the
little one.”

“Yeah. 
And especially
him
.  It’s more of a miracle than anything.”

“Okay,
so now that we’ve established you’ve got the hots for me”—Michelle rolled her
eyes—“how did you find out about…the, um, the job?”

“I
know it sounds strange—”

“After
the three months that I’ve had, nothing sounds strange anymore.”

“Once
we decided you weren’t the wisest choice, we couldn’t think of anyone else that
we agreed on, so we decided to do some, uh,
partner shopping
until we could
figure it out.  Like, trying to figure out what we were both looking for. 
Anyway, long story short, we found your picture on the Midnight Fantasy
website.  Right there on the homepage.”

All
the air went out of my lungs.  I couldn’t breathe.  I sat up straight and
slammed my drink onto the coffee table.  The stack of nearby magazines got a
White Russian shower.  “What?  It’s not supposed to be on there!”

“There
was a link.  It had this big, flashing red button that said, ‘New’ and
underneath it, a link to the ‘Featured Girl’ or something.”

“I
mean, Jesus, what if somebody I know saw me—never mind, that was dumb—I don’t
want my picture out there for the world to see.  I am
so
telling Roman
where he can shove it today.”

“Who’s
Roman?  Is he your….your p—pimp?”  She had trouble saying the word.  It came
out in a stuttered whisper.

“No,
it’s not like that.  I do things, um, differently.  But yeah, Roman, he’s my
employer, kind of like the male version of a madam, I guess.”

“And
that’s not a pimp?”

“Look,
I have to go, okay?  Gertie will be back with Joey in a bit and I have to get
to Roman’s office.  Like now.  Like ten minutes ago.”  I leapt up from the
couch.

“Wait,
no,” Michelle said, grabbing my arm.  “You can’t go
now
, not after what
I just told you.  We need to talk about stuff, like about how you’re gonna quit
this crap and let us help you.”

“Later,
please?”

“Whatever.” 
She let go and flopped back on the couch.  “Just promise me you’ll quit. 
Promise me that you’ll get out of this business.”

I
promised, but it wasn’t one that I was able to keep.  Not for long, anyway.

***

On the way to Roman’s office, I
called to make sure he was there.  Every now and then he reserved Thursdays as
a mid-week break, since he was often in on the weekends, which were some of the
busiest days.  It was a good move.  Alice informed me that Roman was at home
for the day, and after a little prodding, she relented and gave me his address.

He
lived in a high-rise downtown.  It wasn’t too far from many of the pricier
hotels I frequented with clients, and I knew the place.  I’d even been there a
couple of times. 

Roman’s
condo was on the top floor, way, way up high where the cost increased with each
passing level.  It had to be worth millions, simply for the view alone.

The
elevator chimed as the doors slid open.  I stepped into the ornate hallway. 
Thin, beige carpet inlaid with crimson designs.  Lush green plants resting on
mahogany tables.  Paintings of still-life fruit and nature scenes hung on the
walls.  It was the kind of place where even the hallway was fancier than my
apartment.

I
knocked on Roman’s door and waited.  Not patiently, mind you.  I stalked back
in forth in front of the entrance to his condo like a tigress waiting to devour
her prey as soon as the gates were opened.  I almost salivated at the thought
of tearing into him.  I mean, how could he—no, how
dare
he put my
picture up on the website without my permission?  It was such an invasion of my
personal space and my privacy that my skin crawled at the idea of random
strangers, maybe even some men that I knew, lusting over my looks as they
skimmed through the site.

As
it was with Eric Landers, if anyone I knew had seen the picture, I could’ve
easily asked exactly why they were browsing a site offering professional
escorts.

But
.

That
didn’t change the fact that I didn’t want my pretty little face out there for
any horny man (or woman) to see.  My clients and I, we had a strict agreement
of confidentiality.  Sure, I’d crossed paths with more people than I would’ve liked,
yet their salacious, taboo desires were as safe with me as my identity was with
them.

This—this
was unforgiveable.

I
pounded my fist on the door, louder, harder, and shouted, “Roman.  Open up.”

Another
ten seconds passed and I was about to pound on the door again when I heard the
metallic click of a deadbolt and the jingling of a releasing chain. 

He
cracked the door open, wide enough to see who was outside with a single eye,
but also wide enough for me to get an arm through.  I shoved my way inside.

“Kim,
what the hell,” he said, stepping back.  His skin glistened with the remnants
of a shower and one hand held up the purple towel around his waist.  “What’re
you doing here?”

I’m
ashamed to admit it, but that flood of irrepressible lust returned.  Why, I
don’t know.  I’d been so pissed off that I could’ve chewed through sheet metal
to get at him.  It was there—that hadn’t gone away, entirely—yet the sight of his
wet muscles rippling underneath gorgeous brown skin, it nearly took my breath
away. 

This
is how it happens.  This is how stupid decisions are made all around the world.

Raging
hormones.  Some inexplicable bond.  Some connection that has no tangible
substance.  Some fifth dimension type stuff where your energies align with the
universe and you’re drawn to each other.

They
all slam together at once and gel into this pulsating desire that leaves you
completely out of control.

Roman
leaned back to shut the door behind him, and I got a glimpse of him dangling
between the flaps of the towel.  My nipples stiffened.

I
managed to mumble, “You have to take it down.”

“What?”
he snarled, stepping closer.  I could smell the manly soap on his skin, the
trailing hint of shaving cream.  “Take what down?”

“My
picture.  On the website.”  I tried to break free of the spell.  I tried to
tear my eyes away from him.  It didn’t work.  I wasn’t in control.  It wasn’t
my room.

“
That’s
what this is about?”

“Yeah. 
I mean, yes.  My friend—my best friend, she and her husband
found
me,
Roman.  They saw my picture on the site.”

“And
did you ask her why she was looking for an escort?”

“That’s
not the point.  You have to take it down.  What if other people I know see me?”

“I’m
not taking it down.  It’s in your contract.”

“No
it isn’t.”

“Do
I need to show you?  Second page, last paragraph.  Any and all photos paid for
and-or taken by Midnight Fantasy may be used at the company’s discretion. 
Black and white, Kim, you signed it.”

How
did I miss that?  I didn’t remember seeing it, but then again, it was
possible
that I’d overlooked it.

Roman
stepped closer and put a finger in my face.  “And before you come storming in
here, demanding that I do something for you,
again
, maybe you should ask
why.  Why is it up there, Roman?  Why
my
picture?  Out of the fifty,
gorgeous, talented, intelligent, highly successful women that work for you, why
did you choose
my
picture?”

I
whimpered, and I hated myself for it.  “But, but, you’ve never used pictures on
the site before.  You’ve always sent files to the clients or had them come into
the office.”

“Ask
me why, Kim.”

“Why?”

He
used the back of his knuckle to stroke my cheek.  “Because I’m
proud
of
you, that’s why.”

“You
are?”  I sounded more grateful than I wanted.  God, what was I doing?  That
damn need for approval again.  Dreama and her years of beating me down, trying
to mold me into something I could never be, or never wanted to be.  And how,
please, somebody tell me
how
I was able to go from a strong, confident
woman who would’ve demanded respect in any boardroom one minute, to a
blubbering, pitiable mess the next.

Was
it the fact that Roman knew what my triggers were?  Or was it the lust
controlling my will?  Was it everything in my life that got me to this point in
the first place?  How did I end up in this scenario
again
?

“Yes,”
he insisted.  Roman stepped closer.  He let go of the towel and wrapped both
arms around my back, pulled me closer.  Much taller than me, his hardening cock
pressed against my waist.  “I always hesitate to tell you stuff like that
because, seriously, you’re a challenge.  You’re smart—”

“I
don’t feel like it right now.”

He
put a finger to my lips.  “Hush.  It’s true.  You’re confident and sharp. 
You’re beautiful.  You’ve got a great business mind and you know what you’re
doing with these clients.  That’s—that’s
sexy
, Kim.”

“Then
why are you such an asshole to me sometimes?”

“Do
I really need to explain that?”

“Yes,
please, because I need to know what in the hell I’m doing here.  What am I
doing with my life?  Five minutes ago I was so pissed off at you, I could’ve—I
could’ve bitten you.”

“You
were gonna bite me?”

I
shook my head then rested it on his chest.  “That was stupid.  I couldn’t think
of anything to say, but really, I mean I was
pissed
, and I need you to
tell me why you’re such an asshole.”

“It’s
because…damn it.”  He kissed the top of my head.  “I—um—I feel like I have to
keep my distance, you know?  Personal, professional, whatever.  I’m torn, so
torn, because you move me.  I
want
you, and that’s the absolute truth,
but we have the money to—”