Ceasefire (13 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It
took me a couple of weeks to recover—not as long as it did when Finn
disappeared from my life, but it was a wasted two weeks nonetheless.  I thought
about Finn a lot during that time, too, while I refused to get off the couch
and begged Gertie to stay for another hour or three, or five.  She always did. 
She didn’t know the whole truth, but she understood that I’d been through
something horrible, and bless her, she was willing to give me the time to work
through it.

Briefly,
I considered the idea of hiring a private investigator to find Finn because I
had the money and could afford such frivolous flights of fancy.  But, I decided
that if he’d wanted to be found by me, I would’ve heard from him long ago.

And
God, how long had it been since our chance encounter in the coffee shop?  Nine
months?  Ten?  I’d already lost track of the time.  It fouled up my mood even
worse when I grasped the idea that I was pining over a guy who’d been nice
enough to cheer me up on a single, shitty day; a one-off, one-time event.  We’d
clicked, and then he’d vanished, which inadvertently drove me into the arms of
Roman and the world of professional escorts.

The
way I saw things, it wasn’t a stretch to suggest that my life would’ve turned
out a whole lot differently over the past year if the prospect of Finn as a
beacon had been there to guide me.

Grow
up, Kim.  Accept responsibility for your actions, right?  I get it, I do, but
in the absence of a specific motivator, free will doesn’t always give us room
to make the proper choices.

I
tried not to care that Roman didn’t want anything more from me than an easy,
eager, willing hole.  I thought I was able to let it go.

Thought
was an understatement.  The truth
was, it hurt.  A lot.  I don’t deal well with rejection.  Never have.  Call it
a byproduct of Dreama’s constant disappointment and her demands that I live up
to her expectations, but Roman’s total rejection of my misguided advance was
the icing on the foul-tasting cake.

I
don’t know how long the rut would’ve lasted if it hadn’t been for Michelle.

I’d
given her part of the story, enough to satisfy her curiosity, and had managed
to keep her at bay until I felt decent enough to interact with another human.

She
came over one afternoon while Gertie and Joey had left to try out this new
indoor playground that had opened recently.  I’d promised myself over and over
again that I was going to be a better, more involved mother than I had been
over the past months.  I’d promised and promised.  I didn’t have the energy. 
Not yet.

Depression
is a bitch when you have responsibilities.  Thank God for kind souls like
Gertie; people who are willing to allow you the time and room to recover and
have the presence of mind to offer encouragement without making you feel
guiltier.

Michelle
walked into the apartment—perfect as always, chewing her gum with the intensity
of a sewing machine—and crinkled her nose when she found me on the couch,
sulking in sweatpants next to a half-eaten carton of Neapolitan ice cream. 

“Kim,
sweetie, don’t take this the wrong way, but…
dayum
.”

“That
bad, huh?”  I avoided eye contact, preferring to scrape around the vanilla
third of the carton to get at more of the chocolate.

She
didn’t sit down.  To do so would’ve invited more time on the couch and less
time getting my shit together.  “Come on,” she said, grabbing my arm.  “Up.  Up
you go.  Shower time, then we’re going shopping.”

“I
don’t wanna shop,” I whined.  “It sucks out there.”

“Out
where?”

“Outside.”

Michelle
chuckled, wrapped both hands around my arm and leaned backward, pulling me with
her as she went.  “You’ll feel better once you buy me something nice.”

***

Once
I’d showered—and shaved my legs for the first time in two weeks, benefitting
all of humanity—I checked in with Gertie.  Joey was fine, she’d said,
absolutely enthralled with the playground swings, and did I even need to ask
her if it was okay to go out for a while?  I had been certain she wouldn’t
mind, but I didn’t want her thinking I was shirking my parental duties.  In
fact, she encouraged me to get out of the house.  Fresh air mends a broken
heart, she intoned. 

Or,
something syrupy like that.

Michelle
and I went to the mall and strolled from store to store, arms locked, drinking
chocolate milkshakes, pointing out cute boys.  It’d been an old pastime of
ours, and we probably hadn’t done it since high school.  It was exactly what I
needed.  I felt like
me
again.  I felt like Michelle and I were
us
again.

Lunchtime
rolled around and we made our way to the food court, loaded down with bags of
tops, skirts, dresses, and heels, all paid for out of my own pocket.  She’d
protested over and over, insisting that she’d been kidding about buying her
something nice, but really, it felt good.  No, it was fantastic, having the
freedom to spend money I’d earned, with no regret about blowing cash that
could’ve been used for the next meal. 

With
a million and a half in the bank, what’s a couple thousand on a new wardrobe? 
Like Michelle said, “This is more effective than therapy.”

Calories
be damned, I ate four slices of pepperoni pizza, and started on a fifth,
because it was the first full meal I’d had since what we’d dubbed, “The
Incident.”

Michelle
watched with envy, picking at her salad. 

Around
a mouthful of cheese, I teased, “Want a bite?”

“And
ruin this?” she replied, pointing at her waist.  “Hell yeah, gimme.”

I
laughed and handed the rest to her.  She chewed, moaned, and went in for
another bite.

I
asked, “Almost better than sex, huh?”

She
smirked and swallowed, handing me the crust.  “Sorry, I have to say it.  You
would know!”

“Not
funny.”

“You
have to laugh about it, Kim, otherwise it’ll have power over you.  That’s the
only way to get rid of the crappy feelings.  And besides, you owe me a freakin’
ton of explanation, and I mean like, almost four months of it.”

“Do
I have to?”

“Yes,
you do.”

“I
thought maybe the clothes would be enough.”

“You
aren’t getting off that easy.  Dish.  Now.”

I
sighed, sipped my root beer, and told her everything.  I told her about that
first desperate phone call in the car, and about the stress of wondering
whether or not I could actually be an escort.  I told her about flipping
through the lineup book at the Midnight Fantasy office, and about how nice
Alice was, and about how weird it was that somebody’s grandmother was wrangling
and scheduling a bunch of high-class escorts.

I
told her about negotiating with Roman, with my mind
and
with my vagina
to get the job and the pay I wanted.  I told her about how I really did meet
Eric Landers as my first client, and how embarrassing it’d been. 

I
told her about all the perverted things I’d done to (and for) people, as the
go-to woman for the taboo-seekers that were willing to pay extra for what they
truly
wanted.

I
watched as she scrunched up her nose, shook her head, rolled her eyes and said,
“Oh my God,” and, “You didn’t,” and, “He
wanted
you to pee on him?”

I
told her about my last encounter with Roman, and how I’d foolishly, and
childishly, approached him about our future.  I even told her about the anal
sex, which I thought would really send her into orbit, but she sheepishly
admitted that she enjoyed it more than she wanted Aaron to know.  We laughed
about it, and I continued, explaining everything Roman had said to me before I
stormed out of his million-dollar condo.

“Your
bonus check?” she asked.  “That mother-effer.”

“I
know, right?  Prick.”

I
told her about how I decided a long time ago that if I ever got to the point
where I could do it, I was going to leave his company and start my own, because
good grief, the
real
money to be made was in running the show, catering
to the perversions of society’s elite.  That was the original idea, but now, it
was more about revenge than the money, because I felt like he’d broken something
inside my being. 

“Hmm,”
Michelle said, squinting at me, studying my face.  I was familiar with the
look.  She was trying to decide if I was serious or not.  I’d seen it before on
Dreama’s face.  “Are you sure you want to do that, Kimmikins?  I mean,
seriously, do you
honestly
have more than a million dollars in the
bank?” 

I
nodded and took another sip of root beer.  I think in some way I was hiding
behind the cup’s rim.

“Why
don’t you just buy a franchise or something if you want to run a business? 
That’s probably a safer bet than running a glorified whorehouse.”

“Safer,
maybe, but slapping ham and cheese between a six-inch bun isn’t going to ruin
Roman.”

“Right. 
I guess not.”  She picked at her salad, lifting a piece of lettuce to her
mouth, then dropping it into the bowl again.  “I read somewhere that revenge is
only a bandage, that it doesn’t heal the wound.”

I
shrugged.  “Then just call me the Queen of Gauze, because I’m going to wrap it
so tight around Roman, he’ll look like a mummy.”

“Your
mind’s made up?”

“Yes.”

“You
don’t care that it might be a waste of money?”

“The
business itself won’t be a waste, Michelle.  People will pay
out
of
their asses to have weird things shoved
into
them, trust me.”

“And
I can’t change your mind?”

“No. 
Getting out like this, talking about it, seeing it for what it was…it really
helped me figure out that it may not be the right thing to do, you know, trying
to ruin Roman financially.  But, the thing is, it’s what I
want
,” I
said, holding my hands in front of my chest, squeezing them, like I was
desperately grabbing something.  “It’s what
I
want, and that’s something
I haven’t had the luxury of in a really, really long time.”

Michelle
smiled, moved into the closest seat, and hugged me.  “Then, please, let me
help, because he screwed with you and that means he screwed with me, too.”

“Are
you sure?”

“Well,
I don’t want to pee on any old, wrinkled cowboys, if that’s what you’re
asking.  I’ll keep my lady bits to myself, if you don’t mind.  I’ll just be
your devious, evil, genius partner.  Will that work?”

“I
wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“And
besides, as much as I hate to say it, a girl can only work out so much before
it gets boring and repetitive.  I could use a little excitement.”

If
she only knew.

***

It didn’t take long for Michelle and
me to lay the groundwork for our new venture together.  I provided the startup
funds and took care of the professional side of things, like writing the
business plan and getting a business license secured, which ultimately took
some crafty wording and a touch of stretching the truth.  We provided
“entertainment,” not “prostitution.” 

Obviously.

Michelle,
since she’s so detail-oriented about her personal aesthetics, proclaimed that
she was going to find us the ideal office location and decorate it to an immaculate
perfection.  “It’s all about image,” she’d insist whenever I reminded her that
we didn’t actually have a bottomless pit of money to pull from.  Were the plush
leather waiting room chairs—worth five thousand apiece—really necessary? 
Apparently so, because she wouldn’t budge.

They
went into this corner office we found that wasn’t too far away from Roman’s
condo.  High up on the twelfth floor, with floor to ceiling windows that
provided a terrific view of the city below, it was the perfect spot to entertain
clients if they required a more discreet, secure meeting than arranging something
over the internet.

There
were two offices, one for each of us.  Dark walls with sliver trim.  A modern
style that absolutely exuded pricey, expensive, and privileged.

And
it was, too.  It’s almost embarrassing to admit how much money I allowed
Michelle to spend.  But, it was worth it.  If it was all about image, then we
were certainly projecting ourselves as two professional businesswomen who
definitely knew what they were doing.

Michelle
was gone so much from their home while she was working out (her body would not
suffer) and helping me get everything established that questions arose.  She
couldn’t get away with hiding the truth from Aaron, and eventually, we sat him
down and explained what we were doing.  It took some convincing, but as long as
Michelle wasn’t involved with any clients, other than assigning them to an
escort, he was supportive.  In a sense.  He didn’t come right out and give his
blessing, but the promise of so much money kept his objections to a barely
audible minimum.