The Sex Surrogate (32 page)

“I
need a dress for tomorrow,” I said, shivering against the
frigid water. “Something like the one tonight.”

“You've
come to the right place,” she mused, handing me a towel when I
shut off the water. “How slutty do you want to take it?”

“Pretty
damn slutty,” I decided. If I was going to do it, I might as
well do it up right. “But I'm not wearing those red bottoms
ever again.” In fact, they should have been burned. Anytime I
saw them, I would think of my legs straight up in the air with Chase
admiring the view.

“Shay,”
I said, the next evening standing in our bedroom, trying to make my
voice sound reasonable, “please tell me that is the shift, not
the actual dress.”

“A
shift? What are you eighty? No one wears freaking shifts anymore.
This is a dress. And it is designer, it ain't no cheap swatch of
fabric from the club hoe store in the mall. You said you wanted
slutty.”

True.
But apparently our views on what constituted slutty varied greatly.
Because what she was holding looked like something someone wears to
the beach, not a club... in a very cold spell of fall.

It
was black. And, essentially, just a bra and a super ridiculously
short mini skirt with sheer black mesh connecting them.

“You
can wear like semi-opaque stockings with them. But... I mean... full
stockings. Thigh highs ain't gonna cut it. What club is he taking you
to?”

“He
didn't say.”

“Well,
I mean.. dressed like this, you can really get into anywhere good in
the city. I've worn it a bunch of times. Plus, you'll stand out.
Everyone is wearing those cut-out dresses now. Men like this
peek-a-boo effect. They can see stuff, but not really see stuff. But
with this one... they'll all want to unwrap you like a present.”

“Alright,
fine,” I conceded, taking the dress from her.

“Nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“When
is the last time you talked to a random guy in a bar?”

Never.
That would be never.

“I
haven't.”

“Shit.
Well, it ain't that hard. Don't try to be someone you're not. Be you.
But giggle more. Make eye contact. Touch them if they're close
enough. Men can be a little dense on picking up on signals so you
need to be a little obvious. Oh, and here...” she said,
grabbing a pen and a piece of paper, scribbling something down.

“What
is this?” I asked, looking down at the numbers.

“A
phone number. Memorize it before you go out.”

“Why?”

“To
give to the guys you don't really want calling you. I'm sure your
shrink will try to teach you how to let guys down gentle. But that
shit don't work. So just give them this number instead and excuse
yourself from them.”

I
nodded. That was a good idea. I couldn't see myself being able to
reject people. I knew how awful that felt. “Whose number is
this?”

“Oh,”
she said, laying out makeup on my desk, smiling wickedly, “my
ex best friend from a few years back. Bitch stole my man right out
from under me. She gets a lot of phone calls from random creepers.
And, I'm sure, more than a few late night dick pics. Best revenge
ever.”

Shay
pulled me to my computer chair, sitting me down, then going through
the hour long process of getting me ready to go out. She went a
little more crazy with the makeup than she had the last time,
working tirelessly to get the perfect smokey eye. Which apparently
took four tries. I had fake eyelashes applied and something called
“all night spray” squirted all over my face so nothing
smudged. A light shade of matte lipstick was put on my lips. Then she
went through the process of straightening my hair.

“Aight,”
she said, standing back. “Club ready.”

“I'm
almost afraid to look,” I said, smirking.

“It
ain't that different. Your eyes just really pop now.”

And
she was right. The fake lashes (as weird as they felt) looked great.
And my face didn't look as caked on as it felt, just even. Foundation
and powder would probably help with the blushing issue if it crept
up.

“Get
yourself dressed,” Shay said, making her way to the door, “if
you're not careful, you won't be ten minutes early.”

“Ha
ha,” I said, squinting my eyes at her.

She
was right.

I
was always at least ten minutes early.

But
I didn't want to be early. I wanted to be right on time. Or even a
few minutes late. I didn't want to have to spend extra time alone
with him. The car ride would be bad enough.

The
dress slid on and I adjusted my boobs into the tight bodice that
seemed intent on shoving them up as high as possible. The skirt was
going to be the bane of my existence the entire night. I tried
pulling the clingy material down, but it just slid right back up
again. With a sigh, I sat down to strap myself into the black heels
Shay had provided, tiny straps criss-crossing over the top of the
foot and the heels not near as high as the ones from the night
before.

“Are
you decent?” Shay called, knocking on the door.

Not
really, nope.

“Yeah,”
I called and the door opened.

“Dayum,”
she said, nodding. “That will do. Alright, here, let me spray
you with some perfume.”

“I
have the stuff that Jake...”

“No,”
she said firmly, grabbing for one of her bottles. “Not that
vanilla stuff. Not tonight. You need something with a little punch.
Here,” she said, spritzing the air, “walk through.”

I
did, wrinkling my nose slightly against the scent. I wasn't a huge
fan of perfume to begin with and Shay's seemed to scream sex. “What
is this?”

“Just
a perfume... mixed with pheromones.”

“Oh
for god's sake,” I groaned, shaking my head.

“Hey
they'll come charging at you.”

“Like
deer in rutting season,” I grumbled.

“What
smells so good?” Jake asked, coming into the room, making Shay
and I throw our heads back and laugh.

“Alright,
you got this,” Shay said, walking me to the door. I grabbed her
coat from the night before, not willing to be walking around alone in
glorified underwear. “You got the number memorized?”

“Yep.”

“Aight.
Try to have some fun with it, okay? This isn't just an assignment.
It's practice for your dating filled- future,” she said,
handing me my wallet and keys.

My
dating-filled future.

Oh,
joy.

Ninth
Session

Fake
phone number rolling around my head on an endless reel, I walked
quickly toward Chase's office, driven mostly by my desire to get the
whole damn night over with as soon as possible.

I
made it to his door five minutes after after seven, almost a little
proud of myself for not freaking out about my punctuality. As soon I
was in the door, there was Chase in a dark gray suit and white shirt.

“You're
late.”

“Yeah,”
I agreed, reaching to lock the door before I remembered it wasn't
that kind of session.

“Good
for you,” he said, nodding. Oh, not the praise. Literally
anything but the praise. “Let's see that dress, baby.”
Okay. Anything but the praise...
and
the endearments.

I
reached for the buttons of the jacket, then pulled it off quickly. I
was rewarded by the sound of his breath exhaling hard.

“Is
this too much?” I asked, feeling uncertain. “Shay told me
it would work for like... all the bars and clubs, but I am seriously
starting to question her fashion sense.”

His
lips quirked up a bit as he moved across the room toward me. “It's
a nice dress. But it looks extraordinary on you,” he said, his
hand going out to touch the mesh across my belly. He took a breath,
his face crinkling up. “You don't smell like you.”

It
sounded like an insult.

“Shay's
perfume,” I supplied.

“Your
eyes,” he said, his voice almost sounding sad.

“Fake
eyelashes. Apparently they make my eyes pop or something.”

“They
popped just fine on their own,” he murmured, his hand moving to
stroke my cheek.

I
swallowed hard, trying to focus on anything but the feeling of his
hand on my skin. “Should I take them off?” I asked,
thinking of how weird it would be for my eyelids to not feel heavy
anymore.

“No,”
he said, shaking his head, dropping his hand. “They're fine.
Most guys will appreciate the effort.”

Most
guys.

Not
him.

“So,
um,” I said, looking down at my feet, feeling a huge wave of
insecurity, “where are we going?”

“You're
nervous.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I've
never been good with the whole... flirting thing.”

“That's
what I'm here for- to teach you.”

Right.
Patient/doctor. Keep those reminders coming.

“We're
going to start at a restaurant. Get some food in your stomach to help
with the anxiety...”

He
was taking me to dinner?

My
eyes shot up, curious.

“I'm
assuming you have, once again, not eaten before coming here.”

“No.”

“Alright,”
he said, reaching behind me to pull the door open. “Let's go.
It's getting late,” he said.

Then
he didn't put his hand at my lower back.

In
fact, he didn't touch me at all. Not even by accident. He kept a safe
space between us.

I
sat in tense silence in his car, my heart starting to beat a little
faster than usual in my chest. I held onto the door handle, crushing
it into my palm, trying to focus on that and not how cold he was
being. He swerved in and out of traffic, not even glancing my way
once.

Then
we were at the restaurant and he was opening my door, not even
bothering to extend his hand to me to help me out. When I looked up
at him, curious, he was pointedly looking away.

Okay.

So
that was how it was.

Why
the hell even bother to take me to dinner if you didn't even want to
look my way? He could have easily just taken me to a club and gotten
the god-awful session over with already. But, no, he had to drag it
out. And not only did he need to drag it out, he needed to suddenly
become another person while he was at it.

I
got out of the car, trying to push the negative thoughts away. They
weren't going to help. Looking up at the restaurant, my mouth fell
open slightly and then I laughed, a full, rolling laugh, making me
bend slightly forward, holding my belly. “Seriously?” I
asked, looking up at him.

He
was looking down at me, smiling wide, his eyes crinkling up at the
edges. “Don't judge it by how it looks,” he said,
reaching out and putting a hand at my hip.

Okay.
It was hard to not judge it by how it looked. Because how it looked
was downright seedy. Bright blue tables, awful faded, discolored
white paint on the walls, painfully fake looking foliage hanging from
the ceiling. The people inside were all in jeans and t-shirts. And I
was dressed like I was trying to find a sugar daddy.

There
was a big wooden sign hanging over the door with the name of the
establishment hand written poorly across it:

A
Restaurant.

“So,
what does A Restaurant serve?” I asked as he pushed me through
the door. Chase let out a low snicker. “I don't trust that
laugh,” I said, watching his profile as we were told to 'just
plant ourselves anywhere'.

He
picked up two menus, walked us to a table in the back, and handed me
mine to look over. As soon as I opened it, I knew what was so funny.
“Really?” I asked, looking up over the top of my menu.