It's a door like any other door. Six feet tall, four feet wide. Solid wood. The surface is smooth, polished like the brass doorknob that protrudes from a spot about hip high, nestled under the electric lock. It looks like all the other doors on this floor except for the number. The number marks it as different. The number is the one given to me by a breezy voice on the phone.
"Eight-twenty-four," that voice had said. "He'll be expecting you at a quarter past nine."
He'll be expecting you.
My heart pounds in my chest. It's not like I didn't know what I was getting into when I agreed to this. It's not like I hadn't thought it through a million times over. It's not like I hadn't talked it out with Amanda hundreds of times, talked it over with my mom, too — though she couldn't really answer since she's been dead for eight years — and worked through every angle, made sure I understood every aspect. I might be an artist, but logic is not unfamiliar territory for me. I always examine everything thoroughly before acting — buying a car, picking an apartment, buying a piece of furniture, choosing a place for lunch — before I leap. This was no different.
Logically, this is what I need to do.
Emotionally…well, that's a different story.
"Student loans," I whisper to myself. "This is the difference between being the epitome of a starving artist and financial freedom."
"You'd only have to do it for a year or two," Amanda told me. "I mean, look at me! I've been doing it for six months and I already have my car paid off and I have what I need for a down payment on a house! It changed my life." She giggled. "I sound like a damn infomercial, but it's true! It changed my life."
"It's illegal."
"It walks a line," she admitted. "But really, what we do isn't necessarily illegal. We provide companionship. We give the gift of our company to men who are lonely or grieving and brighten their world a little. We party — for free, I might add! — and get paid for it."
"What about the…?"
"What?"
I could feel myself blushing and knew she could see it, and that made me blush more. "Sex, Amanda. You have sex with them."
"Sometimes. But it's always consensual."
That's the part that makes me hesitate. But the notice that came in the mail last week, the warning that the car loan people are about to come get my car because I haven't made a payment in two months because I haven't gotten the check I'm due from the gallery owner of the place where I did my last show. And it's not just my car. My landlord is a sweet old guy who bends over backward to help me out, but even he's tired of waiting weeks past the first for his rent. Working on my art and teaching finger painting to a bunch of preschoolers at a downtown daycare just isn't cutting it. Something has got to change.
Do I really have another choice?
I close my eyes as I raise a hand to the door, imagining the man waiting on the other side. I see someone like my psych professor in college — tall, thin, graying at the temples — and then an image of my landlord — short, round, older than the hills — flashes through my mind and I involuntarily shudder. Amanda describes her clients to me sometimes, but her words are vague and limited by her desire to convince me this work is profitable, maybe even exciting. She describes polite, respectful men. I imagine a handsy professor with no sense of personal space.
I'm here. I promised myself I would do it once, just to see what it's like. I don't break promises, not even ones I made to myself.
I knock, my knuckles scraping slightly against the highly varnished door.
I wait.
Nothing.
I shift from one spiked heel to the other, running my hands over the thin, stretchy material of a dress that clings to my every curve. Not my normal mode of dress. I would normally wear holey jeans and a paint-smeared t-shirt, or yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt. I don't like tight-fitting clothing. The dress isn't even mine. It's a red number with a high neck and missing back that Amanda insisted I wear. I can feel the air-conditioning dancing across my exposed back, down my bare thighs, raising goose bumps on my ironically chastely covered arms.
I feel like a fool. I feel like a little girl playing dress up in her mother's clothes, though my mother never would have worn something like this!
My mother…she'd cry at the sight of me, understanding the direness of my predicament, but ashamed to be in any way responsible for the direction my life has taken. She tried hard. Worked hard. It wasn't her fault cancer drained our savings and took her life far sooner than it should have. And there was no way she could have known that the sweet, gentle aunt she left me with would also pass within a year, leaving me with a choice between an overcrowded foster home and independence.
She'd be proud that I put myself through college, that I kept pulling myself up by my bootstraps. This…it's only a small piece in a larger, carefully strategized, logically designed life plan. This is just a means to an end.
I knock again, again running my hands over my hips, smoothing the soft material of the dress. This time the door opens, and I find myself forced to stifle a gasp of surprise. The man standing at the door is not old, nor does he look lecherous.
The man studying me with intense green eyes is maybe a decade older than my twenty-four years, with dark hair that falls in a riot of curls around his face and a dimple that is so deep it appears even as his expression turns sour. He has broad shoulders, an athletic build, and a sense of fashion that aligns perfectly with my home comfort tendencies. He wears a pair of cotton pants that are held up by a long drawstring and a button-down that is currently unbuttoned and exposing a pair of pecs and a six-pack that is too well defined for the casualness of his current stance.
"You're late," he says, stepping back and gesturing for me to enter the hotel room behind him. "You were supposed to be here at nine."
"A quarter past," I say, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other so I don't trip in these impossibly high shoes. "That's what they told me."
"Well, they told you wrong."
The room is beautiful. I've been in hotel rooms before, but they've been in the Motel 6 vein, the type with badly patched holes in the walls and bedspreads with unidentifiable stains hidden in the hideous patterns. This room is nothing like that. The walls are a lovely cream color, the furniture heavy and made of quality materials. There's a couch facing a massive television hanging on one wall, and a fully stocked bar tucked into a corner with a bottle of champagne chilling in a gorgeous silver bucket on top of the walnut countertop. It's not a suite, but the room is still larger than my apartment, the bed set on a platform under a gorgeous canopy that shimmers like silk.
My heart is pounding and I feel like I might suffocate if I don't get a little fresh air. To my relief, the balcony door is open. I step out, clinging to the rail for a moment, taking one deep breath after another, wishing I was anywhere else but here. Becoming homeless couldn't possibly be as terrifying as this, could it?
A glass of champagne floats in front of me, held gracefully between his long, slender fingers. I mumble something, not sure what, and accept the glass, sipping the sweet liquid carefully so I wouldn't dribble it on my chest. I've never tasted anything quite like that sweet, crisp wine, wishing I wasn't so upset that I couldn't enjoy the lovely bubbles that burst just under my nose.
"At least this time they sent someone who fits my parameters."
Something about the tone of his voice forces my eyes to move toward him. He's standing stiffly in the doorway, his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his pants. His eyes are on me, an intense gaze that makes me feel both exposed and invisible all at the same time. I can't begin to describe how handsome this man is, the angles of his jaw, and how they highlight his full lips and slender, Grecian nose. And those eyes. I keep coming back to those eyes, the jeweled color and the fierceness that just seems to manifest from them.
Beautiful. Amanda didn't warn me about beautiful.
"Parameters?"
He rolls his shoulders slightly. "I asked for dark hair, pale skin, and a petite figure. At least they got all that right this time."
My hand moves to my hair, brushing against the simple bun that is meant to appear messy, casual, but actually took me nearly an hour to perfect. My hair is dark, just shy of black, thanks to my mother's Argentinean roots. It's all I got from my mom, unfortunately. My mom was a tiny woman with black hair, deep caramel-colored eyes, and tawny skin that I've always lamented I don't share. My eyes are blue--ice blue, someone called them once--and my skin is pale, sensitive. I'm not as small as my mom was, but I suppose I could be considered petite despite curves which make shopping for a bikini a little complicated.
"I'm glad I fit your needs."
Those green eyes move slowly from the tip of my shoe to my thighs, my hips, lingering a second on my breasts, and ending on my face. "I'm sure you fill a lot of men's needs."
I blush, turning quickly to hide it from him. I sip more of the sweet champagne, my heart once again pounding in my chest. My instinct is to be offended by the implication in his words, but then I remind myself why I'm here. I can't be indignant when I'm selling my body to save my car.
He moves up behind me. I can feel the heat of his body, he is so close to me. My nerves all come alive, waiting for him to touch me. He doesn't. He stands still, the slight puff of his breath brushing against the fine hairs on the back of my neck.
"The thing is," he says softly, "I can't sleep. I need to sleep."
I'm not sure what to say to that.
"I had a woman who knew how to..." He stops, like he's not sure how to explain himself. He clears his throat, his breath hot and slightly moist against my skin. "She's gone and I can't sleep. I thought I could find a substitute, but the other women they sent me weren't quite right."
I bite the inside of my cheek, letting his words settle. Was sleep another word for sex? Or was he seriously talking about sleeping? My hand shakes as I lift the glass of champagne to my lips once again.
"I need to sleep."
One more sip of champagne and I turn, not surprise to find him deep into my personal space. "What can I do?"
He brushes a fingertip against my jaw, tracing the curve from just below my ear to the center of my chin. "I just want you to lie in the bed beside me. That's all."
I nod, my hand still shaking. I look down at it, and he follows my gaze, gently lifting the glass from my grasp. He goes inside the room and I follow, watching from the doorway as he pores the champagne into the small sink at the bar and rinses the glass before washing his hands. A neat freak? Or just considerate? I can't tell.
He turns and gestures toward the bed without looking at me. I cross the room, feeling as though my knees might give out on me. I hesitate a second before sitting on the edge of the mattress, running my hands over the material of my dress.
"Take off your shoes."
I nod, leaning down and slipping the heel of the shoe off my foot. One, then the other. I set them side by side next to the walnut bedside table.
"And your hair."
I glance at him. He makes a gesture with one hand, motioning toward his own head. "The bun," he clarifies. "Take it out."
I nod, lowering my head as my shaking fingers tug at the clip and small pins that hold my thick, wavy hair in place. It falls, a cascading curtain that feels heavy on my shoulders and neck. I run my fingers through it, combing it back from my face. When I look up again, he's watching me, still standing across the room, his expression unreadable.
I wait, expecting him to request I remove my dress next.
He doesn't. He crosses the room, closes and secures the balcony door, then crosses to the other side of the bed. He slips off his shirt and settles on the edge of the mattress, his back to me. He sits like that for a long time, so long that I began to wonder if I should say something or do something. Just as I am about to ask him if he's okay, he lifts a remote from the bedside table and presses a button that causes the lights to dim. He drops it back on the table and stretches out, crossing his ankles and resting his hands on his chest.
"If you'll lay down."
I take a deep breath and slowly stretch out, imitating his position. I close my eyes, again waiting. Waiting for him to touch me, waiting for him to invade my personal space and force himself on my stupid, confused, frightened body. What was I thinking, putting myself in this position? Why did I think this would be a good idea? Make a guy happy, earn a few thousand dollars, get out of debt. It all seemed so simple on paper, but now that I'm here, I can see how insane it is. Amanda made it sound so adventurous, so benign. I knew better and still I allowed her to talk me into it. What was I thinking? I'd been with two men in my life. One was a college fling I regretted the moment it was over, and the other was a flirtation with a married art dealer I made myself believe honestly loved me. Mistakes, both of them. What was it about those experiences that made me think I could handle this?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
It takes everything I have not to get up and run from the room. I'm so tense that I jump when he speaks again.
"Do you think it would be okay if you moved a little closer to me?"
I hesitate. "Uh...yeah, I guess."
I lift my hips and slide over a few inches. He turns onto his side and touches my hip, tugging lightly. "A little more," he says. I slide a few more inches and he moves in my direction, settling a little less than a foot from me. He adjusts the pillows under his head and sighs, his hand resting on the bed between us. Again, my nerves all come alive, waiting for him to touch me.
The tension burns through my body, making my shoulders ache and my thighs quiver. All my senses are heightened, waiting for the moment I've dreaded from the second I received that phone call that sent me here. And I wait. And I wait.
And then he begins to snore.