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“Creepsters.” I shove the letter in my bike pouch and check my surroundings. It’s broad daylight but I still eye the bushes next to the stairs that lead to my walk up; the hedge that lines the squat building next door. I hop on my bike and make my way to the trail adjacent to Lake Shore Drive.
I pedal for miles like a madwoman, blowing past sailboats in the harbor. The author of these letters has to be some socially awkward guy. A harmless weirdo. I’m going to shove this letter in the drawer with the others and ignore this bullshit. Maybe I’ll buy a can of pepper spray. Make that two: one for my purse, one for my nightstand. Yeah, that’s going on my to-do list.
I slow down as I pass sailboats dotting the harbor, sleek condos, the constellation of wealth gathered like members of a private club hovering around a mahogany bar at Lake Michigan’s edge. It’s the same route I took a few months ago, but wow, has my vantage point changed.
I’ve been to these private clubs, sat at the bars. I’ve visited the sleek condos and been touched by wealth in ways both good and bad. Rosemary McAlister welcomed me into her home and treated me like family. Patrick oozed entitlement and threatened me. Glenn’s desperate need for one upmanship made my skin crawl. Scratch the surface of the elegance and you might unearth some dirty bits, find some filthy secrets.
Time passes. A week, then two. No more letters from my fan. Also no word from Dylan. No emails. No texts. No handwritten letters. I Google him, but juicy new gossip doesn’t float around the Internet when a big player falls off the grid. It’s like he’s vanished without a trace. Maybe he was just a dream.
September marches in and I’m back to teaching Kindergarten during the day, taking Ma Maison dates at night and on weekends. Mom calls from the Institute. She’s non-manic excited because she’s taking a pottery class and is going to be part of a fall arts and crafts festival. Her doctor floats the possibility of her becoming an outpatient in the next couple of months. I think this translates into ‘I’ll be paying medical expenses and footing the bill for an apartment somewhere within easy ride share distance from the Institute.’
I thought my empathic hits would die down after Dylan and I ended, but they’re clocking in more frequently. The rusty gates inside me that creaked open have apparently stayed open. Clients’ feelings are popping up inside me more frequently, throwing elbows and shoulders like hockey players fighting for control of the puck. I’m exhausted trying to push them away and so I finally stop resisting. Now, when they jockey about I follow Hope’s protocol: identify the sensation, determine if it’s mine. If it’s not, I follow up by asking the client a few questions.
Most of the guys are thrilled to talk about what’s bugging them. They seem relieved to spill their burden. Carrying an old wound is exhausting. Covering it up is even more work. I’m not a priest, definitely not a therapist, but for some reason a girl in my line of work is a safe haven for confidences shared, secrets revealed.
In a weird twist, my tips increase. They’re up fifty percent. I’m still not having full blown sex with these men and I’m making more money. Will I spread my legs for a client in the future? That barrier was already crossed with Dylan and I’m open to consensual sex with the right person. Now that I know I actually can come with a man, I’m also open to dating someone in real life. The guy from the gym asked me out again, but I wasn’t interested before, and now, after Dylan, even less so.
I throw my energy into my day job. I’m helping five-year-olds finger paint pictures of pumpkins and goblins when I get a text from Madame.
Madame: When can you come into the office?
Evie: Tomorrow?
Madame: Confirming tomorrow noon.
I don’t bother getting dressed up or applying full makeup. Surely Madame knows what I look like without the prep work. I stand across from her in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, my hair tied back in a ponytail.
“Based on a referral, a new client contacted Ma Maison and wishes to engage your services.”
“Oh?” Most clients keep what happens between us private. Guys are territorial creatures; don’t like to share. I hope this referral isn’t someone hoping for a threesome because that’s not on my dance card yet.
“He seems like a nice enough man. Never been a Ma Maison client before,” she says. “But this engagement is a little different than what you normally do.”
Oh, crap, it is a request for a threesome. “My boundaries haven’t changed.”
Her lips purse so hard I fear they’ll snap off her face. I redirect her attention. “Tell me what’s different about this guy, Madame. What’s different about this date?”
“It’s not specifically what he wants.” She slides her turquoise cat-eye glasses back on her face. “It’s the time he’s requesting.”
“A morning engagement? I’m not into mornings but I’ll make an exception.”
“Not morning,” she says. “He wants to book you for a week.”
“A week?” I cough, and cover my mouth. “Like every night for seven days?” That’ll make for some sucky early mornings shepherding five-year-olds.
“No. Twenty-four hours a day for a week.”
I plunk down hard in the nearest chair, and pinch my arm, trying to contemplate what this means. It means money. A lot of money. “Holy crap.”
“Holy crap indeed,” Madame says. “By the way, Ma Maison just raised your rates.”
“I’m assuming some of that gets passed along to me?”
“Yes. The client lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, co-owns a minor league baseball team, and a string of car dealerships. According to him, you came highly recommended. The person who referred you said you helped him heal. Said you were a miracle worker.”
“I am?” My heart twists because I’ve heard that phrase before. Those words fell out of someone’s delectable mouth. “Who referred him?”
