Chapter 2 Scarlett
TWO
SCARLETT
The lipstick slides over my lips, smooth as silk.
Most escorts wouldn’t wear lipstick to an appointment, but I have a no-kissing rule that makes it a non-issue for me.
The fact that it acts as armor that hardens me against the world is just a bonus.
I lean back, taking in my reflection in the mirror of my vanity. I have a very specific routine before my appointments, a routine that takes me exactly two and a half hours to attain the perfect look.
My blonde hair has been expertly blown out, the volume offering the ideal grip for chubby, greedy hands. My makeup is flawless; there’s not a pore in sight, and my eye look is simple but perfect.
I’m wearing a modest black dress today, because even though my red lingerie beneath it screams whore, I still need to be conscious of my appearance in public, given that my profession isn’t necessarily legal.
I need to be strategic about how I look and when.
It’s the reason I’m such a perfectionist.
Well, one of the reasons.
It’s a woman’s job to always look presentable, Scarlett.
My spine stiffens, my darkened eyelashes fluttering quickly as I try to blink away the memory of my mother’s voice.
When I was a teenager, her voice was the thing that drove my actions—both consciously and unconsciously. Every time I looked in the mirror, every time I thought about food…any time a man was nearby.
When I left home, somehow, the voice got louder. To the point that I had to actively work on shutting it out.
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head, loosening some of my curls. I hurriedly reach for the hairspray, hands shaky from my trip down memory lane, and accidentally knock over another spray bottle.
God, what is with me tonight?
Her voice used to consume me. It took me months, years, to get to the point where I could shut her out—save for a few tiny moments when she slips back in.
Like tonight.
Directing all my focus to my hair, I spray and smooth the strands until there isn’t a single one out of place. Unfortunately, the easiest way to erase her voice has always been to achieve perfection. God knows that woman was only quiet when she ran out of critiques.
Sure enough, when I confirm in the mirror that my appearance is perfect, the sounds of the city filter back in and the room fills with air again. I can breathe.
Glancing down at my phone, I realize I’m out of time. Gathering the purse with all my essentials—lipstick, condoms, wipes, and pepper spray—I quickly slip on my heels before walking out the door.
Once I get to the hotel where my client’s waiting, I’ll add a little curve to my spine and shorten my strides to avoid any attention, but for now, I settle into the confident facade that comes so easily to me.
It’s the armor I feel the strongest with.
When I reach the driver waiting for me outside of my building, I give him a polite smile but nothing more. And once I’m sitting in the car, I wordlessly press the button for the partition.
The twenty-minute ride allows me to go through the mental checklist I’ve perfected.
Appearance: flawless
Voice: low and sultry
Smile: appears genuine
Emotions: numb
It’s essential that I go into my appointments with every item checked off.
The first two are for client satisfaction and job security—my job is far easier if I’m seeing repeat, satisfied clients.
The third is vital for this job. And the fourth…
honestly, I don’t know what it’s like to not be numb, but I imagine most escorts require some level of numbness for a job like this.
Who knows. I don’t talk to the agency’s other escorts—or to anyone, really—so it’s not like I’ll ever ask.
Regardless, when I knock on my client’s hotel door—room 521, just like the agency’s email said—my body tenses and stomach twists when I come face to face with my client.
But you’d never know it from the smile I give him.
“Hi, baby,” I purr.
“Daisy,” he greets excitedly, using my pseudonym. “You look beautiful.”
You look fuckable, is what he means. But my smile grows anyway, the movement—and accentuation of my lips—making his pupils widen further. “Aren’t you sweet. Thank you.”
When he stands aside and gestures me in, I enter the room with long strides, making sure my hips sway. I place my purse on the dresser and begin to adjust my appearance. Now that we’re behind closed doors, I can safely morph into the character the client needs.
That’s the secret to being an escort. It’s not just about letting men use your body; it’s about figuring out what it is that each man wants.
Some pay for escorts because they want the woman to leave right after.
Some just want to be wanted. Some are lonely and simply want to talk to another person.
Every client has a different why. And it’s my job to figure out what it is.
For Tom Harris, it’s to roleplay his daily life, but with a different ending.
You see, Tom is a Vice President of a very successful software company. He’s married with kids and has a high-paying job. He has everything he should want.
The only problem is that his boss, the CEO, is a stone-cold woman who runs the company with an iron fist and has no issue putting men in their place when they mess up.
So, every time Tom gets chewed out in front of the entire executive team, I get a call.
I’m hired to recreate the scolding, just so he can get on his knees for a different ending.
Men are such simple creatures.
“So,” I start in a cold voice, spinning around to face him. “Would you like to explain to me why you failed to hit this quarter’s numbers?”
Predictably, his breathing becomes heavier. “We had some unforeseen complications—”
“Isn’t it your job to foresee those complications?” I interrupt. “I was under the impression you were competent when I hired you.” I take a step closer, my voice dripping with condescension. “Are you not? Competent?”
His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. I can see the outline of his erection against his slacks.
“If I had more support, I-I would have—” he stutters.
I let out a mocking laugh. “Support? Did you want someone to hold your hand?” I take another step, now close enough that there’re only a few inches between us.
Ironically, I’m taller than Tom in heels, so I have to duck my head slightly to taunt him.
“Do you need a babysitter, little Tommy? Are you a poor wittle baby, in need of—”
I see the moment he reaches his limit. Wincing, he grabs his crotch, the pain on his face evident. He’s seconds from coming already. This week must have been bad, because I usually get a few more jabs in before he cracks.
Oh well. This just means a shorter appointment.
I point at the floor by my feet. “On your knees. If you’re going to be a disappointment, we might as well find some use for you.”
He drops to his knees with a thud. Relief floods his face as he looks up at me, waiting eagerly for my next instructions.
Slowly, I slide the hem of my dress up. I already took my underwear off in the elevator, so I’m exposed to him as soon as it reaches my hips.
His eyes widen and his mouth opens as he begins to pant, his hand flexing on his crotch again.
“No touching yourself,” I tell him. Then I place one leg over his shoulder, opening myself up to him completely. “Now…make me come.”
Ten minutes and a fake orgasm later, Tom stands to his feet with a wet spot on his pants and a blush on his cheeks.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, embarrassed by how quickly everything happened. “It was a…rough week.”
I smile warmly, and I barely have to force it. For one, I only ever want my clients to feel satisfied. But for another, I’m never going to complain about an appointment ending early.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell him as I stand to study my reflection in the mirror. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
But I know the answer even as I ask the question. While some men like the company and actually want to talk, Tom only wants one thing. And he just got it.
“No, no, I don’t want to bore you,” he says, confirming my thoughts. “I…appreciate you coming by.”
I turn and smile at him. “Anytime,” I purr.
He becomes momentarily mesmerized by my lipstick, but with a two-day refractory period, his body isn’t capable of doing anything about it. His eyes move up to meet mine, and this time, there’s nothing sexual in his gaze.
He nods at the envelope on the dresser. “Your money is in there. I added a little extra as a thank you for fitting me in last-minute.”
“You’re too good to me,” I say softly, placing my hand on his cheek before I step away. “Call me any time, okay? You know I love to see you.”
I know I’ve done my job well when I see him buy the lie.
Ten minutes later, I’ve made myself publicly presentable again and tucked the money into my purse. Twenty-eight minutes after entering the hotel room, I’m leaving two thousand dollars richer.
As soon as the elevator doors close behind me, I pull out my phone to text the agency.
Scarlett: Done early. Everything’s fine. I just left the hotel.
Amara’s text comes back immediately.
Amara: Enjoy the early night. Thanks for checking in.
My obligatory check-in complete, I slide my phone back into my purse.
I catch a taxi in front of the hotel without issue. It’s New York City, after all. And it’s easier than having my driver wait for an hour, which would clearly give away what I’m doing in the hotel.
Sliding into the backseat, I give the driver a polite smile and my address, then let out a heavy breath. I’m officially off work for another twenty-four hours. I could make more money if I saw more clients, but I have a strict one-man-a-day rule, six days out of the week.
When we reach my apartment building, I wordlessly pay the driver and climb out of the cab. With every step toward the lobby, I pray for the numbness to fade. For some life to return to my body after selling it.
This feeling is one of the reasons I schedule my appointments at night. Because the only way for me to shed the mask I don for my clients is to take a sleeping pill and hope the sunrise snaps me back to life.
This isn’t the life I envisioned for myself.