3. Chapter 3
Mal
M y phone wakes me up much too early, and it takes me a moment of fumbling confusion to realize it’s my ringtone making noise, not my alarm.
“Hello?” I ask groggily.
“Mr. Jones?”
“Uh, yes?” I force myself upright, rubbing my eyes as I try to kick my brain into gear. I’m not exactly a morning person.
“This is Melinda Barnes from Great Oak Home Living. I’m calling about your mother, Dorothy.”
Shit .
“Uh, right. Yes. What is it?” I ask, my stomach sinking in dread as it does whenever the subject of my mother comes up.
“I’m calling to inform you that she had a small fall yesterday afternoon. Everything is all right,” the woman rushes to assure me, “but she got a few bumps and bruises and was asking about you.”
I clamp my eyes shut and hold the phone away from my mouth so Melinda from Great Oak won’t be able to hear my labored breathing. I can’t get my heart rate to come down, but once I’m fairly confident I can speak without a hitch in my voice, I say, “Thank you for informing me.”
“Of course, Mr. Jones. Is there anything you’d like me to pass along? Perhaps a time you might visit?”
“No, thank you,” I croak out.
I hang up before the woman hears me either scream or cry, but it doesn’t make a difference. As soon as the phone falls from my hand, clattering dully against the floor an inch from my foot, I’m pulled under by the rushing in my ears.
No, no, no .
I slip off the bed, rolling to the ground and cradling my head in my hands as I remind myself I’m fine , I’m safe. But it’s no use. I’m sucked under the swell—drowning, it feels like—as my lungs clamp shut and my vision goes spotty.
It never gets easier, the panic. The conviction that this is it . That there’s no way I’ll ever be able to resurface and find air this time. That this panic attack will be my last.
But through my disjointed thoughts and the near crushing weight of my anxiety, I remember the tips from my psychiatrist and stop fighting the undertow.
I let it pull me down and out to sea, even as my lungs burn, even as my muscles tremble violently, even as every one of my instincts tells me to flee .
And then I sink my fingers into the carpet to remind myself of what’s real.
Carpet. I’m in Dixon’s apartment. I squeeze it tight to ground myself.
A faint whirring sound. The fan overhead. I’m in the guest room.
Sharp inhalations cause the scent of detergent to filter through the haze. Clean laundry scent. Not my mother’s preferred lavender brand.
The hairband around my wrist. I fumble for it. A quick snap of pain reminds me I’m in the present.
And slowly, slowly, I surface.
It takes herculean effort to get my bone-tired, shaky body off the floor, but after dragging myself into a nice, hot shower, I’m stable enough to handle the teapot.
I fill it with probably twice as much water as I need for my cup and then set the pot to boil, taking a moment to practice my muscle relaxation techniques while I wait for it to whistle.
It says in my mother’s file to contact me for emergencies only, yet no matter how many times I remind the employees at Great Oak of that fact, they still end up calling at least twice a month.
And not once has it been a true emergency.
Not that I need a reason for my anxiety to spike, but hearing about that woman sure doesn’t help.
I get that it’s hard to paint a seemingly ordinary, inoffensive woman with dementia as a villain, but that’s exactly what she is to me.
I shouldn’t have to justify my lack of visits.
I shouldn’t have to explain myself. I shouldn’t have to tell them over and over again that I don’t want to talk to the monster that lived outside my closet.
I pay for her to be there. To be taken care of. Isn’t that enough?
It’s more than she deserves.
When the teapot whistles, I grab it off the stove and pour piping-hot water over the bag in my mug.
Steam swirls up, bringing with it the scent of lemon, and I inhale deeply as I make myself comfortable in Dixon’s living room, attempting to shake off this morning’s funk.
Dixon himself isn’t home from his workout and coffee run, so I have the place to myself.
I’m just finishing up my first cup of tea when my phone rings for the second time today. My pulse skyrockets, but when I see who’s calling, I exhale in relief, even as my eyebrows pop up in surprise.
My work schedule—and thus my checking account—was sorely lacking for the next two days, but perhaps my luck is about to change.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Malibu dear. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
“Not at all. What can I do for you?” I ask Genevieve, my boss. My other boss. The one only Dixon knows about.
“It’s more what I may be able to do for you,” she says.
I sit forward. “I’m listening.”
“Can you come into the office? This isn’t a conversation to have over the phone.”
“Sure. I can be there in half an hour?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then,” she replies breezily.
When Genevieve hangs up, I finish my tea quickly and head to the guest room to change. You don’t show up at Genevieve’s in sweatpants.
As I get ready, I can’t help but wonder what she has for me.
Another boring business dinner? A charity event?
A straight-up house call? I’m not picky; I need the cash.
But apart from my first interview with Genevieve, she’s never called me to her office to give me an assignment.
Most of our transactions are handled over the phone. Discretion is the name of the game.
So why now?
I arrive at Genevieve’s a half hour later, as I promised, and am buzzed in by her receptionist. The young woman gives me a clipped nod from behind her desk, and when she indicates Genevieve is waiting for me, I walk past the small, plush waiting area to the boss’s cracked-open door.
I give it a quick knock, and Genevieve calls me in immediately.
“Malibu.”
She says my name like I’m her favorite person, a talent I suspect she’s perfected over time.
Genevieve gets out of her chair, rounding her big mahogany desk to give me a kiss on the cheek.
Her floral scent tickles my nose before she leans back and perches against her desk, her pencil skirt pulling tight around her thighs.
“Have a seat,” she tells me gently.
I do as she says, waiting patiently as Genevieve taps her fingers on the sleeve of her semi-sheer blouse.
“I have a client for you to meet,” she voices at last.
“Okay?”
I’m desperate for the work, but what’s with all the cloak-and-dagger?
Genevieve walks back around her desk, sitting in her cushy chair and looking effortlessly at ease as she pulls out a folder, not even glancing at the contents, just tapping it with her long, polished nails. “It’s an unusual case. He requires his escort to be live-in.”
“Live-in?” I repeat. “As in literally living with him?”
She chuckles lightly. “Yes, and it’s a six-month Gold contract.”
My eyes widen.
Every job I’ve worked for Genevieve has been one night only.
As an escort service, Genevieve’s provides men and women to accompany paying clients to whatever public or private event they may have.
Strictly speaking, company is all we provide.
You won’t find any sort of record or payment received for activities of a sexual nature, but that doesn’t stop them from happening.
Genevieve has a color-coded system, and anyone in the know knows exactly how to order the type of activity they’re looking for.
But it’s all hearsay. No one could ever pin it on her because the system is word-of-mouth only.
Gold means full benefits.
But that’s not what’s shocking to me. It’s the six months part.
“I don’t understand,” I admit.
She nods, like it’s no more than she expected. “The client would require you to live in his penthouse for the next six months. To be at his beck and call if and when he needs you. To be fully available in all the ways that count. To be discreet and to follow his rules.”
“Rules,” I repeat, starting to feel like a parrot. “Like, BDSM stuff?” I was pretty sure that was code Gray.
Genevieve laughs, her straight, white teeth shining. “No, dear. No BDSM. His house rules. The man is strict.”
“Anal,” I supply.
Genevieve shrugs. “I suppose. The thing is they’re not unreasonable requests, but that doesn’t mean he’s the easiest to live with. Or so I’ve heard. He’s gone through most everyone I have to offer him.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, nodding as I work through that information. How bad could he be? I know Genevieve wouldn’t keep him on as a client if he were truly horrible. “What are the rules?”
“He’ll tell you himself. You’ll meet with him tonight.”
“I’d start tonight?” I ask in surprise.
She nods. “If you’re both amenable after your little meet-and-greet, you’ll sign on for six months of service effective immediately. Of course, you know he can’t legally hold you there. You can, at any time, break the contract if you feel the need to do so. And he can do the same. For any reason.”
I nod slowly, trying to internalize everything she’s saying. Six months of continuous work would be a huge asset. Doing this job on top of my career in porn could be enough to help dig me out of my financial hole sooner than I’d anticipated. I might not even have to bother with camming for a while.
“Does he live close?” I ask. “I’ll need to be able to get to the studio easily enough.”
Genevieve’s face falls briefly. “About that. There is a bit of a catch.” She pauses a moment before revealing, “He has an exclusivity clause.”
The shock of her words hits me like a blunt object, and I slump with the force of it. “Genevieve, I can’t do that. You know how important my other job is.”
I can’t quit porn. It’s the only thing keeping my bills from swallowing me whole.
“Now hear me out, love,” Genevieve says, her tone soothing. “It pays $300,000.”
I blink several times.
“Plus an extra $200,000 if you can reach the end of the contract.”
Good grief .