7. Bradley
Bradley
Three days later
I completed all the paperwork, gave my information, my sexual preference for dates and my picture. Hell, I even gave my own little intro.
Hi, my name is Bradley. Every minute with me will be filled with fun and great conversation.
I’d love to go on a date with you. From black tie to lounging in pajamas, I promise, the night will be unforgettable.
I’m the kind of date you brag about. Gender doesn’t mean anything to me, and I’m just waiting for you.
I thought it was clever, and I worked hard on it.
Foxy just shook her head at me when I handed the paper to her that I’d written it on.
But time was of the essence and the clock was already ticking.
I needed someone to log on to the site or call in and request me.
Money is the only thing on my mind at the moment, especially with the bills breathing down my throat right now.
The clock on the wall keeps ticking away with that same cruel rhythm—slow, mocking.
Time has never moved as slow as it has since my profile went live on the site.
Yet, there’s not been one hit. Not one person has submitted a request for my services.
My mind’s been racing. Did I use the right picture?
Was my little blog too much? Did it turn people away that I was bisexual?
The rejection wouldn’t have hit me so hard if I would've gotten a call about the other jobs I’ve applied to.
The more legal, less buy my body ones. Not one of the ten businesses I dropped resumes to around town have contacted me.
I’ve even gotten desperate enough to apply as a pizza delivery guy.
Not that it’s not honest work. I just know it’s not going to make me what I need to live and save the house.
I just need someone— anyone —to require the services of a handsome young man, namely me, on their arm for one damn night.
A wedding, a gala, a fundraiser, a petty revenge dinner with an ex—I don’t care.
One date would lead to more. Money would be made, and I’d be able to save Nana’s house.
No. My house. It’s mine, and I don’t plan to lose it. I’d rather die.
I hit refresh on my inbox again. The same result appearing.
Nothing .
The little spinning icon taunts me with the fact that I’m not wanted.
I’ve been checking so many times my damn thumb is starting to cramp.
Twenty percent battery life is the only thing requiring my undivided attention at the moment.
Moving over to the table by the door, I plug my phone in to the charger and head outside to check the mail.
Anything to get my mind off of my current predicament.
"Maybe I screwed it up," I mutter to myself, making my way down the driveway to the mailbox.
I really thought I set my profile up well.
Even trying to mimic the style of Scout's profile. He was clearly doing good and booking clients. He even managed to find two men he couldn’t stop thinking about.
I uploaded my new headshot, even made sure to use the one that showed the faintest hint of my dimples.
I was positive I gave off a warm, approachable and hot-but-safe vibe.
Apparently, none of that screamed ‘take me to your cousin’s black-tie affair.’
Reaching into the mailbox, I pulled out the contents and began looking through them. Maybe luck was on my side, and I was getting a Publisher’s Clearing House check like Nana used to always talk about.
One by one, I went through the stack. Bill. Bill. Bill. The weight I’m carrying on my shoulders seems to get heavier to the point I think I’m eventually going to suffocate.
“Hello Bradley, how are you doing?” Mrs. Peabody shouts from her porch across the street.
“Good,” I yell back and quickly turn, making my way back up the driveway.
The woman is sweet as can be and without her I’d probably starve, but she doesn’t stop talking once she starts.
And it doesn’t matter how many times I say no, she keeps trying to set me up with her granddaughter.
Not that she’s not an attractive girl. Just not interested.
While I’ve been with women, I much prefer dick over pussy.
Stepping inside the house, I place the mail in the box on the table and head into the living room.
Dropping down onto the couch, I let out a heavy sigh as I fling an arm over my face, covering my eyes.
My mind races in an endless circle, each one more unhinged than the last. Maybe the site glitched.
Maybe I’ve been shadowbanned. Or, just possibly, I gave Foxy’s the wrong contact information and they don’t know how to reach me.
Maybe—
BZZZZT. BZZZZT.
BZZZZT. BZZZZT.
Those two short, clipped vibrations cut through the air like a gunshot.
And I freeze, my brain focusing to determine where the noise is coming from.
I look around the room, trying to figure out where it’s coming from, and then it hits me.
That sound. That glorious, cruel, teasing little sound is the one I set just for my emails.
"Shit—!" I shout, launching off the couch with so much enthusiasm that I catch the corner of the coffee table with my toe. Pain explodes through my foot as my body falls forward. My arms shoot out instinctively, catching me just in time to avoid my face colliding with the floor.
The hardwood isn’t merciful, and my wrists scream in pain.
Add that to my throbbing toe, and my pride curls up inside me and dies a quiet death somewhere near the baseboards.
I scramble upright with the frantic energy of a man possessed and hobble toward the door like a war-wounded soldier on a mission.
I need to know who that email is from. If it isn’t from Foxy’s, then I’m done.
I’m going out back, digging a hole and covering myself in it.
I snatch my phone off the table, ripping the charging cord from the wall along with it. My fingers move with precision, gliding over the icons until I find the one for my email and open it.
The top message. I close my eyes, squinting them tightly together, sending a silent prayer to Nana that when I open them I’m not imagining what I’m seeing.
My eyes flutter open hesitantly, like they already know what’s waiting might disappear the moment I try to confirm it.
Holding my breath, I swipe up with my thumb, removing the home screen and displaying my email once again.
And it’s still there. My heart flips. Literally, flips.
Like a fish out of water, flailing and gasping.
Subject: New Booking—URGENT RESPONSE NEEDED
One message. A single line visible in the preview, and already it’s making my eyes go wide. Clicking on it, I open it up, ready for all the details. I skim over everything quickly, and I nearly faint in shock.
A laugh roars from my mouth, wild and shaky. Relief? Disbelief? Almost like a strange high that comes from toe-stubbing, face-saving, wrist killing, heart-pounding anticipation.
Finally, someone wants me. The idea that I can save my home is becoming a reality.
I scan the email again. Slower this time as I make my way back into the living room, somehow doing it injury free.
Two days! She wants me for two days. One is for tomorrow and it’s for three hours, which is the minimum time you can book someone for.
And the other is Saturday for the full eight hours for a wedding.
Apparently, the meeting tomorrow is at noon at Sunrise Cafe on Main Street.
It’s merely to go over details and provide the dress code.
Seems I’m going on a revenge date. Somehow that makes me perk up and grin broadly as curiosity takes over.
I’d been hoping my first date was a man, but this will work.
And it still leaves my night open to book another date.
“Fuck yeah!” I shout as my mind starts working through the math.
Eleven hours worth of dating at five hundred an hour is five thousand five hundred.
But that’s not what I’ll get because I still have to deduct Foxy’s cut for renting myself out.
After her twenty-five percent, I’ll have a little over four thousand.
Not a bad takeaway for a few hours and a nice chunk out of the twenty-three thousand owed in back taxes.
I flip over to my texts and send Scout a message.
Me: Hey man. Just making sure you’re okay and to let you know I’m here. You don’t need to respond, but I got my first date. Thanks for helping me out. I appreciate it so much.
Not even a minute passes before he answers.
Scout: It’s going. And congrats, man. The first of many and one step closer.
Me: I’m here if you need me.
He doesn’t answer. But I don’t expect him to.
My mood suddenly is on the upside, and I don’t plan to let it fall back down into darkness again.
I flip back to the email and quickly accept the date. Both of them. Now I just need to sit back and wait for the others to flow in.
The next day, I show up at the coffee shop a little earlier and even splurge on a Caramel Macchiato with almond milk and make it a venti.
My eyes glaze over the dessert case and I quickly decide to get an orange-strawberry muffin as well.
Might as well treat myself now that I’m a working man.
Turns out being a professional plus-one is hard work.
Once I have my drink and snack, I look around the shop and find a table in the corner. One where I can have my back to the wall and a perfect view of the door, so that I can see who’s coming in.
I have a picture so I know what my date, Andrea, looks like.
She’s a pretty woman. Not in an overly gorgeous way, but more like the girl next door.
Jet black hair and the darkest brown eyes I’ve seen.
She looks to be in her late twenties or early thirties and has a warm smile.
A part of me is curious why she even needs to hire a date and who would break up with her.
Could she be a hateful bitch with a rude attitude?
My wait isn’t long when I see her open the door and step inside. She looks around anxiously before her eyes land on me. She raises her hand, giving an awkward wave before heading my way, folder in hand.
“Bradley?”
I stand and shake her hand. “I am, and you must be Andrea. Would you like something to drink?” I know technically that any costs that are incurred during the date are covered by the person hiring me, but I can’t help but to offer to purchase it for her. Call it how I was raised.
“No thank you,” she says softly. “Your picture doesn’t do you justice,” she adds.
“I can say the same for you. Please have a seat.” I gesture toward the chair in front of me and she sits down, while I return to mine. I might not have been nervous before, but suddenly, now that she’s here, I am.
“So, I’m your date for a wedding. I know today we’re supposed to go over some of the details.”
“Yes,” she replies as she picks up a napkin off the table and begins to tear small pieces from it.
“Umm, not that I’m not grateful for today, but you could’ve had them emailed to me. Save yourself some money.” Why the hell am I saying that? I shouldn’t be giving her any ideas in case she wants to use me again. I need the fucking income to pay off the mounting bills.
“It’s fine,” she says without looking up at me. “Money isn’t an issue. This meeting was for me as much as giving you the details. I wanted the chance to meet you first so that I’d feel more comfortable on Saturday.”
I can get that. In fact, I’m actually glad. Saturday will be crazy enough as it is, but knowing that we’ll have at least met beforehand makes it easier.
“So, who are we making jealous? They have to be a fool to not be with someone as sweet and attractive as you.” I can’t help but wink as I take a bite of my muffin.
“The groom.”
My eyebrow raises in both shock and confusion. Is she going there in hopes of breaking off the wedding? Suddenly I’m rethinking this whole date as I take a swallow of my coffee.
“He was my ex-boyfriend, and the bride is my cousin.”
“What?” I spew some of the coffee in my mouth onto the table.
“Yeah, can you believe that? My own cousin was cheating with my boyfriend, behind my back. Claims they couldn’t help falling in love and that it turns out they were a better match. Really, it’s because I don’t fit the perfect woman image his family is after.”
“That’s some fucked up shit.” I reach across the table, taking her hands in mine. “Then let’s make them really jealous. I’m going to treat you like a queen on Saturday. Now tell me everything I need to know about you and him.”
She smiles brightly, never once pulling her hands away from me until I let go of them.
We spend the next couple of hours learning every detail I need to know about her.
We even come up with a legitimate reason for how we met, one that would rival any meet cute plot scene you’d find in a romance book or movie.
“Thank you,” she tells me as she stands from the table, our time over for the day.
I make a rash decision and pull her into my embrace. "If we’re going to sell this, we need chemistry, on sight and on camera. One kiss now might take the edge off for Saturday."
I pause, giving her just a second to pull away, but she doesn’t. So I lean in, tilting her chin up, and press my lips to hers—slow, steady, and measured. There’s no rush, no heat, just intention.
When she softens into it, her lips part, and I deepen the kiss just enough to make it feel real.
We pull apart, both slightly breathless. I grin. “Well… I think we’ve got the believable part down.”
She laughs, cheeks flushed. I trail my thumb gently along her bottom lip, and for a split second, she looks like she’s remembering what it feels like to be wanted.
“Fuck, that was sweet and hot as hell at the same time.” She fans herself with her hand.
“You’re welcome. I aim to please and make sure you get every penny worth of your money.” I give her a playful wink before pulling her in for a hug. “Your ex is going to be leaving your cousin at the alter and begging for you back,” I whisper.
“No second chances for him; I’m going to find an older version of you.” We both laugh and I take her hand in mine, and guide her toward the door.