Chapter 4 #3
He doesn’t respond. He’s ascended to a higher plane of consciousness.
His eyes are half closed, his purr rattling through his entire body like a faulty engine.
I envy him. No existential dread. No hundred-thousand-dollar promises hanging over his head.
No hurting over the feline who dumped him after he lost his money.
No father in prison who we might have to excavate with a reenactment of Shawshank Redemption.
Just catnip and kibble and the simple pleasure of existing.
Must be nice.
The edible is starting to kick in—just a gentle warmth at the edges, nothing too intense—as I race through the world’s fastest shower.
The hot water helps clear my head, and by the time I’m toweling off, I’ve almost convinced myself this is a great idea.
Step one in a twelve-step redemption plan where I keep my promises and restore myself to my prior palatability in society.
I dig through my closet for something presentable, which takes longer than it should because my wardrobe has significantly deteriorated since my trust-fund days.
I sold everything name brand I owned after Dad’s scandal for a little survival money.
The sports coat Anne commented on at dinner is now the nicest thing I own—a navy number I bought secondhand from a consignment shop in Brooklyn.
It’s quality, just not new. I pair it with dark jeans and a black button-down, check my reflection, and decide I look like someone who could plausibly be invited to a passion party of the elite.
The sex shop is a fifteen-minute walk from my apartment—a place called “Sinfully Seductive” that I’ve passed approximately four hundred times without ever going inside.
The neon sign flickers in the window, promising Tasteful Adult Novelties and Discreet Packaging which at least suggests I won’t have to carry a giant dildo down Fifth Avenue in a see-through bag.
Inside, the store is surprisingly aesthetic. Clean shelves, soft lighting, a bored-looking employee with green streaks in her hair who barely glances up when I enter. It’s nothing like the seedy backroom vibes I expected.
“Can I help you find something?” Green Hair asks, not looking up from her phone.
“I need a gift. For a party.”
“Bachelorette?”
“Passion party.”
She finally looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “Passion party. Fancy. What’s your budget?”
“Hundred bucks.”
“Okay, so mid-range. You want something practical or something that’ll get a laugh?”
I think about Rina’s instructions. Be charming. Don’t make fun of anything.
“Practical,” I decide. “Something…I don’t know. Classy? My friends mentioned something called The Detonator is all the rave.”
Green Hair snorts in laughter. “Do you want classy or The Detonator? Two different things.” She leads me to a display case near the back, gesturing at the options like a sommelier presenting a wine list. “Budget friendly is bottom shelf. Mid-range is eye level. Top shelf is where you’ll find The Big D—our nickname for The Detonator. ”
“You have a nickname for it?”
Wide-eyed, she nods. “It’s that popular. Believe me, you’ll be the hero of the party.”
I lock eyes with the box. Intimidating indeed. Its phallic girth and length alone are enough to make any grown man feel unbearably insignificant. Not to mention it’s like a two-headed hydra, threatening to demolish you from the inside out.
“It only comes in black?” I ask. “Is there something less aggressive-looking like…pink?”
“We keep a twenty-four-carat-gold limited edition in the back.” She reaches for the key hooked to her lanyard. “I’ll have to unlock it.”
“How much?”
“For Goldie? Two thousand.”
I snatch up the box in front of me. “Black it is.”
She smirks. “Wise choice. Gift-wrapped?”
“God, no. Just your most subtle bag.”
She rings me up and slides the toy into a brown paper bag with glittery-gold cloth handles.
“Do you want me to input your name and number? We have a loyalty program and a huge variety.” She plants her elbows on the counter, scoots forward, and drops her voice to a whisper which is unnecessary because we’re alone. “We have taint stuff. Top of the line.”
My slow, heavy blinks aren’t answer enough for her, so I have to add a pointed, “Hell no, thanks,” before sliding my bag off the counter and exiting.
“Come back anytime.” She’s already back on her phone before I reach the door. “The loyalty program has generous rewards if you change your mind,” she calls out as I exit the store into the frigid early February air.
Back on the street, I check my phone. Rina’s prior text with the hotel name glows on the screen:
Rina: FOCUS. I need a warm body in a sports coat at the Elusive Hotel in two hours.
The Elusive is all the way across town. There’s no time to be cheap and hoof it. Nor do I feel like navigating the subways. I hail a cab, mentally noting that when I offer to stay overnight with this client and set my fee, I include the cost of this ridiculously overpriced cab ride.
I’ll get half of what Rina booked, so that’s one grand. If I ask for another three to stay the night, that’s four grand from one night. Not terrible. It’s four percent of Joy’s tuition. Four percent closer to keeping my promise.
The cab drops me off in front of the Elusive Hotel, a sleek tower of glass and steel that screams money so loudly I’m surprised the doorman doesn’t demand to see my tax returns before letting me inside.
The lobby is all marble floors and modern art—the kind of abstract sculptures that serve no purpose other than intimidating you with their ostentatiousness.
A massive chandelier hangs overhead, dripping crystals like frozen raindrops.
Everything is very white, very clean, very designed to make people like me feel like we don’t belong.
The front desk stretches like a runway, all gleaming marble and brass accents, but only one person mans the station—a young woman so entranced and unnerved by whatever’s on her computer screen that I have to clear my throat twice before her eyes flick up to acknowledge me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir.” She shakes her head, and her neat ponytail glued down by hairspray doesn’t budge. “How can I help you?”
Her eyes dart between me and the screen, clearly eager to get back to whatever emergency she’s dealing with.
“I’m expected in the penthouse.”
She opens her mouth, her brows pinching in confusion. Before she can question me, a sweeping realization overcomes her expression. “Ah, yes—you’re delivering a package to the penthouse?”
“Uh…I guess?” I thought I was a guest, but maybe Margaret is going out of her way to be discreet with the hotel staff. Not the worst idea since she invited a bunch of her friends to an esteemed hotel to what I sincerely hope will not escalate into an orgy.
A chirpy ding of a notification pulls her attention back to her screen once more.
She lets out a small roar of frustration and puts one hand on the receiver of her desk phone.
With the other, she fetches a black keycard and sets it on the counter between us.
“The elevator all the way down the hall leads to the penthouse. There’s a small foyer and then just ring the bell by the double doors. You can’t miss them.”
The receiver is already wedged between her ear and shoulder as she dials like she’s angry at the phone. Glancing up one more time, she flashes me a hurried smile. “Anything else?” she mouths.
“Nope. Thank you.” Effectively dismissed, I collect the key and head to the elevator bay, locating the only one that leads to the “P Level.”
The elevator is mirrored on all sides, which means I get to watch myself ascend in infinite recursion—an endless hallway of Taios in sports coats, all of them clutching brown paper bags containing giant black vibrators, all of them wondering how their lives ended up here.
The edible has settled into a comfortable hum, taking the edge off without making me stupid.
I wish I was back home, cozy with my book.
Splurging on takeout that’s actually edible.
I wish I was anyone else, doing anything else because while I know escorting, outside of winning the lottery, is the fastest way to dig myself out of the hole my dad made, I’m so tired of this shit.
There’s a fatigue in me that goes so far past physical.
But I don’t have time to wallow. The elevator ride is brief, the steel box slingshotting to the top floor. The doors open onto a private foyer, and that’s when I hear it.
Piano music. Soft and melancholy, drifting through the penthouse door like smoke.
And beneath it, a voice—husky and raw, singing a vaguely familiar song.
Except this rendition is harrowing. It’s that Rihanna track, the sad one, the one that plays in every movie when someone’s having an emotional breakdown in the rain.
The one included on every single playlist of an angsty romance with a third-act breakup.
But this version is different. Stripped down. Intimate. Even more harrowing if that’s possible. Like whoever’s singing it means every single word.
I stand there for a moment, frozen, listening.
The voice artistically cracks on a high note—not from lack of skill, but from emotion.
From something real and aching underneath the melody.
Margaret has some singing chops. Holy hell.
That’s great. An easy icebreaker for the woman I just might end up in bed with tonight.
I decide it’s the very first thing I’ll say to her.
Hi, Margaret, I’m Taio. Nice to meet you.
Your voice is devastatingly beautiful. How long have you played piano?
I step up to the penthouse door, my knuckles finding the wood with three hard knocks before I remember the doorbell. I hover over the blue-lit button but drop my hand when the piano stops. She heard my knocks.
Footsteps approach.
The door swings open, and my prepared smile dies on my face.