Chapter 4 #4
I’m expecting Margaret. Forty-two. Recently divorced. Looking for a confidence boost.
Instead, I’m staring at a face I swear I’ve seen on about a million tabloid covers lately.
I stand frozen, silent, my brain making the Windows 95 shutdown noise as I wonder if that gummy was stronger than I realized and we’ve entered a THC-induced hallucination where celebrities materialize like I’ve summoned them through some accidental pop culture séance.
But why the fuck would my brain conjure up…Charlie Riley?
And while we’re at it, this isn’t an easily recognizable Charlie Riley. She’s as far from “glam” as she can get.
She’s standing in the doorway, also silent, wearing an oversized Tweety Bird T-shirt that hangs just above her knees, her blonde hair scraped back in a messy ponytail that’s more “gave up” than “effortlessly chic.” Her eyes are red-rimmed.
No makeup. She looks exhausted and young and nothing like the polished icon I’ve seen on billboards.
She looks human.
She also looks at the brown paper bag in my hand, and her entire face transforms with relief. To my surprise, her eyes begin to water.
“You earth angel,” she breathes out, stepping back to admire the plain-ass paper bag properly. “You have no idea how important it is to me.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out except a small choking sound.
Charlie Riley is standing here looking at me like I’m her savior because I brought her The Detonator for her passion party.
Surely a woman worth hundreds of millions has an entire staff who could discreetly acquire whatever battery-operated appliance her heart desires?
What the fuck is happening right now?
“Um, sorry, I just was expecting… Is Margaret an alias?”
“Huh?” She cocks her head to the side like a confused puppy. Then she holds out her hand. “No, I’m Charlie. It’s nice to meet you…?”
“Taio Wilkes,” I answer. Oh weird. Normally I give a pseudonym but the truth slipped right out.
I wrap her small hand in mine, accepting her handshake, but the moment our palms touch she flinches. “What?” I ask, examining the hand she rejected, looking for evidence of suddenly onset oozing sores.
“Your hands are freezing,” she says.
“Oh, right. It’s bitter cold out.” I nod over my shoulder vaguely gesturing to “out.”
“You don’t have a coat?”
I tap my lapel. “Dress code. I don’t have an appropriate winter jacket that goes with this.”
I vigorously rub my right hand against my thigh, feeling the friction warm my stiff fingers through the thin fabric of my dress pants.
Then I awkwardly transfer the bag to my other hand, the weight of The Detonator swinging slightly as I repeat the process, watching my pale knuckles gradually flush pink with returning circulation.
“Well, thank you.” She reaches for the bag, but I step back. No way I’m letting her open this until I offer an explanation. What that explanation is, I don’t know yet, but as soon as the puzzle pieces of this bizarre encounter settle, I’ll think of something.
She rolls her eyes. It’s brief, but I catch a glimpse of her annoyance. “You recognize me and now you want a tip, don’t you?”
“What?” I ask, genuinely confused.
Her smile turns sweet and warm. “It’s okay. I get it, truly. And you deserve one, freezing your tush out there to hand-deliver my box. Here, come on in.” She waves me into the penthouse then disappears down the hallway.
I enter the luxurious space, nearly tripping over my own feet when I spot the glossy black grand piano dominating the corner of the living room.
Well, that explains the singing…I think.
My brain is still buffering like dial-up internet.
I’ve heard Charlie’s radio hits—all processed within an inch of their digital lives, sounding like an auto-tuned Alvin and the Chipmunks covering a Disney Channel soundtrack. I didn’t know she could sing like that.
Soft thuds on the hardwood floor alert me to Charlie’s return before she banks left in the hallway and returns to view, carrying a thick wad of cash in her left hand.
“Are you okay?” she asks, frowning at me now, head tilted once more. “You look kind of pale. Do you want some water or soda or something before you get going?”
Get going? Now I’m thoroughly convinced this is some sort of mix-up. But the edible has chosen this exact moment to hit a little harder, and all I can manage is: “You’re Charlie Riley, the pop star.”
She blinks. “Yes. We’ve established that.
And you’re Taio, the courier my dad sent.
” She holds over the wad of twenty-dollar bills and notices my surprise.
“It’s okay. I’m feeling generous today. And I’m not kidding”—she points to the bag in my hand—“that is the most valuable possession I have. I thought I lost it. Thank you for returning it. Swap?” She wiggles the money in her hand, urging me to take it and to hand over the bag in exchange…
Courier? What the hell?
Oh, wait.
Are we role-playing?
Lots of celebrities book escorts under fake names. Maybe the entire passion party was some type of ruse and Charlie Riley wanted me here, with a toy so we could…play all night?
“Don’t you want the money?” She shifts her weight to her other foot, crossing her arms and suddenly looking at me suspiciously.
I scan the room for hidden security team members, a little surprised this mega star is here alone.
But of course—if Charlie hired me for what I think she hired me for, no way she’d want company for that.
This all makes sense now. Okay, it’s showtime.
“Oh, I want the money,” I answer, dropping my voice to a honey-sweet baritone.
“But I want to earn it first. So, Charlie…or should I say, Margaret, what would you like to do tonight? It’s your choice but if the passion party was just an excuse, I’d still love to have dinner and get to know you a little better first before we move on to… dessert. If that’s what you want?”
She blinks at me like her eyelids are heavy. Her lips relax into a half-moon, almost a frown. “I know all of those were words, yet none of it made sense. I just want my package.”
I pump my brows at her. “Your package?”
“Yes.” She points in the vague direction of my crotch. “Do you need a signature?”
I set down the bag and unbutton my sports coat so I have the freedom to cross my arms over my chest. “The deal you signed with Rina already bought my full discretion. You can trust me, I promise. I know you have status, but there’s no funny business here.
Rina runs a very legitimate, professional business.
Me, on the other hand? Well, let’s just say the real fun begins once I clock out. ”
She squints one eye. “Rina is your boss?”
“Yes. She’s who you were texting about tonight.”
Charlie shakes her head. “No, that’d be my dad. He’s the one who hired you guys.”
Oh that’s pretty fucked up. “Your dad hired me…for you?” I ask to clarify.
“Either him or my sister. She usually handles the admin stuff. She was his assistant for so long that I think it just stuck even after they got married.”
Full. Stop. I take a small step backward trying to collect my thoughts. I get it—I’ve encountered some freaky shit in my line of work, but this…this is next level.
“So, your dad and your sister are married and they hired me together…for you…for tonight?” I glance at the ground where the bag sits. “And asked me to bring you this package?”
“Don’t judge,” she balks, crossing her arms to mirror me. “He’s my adoptive dad.”
“It doesn’t make this situation better. Just less illegal,” I argue in a mumble.
Charlie clutches the sides of her temple with open palms and growls. “Okay, I’m not one to dismiss the help or anything, but may I please just have my package and you can go? I’m very busy and I have to get back to my shitstorm of a life.” She juts her thumb over her shoulder to the piano.
“I heard you outside,” I blurt out.
“Oh,” is all she responds with.
“You sounded really great. I’ll be honest, I’ve heard your music before, and I would’ve never expected you could sing like that. It was so—”
“Masculine, husky, soulful, depressing, not easy to sing along with?” Charlie interjects, arching one brow. “Or so my label says.”
“Um, no—none of those things. The word angelic came to mind.”
Her lips spread first, then her reluctant cheeks bunch into half spheres.
It’s almost like she’s unwilling to smile at my high praise.
“My label likes to keep my brand young. It takes a little auto-tune and me, singing like a chipmunk in the studio, but…” She shrugs.
“It keeps me relatable to the younger demographic, I suppose. I rarely get to sing like I want…like I can.”
“That’s the most ridiculous shit I’ve ever heard. Why would they want to cover up a voice like yours?”
“When it comes to mainstream music, it’s more about what looks good than what sounds good. Most days I’m more of an actress than a singer. That’s showbiz for you.” She winks at me and holds her hand out, asking for the bag again.
“You’re really eager to get started,” I say with a scoff of disbelief. This is really happening. There’s no turning back now. “Okay, well, I guess we’re skipping dinner.”
“Huh?”
“We can eat after. I just have to make it very clear that you hired me through Rina for my company. If you’re enjoying our time together and want me to stay on my own accord, that stays off the books.
Cash only. Half upfront, the remainder when we’re finished.
Condoms are non-negotiable. Anything is on the table, except for non-consensual role-playing.
Light spanking is okay, but I don’t like to inflict pain.
It’s not my style.” I show her a warm smile.
“Don’t let my frame fool you. I’m way more of a lover than a fighter.
I hope that’s okay.” I remove my sports coat and lay it on the back of the sofa.
It’s only when I’m unbuttoning my shirt that I see Charlie’s big blue eyes snap open as if a sweeping realization popped like a bubble in her mind.
“What’s in the bag?” Charlie asks quietly, a smirk growing on her face.
Reading her expression, I’m suddenly a little uncomfortable exposing The Detonator. “Um…what exactly do you think is in this bag?”
“Up until ten seconds ago I thought it was a small wooden box, hand-painted with little hearts.” Her voice drops low.
“It’s valuable, but only to me. It holds notes from my mom.
Good luck charms if you will. She died when I was little.
I lost it in the dressing room at my last performance.
My dad, who owns the hotel, just let me know his staff found it and overnighted it. But you’re not a courier, are you?”
Oh shit.
Shitastic hell.
Fuck my actual life.
“I…” My voice comes out strangled. “No.”
She advances, hand outstretched, still asking for the bag that is now the gigantic purple elephant in the room.
I bend down to scoop it up, dead set on ensuring that she never finds out what’s inside, but the flimsy handle betrays me, ripping the paper bag in half.
The Detonator topples out, stopped by the tips of Charlie’s manicured toes.
She bends down to pick up the box, her justified look of horror growing as she rotates it in her hand. It takes about three seconds for the chaos to register on her face and her eyes snap to mine in a look that is all shock and simultaneously full of curiosity.
Oh, kill me now. Please.
“Taio, are you an…?”
“Escort?” I finish her sentence because she seems reluctant to. “Yes.”
She pinches her eyes closed and drops her head. “You thought my dad hired you? Seriously?”
I hold up my hands. “I don’t judge. I was going to recommend serious, invasive family therapy, but I would never judge.”
She rises and I lift my palms higher in surrender as if her pipsqueak self is capable of attacking me and inflicting serious damage. I take a large step back, seriously contemplating fleeing.
She points the box at me menacingly, like it’s a weapon. “Is Taio your real name?”
“Actually, yes.”
Her eyes narrow. “Okay, Taio. Start explaining.”