Escorting the Billionaire #1(3)

 

My mind flashed immediately to my brother, Tommy. I got a lump in my throat. “I’m listening,” I said over it.

 

“Mr. Preston needs a date for his brother’s wedding. There are related functions as well—including a family trip to the Caribbean the day after the wedding. He wants you to pretend to be his girlfriend. His family needs to believe that you’re a couple.”

 

“Why isn’t he bringing an actual date?” I asked.

 

“He’s not seeing anyone right now. He said his family was difficult. They’ve been giving him a hard time about his bachelor status—so he wants a date as a buffer.”

 

“Huh,” I said.

 

“He also told me he wants this to be a business transaction, no strings attached,” she said. “He’s a professional, and he needs a professional. He wants you to attend these functions with him, pay you afterward, and then say goodbye with a clean slate. If you perform per the terms, you’ll receive a third of the full fee. In this case, that’s over sixty-five thousand dollars for two weeks’ worth of work.”

 

My mouth dropped open, gaping.

 

“Do you understand?” Elena asked.

 

“Hell yeah,” I said, because money I understood. What was less clear was why a billionaire real-estate mogul had to hire an escort for his brother’s wedding. If he’d made a “Hottest Bachelor” list, someone must want to date him…

 

But really, it didn’t matter. There was no way I was letting this assignment go to another girl. Not a real-life girl and not another escort. Sixty-five-thousand dollars would be life changing for me.

 

“You can do this, Dre. Be polished. Your best self. Just like that girl you were when you first came to me,” Elena said.

 

I peered at myself in the mirror. My hair, long and brunette, hung wet and dripping over my shoulders. My face was red and blotchy from crying in the shower.

 

I was a wreck.

 

But if I let myself block out everything that I’d done—including the things I’d done earlier today with Mr. Switchblade—I could see myself the way I used to be. Before this. What I’d become.

 

“I’d love the assignment. Thank you so much for thinking of me,” I said quickly. “That money will help out so much.”

 

“I know it will,” Elena said. “That’s why I know you’ll do a good job. This needs to seem natural. No fuck-ups. If there are any problems, that’s it—you’re out for good. And I know how much you need this.”

 

“I won’t let you down, Elena,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. “When do you want me to come in?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The good thing about working as an escort was the money. And the clothes. The bad part was the guys who cried, or who hit you, or who were just plain-old weird.

 

There was a lot of weird.

 

Elena hadn’t given me any assignments for a whole week, so I’d been taking in strays I found on an online “dating” site. The money wasn’t enough to cover my rent, let alone Tommy’s, and there were plenty of weirdoes out there. Mr. Switchblade was Exhibit A of that.

 

So I was relieved to go back to AccommoDating, Inc.’s South End office the next morning. Located on Tremont Street, the office was airy elegant. It was also easily accessible from the Financial District, where most of our wealthy clients came from.

 

AccommoDating, Inc. was a mostly legitimate business. We were registered with the Massachusetts Corporations Division as a high-end dating service, which at heart we were. All of our other services were strictly off-the-record. Sometimes Elena had us give the necessary politicians free services, so they were happy and we were left alone.

 

This morning I had to get tested again, both for STDs and to prove that I’d faithfully been taking my birth control pills. I also had to get prepped and packed for my trip. Mr. Preston was picking me up this afternoon. I had butterflies in my stomach. I was curious about my new John.

 

Usually the clients chose their escort via our pictures and a brief description on the private AccommoDating website. James Preston, however, had left it to Elena.

 

“He said he wanted someone brunette, curvy, and smart,” she’d told me. “I immediately thought of you, even though you’re on probation. He also said he wanted classy.”

 

I wasn’t sure about that part. I’d been an escort for over a year, and any classiness I might have had was long gone, rubbed away by more hands than I liked to count. But for this kind of money, I would fake the classy. Maybe wear a turtleneck or something. In the Caribbean.