“Everything’ll be fine.” She runs her palm across my arm. “It’s all going to work out the way it should. Courting is just…courting. I mean, yeah, it’s like a pre-engagement type thing, but you can still change your mind if you’re not right for each other. God will show you the way.”
If only it were that simple.
“Anyway.” I inhale loudly and wipe the anxious look from my face. “I’m going to go wash up for the night. Maybe do my prayers and devotions early. Call it a night.”
My sister carries on, hopping down the stairs, and I make a beeline for the bathroom. I wash Cortland off of me. My hands, my neck, my face.
After changing into pajamas, I crack open my laptop. Everything on here is filtered by some Christian software my father installed the day he gifted me with this machine. The only reason I got it was for school, and I’m shocked he hasn’t taken it away. I try to keep it out of his sight, so as not to remind him I still have it.
I type in Careerbuilder.com.
BLOCKED.
I go to Jobdig.com.
BLOCKED.
My father blocked every website that wasn’t related to our faith or wasn’t connected to the school library or email system or research journals. I can’t even use a search engine.
I pull up my school email and stare at a blank message as I rap my fingers across my mouth.
I whip up a generic email asking for job search leads and BCC a handful of old instructors, but the second I send it, I realize I’d forgotten my favorite marketing guru.
Professor MacAbee.
A jolt of hope shocks my heart into a rapid beat. I double-click an old email from him in my inbox and type up a quick note.
Hi, Professor,
How have you been? I’m glancing at an old email of yours from the last day of Marketing 275, and I saw that you mentioned knowing of some available jobs in the area? I know it’s been several months, but I was wondering if those positions might still be available?
I’m in desperate need of a job right now, and I’ll take anything.
Thanks and hope all is well.
Bellamy Miller
I give it a quick read and press send, chewing on the inside of my lip as I wait for a response. If he’s anything like he was last semester, he should be glued to his email. Every message I ever sent him was returned almost instantaneously.
With each refreshing of the page, a small part of me sinks when I don’t see a new email pop up. Only when I push my computer aside a few minutes later, do I hear a faint chime. Dragging it back to my lap, my breath hitches when I see Professor MacAbee’s response.
Bellamy! All is well here. Good to hear from you. I’m sure you’re enjoying your permanent hiatus from my lectures, though I have to wonder if you miss my pop quizzes!
One of my old colleagues is looking to hire a bunch of college grads for some simple office work. The job is in Salt Lake City, but I know he’d give you an interview if I threw a personal recommendation his way. Give me a day or two to get this all set up, and I’ll shoot you an email with the details.
Ciao,
Prof Mac
My mouth pulls wider than the Grand Canyon as I shut down my laptop. I knew he’d come through for me.
And that’s how it’s done.
COMING SOON – DARK PARADISE Releasing ~ DECEMBER 2015
*Unedited excerpt
**Subject to change
“Don’t take another step,” he said as the heavy hotel room door slammed behind me. My heels anchored into the dense carpet, my body paralyzed by the assertion in his command. The room was pitch black save for the sliver of light that broke through the heavy drapes. In the corner stood a man, or rather, the outline of a man. I couldn’t see his face. “There’s a blindfold on the table to your left. Put it on.”
“Why? Are you some kind of monster?” I meant to sound lighthearted, but the second my voice broke, I showed my cards. My stomach flipped as I grabbed the blindfold off the table and tied the fabric around my eyes. Satin. Maybe silk. Blackest black. “Where do you want me?”
The hotel air conditioning kicked on, bringing a quick chill to my mostly bare skin. My left spaghetti strap fell down my shoulder.
“Leave it,” he said as I attempted to fix it. “It’s going to be off soon enough.”
His voice sounded closer. Licking my lips, I forced a smile, swallowing the warning sirens going off in my head that drowned out my better judgment and scrambled my thoughts. I could smell him. Vetiver and bergamot with a hint of cigar smoke.
The John’s arm gripped the crook of my elbow with firm intention as he led me over to the bed.
“Bronwyn,” he said. “Couldn’t think of a better hooker name?”
“I’m not a hooker,” I spat. “And it’s my middle name.”
“Is it safe for you to be giving out your real name like that?”
“If it makes you feel better, you can call me any name you want,” I said, the corner of my lip curling up into a teasing grin. My first name was Elinor – Nori for short. But he didn’t need to know that. “My name isn’t all that important.”
“Names are everything.”
“That why you won’t tell me yours?”
“Yes.”
“So who’s name will I be screaming out tonight?” I flirted, though attempting to flirt while blindfolded felt rather ridiculous.
“John. Call me John.”
“Original.”
“You’ve got a mouth on you.” His hand gripped my chin without warning, his thumb tracing over my bottom lip.
My heart leapt. Most of them men I spent time with didn’t like a girl with a mouth like mine so I usually kept it shut, but something about his raw energy made me act out of the ordinary. He sounded young. He couldn’t have been much older than thirty. Most of the men who requested my company were sexually depraved, middle-aged politicians who bought my exclusivity until they were bored with me or their bank statements were looking rather bleak, and then they passed me onto someone they knew.
In my business, referrals were everything. I didn’t need a pimp. I didn’t need to walk the streets. My services more than spoke for themselves, and what fifty year old man didn’t want a twenty-four year old honey on his arm with natural DDs, bee-stung lips, and an angelic face framed by silken blonde waves? Their own personal Marilyn Monroe. Not to mention I could carry on an intelligent conversation courtesy of my B.A. in Art History from Georgetown.
I didn’t think of myself as a hooker or a prostitute anyway. As far as I was concerned, I was a high-class sexual concierge for the well-to-do. I supposed if someone absolutely had to put a label on me, they could call me a sugar baby. But this guy was too young to be a sugar daddy.
Much, much too young.
“How’d you hear about me?” I asked, curiosity getting the best of me.
“Not at liberty to say,” he said.
I’d had four clients in the last five years. It had to have been one of them or someone close to them who knew what they did under the veil of night.
A man had been standing outside his door when I’d arrived, dressed in black as if he were with the Secret Service. “John” was much too young sounding to be the president, but whoever he was…he was someone important.
“Take off your dress,” he commanded, his voice sending a commanding chill down my spine that prickled my skin and sent a curious smile to my mouth. “Small talk is over.”
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