“How… how bad is it?” I closed my eyes to block my reflection out.
“He’s a fighter, but they aren’t sure he’ll make it,” Mom answered. “He hasn’t woken up yet and the accident happened a few days ago.”
“Someone should have called me,” I snapped.
A quick breath calmed me. Anger at my father’s family, people who’d never accepted me as one of them and now hadn’t let me know he was hurt gave me no benefit, a useless emotion.
“They will now,” Mom said. “I only found out today, but I already called his doctors, let them know about you. They will call you with any updates.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I replied and blinked to keep from crying, “you didn’t have to do that.”
She didn’t reply immediately. The bubbly co-ed in the mirror frowned. Naïve she might have been, but we both knew our mother well enough to worry at her silence.
“It’s strange,” she finally began, and I could hear the frown on her face, “it was your brother Ewan who called me. He was very interested in talking to you, wanted to know how to contact you.”
“That is weird,” I replied. “Maybe he wants to connect now that our father is in a bad way, but the way they’ve always glared at or ignored me, I can’t see that being the case.”
“You should have grown up with a better relationship with your father,” Mom said. “We should have realized his people would have never accepted me. But then, I never would have had you. That’s why I want you to stay safe.”
“Mom, I just touched up my makeup,” I grumbled.
“And you don’t want your sappy ol’ mom to make you cry?” she said with a titter. “Fine, but you better come home safe.”
“Twenty-nine’s not old, Mom,” I turned to humor and flattery.
“I bet you said that with a straight face too,” Mom replied. “When you’re 29, we’ll have to say we’re sisters.”
“You already do, I’m sure. Next time I head out of the country, I’ll make sure to tell you first, I promise.”
We ended the call and I dabbed my eyes before finishing up. Staring at my sorority sister doppelganger in the mirror, I shook my shoulders. I had to get in character. Men, at least the ones I’d met, fixated on a certain type of girl; they imprinted on them in a way It was where their kinks came from.
If their first sexual thought came from looking at a babysitter’s legs as she walked in high heels, he fixated on feet. A boy with a particularly strict school librarian during the throes of puberty might have a thing for stern women in dark glasses bossing him around.
The man I was about to meet had a thing for naïve and young (but legal!) girls. A virgin kink. Completely common and mundane among sugar daddies. I wasn’t a psychologist, but I understood men well enough to diagnose them.
Men of means had always sought distractions. In the olden days, when unexplored lands and opportunities covered the globe, these men explored the unknown. Some literally, taking expeditions around the world, to the frozen poles, furthest-out islands or highest peaks. Others turned to science, probing the natural world or unearthing lost cities and civilizations… misinterpreting or downright destroying invaluable artifacts along the way, but that was a different story.
Today, every inch of the globe was visible in Google Maps, with the exception of a few places governments didn’t want you to know about. Stepping on the world’s highest peak required sharing a trash-strewn summit with a hundred other ‘explorers’ and their Sherpas who did all the work to get their asses up there and back in relatively one piece.
Sure, Elon Musk could look to conquer the stars and James Cameron could take his little submarine down to where the fish are nightmare fuel, but science and archeology were for the actual scientists now, not aristocratic dilettantes. Those wealthy men still wanted to explore, to plant their flag on virgin territory.
For the right incentive, I’d play the role. Being the blushing school girl had a few benefits. It was more companionship than anything else. She demurred when ‘Daddy’ wanted to get physical. I’d only been kissed once by my current mark and he’d flown me all the way to Paris, bought me over a thousand dollars in clothes, more in jewelry that I’d sell the moment he lost interest.
A few more shakes of my shoulder had me in character. I flashed a bubbly smile at the mirror and all but skipped out of the bathroom. A lanky man in a black suit and chauffeur’s cap stood at the arrivals concourse in front of a town car. He held a sign with my name on it. His flat expression didn’t help me know if I’d kept him waiting.
“Hi! I’m Emma!” I bubbled and hurried toward him in tiny steps.
He nodded and slid the sign in his coat. When I neared he held a hand out for my bag. The character trusted people implicitly but I didn’t and almost broke but with a shrug I handed it off. He opened the back seat. Finding it empty, I entered as flat faced as the driver. No need for theatrics now, it was the hotel’s car.
A bottle of champagne sat in a chilled holder in the central console. A note taped to it had my name written in a blocky scrawl. I snatched and flipped it open.
“Emma,”began the same scrawl,“the morning negotiations went long but I should be done in time for a late lunch, then I can show you the sights. Can’t wait to see you. J.D.”
J.D. stood for Jason Dale. Yes, that Dale family, the owners of DPC Energy. He was a third-generation part owner with a seat on the board, personally negotiating something with OPEC this week. I didn’t need the details. Playing a ditzy character had a few benefits.
The driver entered the car and we departed. I tilted the champagne bottle up at half a glass but once I’d downed that, I took a gulp or two from the bottle. I had a hell of a lot more tolerance than my character. Another gulp went down and I leaned to the window to stare at the buildings we passed.
…
