I roll my eyes at her again, even though it’s nice to hear Mum use my maiden again. Maybe there’s hope she’ll one day come around, realise it’s 2019, and accept my marriage is over. The last thing my tummy wants right now is to have to digest food while it’s flipping with anxiety over Angela’s call, but one look at Mum’s stern face and I take a big bite of chocolate cake and force it all the way down my throat.
Walking home an hour later,I barely take in the bustling noises of the city humming all round me as indecision rages inside my mind. I never believed that I would actually accept an offer to be an escort. It’s not me, it’s not who I am. Heck, if my family found out I was even entertaining theidea I would be locked away in a room with the key thrown away.
I signed up on a crazy whim to prove to myself that I’m the one who’s in control of my own life. No one else. Especially not my husband. To prove to myself that I can do whatever I want, be who ever I want to be. Thathedoesn’t own me. But every time Angela has called me, I’ve baulked. So why does this offer have me spinning? Because Mum reminded me that I’m doing nothing with my life, and I know I can’t go on like this forever?
My intuition tells me that this is different, that I should accept it and see what lies on the other side. However, my intuition has proven to be a dumb bitch thus far in my life and therefore probably shouldn’t be trusted.
My thoughts ping-pong back and forth as I actually consider agreeing to this offer. Five minutes later, I’ve come to a decision. I hit dial on Angela’s number before I change my mind. She answers on the first ring.
“Gianna, I’ve been waiting for your call,” she rushes out, hope in her voice.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “This Friday. Book the hotel.”
2
The door buzzes with the swipe of the keycard and I push it open to reveal the luxurious hotel room Angela booked for tonight’s tete-a-tete. I try not to think too hard about what I’m doing here as I take in the soft white accents and modern furnishings that adorn the room, dumping my overnight bag on the floor next to the entrance in case a swift escape is needed. Bypassing the champagne Angela has ready on ice, I head straight for the small bottles of vodka I know I’ll find in the minibar. The lid cracks off easily, and I swipe a glass from the drawer and a piece of ice from the champagne bucket, pouring the vodka straight on top of it.
No time to fluff around with mixers. I need the alcohol to kick in fast.
No one except Angela knows I’m here. If my family or Anna knew what I was about to do they would have me checked into a mental asylum because I’ve clearly lost my fucking mind.
My mystery admirer is due in… I check my phone, five minutes. Bile rises in my throat at the same time that I take a big swallow of vodka, and I almost choke as it forces a hot path all the way down to my gut. The last thing I need is to smell of vomit, especially when I used my last few sprays of Chanel No5 for the occasion. I would hate for it to have been in vain.
I don’t look around and settle in like I usually would do in such an opulent room. No kicking my shoes off to feel my feet sink into the soft carpet, or sniffing the little bottles of shampoo. Definitely no snow angels on the plush bed. No, this isn’t a holiday or a fun little city getaway.
This is something entirely different.
Holding my breath, I slam the rest of my drink down with two minutes to go until show time, and thankfully it kicks in just enough to take the edge off. The matching key to the room is downstairs with reception just as Angela instructed, so my secret admirer can let himself up the lifts. I wonder if he’ll be punctual.
You’d think considering he’s paying fifty thousand dollars for twelve hours he wouldn’t want to waste a minute.
That minute is worth sixty-nine dollars. I did the math. And yes, I get the irony.
I spend the final two minutes looking myself over in the mirror and ignoring the butterflies that aren’t just fluttering around but having an all out pub brawl in my stomach.
What the fuck are you doing here, Gianna?I ask my own reflection. It just stares back at me with green, cat-like eyes, my winged eyeliner purposely accentuating their almond shape. I went a bit heavier on the make-up tonight than I usually do, almost as if I was donning a mask, melting into my very own alter ego. There’s good-girl Gianna, and then there’s prostitute Gianna.
Two completely different people, I hope.
My long black hair that I usually keep scraped in a highponytail is blow-dried down to the small of my back, and when I pull my coat off and toss it over a chair, my short, black dress is revealed.
One minute to go.
Angela didn’t get any details off the man, except his bank ones of course. I have no idea who will be walking through that door, and I have zero faith that I’ll be able to sleep with a man I don’t know, for money.
Can I?
What kind of man spends fifty grand on one night? My imagination has come up with what I’m sure are the worst case scenarios. I’m prepared, and to be honest expecting, to flee at a moment’s notice. I’ve slept with two men in my whole life, and I was in a committed relationship with both. A one-night stand is not me. But, it’s the intrigue that’s brought me here, to this room. I just have to see who this man is.
I spin on my Louboutins, ones I currently have up for sale on Marketplace, and wipe my palms over my hips just as I hear the tell-tale buzz of the key on the fob.
This is it. The big reveal.
I grab on to the back of the chair to steady myself as nerves take over my senses. It’s okay, Gianna. Breathe. You can leave at any point. If you don’t message Angela within ten minutes, she’ll send help.
The door cracks open and my heart jackhammers so fast I’m sure it’s trying to burst free from its bony cage. In what feels like slow motion, a tall man walks into the room, and simultaneously all the air gets sucked out like a vortex.
Tall. Dark.Gorgeous.
