Mr. Big Shot (Mr. Big 1)

"Alexandria, Virginia?"

I shook my head. "No, Egypt."

He made a face of surprise. "Exotic."

"Not really. My father was an air force pilot stationed in Germany. He took my mother to Alexandria on their honeymoon and I was the happy result. Hence, the name.” I smiled, then kicked myself mentally. I was telling him about me – the real Alexa – not Lexi911. I wanted to come off as a sophisticated escort, not a nerdy college student. “You must be Mr. Big Shot 69.”

He bent down and kissed my other cheek, a smile on his nicely-full lips. I could swear he inhaled when he pulled back, as if he were trying to smell my perfume.

“The very man,” he said with a chuckle. “You can call me Luke.” He pulled out a chair and pointed to it. “Please, have a seat. We have some business to take care of first. But I’m truly interested in your story. John didn’t tell me anything, so I’m all ears on how a girl with a family like yours ends up being an escort.”

I sat down and he helped move my chair closer. I laid my bag on the table and waited while he sat back down beside me.

“Tuition is expensive.” I left it at that. “I’m a grad student at Columbia.”

“Oh," Luke said, frowning. "I thought John said you went to NYU. Well, I’m pleased regardless,” he said, pushing the sheet of paper and a very ornate fountain pen towards me, a cocky grin on his face. “Very pleased. John said you were hot in addition to being a brain, and he was right about the first part and if you're at Columbia, probably the second as well. That dress…”

I smiled to myself and leaned slightly forward, knowing full well that it would afford him a peek down my cleavage, which even I had to admit looked nice. I read over the legal document in front of me.

This Nondisclosure Agreement is entered into by and between Lucas John Marshall of Marshall Windsor Investments Inc. ("Disclosing Party") and _________, of Manhattan ("Receiving Party") for the purpose of preventing the unauthorized disclosure of Confidential Information as defined below. The parties agree to enter into a confidential relationship with respect to the disclosure of certain proprietary and confidential information ("Confidential Information").

* * *

I’d never signed, let alone seen, an NDA so it was all new to me. I read it over, pretending that this was all routine to me, and when I had finished, I wrote my name on the line and signed the bottom, dating it as well. Then, I handed it back to him with a smile.

“There you are, Mr. Lucas John Marshall. Signed, sealed and delivered.”

He took it from me and folded it up, tucking it into his jacket interior pocket and slipping his fountain pen in as well.

“Wonderful,” he said and then sat there for a moment, taking me in, his eyes roving over me in a very lascivious manner. “I hope you don’t mind me asking once again, but why is such a beautiful woman like you selling yourself as an escort? You could be a model, with your looks.”

I scoffed at that. “You flatter me. I’m far too short, my curves are too big for standard modeling and not big enough for plus-size.” I shrugged.

“You look perfect to me. I personally love short women. I like to be able to pick them up and carry them to my bed.” He grinned widely at that. “Place them on top of me and let them ride me like a bucking bronco.”

My eyes would have usually widened at a statement like that, but I had to catch myself. I was an escort. Who knew what kind of whacky and perverted things I must have done in my time servicing rich men? Instead, I kept my cool.

“Then I’m your girl,” I said and smiled. “Short, eminently carry-able, and in addition to being a budding political scientist, I’m a very skilled bronc rider.”

“Political Science?” he said, his mouth open. “He said you were smart, but I had no idea it was Poli Sci.”

I had no idea what I was doing, revealing true tidbits about myself, but I decided to just go with the flow.

“Yes, I was going to study medicine, be a paramedic, but it was far too stressful. International Relations is far more sedate. You know, nuclear weapons treaties. International conventions on chemical weapons. That sort of thing.”

His eyes narrowed in response and he kept watching my mouth as I talked.

“I can see why he likes you,” he s

aid softly.

“Who? John?” I replied, remembering the story of how he got my name. Of course, it was all a lie, but I wasn’t going to fess up at that point. Maybe later, when I saw how the night went, if he wanted some extra delicacies instead of just a straight date. At that point, I’d confess that I wasn’t Lexi911. Then, I’d go home with a fantastic story to tell at our weekly brunch the next day.

“Who?” he asked, his expression blank as if his mind was elsewhere. Then, he shook his head as if he’d made a mistake. “Oh, yes. John, of course. That’s how I got your name. Through John.”

“Yes,” I replied, a weird sense that we were both lying. “Through John.” Then, I got nervous. What if John was at the function? I had no idea who he was. As soon as Luke introduced us, the jig would be up and I’d have to confess.

All of a sudden, I got this feeling – the feeling that I should stop listening to Candace and start thinking for myself. I thought because I was older that she would no longer be able to lead me down the path to hooliganism, as my mother called it back when we were in high school. Apparently, I hadn't grown up yet. Candace had a real rebellious streak due to a bad family life, and it was only finding her calling in life – the study of rocks, of all things – that kept her from ending up in Juvenile Hall. I had no such excuse.