When the reply came back, I closed my eyes and cursed under my breath.
Unknown: Firecracker.
Damn. Someone had given her the right code. I was dealing with a legit customer. After replying with a thumbs-up emoji, letting the client know I’d be at the back door of 318 Willowbrook Terrace tonight at 11:30 p.m., I shoved the phone into my pocket.
I was so not in the mindset to play adventurous pool boy, or pizza delivery guy, or whatever the fuck this woman wanted from me. But it was barely nine now. I had two hours left at the Country Club, then half an hour to prepare and get to Willowbrook Terrace. I’d have to figure out a way to get my head in the game by then.
For some reason, my mind strayed to Reese. I wondered what she and Sarah were doing. If all the stars aligned perfectly, they’d be curled up on the sofa, watching Hawaii Five-0 together and eating popcorn right about now. A longing ache tore through my chest, wishing I could be there with them, instead of preparing to meet a complete stranger for sex.
At 11:25 p.m., I killed the engine to my Jeep at the curb of the five-hundred block of Willowbrook Terrace. The streetlamps were the typical, fancy neighborhood style that provided more decoration than actual illumination, so it really felt like I was slinking through the dark for my illegal rendezvous with whoever might live at three-eighteen.
No one else was out and about, and I could only imagine what anyone in the neighborhood would think if they glanced through their windows and saw me walking by on the sidewalk at almost midnight. So far, I’d never had the cops called on me for loitering where I obviously didn’t belong. But maybe I looked clean-cut enough in my valet uniform that I didn’t arouse suspicion.
I knew I tempted fate every time I responded to a call. But my family owed no debt, so I’d probably keep on doing this until my good luck ran out. Because I still wasn’t convinced I’d ever reach a point where I’d feel safe enough to stop completely.
Reaching the yard of 318 Willowbrook Terrace at almost exactly 11:30, I took in the immaculately trimmed yard with roses growing in the front flower bed and I did a quick compass calculation in my head before moving stealthily along a fence line to get to the northwest corner of the house. There didn’t seem to be any guard dogs or booby traps about, so I made it to my destination without any issues. But I still paused when I reached the door I’d been told to go to.
Did I really want to do this? Fuck, no. But was I going to, anyway? Yeah, I guess I was.
Closing my eyes, I drew in a deep breath. You got this, Lowe. You fucking got this. You’ve done it a hundred times before. You can do it again.
I don’t know why I always had to give myself that same mental pep talk, but this shit never got any easier. My heart pounded as I slowly reached out a fisted hand and knocked quietly.
I had no idea who would answer. Had the police discovered my activities and set up a sting operation to trap me? Had the client’s spouse figured out I was coming and was actually the one waiting on the other side of the door with a loaded gun? Or would the person who’d sought my services be just another Patricia? I honestly didn’t know which one of those scenarios would be the most horrific to live through.
But then the door began to open, and I held my breath, my anxiety nearly smothering me as light spilled out onto the dark yard.
When no one appeared to invite me inside and the door remained open, I exhaled steadily through my nose and stepped forward, ignoring the slight trembling in my extremities.
Inside, a single woman stood in the center of a mudroom—a sterile, white clean laundry room with a washer, dryer and not a single speck of dust anywhere—wearing a rose-colored silky nightgown that fell to her knees. She seemed to be in her mid to late forties with dark hair she had combed down to her shoulders and probably dyed so no gray showed. She didn’t have a bra on under the V-necked gown and her nipples poked through the silk as if she were freezing cold in this Florida August heat, or maybe she was just that happy to see me.
What surprised me the most was how beautiful she was. But I’m not sure why that still managed to shock me. Most of the people who employed me were attractive, at the height of fashion, and kept themselves bright, and shiny, and polished.
When I had begun this job, I had stupidly thought I’d get more clients who weren’t so visually appealing, that had a harder time attracting someone to their bed; they were just so desperate they had to pay for it. And honestly, I think I would’ve respected them more and been more willing to do business with them if that had been the case. But more often than not, my customers took care of their appearance. They were tidy, rich, and stylish. There was no way they had any trouble getting sex for free and no godly reason they’d ever have to pay for it.
Made me think sex had nothing to do with this; it was more of an ego trip for them. Buy a few hours with the young, handsome toy to play with and control, then go brag to your equally rich and vain cohorts about what you’d done. Companionship and filling a physical void played no part into the equation. I swear I was just a notch to punch into their social-status Prada belts.
When the woman sent me a calculating smile, I knew this stranger was just like the majority of my clientele, and I instantly resented her.
“You must be Mason,” she said, drawing in a deep, appreciative breath as she took me in from head to toe.
Showtime.
I quirked her a glance that I’d practiced a lot, a glance that made it appear as if I were equally as interested in her as she seemed to be in me: a lie to put food on my mom’s table.
In the huskiest voice I could manage, I said, “If I wasn’t before, then I definitely will be now.”
Confession #7: One name. That’s all it took to ruin everything.
My client shivered as if pleased by my answer. Then she crooked her finger, beckoning me forward as she turned away and started out of the mudroom and into a hallway. “Follow me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmured quietly, moving in close so she’d be sure to feel me right behind her.
This was my first test. Initial meetings were always tricky. I had to decipher immediately whether a client preferred bold behavior or coy. And the way she responded to me breaching her personal space would be her tell.
When she glanced over her shoulder at me, I made sure to make eye contact, reading her expression and body language. There were zero fuck-off-and-give-me-room vibes, no I-didn’t-say-you-could-do-that arch of the eyebrows. In fact, she smiled encouragingly as if she liked having me there.
She didn’t mind me making a move, so I immediately scratched dominatrix off the list. She wasn’t going to tie me up and do all the work herself. She at least wanted some participation. But how much, I still had to discover. Did she want me to tie her up and do everything, or was she into equal parts labor between us? This was something I was going to have to learn before we started. And I had to figure it out without asking.