Billionaire's Escort

That was one of my most important rules. I never let the girls sleep over. They always woke up with the wrong impression. It was the same thing with cuddling. Once they got their hands on me and closed their eyes, I was theirs to scream at and possess all they wanted.

Maria wasn’t like the other girls. She wasn’t petty or dramatic, and she didn’t feel like she could possess me. She was a thinker. When it came down to it, and I had to call things off, she wouldn’t get sour. She wouldn’t try to screw me over or destroy my life. She’d be disappointed, sure, but she’d internalize it and stay quiet. She’d probably try to play it off, but I’d know. I’d see it in her eyes, the way she wouldn’t look at me and how quickly she left.

I could already see it when I handed her the money. She’d stare at it with sad eyes, take it, and walk off. I felt terrible every time I handed it to her, but at least I knew I was doing something good for her. If I was a different kind of man, I would’ve kept the money and screwed her anyway, regardless of how she felt, but I wasn’t that kind of guy. That was the problem.

I used hookers because it was easier. They knew the deal. They took their money and left. It was easy. With Maria, it wasn’t so easy.

I turned back to my report and pasted the most important statistics in the right places while my mind drifted back to those moments. It was mindless work, not enough to distract me from the real issue. That was what I needed: a distraction.

I stared down at my phone. I could call her. She’d be at my house whenever I wanted. It was so easy to slip into it. I had to stop this. I dialed my friend Matt’s number.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Hey,” I said, trying not to sound depressed, but I knew it showed.

“How are you?” Matt asked. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

“I know. I’ve been so busy with work.”

“Work? Yeah, right. It’s the girls. You’ve probably got four at a time coming to your house.”

I ignored the joke and got to the heart of why I’d called. “Listen, Matt. You want to grab a drink tonight? Maybe O’Malley’s?”

“Sounds good. Just gotta tie up some loose ends at the office.”

“Me, too.” I stared at my computer. “I’ll give you a call when I’m off.”

I hung up and rushed through my reports, copying and pasting the most relevant numbers and writing quick paragraphs at the end. The board wouldn’t be very happy with it. They were always looking for a new angle to criticize me, but this was the best they were going to get.

I stood up, and my legs cramped. I felt like I’d been sitting in a car for 12 hours straight. My cock still throbbed, but it was small enough that I could reach into my pants and tuck it back. The receptionist, Moira, didn’t notice anything when I walked out. She was too busy with her game of solitaire.

O’Malley’s was a hole in the wall downtown. The kind of place men went after a good day of hard labor or a bad night with their wives. I preferred this kind of place to clubs or fancier places. No women fawned over me here, no annoying lights flashed in my eyes, and the music was quiet enough to have an actual conversation. My company owned the kind of places I hate, but only because they were lucrative.

I saw Matt, with his bright red hair and red face, sitting in our booth in the back. “Hey, man.” He got up to greet me. “How are you?”

“Tired.”

We walked back up to the bar, and I ordered a pint of something dark. “They’ve got me staring at these ridiculous reports all day. I can’t even see straight.”

“I know what you mean.” He took a drink of his pint, and the bartender handed me mine. “I’m handling four cases at once right now, and all of them are guilty as sin.”

“Anything interesting?” I asked.

“Cocaine dealer that killed his wife when he caught her cheating. He dresses like he lives in South L.A.”

“With those ridiculous button-up plaid shirts?”

“Yup.” Matt and I walked back to the booth. “So what’s up? Having any fun?”

“I’ve been around.”

“Well, that’s a given,” he said and smirked. “I don’t get it, honestly. Half of them look like a bee stung their faces. The other half look like they were made in China.”

“I’ve always hated girls like that. You know that. There just aren’t that many choices.”

“That’s just cause Tony’s part monkey. You’d have to be one of the dumbest women alive to work for that thug. He looks like he just crawled out of a meth pipe.”

“But he comes through, and he doesn’t cause any trouble,” I said.