Billionaire's Escort

We ended the call, and I laid back on the bed and started buttoning up my white dress shirt. I had a black jacket and pants tailor-made for the event. The Rose Foundation was a small event compared to the one we’d be attending that evening.

Tonight was the White Party, an exclusive charity event. The money given to the White Foundation would fund their network of children’s hospitals. The guest list was kept intentionally small, and the auction was silent. Nobody yelled out their bids.

The party wasn’t about the charity. It was about networking, preening your feathers, and showing off your wealth. The men left their wives at the bar so they could do business. I hated the crowd, but there was talk of a new chain of copycat restaurants in Kyoto, so I decided to have a night out.

That meant paying for another round of hair and makeup for Mercedes. She didn’t protest, either. She even called me after to find out where her hair appointment was. The dress, however, was an issue.

She didn’t want anything made by a designer. She didn’t understand. She had to wear a designer gown there. It was basically written law. She’d have to have so many karats on her, so many jewels, and the right bodice.

I was just putting on my jacket when she called me again. “Hello?” I answered.

“I’m ready.”

A shiver ran up my arm. “I’ll be there soon.”

The drive to her house was getting harder. I had to focus on the road and try to stop thinking about the way she smelled, and the way she tasted, or how her eyes rolled back when I pressed her just right.

The entire drive there, my mind raced, and my heart pounded. She did this to me now. I didn’t know how it happened, but right before I saw her, I’d get tense and nervous. It was different with her now. We were together.

I considered our romance to be inevitable. Looking back, there was never a point when we weren’t dating. We were just fooling ourselves before. Everyone told us we looked like a couple and that we were cute together. They even went so far as to say they saw a spark.

I saw that spark. Mercedes saw it. We just refused to acknowledge it. It occurred to me that this was my fault. I had the commitment issues. She should’ve been my girlfriend this whole time. I think a part of me knew that. She must’ve felt it as well. She didn’t even have to think about her response. She wanted to be with me.

Our relationship was inevitable. On some level, she knew it, and I knew it. We were just addressing the thing sitting right in front of us. I was surprised when I burst out with it. I didn’t ever expect to date again, but Mercedes was irresistible. I didn’t foresee any trouble with her.

Quite the contrary, being with Mercedes was the most natural thing in the world. She never invaded my space or worked my nerves. Everything was casual and easy when she was there, but I was never satisfied.

I felt like a child with a new toy that I couldn’t play with. I could only call her and text her at certain times, so I didn’t alienate her. I had to be more careful with what I said now and a little gentler than I had been.

Mercedes would need time to acclimate to her new role. She wouldn't want to talk about dating and would probably shut down on the subject for good if I pressed it. Instead, I decided not to say anything about it. Mercedes didn’t mention it either. The moment hung between us. Neither of us could think of anything else, but we couldn’t talk about it.

Mercedes was waiting outside her house when I pulled up. She wore a simple white dress, but she looked ready for the red carpet. I got out of the car and walked around to open her door.

She leaned in and kissed me before she got in. “That’s so good. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Get in.” I chose a simple, black convertible. It had smooth, rounded edges and a nice reflective surface that picked up the lights when we turned onto the freeway.

“So, tell me more about this event,” she said.

“The White Party is for an exclusive group of investors and businessmen. They all pay to get in the room and make a token donation so they can do business.”

“That sounds terrible,” she said.

“It’s actually a lot of fun. They have one of the best bars in the city.”

“Are there any incidents at these events?” she asked.

> “Half the time I just come for the show.”

“Is the charity a bunch of crap, or is it real?”

“It’s real. The money they charge is more than enough to pay for a network of hospitals.”

The White Party was always held in the convention center. They’d turn off all the lights, so it was hard to see the warehouse ceiling above. Then they’d string up white Christmas lights and hang globes from the ceiling. When done properly, it was elegant.

The convention center had a back entrance where all of the attendees parked. The lot was small and unusually empty that year. I wondered why they had a drop-in attendance. The year before was one of their biggest years.

Once we’d emerged from the car, we followed a velvet-lined rope up a set of concrete stairs that led into the convention center floor. A construction paper star hung above the entrance. This year’s charity event was a cluster of tables and a bar, with sound equipment set up in the corner.