A 21st Century Courtesan (19 page)

I just smile at him, nod my head. I can't talk to him now.

But he seems satisfied. He gives my hair a playful tug and then he's gone, leaving me alone with my whirling thoughts.

I keep coming back to this confusing, frightened place. I can't calm down enough to really think. My body, my mind, crave the safety of sleep, but I know I'm too worked up to fall asleep again. Totally impossible, with my heart pounding, my pulse racing. Instead I get up and get right into the shower, blasting the hot water.

It scorches my skin as I get in and stand under the spray, but I need it, need something that intense to get my mind off what I'm feeling. Something to focus on. I pick up my favorite bottle of liquid soap, squeeze it out onto my palm and run it over my skin until I'm slippery all over, smelling like orange blossoms and vanilla. Then I move under the water, letting the heat rinse away the soap, along with some of my anxiety.

I really need to calm down. Just calm down so I can think this through.

But even as that idea flits through my brain, the water hits my nipples, and they immediately go hard. And in moments I am thinking of Joshua, of his clever hands, his lovely mouth
on my body, his cock inside me. I am wet, inside and out, swollen with need, needing him again. My hand goes between my legs, finding my throbbing clitoris. So damn sensitive, a little sore from my night with Joshua, but ready for more.

Taking the handheld sprayer, I spread my thighs and aim it at my clit. Warm and wet, pounding against that tender flesh, pleasure sweeps through me. The water from the ceiling-mounted showerhead washes over my body, and the sprayer pulsates against my aching mound, and I can see his face, his lush mouth, that small scar that makes me want to kiss him over and over.

Oh, yes …

My hips are pumping now, fucking the water, fucking his invisible hands, his mouth, his cock, milking him for pleasure.

My orgasm hits so quickly, with such sudden intensity, I gasp aloud. Sharp, powerful, making my body bow, my sex pulse.

Joshua!

Oh, yes, it's always him, only him.

I shove two fingers deep inside, driving my climax on. My sex clenches hard, and I am nearly crying with pleasure, with need. And then I am crying, my tears mingling with the water. I sink to the shower floor, unable to stand. Unable to understand what's happening to me. Unable to bear it.

I don't even know what I'm crying for. Nothing. Everything. Because I'm finally happy and I don't know how to deal with it, maybe.

Fuck.

The water turns cold, finally, shocking me, and I stand, shut it off, get out and dry myself. As I run the towel over my skin, the postcrying numbness fades away, and I realize I feel
less conflicted. Stronger. As though the tears have emptied something toxic from my system. I realize I am going to have to deal with this. I am simply going to have to find a way. I can't spend my life masturbating, or curled up on the shower floor. Fucking ridiculous.

Calmer, I take my time doing my makeup, drying my hair, getting dressed, finding comfort in the daily ritual. I don't even know who I'm getting dressed for, what I'm going to do with my day. I don't know what I want to do.

I slip into a cotton knit dress, a mossy green I've always thought looks good with my green eyes. A pair of gold hoop earrings, a few bangle bracelets to match, and a new pair of boots in a deep chocolate suede with high heels.

I'm ready. I just don't know what for.

When I move into the living room I see my purse sitting on the table in the entry hall. I'd turned my cell phone off yesterday. I know I should check for messages. I don't want to. I don't want to deal with anything. I am too at odds in my own body right now. But, being the good little hooker that I am, I pull the phone out of my purse, turn it on, retrieve my messages.

It's Colin, wanting to see me today. Colin, of all people. My pretty, dirty boy. Filthy dirty. But perhaps he's exactly what I need to pull me out of this bubble in my head.

I feel stronger today. Confident. A little more in control. And working will make me feel even more so. It always does.

I dial his number, and we agree to meet at ten-thirty. He often likes to meet in the morning, rather than waiting for lunchtime or evening for his sex, like most clients do. Anything that makes the event seem a little more tawdry.

He's given me the address of a small motel in the Valley this time. I have a cup of tea and some toast, water my orchids,
watch the morning news, and then it's time to go. I get in my car and pull away from my house, from my little safe haven that no longer feels quite as safe as it once did. Nothing does.

I follow the twisting road down from the hills and head for the 405, take it north into the San Fernando Valley. It's a bit of a trek, but everything in Los Angles is far from everything else. Taking the 101 cutoff, I head west, exit at De Soto, follow it north, up into Chatsworth.

Chatsworth is the capital of the porn industry. I have no idea why so many porn studios film here. It's a thoroughly middle-class area. Too damn close to where I grew up, the street names all too familiar: Victory, Roscoe, Devonshire. But I can't think about that now.

I swing onto Devonshire and follow it for a few blocks, until I find the motel. It's not nearly as bad as the last one off Sunset, but still sleazy enough to make Colin happy.

I pull in and park, and Colin is standing by the door of a room on the first floor. He whistles as I get out of the car.

“Classy today,” he says.

Damn. I forgot to change into one of my slutty outfits for him.

“Just trying to mix things up for you,” I tell him, trying hard to smile.

Get into the groove, Valentine.

“No problem. It's all coming off, anyway.” He takes my hand and pulls me inside.

The room is nothing special: faded paint, an even more faded floral bedspread. Everything just a little ugly and old. Except the pretty and shining Colin himself.

“You could have been an actor, Colin,” I tell him. And it's true. He's that pretty.

“I would have made a lousy actor. I can't lie. Can't play anything off.”

“Really? Where do you tell your wife you've been when you're fucking me in some sleazy motel?”

Shit. Why am I baiting him?

But he doesn't seem to notice. “I don't say a damn word to her about it. I save all the talking for you. So I can tell you exactly how I'm going to fuck you, Val. How hard, how deep. Whether I'm going to fuck your pussy or your amazing ass. Have I told you how amazing your ass is?” He moves in, puts his hand on my shoulder, dips his fingers beneath the fabric of my dress. I feel a shiver, but it's not anticipation, not the usual pleasure.

Get it together!

“How do you want it today, Colin?” I say, trying to work the usual purr into my voice.

“Get naked and I'll figure it out.”

I pull my dress over my head, feeling oddly exposed in my bra and thong in front of him.

“All of it,” he says, his brilliant blue eyes gleaming.

Why do I feel so uncomfortable? Every nerve in my body is screaming, my muscles tight all over as I reach back to unhook my bra.

I cannot do it.

Fuck.

I stop, shake my head. I reach for my discarded dress, picking it up off the floor, and slip it back over my head. “I'm sorry, Colin. I don't know what's wrong. I'm not feeling well. I'm sorry.”

His face hardens for a minute, his brows drawing together. But then his features relax, and he looks almost concerned. Maybe he sees me shaking. Maybe I'm pale. I feel pale.

“You alright, babe?”

“No. I'm not. I'm sorry. I have to go. I'm sorry.”

I'm out of there so fast, I don't even remember how I get to my car, but suddenly I am sitting in it, leaning into the leather seat. My breath is coming in hard pants.

Breathe. Just fucking breathe.

When I look up Colin is standing at the open door of the hotel room, his cell phone against his ear. Maybe calling Deirdre. Maybe calling for another girl. I don't care right now.

I start the car and pull out of the parking lot, heading back toward home. But what am I going to do there? Crawl back into bed, spend another day sleeping, dreaming, when my life is falling apart around me? While I let it happen?

I am totally out of control. The strength I felt earlier, the strength Lydia talks about, was apparently just an illusion.

I make it to the 101, my mind almost blank, a weird rage surging through my system, before I realize what I need to do. Pulling my cell from my purse, I call Deirdre. Her assistant puts me through right away.

“Yes, Val?”

Cool as ever. Cool as a cucumber. Cold as ice.

“Deirdre, I need to talk to you.”

“Alright. Let's set up a time, shall we?”

“No, it can't wait. I'm sorry. I need to speak with you now.”

“What's going on, Val? Is there a problem?”

“Did you get a call just now from Colin Harper?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Maybe. Probably.” I pause, pull in a deep breath, concentrate for a moment on changing lanes to get back on the 405. “I just left him and … I walked out on him, Deirdre.”

“What?” Anger in her voice, beneath that slick surface. “Explain yourself, Val.”

“I think … I think I need some time off.”

She is quiet for a moment. I can almost hear her brain working, a faint click and whir, computerlike, assessing the situation in mere moments. “Yes, I agree. That's an excellent idea.”

“I'll call all of my clients.”

“No, I'll have Cynthia call. If you need time off, then you shouldn't speak with any of them.”

She's right. “Yes, of course. But, Deirdre, when she talks to Louis—”

“We will handle it, Val. You do whatever you need to do. Are you seeing Lydia Foster?”

“Yes. I had my first visit with her and I think … it brought up a lot of old issues …”

God, I do not want to explain myself to this woman.

“Very good. Keep seeing her. I'll be in touch. And, Val, do not contact your clients directly, do you understand what I'm saying?”

“Yes, of course. I understand completely.”

I don't want to talk with any of them, anyway. What could I possibly say? No, better to let The Broker and her staff handle it. More professional. And we are nothing if not professionals.

Of course, currently, I am not even that anymore.

I expect to feel some sort of dread, but all I feel is relief.

We hang up and my next call is to my therapist. I tell her I have to see her, that I'm having a crisis, and it's true. She agrees to see me right away.

Exiting the freeway, I make my way to her office. When I get out of the car I am struck by the ocean scent in the air, the quiet solidity of the greenery climbing up the old brick walls of her building, and I feel the tiniest bit better simply knowing I am here.

I go upstairs and she ushers me into her inner sanctum, waves me to the chair. The moment I sit she hands me a box of Kleenex. I take it without protest.

“Tell me what's happened, Valentine.”

“I just… I think I …” but before I can get the words out I'm crying, tears washing in a mad torrent down my cheeks. I haven't cried this much since I was ten years old! But no matter how disgusted I am with myself, I can't seem to stop.

It all comes out between choked sobs: my time with Joshua, the realization of my feelings for him. The epiphany of sex—no, making love—with him! The epiphany of being happy. Then today, my failed meeting with Colin, the absolute need to stop working for the first time in nearly a decade. How absolutely broken I feel. And how certain I am about the need to change my life.

Finally, I am wrung out, empty. She lets me sit quietly for a few minutes, catching my breath as I wipe my damp face with the tissues.

“Okay,” she says, drawing in a deep breath herself. “This is a lot, isn't it?”

“Yes. Too much.”

“Is it too much, Valentine?”

I look at her, uncertain of what she's asking.

“Because you're here,” she says. “You came for help so you can handle this. You made the decision to stop working. And I don't believe that was any sort of snap decision. If it really was too much, you would have simply turned away from Joshua and everything his presence in your life means for you.”

“I can't do that!”

She nods. “Exactly. What does that tell you?”

“You really make me work for it, don't you?”

“You need to find your own answers. I'm here to help you
do that. But if I hand you everything on a silver platter, it won't be worth anything. And I can't know what the answers are for you. They're different for everyone. But I think right now, yours are staring you in the face. And by quitting work today, it's obvious that you've figured some of it out already. What's next, do you think?”

I shake my head, but I know what she's getting at.

Fuck.

Fuck!

“I need to … I need to tell Joshua. What I do. Did. What my life has been about. I need to be honest with him.”

She nods once more. There's no need for her to say it out loud, and I'm grateful to her for not rubbing my face in this stark, cold reality. I already feel like I'm going to throw up, as I did after my first visit here.

“God, I don't know how … and it's going to be a mess. He'll never speak to me again.”

“How do you know that?”

“Any sane person, any normal person, would react that way. Why would he want to see me, be with me, once he knows the truth? It's impossible.”

“Maybe you're not giving him enough credit,” Lydia suggests. “Maybe you're not giving yourself enough credit. There is more to you than what you do for a living, Valentine.”

Her blue eyes are soft, sympathetic. I understand she's trying to be encouraging, because this is the right thing to do, and therefore I
must
do it. I fucking hate it. But I will do the right thing.

“How can anyone forgive me this if …” My voice breaks, emotion welling in my chest, choking me. But I will not cry anymore.

“If what, Valentine?” she asks softly.

“If … I can't forgive myself? ”