Bad Behavior #1: Tales of an American Gigolo (2 page)

"Hi, I'm calling for Mrs. Smith." Most women don't give their real names to protect their privacy, not at first.

“Yes, this is Mrs. Smith.” The voice is soft-spoken, has a Texas drawl, and shakes a little. Obviously, she’s nervous, so I try to put her at ease. She clears her throat. “Are you—the consultant?”

“Yes.” That’s me. Manwhore. Gigolo. Escort. I’m all those things and then some. “When would you like to get together?”

“Is tonight okay?” I hear the frown in her voice. From the cadence of her speech and the precision of her diction, I’d peg her for an unhappily married woman in her forties. Probably got a few kids, husband works all the time, looking for a little heat between the sheets.

“Sure. Tonight’s fine.” I’d been looking forward to a night off, but I never turn down a new customer.
 
“And you understand how this works? Do you have any questions?”

“No. I understand.” The woman drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “Can you come over, say around nine?”

“Sounds perfect. Is there anything specific you’re looking for? Toys? Role play? Whatever floats your boat.”

“No. I don’t think so.” Embarrassment is palpable in her tone. “But I like—I like it a little rough. Is that okay?”

“Sure. No problem. I’ll give it to you any way you like.” Because customer service is number one in my book. I smirk, thinking of all the ways I’ve done women in the past. No request surprises me anymore.

“What do you look like?” The chagrin in her undertone fades away to be replaced by curiosity. “Geneva—Ms. Danvers—she said you’re hot. I just wondered…” Her voice trailed away.

“I’m six-four, a hundred and eighty pounds, dark hair. I work out every day, and I'm in excellent shape." These kinds of questions don't bother me. I'm not cheap, and she has every right to make sure she's getting her money's worth. "And in case you're curious, I've got plenty of horsepower under the hood."

The woman gives me her address. I jot it down on a notepad then end the call. When I look up, spring raindrops splatter on the windshield. Chloe is still standing on the curb, her purse poised over her head to fend off the rain. Oh, what the hell. I can’t leave the girl out in the elements, can I? The car starts with a growl. I ease up to the curb in front of her and roll down the window. “Get in. I can drop you.”

“Um, are you sure?” She rolls her lips together then tugs the lower one between her teeth. “You’re not a serial killer or anything, are you?”

No, but I’ve been called the devil a time or two.
“Not even close.” I open the passenger door and wait for her to hop inside.

After she gives me the address of her office, we ride in silence for the next block. She smells like citrus and honey, a lethal combination. Her scent fills the cockpit of the Lexus, mingles with the new car smell. While I drive, she lowers the visor and peers into the mirror on the back side to smooth her hair.

“This is a nice car,” she says. One of her hands caresses the soft leather covering the console. “What did you say you do?”

“I didn’t.” I wait for her to ask again, but she doesn’t. “I’m in marketing and sales.” It’s not a lie. I consider my body as a product, and like any other business, it takes a lot of promotion to maintain a decent income.

“Really? That’s a great field. I have a degree in English Lit from Indiana University, but I’m working for my grandmother right now. My family thinks you have to be in business or you’ll starve to death.” She flips the visor up and shifts in the seat to face me. I try not to gawk at the smooth skin of her bare legs. She’s curvy in all the right places, and I have an inexplicable urge to put my hand on her thigh. Instead, I curl my fingers around the gear shift. “Where did you go to school at?”

“Eastern Kentucky. On a baseball scholarship." I had completed one year before I got injured and returned to Chicago. It seems like a lifetime ago—someone else’s life.

“You must be doing really well to afford a car like this. I’m barely making enough for rent. This city is so expensive. Of course, my grandmother wants me to live with her, but I said no way.” She pauses for breath, and I have to laugh at her genuine enthusiasm. After the jaded women I deal with, it’s refreshing. “You should see my apartment. It’s the size of a postage stamp. Is yours like that too?”

I’m saved from answering because we’ve reached Chloe’s destination. I stop the car at the front doors and put it into park. Chloe drops a hand on my wrist, and it's like a thousand jolts of adrenaline shoot up my arm. She jerks her hand away and flexes her fingers like she's been stung.

“Thanks for the ride. I owe you. Maybe I’ll see you around the building sometime,” she says.

“Yeah. Maybe,” I reply. She gathers her purse and climbs out of the car. “Hey, can I give you some advice?”

“Sure? What?” She bends down to look inside the car, giving me a view all the way down her top.

“Don’t accept any more rides from strangers.” Her breasts bob with her laughter. I try not to stare. I hate guys like that, always ogling women.

“Okay. Got it.” With a smile, she shuts the car door behind her.

I watch her ass as she walks around the front of the car and toward the building. Her buns are like two melons in a tube sock, rubbing and jiggling against each other. I adjust my cock behind the fly of my jeans. I’m full-on hard and ready to go. But never with her. Never with anyone inside my apartment building.
 

I start the car and merge into traffic, downshift, and race through the intersection on the yellow light. Then again, rules were made to be broken.

Just to be clear, I like to fuck. A lot. It’s one of the reasons I’m so successful in this business. If a woman needs me to ride her all night and into the morning, my dick is more than happy to comply. Oral sex, anal, role play, kink, masturbation, threesomes, couples—I’m down with it all. Most of my customers, however, want standard missionary with a side helping of foreplay and pillow talk thrown into the mix. Whatever gets their rocks off. Makes no difference to me as long as they pay cash—in advance.

Mrs. Smith says she likes it rough, so I decide on a pair of ripped jeans, heavy combat boots, and a tight black T-shirt beneath a black leather jacket. I don't bother to shave, choosing the scruffy, just-got-out-of-bed look, and mess my hair up with some gel. Like an actor assuming a role onstage, my wardrobe sets the tone of our encounter. I can’t be a hard ass dressed in a pink polo and khakis.

I throw a box of condoms into a leather backpack, a couple of different kinds of lube, mouthwash, and a vibrator—because, well, you never know when you might need one. Some women are difficult to get off the first time, and even I need a little help. There's no shame in a bit of battery operated assistance now and then. I'm anxious to meet a new client, but looking forward to it all the same. My dick's been semi-hard all day at the prospect.

In the elevator, my mind scrolls through a few different scenarios. I rehearse them in my head, paying no attention to the other occupants until Chloe boards the car on the fourth floor. She’s wearing a short denim skirt and a tight blue T-shirt. When her gaze catches mine, she smiles, and I forget about Mrs. Smith. Fuck me, if this girl isn’t the hottest thing I’ve seen in a long time. Her hair is swept into a high ponytail. She’s the perfect combination of sweet and sexy.

“Hot date?” I ask.

She smiles and nods. "Sort of. You?" Her gaze drifts over my body. I can tell by the way her nostrils flare; she appreciates my bad boy outfit. In my experience, nothing tempts a good girl like a dirty, sexy bastard.

“Something like that.” I shove my hands into my pockets and grin, thinking of the arsenal of erotic weapons slung over my shoulder. This Pollyanna would probably shit if she knew where I was really going. She worries her lower lip between her teeth, drawing my focus to her mouth. Her lips are plump and tinted a soft rose color. A quick inappropriate vision of them wrapped around my dick flashes through my head. I shake it away. I’ve got no time for personal relationships.

The elevator doors open, and we go our separate ways. She meets a thin, bookish kind of guy in the lobby. He lights up at the sight of her, but it's me her eyes follow as I push through the revolving door and out onto the street.

Thirty minutes later, I park my car in the driveway of an austere three-story brick mansion on Dayton Street in Lincoln Park. The house is dark except for a few lights on the ground floor. I make my way up a sidewalk lined with frothy pink blossoms and landscape lights. Once I reach the front door, I ring the doorbell and draw in a deep breath to get into character. Showtime.

The woman who answers the door is petite, blonde, closer to fifty than forty. She’s dressed in a floor-length satin robe, tied tightly around her waist. Her hand trembles as she offers it to me.

“Hi. You must be Bastien?” She frowns. “That’s not really your name, is it?”

“And I suppose your name is really Mrs. Smith?” I lift an eyebrow and coax a reluctant smile from her. I’ve found it best to keep my real name private. Less messy and absolutely necessary in case one of my clients forms an obsession. I had the misfortune of dealing with a stalker once, and ever since then, I’ve used an alias to protect my anonymity. Except with Geneva. The pseudonym was her idea. Even though she calls me Bastien, she knows my true name.

Rule number one:
 
no real names.

Mrs. Smith steps aside to let me enter the foyer. I take in the two-story ceiling, crystal chandeliers, and marble floors with a sweeping glance. Very nice. Understated. Elegant but not fussy. I wait at the base of a double staircase. Her oval face has gone pale.

“Should we go upstairs?” Uncertainty shakes her voice.

“Why don’t we sit down and chat for a minute? Get acquainted.”

“Okay. Yes.” She breathes a sigh of relief and leads the way into an expansive living room. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks. But go ahead if you’d like.” I take a seat on the sofa, sling my backpack to the floor at my feet, and watch as she heads to the wet bar a few feet away. Ice tinkles into a rock glass. She pours two fingers of bourbon over the ice, takes a sip then another. Her shoulders visibly relax.

I never imbibe during work hours. Too many things might go wrong, in which case, I need my wits about me. You never know when a husband or boyfriend might arrive home unexpectedly. I’ve had to launch out a bedroom window and hightail it down the street to safety more than once. It’s also a well-known fact that alcohol inhibits sexual performance. My customers expect satisfaction, and I expect to give it to them—no pun intended—something I can’t do with a limp dick.

Rule number two:
 
no alcohol.

“Have you been doing this very long?” She turns to face me. The lamp from the bar backlights her figure. The outlines of her body show through the thin silk. Perky breasts, slender thighs, a flat belly. This will be an easy ride for me. It’s always nice to see a woman take care of her body, although I have no preference on physical type. They all feel the same once you’re inside, regardless of age or fitness level.

“A few years.”

“You’re younger than I expected.” The liquor is making her brave. By the time she finishes her drink, she’ll be ready to move upstairs.