Midtown Masters Page 6

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  “It’d be prostitution, for one. And for another, it’s not very romantic. Maybe she could just pay for the hotel room.”

  He didn’t look pleased.

  “Lemme think . . . Okay, or we could offer it in lieu of the next two sessions she’s paid for. That’d be less, I dunno, blatant, somehow.”

  He considered it. “Maybe.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m going to offer,” she said, steeled now.

  “Fine.”

  And all at once, Suzy didn’t think she’d ever been so nervous in the run-up to a performance. Her hands were shaking as she donned her rings, and she pushed out a shallow exhalation, another, another, until they began to come easier, smoother.

  “You’re adorable.” Meyer said, returning from a trip to the bathroom and catching her yoga breathing. He gathered the candles and matches.

  “Fuck, I was so calm before you opened your stupid mouth. I’m going to wreck her entire hour if I can’t chill out.”

  “No, you won’t. You’re a pro.”

  “Why does this suddenly feel like prom night?” she asked the room, checking her reflection in the full-length mirror. She could smell the matches, and when Meyer killed the overhead light, a soft golden glow danced around the head of the bed.

  “Because feelings,” he said sagely.

  “Feelings. Yes.”

  “Potent, yet overrated. And for some, unavoidable. Two-minute warning.”

  She brushed her hair, smoothed her top. She was wearing a clingy boatneck and a patterned silk skirt tonight, Meyer black slacks and a cream button-up, plus the tie. It was dark for seven and raining heavily, drops pattering the windows when the wind gusted. Stormy, as Suzy’s heart felt.

  At the laptop, she logged them on, and found Lindsay already online, her dot predictably green.

  “Ready?” she asked Meyer.

  He checked the camera’s viewfinder one last time, then gave her a thumbs-up and sat on the end of the bed. Suzy dimmed the screen and joined him, crossed her legs, taking his hand.

  “Record,” she told the computer.

  She leaned into Meyer, smiling, wondering if he could sense her nerves, praying Lindsay wouldn’t be able to tell. Use it. Let it feed the performance. Fuck Meyer like Lindsay’s verdict on the proposal depends on it.

  “Good evening,” Meyer told the camera.

  After a pause, the computer spoke. “Good evening. You both look wonderful.”

  Suzy slipped into improv mode seamlessly, her nerves melting some. “We went to the opera,” she riffed, and turned to stroke her fingertips down Meyer’s tie. “I’d never been. It was magical.”

  “The Rake’s Progress,” Meyer put in. Unlike Suzy, he knew a thing or two about opera.

  “That sounds lovely.”

  “We’ve so been looking forward to ending the evening with you,” Suzy said. “What would you like to see, tonight?”

  “I’d love to watch you kiss, to start.”

  And so it began.

  The hour flew by in record time, and Suzy gave a command performance. She even managed to come, though by the time she and Meyer blew out their candles and killed the lights—and the camera—any calm it had lent her body was long gone.

  She rolled over to find his eyes in the dim room. “That went well, right?”

  “That went exactly how Lindsay likes it to, and I stayed awake by some miracle, so yes, I’d say it went very well.” He left the bed, finding his clothes. “I do believe you have a proposition to make, my good lady wife, so I shall make myself scarce. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  “No hot, sexless dates to rush off to?”

  “I want to know what comes of this little chat,” he said lightly, buttoning his shirt.

  “Don’t tell me you actually care.”

  He smiled at her as he smoothed his hair. “There might be a three-way in my future. I’ll admit I find that intriguing, after all these months of monogamy.”

  “Funny how much that word sounds like ‘monotony,’ when you say it.”

  “Quit dawdling. Let me know what happens.” And with that, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Suzy got up, nerves humming to life. She grabbed Mrs. Parks’ satin robe off the hook by the closet, cinched it at her waist and took a seat before the computer. She bumped up the screen’s backlighting, jolted to spy that tiny green dot. Silly to be surprised, when that was the woman’s MO. Suzy took a deep breath, and opened a chat window.

  Hi there, she typed.

  Hi. That was wonderful. I’m still catching my breath.

  Me too :-) Thanks for another great session. Can we chat for a minute? she asked.

  Of course.

  “Fu-u-u-ck, how do I say this . . . ?” Mr. Parks and I were talking about you. Over a glass of wine, just after our date.

  Oh. Well, how flattering.

  Yes, it was. And we have a proposal for you. I feel like maybe I should apologize in advance, because it’s quite . . . bold.

  Now I’m curious. Go on.

  The thing is, you’ve charmed us. And to cut right to the chase, what we’d like to propose is for you to join us, sometime.

  A long, long radio silence. Suzy glued her eyes on the green dot beside Lindsay’s avatar, half expecting it to go gray. She could easily fetishize their seemingly monogamous and passionate marriage more than any other aspect of the performances. But then—

  Wow. That was unexpected.

  Suzy relaxed, but not much. I’m sure. We’ve never approached any of our clients before this way, believe me. You’re different.

  What are you proposing, exactly?

  Whatever you might want. Just to watch, like always. Or more.

  I see.

  Suzy was just typing, No pressure whatsoever. Give it some thought, when Lindsay’s ellipsis blinked and a reply popped into the window.

  I have to go.

  Before Suzy could do a thing, the green circle was gray. Lindsay was gone.

  “Fuck. Fucking fuck. Meyer!” She hopped up and jogged to the door. He must have heard her, as he was standing at the kitchen threshold.

  “What’s happened?”

  “She ran away.”

  “How so?” Meyer pulled out a chair for her at the table.

  She sat, legs quaking. “Fuck, what the fuck was I thinking?”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “You can read the chat, if you want.”

  First he strode to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of wine and filling a glass from the drying rack. He set it before her and disappeared down the hall.

  Suzy sipped the wine, not tasting it, staring at the little razor nick on her bare knee, the deep-red polish on her toenails. She focused on her breathing, fighting back tears. She wasn’t sure what disturbed her more—Lindsay’s reaction, or her own. She’d known she’d grown attached, that she cared. That she had a crush of sorts. But tears? That wasn’t like her.

  Meyer returned shortly, lips quirked in a little frown.

  “What do you think? Did I play that totally wrong?”

  “I don’t think so. You got right down to it, perhaps, but if she’d wanted what we were offering, I doubt eagerness would’ve been a deal breaker.”

  “What should I do? Apart from find a way to apologize. I can’t e-mail her, so what does that leave?”

  “There’s not much you can do,” Meyer said, “not without grossly violating the promise we made when she signed up, to never contact her.” The Web site only allowed communication via its internal messaging system, and during the camming, of course. Discretion and distance were the name of the game. Or they were meant to be. Lindsay could send them a message through the site, to reschedule an appointment, for example, but it didn’t go both ways.
They only communicated when a client reached out, and even then they had a policy to keep it brief and businesslike.

  “Even if the Web geeks would give you her personal contact info,” Meyer said, “I’d murder you if you ever used it.”

  “I wouldn’t. I think I’ve overstepped my bounds enough as it is.”

  He grimaced, the gesture oddly sympathetic. “Likely.”

  “Well, she’s scheduled to see us again on Tuesday, as usual. I could talk to her then . . . if she even shows. I can’t imagine she will, now.” Suzy sighed and dropped her head. “Fuck.”

  Meyer came up behind her and began kneading her shoulders. “There, there, sweet wife.”

  She groaned with surrender, softening, barely. And it did nothing to ease the ache in her chest.

  Chapter Seven

  Suzy didn’t think a week had ever passed so slowly in her entire life. Even the two months of her fourteenth summer that she’d forfeited to mono, had flown by, compared to this.

  Meyer had helped her cobble a plan together. Their session with Lindsay was due to start at seven, and Suzy had been granted permission to stalk the Web site from five onward, on the off chance Lindsay popped up online early. Suzy needed to apologize. She hadn’t had a chance even to do that much, the week before. Apologize, assure their client they’d never cross a line with her again that way, and so on. Take her temperature, assess the damage, and work like hell to fix it. That was, if she even got the chance. As she sat down at the bedroom’s desk and opened the laptop, she was half expecting to spend the next two hours—or longer—just staring at a gray dot.

  But she was wrong. There was no waiting to be done, as a message was already waiting for her. The equivalent of an e-mail message, via the site.

  From: Lindsay

  Subject: Cancellation

  I’m afraid I have to miss tonight’s scheduled session, as well as next week’s. I apologize for the inconvenience, and I understand I’ll need to forfeit my payment. Thanks very much for your services.

  Sincerely,

  Lindsay

  Suzy stared at those words, chin crumpling, eyes stinging. That was her answer, right there—she’d fucked up, and so badly their client never wanted to see them again.

  Then again . . . If she’d already fucked up bad enough to have Lindsay canceling her remaining dates, there was nothing left to lose. And since Lindsay had sent a message first, she could reply. Her only chance at communication.

  She twiddled her fingertips above the keyboard, feeling like a kid about to go after the spare rib in Operation—this was going to take finesse. Buttloads of finesse.

  Dear Lindsay, she wrote. Frowned. Deleted the Dear, afraid to look overly chummy. She’d taken enough liberties already.

  Lindsay,

  Hi, it’s Mrs. Parks. I was sad to read your message, but I suppose I’m not entirely surprised. I never got an opportunity to apologize to you last Tuesday, so please indulge me now, as it’s my only chance. If you don’t reply, I promise I’ll never contact you again. And apologies if this desperate attempt only further upsets you.

  I’m assuming I offended you. With hindsight, that seems so obvious—how could I not have, with the invitation I extended? I can’t believe how badly I misjudged that. I don’t know what I was even thinking. I let emotion get the better of me. That’s never been my way, but something about you . . . I read way more into our connection than I should have. I don’t know how to explain it, except that you were so different, so unique, and the sessions felt so intimate to me . . . That’s not an excuse, merely a reason. It was wildly unprofessional, and I can’t imagine how it must have made you feel. “Violated” springs to mind, now that I’m thinking clearly.

  Anyway, I’m just rambling now, because I feel like an idiot and a creep. Just know that I’m sincerely sorry.

  And at the very least, let us refund your money for the final two sessions. You’ll need to request a refund for the cancellation through your account. Please do. I want to at least be able to offer you that much, as recompense goes.

  I’ll be online tonight, from seven until eight, our appointed window, in case there’s anything you need to say to me. If it’s harsh, I probably deserve it. But I won’t expect you. I only hope to find a refund request in our inbox from you. You deserve that much. You also deserve for me to shut up and leave you alone already, so I’ll do that now.

  Yours humbly,

  Mrs. Parks

  She sighed aloud, feeling ancient. She grabbed her phone and texted Meyer. She cancelled. Enjoy your night off.

  Sorry, honey. You okay?

  No comment. I’m going to sit by the computer during our scheduled slot, then probably curl up under a blanket with a bottle of wine or take a four-hour bath.

  I’ll call tomorrow to make sure you haven’t drowned.

  Night.

  Night, kiddo. Go easy on yourself.

  She set her phone aside, feeling utterly deflated, a ripped beach ball that’d never see the sun or surf again.

  “Right.” Never one to suffer depression passively, she stood. Went to the kitchen, poured a large glass of wine. She left that on the desk beside the computer, peeking at the chat window—nothing. She lived on the third floor of an old Colonial on Darlington Street, and she made her way down into the cold basement, collecting her clothes from the shared dryer. Back upstairs, she dumped them out on the bed, sorting them into what she thought of as her Suzy Pile and her Mrs. Parks Pile, the latter a tumble of satin and lace and silk. Every time she balled a pair of socks or folded a bra, her eyes sought their reward—a nervous peek at the screen. Still nothing.

  She finished the laundry. Finished the wine. Checked her civilian e-mail, took the recycling down to the curb, did some crunches then negated them by eating leftover cake and pouring another glass of wine. And between each task, a futile glance at the laptop.

  By seven fifty, she was ready to admit defeat. She’d just finished pointlessly organizing Mrs. Parks’ already meticulous jewelry box, and with a final peek at the screen, she called it quits. With a mighty sigh, she tossed herself across the bedspread, feeling the wine buzz as the manic hum of productivity faded. She shut her eyes and found the pillowcases with her hands, zwipping her knuckles across the slippery fabric, giving herself two-to-one odds at falling asleep right here. She’d wake up fully dressed, a touch confused, then it would all come rushing back to her—the royal fuck-up she’d made of their best regular client—

  Bloink.

  Her heart went still. Her hands did the same, freezing atop the pillows. Only her eyes moved, first opening, slowly, then peering across her body, between her feet, finding the screen. It was far away, but she could see it. Green. A green dot.

  How she got to her feet, she couldn’t say, but all at once the chair was under her ass, keys under her fingertips. She stared at the screen, and the words written there beside Lindsay’s yellow avatar with its miraculous green dot.

  Mrs. Parks?

  Yes, she typed, terrified to be too slow, to miss this chance.

  I wasn’t sure if you’d be there, Lindsay wrote. I wasn’t sure if I’d find the courage to find myself here, frankly.

  Well, I’m glad you did. Did you get my e-mail?

  I did. I appreciate it.

  I know it doesn’t do a thing to make it right, what I said to you last Tuesday. I’m so, so sorry. I’m relieved to have a chance to say so, in real time, if not in person.

  I’m the one who should apologize.

  I doubt that, Suzy wrote.

  I ran away with absolutely no explanation. And in the face of such a generous, if somewhat shocking, invitation.

  Suzy frowned, surprised by that word—generous—when she’d been so sure Lindsay would have chosen a far different one to describe Suzy’s insane idea. Insulting, perhaps. Or bat-shit-bonkers.

 
; Shocking and grossly inappropriate, Suzy wrote, with hindsight.

  Perhaps. But while you’ve been bold, I’ve been plain deceptive.

  She softened in her seat, curious, feeling her grief ebb. How so? she asked. There were endless possibilities. She could be far from a virgin, perhaps married. She might just get off on the fantasy of being inexperienced. Suzy had been naive to assume she had the picture right.

  I think it’d be simplest to show you, Lindsay typed.

  Suzy’s brows drew together in confusion for a moment, then, “Oh.” You mean turn the video feed on?

  Yes.

  Sure. Hang on.

  She tried to keep her face calm, neutral, so Lindsay wouldn’t know how hard her heart was suddenly thumping. I’m about to see her. Crazy.

  Suzy switched on her camera and checked the angle, finger-combed her hair, wiped the shine off her nose and forehead with the robe’s cuff. She blew out a long breath, and hit the STREAM button to make her feed live. Her face filled most of the screen, then shrank to a thumbnail, tucked up in the right-hand corner. A black box now dominated her view, a cycling gray icon in its center telling her Lindsay had activated her camera, the feed loading. She kept a smile on her face, even as she held her breath.

  But the sweet, mousy girl she anticipated never arrived.

  Instead she found herself face to virtual face with a man.

  She gaped, feeling like the room had been flipped upside-down on her.

  “Oh,” was all she managed to say.

  Not only was Lindsay a man, but he was a good-looking man. Dapper was the word that sprang immediately to mind. A classic sort of face.

  His smile was tight, clearly nervous. He was handsome, even scared. White, with dark hair—maybe black, maybe brown, it was hard to say, as he was lit mainly by his computer, the room behind him dim. His eyes were light, probably blue, though the colors were off, his pale skin washed out by the screen’s glow. He had a biggish nose, a distinguished one, and he wore stylish, dark-rimmed glasses and had a shadow of stubble across his jaw. It seemed he hadn’t lied about his age, at least. He looked about forty. And actually—

  “You never lied, did you?” Suzy asked, finding her voice and smile again at last. “You never once claimed to be a woman.”