Midtown Masters Page 7

  “I never once corrected you when you’d clearly mistaken me for one,” he countered. He had a lovely voice, deep, and as soft and familiar as corduroy. Gentle. Charming. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not a woman,” she said, then held up her naked left hand, “and I’m not married.”

  Surprise flashed across his face.

  “So we’re both a little naive,” Suzy said. “But none of the emotional stuff was a lie. Not on my end. I meant everything I said to you.”

  “You and Mr.— You and he . . .” He trailed off.

  “We used to date. We’re lovers, obviously, and we’re monogamous, but we’re not a couple, per se. Not anymore. I hope that’s not too much of a blow.”

  “I enjoyed the illusion, I won’t lie. But I entertained the odd doubt, now and then.”

  “You can call me Suzy, by the way. What should I call you?”

  His lips thinned to a tight line, and she imagined if the light were better, she’d have caught his face go pale.

  “You can make something up, if you don’t want to say.”

  “I’m in a bit over my head, here. You don’t . . . You don’t recognize me, I take it?”

  She shook her head, intrigued. “Should I?”

  “I’d have been surprised. But it’s possible.” He swallowed and his lips pursed on one side, as though he were biting the inside of his cheek. He did that a lot, she’d noticed already. He was a man of subconscious habits. A nervous type, and an introvert, seeming completely unaware of his mannerisms.

  “Your secret identity is safe with me,” she assured him. “And if it makes you feel any safer, I’m as blackmailable as you, I imagine. I’m not any kind of public figure, but I do have career aspirations beyond this gig.”

  He nodded, looked down. His nostrils flared, then he looked up once more, meeting her gaze through their two screens. “You can call me John, then.”

  “Okay, John.” So was that a fake name? Could Lindsay possibly be his real first name? He said he’d never lied to her, and there were male Lindsays in the world. But why John? “John like John Doe,” she mused.

  He smiled tightly. “John like John Lindsay. That’s my name.”

  “Ohhh. Gotcha. Well, John Lindsay, I’m Soo-jin Park. I promise not to extort a small fortune from you if you’ll extend me the same courtesy.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Deal, then.”

  He cleared his throat. “So you’re not . . . I don’t know. You’re not offended? That I’m a man?”

  “Offended? No. Surprised, yes. The things you wanted to see . . . they seemed like a woman’s requests. Which isn’t any sort of a bad thing. I field a lot of men’s requests, and they can get tiresome. You were my favorite client, precisely because you were so different. And in no small part because you seemed so preoccupied with my pleasure.” The final words came out a touch breathy, giddy, and she felt warmth flooding her cheeks, throat, lips.

  “Well, I never lied about my inexperience, sadly. And I’m very much interested to see what sex might look like when the woman’s . . . catered to. May I ask you something tacky?”

  She smiled. “I didn’t fake my orgasms,” she said. “Not on your nights.”

  “Really?”

  “No. I didn’t need to. It wasn’t you actually spoiling me, but the things you like to see, well, maybe you’re not experienced, as you say, but you’re instinctual. The things you want to see are exactly the things a woman needs. This woman, anyhow.”

  His eyes darted all around behind his glasses, and even by the glow of his screen, his blush was evident. “Oh. Well, good.”

  “I have to say, I’m surprised, John. Between your desires, and chatting with you, talking with you now . . . and, frankly, your perfectly handsome face—”

  He cleared his throat again, coughed, gaze jumping everywhere but the camera lens.

  “—it’s a bit of a mystery to me, how you’ve not been corrupted by your fair share of lucky women by now. If it’s women you like, that is.”

  “I, um . . . I’m quite shy. I’m terrifically awkward, in fact, if I’m honest. I’m different with you. Different when it was just my typed words, and different even now, I think. I’m only half as terrified as I expected to be, with the camera on.”

  “Huh.”

  He nodded. “Yes, indeed. Though I am still a bit terrified.”

  She smirked. “If I flirt with you, will you run away again?”

  “I’ll try not to. Though I might not realize you’re doing it. I’m not great with social cues. In fact, don’t tell me if you are. It’s probably safest.”

  She laughed. He smiled.

  “You’re more charming than I bet you realize,” she told him. “So, are you going to tell me who you are, or will I have to Google you?”

  “Google me and you might think you’ve been performing for a long-deceased mayor of New York City. Though scroll down a bit and you’ll find I’m a writer. I write mysteries. My books are being adapted for a television series. It’s a Netflix program.”

  “Oh. Oh. Is it that Nicetown show?” That was set in Philadelphia, she was pretty sure, presumably in its Nicetown-Tioga neighborhood.

  He nodded. “That’s me. Have you seen it?”

  “No, it’s just always popping up when I’m browsing. I’ll have to check it out. Looks kind of noir, but contemporary?”

  “That’s accurate.”

  “Netflix seems to think I’d give it five stars.”

  “Well, they’ve done a very good job with it. I can’t claim much credit.”

  “You’re a modest one, huh?”

  His lips twitched, then he shrugged. Smiled again. “I suppose.”

  “That’s really cool. You’re the most famous person I’ve ever met, I think.” Or knowingly fucked for. Celebrity clientele? Who’d have guessed?

  Though the notion was one she’d automatically share with Meyer, such sentiments seemed snide and cynical with this man in the room, as it were. She felt a little gross having caught herself thinking that.

  “Oh,” she said, a different thought snagging her. “You’re a writer. That’s why you’re such a fast typist.”

  He laughed. “You noticed?”

  “Come on—in this day and age? No abbreviations, no emoticons, perfect punctuation and spelling? I had my money on you being a secretary. A really well-compensated one, judging by our price tag,” she added.

  “To be honest, the reason I originally approached you and Mr. Parks was because my critics revel in ripping my love scenes to pieces—the ones in my books. I hope it won’t sound cold to admit I spent our hours together taking notes, not . . . Well, you know.”

  Funny, but a little part of her went dark at that, disappointed. “That’s interesting,” was all she could think to say.

  “I mean . . . The things I’ve seen you two do, it’s captured my imagination, as well. If you know what I’m getting at.” Now he was positively red in the face.

  “I believe I do,” she said, pride flushing her own cheeks. “And I won’t pretend I’m not pleased to hear it.”

  They fell silent for a moment, the lapse neither awkward nor easy. Just . . . quiet.

  “Well, John, I have to say, I’m relieved to know this is why you disappeared last week. I was so horrified, thinking I’d offended you.”

  “No, not offended. Shocked, yes.” He laughed, the sound nervous and sweet. “I hadn’t seen that coming.”

  “I hadn’t seen it coming either, I promise. I meant it when I said we’ve never extended that sort of invitation before.”

  “I imagine my being a man rather changes the proposition.”

  She bit her lip, then spoke candidly. “Only in ways that might surprise you.”

  “Oh?”

  “My so-called husband—
he’s into men, as well as women. The thought of another man in the room wouldn’t exactly queer the deal. Forgive the pun.”

  “Oh, I see.” And if he’d browsed even the titles of their sample videos on the Web site, he’d know Mr. Parks wasn’t averse to pegging, for starters.

  “This whole venture, it’s only for a year,” she said. “It’s fun, and we like each other, and our chemistry’s always been strong, even if our attempt at dating was a bust. We both need the money, and it just makes sense to be monogamous.” She doubted Meyer would be thrilled with her yanking back their curtain so dramatically, but knowing how vulnerable John Lindsay was making himself, if he was indeed a successful writer, made her feel confident her trust wasn’t misplaced. He had more to lose, frankly.

  “Well, you’re very good at it,” John said. “At what you do.”

  “Thanks. We like to think so. I hope I’ll make as good a psychologist, when I get around to using my education.”

  He smiled. “A sex therapist, perhaps.”

  “The thought’s crossed my mind. A sex-positive therapist, at the very least.”

  “I feel as though I’ve spent an hour or two on your couch already,” he joked.

  “And you’re not tempted to sue me for malpractice?”

  “Quite the opposite. You’ve made me feel more . . . well, not exactly normal. But less broken than I’m used to.”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure if that makes me feel good or totally sad.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You ought to talk to Mey—” She cut herself off.

  “Talk to your what?”

  “To my so-called husband,” she fudged. “His problem’s the opposite of yours—he’s completely fucked-up but insanely self-confident. Whereas you, well, you’re successful, and you seem kind and smart and fundamentally normal, and you’re very attractive, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “I suppose I don’t,” he mumbled.

  “You’ve got every reason to walk through the world feeling like you own it. But it doesn’t work that way, does it?”

  “It doesn’t seem to.”

  She smiled at him, letting the thought settle between them.

  “This, um . . .” John’s gaze fled to something on his desk, and she could see his hands fidgeting, just their jumping knuckles visible. He looked to the camera again. “I was dreading this. Coming clean. But you know, it’s not nearly as awful as I’d imagined it would be. I still feel badly for misleading you, but it’s a miracle I’m managing to string two words together, really. I’m shy at the best of times. Put me in front of a camera or microphone and it’s ten times worse.”

  “Aww.”

  “I’m a publicist’s nightmare. They’ve quit trying to send me on book tours—it’s all written interviews and articles, now. As you’ve probably gathered, I’m most comfortable hiding behind words. But you . . . You’re very easy to talk to. You have a gift. You’re very disarming.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Especially given my future field. Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” His posture had softened, she noticed, his shoulders looking more relaxed, his face less tense.

  “Why did you want us to think you were a woman?”

  “Oh, that’s quite simple. I’ve always been eviscerated by female critics for the way I write women—their dialogue, their motivations—and apparently my sex scenes are . . . How did that one reviewer put it? I believe the term was ‘repulsive.’”

  “Ouch.”

  “Or perhaps ‘repellant.’ Whatever the case, I have no doubt she was spot-on. What I wanted when I first came to you was a presentation of sex, packaged for a woman’s eyes. I’m speaking in stereotypes, obviously. But sex that a female audience would find genuine and passionate and romantic, and respectful. That’s what I wanted you to illustrate for me. I took notes about the things you two did, the things you said, the way you said them, the way you treated each other. I’m determined that the next time one of my books has a sex scene, I won’t get it wrong.”

  “If only I could look forward to finding myself in the acknowledgments,” she teased.

  “I suppose you could,” he said thoughtfully. “A simple ‘With thanks to Suzy’ shouldn’t capsize either of our careers, I wouldn’t think.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “But getting back to your question, yes, that’s why I let you think I was a woman. And moreover, I’m, well, I’m weird about sex. I don’t entirely get a lot of it, so I suppose if I’d been looking for sex to watch, for my own enjoyment, it’d probably look like what you’ve showed me. I’m so out of my depth with even the basics, I find pretty much all of the pornography out there mildly traumatizing.”

  “It’s gone a bit bonkers. Even I think so, and I’m pretty fucking kinky.”

  “You must struggle to stay awake on Tuesday nights,” he said, and smirked or bit his cheek.

  “Quite the opposite. Your sessions are refreshing, in this world full of extremes.”

  “Oh. Well, good.”

  “Do you think you’ll still see us? I know I crossed a pretty intense line, with that invitation. I’d walk it back if I could, but I’ll understand if this particular pooch can’t be unscrewed.”

  He smiled at that. “I’m not sure. It’s not your fault, though. It’s mine. I let you think things were one way, and clearly they’re very different.”

  A funny thought struck her. All this time, she’d imagined their client was fantasizing that she was Suzy, getting fucked by Meyer, when apparently it was the other way around. She wondered with a jolt if John had any sort of a crush on her. Or even an infatuation. The thought didn’t alarm her; it rather excited her, in fact. And all at once, her own crush was back. It looked entirely different, but she felt that warm, hot buzz all the same.

  Fuck.

  “Well, if you don’t think you want to be a client anymore, would you want to maybe be friends?” She caught herself. “Wow, that sounded so dorky. But you know, just you and me, talking like this? I promise I won’t treat you like a therapy patient.”

  “Gosh, I hadn’t imagined that was an option.”

  Gosh. Jesus, what a charmer. “I don’t see why not,” she said. “I like talking with you. You’re refreshing, like I said. You’re not like anybody I’ve ever met. And you said I’m not nearly as scary as you’d expected.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant.”

  “I’m just teasing. But you get what I’m saying, I think.”

  “I do. And yes, I think I’d like that.”

  “I can sign some paperwork, if you’re worried about me running off to the Internet and telling the world that you solicited sex workers. Promise never to speak of it. And I won’t be offended at all if you want me to do that.”

  “I’d have to think about it.”

  She smiled at him, and bared her heart. “Please come back. My Tuesdays will suck if you tell me I’ve ruined this.”

  “I think I’d like to. I’ll tell you by this weekend, if that’s okay. If you’ll take my advance payments in exchange for holding the usual hour.”

  “Of course. And if you decide the camming’s not what you’re after now, I’m happy to do this again. Just talk. I’ll lend you any female perspective you might be needing.”

  “That’s a kind offer . . . Well, I imagine you might need some time to digest all this. As I do.”

  She nodded. “Probably wouldn’t hurt. Is it okay if I tell my partner about our talk? I won’t share your real name or your profession, if you don’t want me to. And unlike me, he respects professional boundaries. He won’t go digging if I tell him not to.”

  “No, it’s all right. There’ve been enough secrets already.”

  “Okay.”

  He sat back, that handsome face growing smaller on her screen, and smiling faintly. “We
ll, this has been a relief. Thank you, Suzy.”

  “You have no idea how much better I feel. Really. I’ve been an absolute wreck this week.”

  That sweet smile faded. “I’m—”

  “No, no. Don’t be sorry. There’s no need. I was a clod with no boundaries, and you . . . well, you were misleading. That was your prerogative, of course, but for the sake of us splitting the guilt and calling it even, I’ll let you feel very slightly bad about it. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Good. Anyhow, let me know what you decide for next Tuesday when you’re ready. I’ll look forward to seeing you again, maybe.”

  He nodded. “Same. Um, thank you, by the way. For this. For being so understanding.”

  “Same.”

  “Right. Well, I suppose this is ‘good night.’”

  “I suppose so. Take care of yourself, John. It was nice to see you.”

  “You too.”

  And knowing he’d never end the chat first, she smiled at the camera as she hit END.

  Chapter Eight

  “Wait. What?” Meyer was stretched out on his couch, head on the end cushion and bare feet dangling off the far armrest, phone in hand. He stared up at the frosted dome of his living room’s darkened light, feeling something he rarely did—shock.

  “Lindsay the virginal middle-aged secretary is a man?”

  “His name’s John,” Suzy said. She was doing something on her end of the line, something that clacked. It was half past nine, a half hour after their usual Tuesday with Lindsay would normally wrap.

  “John,” he echoed. “Well, that’s another fake name if ever I heard one.”

  “It’s not, actually. His name’s John Lindsay.”

  “Like the writer.”

  A pause. “Writer?”

  “There’s a novelist named John Lindsay. Those mysteries they just made into a Netflix show.” He’d been meaning to start it—the lead actor was insanely fuckable.

  “Oh, that’s interesting.” Suzy’s voice had gone weird. Too high, far too innocent. She was the worst liar Meyer had ever met. Though what about this particular exchange could be making her so—