CHAPTER 1
Mi madre must be turning over in her grave right now.
As I rode the elevator to the penthouse of the ritzy Seltane Hotel—it’d taken two staffers to key me up to the fortieth floor—I chewed on a fingernail.
Was I really about to let some strange man have sex with me? For money?
The elevator arrived too quickly, forcing me onto a private landing with its own lobby and an elegant sitting area. An open newspaper lay on a coffee table, as if someone had recently left.
The entry—a pair of ornate mahogany doors—was just beyond, looming. Could I bring myself to ring the bell?
Apparently, this penthouse was one of the largest (more than ten thousand square feet) and the most expensive (thirty-two grand—a night) in Miami. Who in their right mind would spend that much money on a hotel? Clearly my first client was loco.
Other than that, I didn’t know much about him. He was a Russian businessman, here in Miami for a week. He’d been not only vetted but vouched for by sister escort agencies all over the world. In other words, he was a hobbyist, a routine user of escorts.
Tempted to bolt, I pulled out my phone to call my hookup, Ivanna. She was a Ukrainian immigrant and high-class escort, making bank; I was her cleaning lady. She thought my current employment was a waste of my “spectacular figure and fresh-faced beauty.” Yeah, yeah.
When she answered, I said, “I don’t think I can do this.” I began to pace the lobby, my stilettos silent on the plush beige rug.
“Of course you can. You don’t understand how badly I wish I could be there. If this man is renting the penthouse for a week, imagine how rich he is!”
The Russian had booked Ivanna, but she’d had a reaction to Botox (she was only thirty!). She’d thought she’d be okay by tonight, so she hadn’t called to cancel. A big no-no for escorts.
“If my eyes weren’t swollen shut . . .”
“Ivanna, I’m not at this point yet.” I’d been vacillating like crazy. Though I’d prepared to take a couple of dates—getting an exam and a waxing—I’d always suspected I’d balk. “I’m not here,” I insisted. But wasn’t I? Yesterday I could’ve sworn I’d seen Edward.
In Miami.
I’d been riding the bus home from a cleaning gig when I’d seen a tall, lanky blond stepping out of a bodega, striding toward a Porsche. The last time I’d seen him had been in the glare of headlights, his green eyes stark against his blood-coated face.
If he was here, then I needed to flee to a new city as soon as possible. But that took funds.
“You make this job sound so horrible,” Ivanna said. “You’re going to do great. You have the balls, and that’s half the battle!”
Despite my upbringing—or maybe because of it—I was pretty shameless. Even with my, ahem, generous ass, I’d proudly strutted the beaches of Jacksonville in a micro thong bikini. I’d gotten hot and heavy with all manner of high school boys, doing everything but screwing, earning a reputation as a cocktease. When I’d started having sex with Edward, I’d studied tips and tricks, anything to tempt him. So I knew how to get a guy sprung.
Ivanna said, “You’ll have inquiries from the agency site before you know it.”
She’d gotten the web guy for Elite Escorts to toss up a makeshift page for me, by promising him an HR. Hand release.
I knew all the lingo, had chuckled as she’d recited acronyms, never imagining I’d be using the lingo. A BBBJ was a bareback blowjob. Swallowing was BBBJNQNS—bareback blowjob, no quit, no spit. MSOG—multiple shots on goal—meant the client could come as many times as he liked in the specified time limit. “You shouldn’t have bothered with that web page for me.” I’d told her I would only do this once or twice, but she’d just smiled and said, “That’s what we all thought. Now pose for your site photo!”
“You only have a couple more minutes to be on time,” Ivanna said. “Take a deep breath, remember my three key points, and you’ll be fine.”
First, I should look for a nondescript envelope of cash lying on a conspicuous surface—my “donation.” I was to do nothing until I pocketed the money. And then? The name of the game was upselling, getting him to pay for services above and beyond the outcall, earnings that were all mine.
Second, since my client wasn’t likely to inspire arousal—despite the fact that I hadn’t had sex in forever and my libido was going crazy!—I’d need to figure out a way to furtively lube up. Most escorts did. Lube made for safer sex and limited VF, vagina fatigue. Of course, a condom was mandatory.
Third, the majority of clients that used Elite Escorts liked ingratiating, sweet dates; I was a cheeky smart-ass. So I would have to curb my personality to succeed.
Damn it, I should never be in the service industry—in any capacity.
But I needed this money to run! I had my own rules, and in three years I’d never broken them.
1. Never say anything above and beyond what is absolutely necessary.
2. Never create links between you and anything else.
3. Never stay in a place longer than six months.
4. Never get soft.
5. Never attract undue attention.
6. Forgodsakes, never, never, never trust another man.
Without funds, I was going to break rule number three.
“Trust me, Cat, with your business savvy, you’re going to make a killing,” Ivanna assured me.
How savvy was I? Although I had six houses to clean each week—including hers—five of the women beat me up on my fee, assuming I was an undocumented worker from Cuba.
Mi madre must be turning over in her grave right now.
As I rode the elevator to the penthouse of the ritzy Seltane Hotel—it’d taken two staffers to key me up to the fortieth floor—I chewed on a fingernail.
Was I really about to let some strange man have sex with me? For money?
The elevator arrived too quickly, forcing me onto a private landing with its own lobby and an elegant sitting area. An open newspaper lay on a coffee table, as if someone had recently left.
The entry—a pair of ornate mahogany doors—was just beyond, looming. Could I bring myself to ring the bell?
Apparently, this penthouse was one of the largest (more than ten thousand square feet) and the most expensive (thirty-two grand—a night) in Miami. Who in their right mind would spend that much money on a hotel? Clearly my first client was loco.
Other than that, I didn’t know much about him. He was a Russian businessman, here in Miami for a week. He’d been not only vetted but vouched for by sister escort agencies all over the world. In other words, he was a hobbyist, a routine user of escorts.
Tempted to bolt, I pulled out my phone to call my hookup, Ivanna. She was a Ukrainian immigrant and high-class escort, making bank; I was her cleaning lady. She thought my current employment was a waste of my “spectacular figure and fresh-faced beauty.” Yeah, yeah.
When she answered, I said, “I don’t think I can do this.” I began to pace the lobby, my stilettos silent on the plush beige rug.
“Of course you can. You don’t understand how badly I wish I could be there. If this man is renting the penthouse for a week, imagine how rich he is!”
The Russian had booked Ivanna, but she’d had a reaction to Botox (she was only thirty!). She’d thought she’d be okay by tonight, so she hadn’t called to cancel. A big no-no for escorts.
“If my eyes weren’t swollen shut . . .”
“Ivanna, I’m not at this point yet.” I’d been vacillating like crazy. Though I’d prepared to take a couple of dates—getting an exam and a waxing—I’d always suspected I’d balk. “I’m not here,” I insisted. But wasn’t I? Yesterday I could’ve sworn I’d seen Edward.
In Miami.
I’d been riding the bus home from a cleaning gig when I’d seen a tall, lanky blond stepping out of a bodega, striding toward a Porsche. The last time I’d seen him had been in the glare of headlights, his green eyes stark against his blood-coated face.
If he was here, then I needed to flee to a new city as soon as possible. But that took funds.
“You make this job sound so horrible,” Ivanna said. “You’re going to do great. You have the balls, and that’s half the battle!”
Despite my upbringing—or maybe because of it—I was pretty shameless. Even with my, ahem, generous ass, I’d proudly strutted the beaches of Jacksonville in a micro thong bikini. I’d gotten hot and heavy with all manner of high school boys, doing everything but screwing, earning a reputation as a cocktease. When I’d started having sex with Edward, I’d studied tips and tricks, anything to tempt him. So I knew how to get a guy sprung.
Ivanna said, “You’ll have inquiries from the agency site before you know it.”
She’d gotten the web guy for Elite Escorts to toss up a makeshift page for me, by promising him an HR. Hand release.
I knew all the lingo, had chuckled as she’d recited acronyms, never imagining I’d be using the lingo. A BBBJ was a bareback blowjob. Swallowing was BBBJNQNS—bareback blowjob, no quit, no spit. MSOG—multiple shots on goal—meant the client could come as many times as he liked in the specified time limit. “You shouldn’t have bothered with that web page for me.” I’d told her I would only do this once or twice, but she’d just smiled and said, “That’s what we all thought. Now pose for your site photo!”
“You only have a couple more minutes to be on time,” Ivanna said. “Take a deep breath, remember my three key points, and you’ll be fine.”
First, I should look for a nondescript envelope of cash lying on a conspicuous surface—my “donation.” I was to do nothing until I pocketed the money. And then? The name of the game was upselling, getting him to pay for services above and beyond the outcall, earnings that were all mine.
Second, since my client wasn’t likely to inspire arousal—despite the fact that I hadn’t had sex in forever and my libido was going crazy!—I’d need to figure out a way to furtively lube up. Most escorts did. Lube made for safer sex and limited VF, vagina fatigue. Of course, a condom was mandatory.
Third, the majority of clients that used Elite Escorts liked ingratiating, sweet dates; I was a cheeky smart-ass. So I would have to curb my personality to succeed.
Damn it, I should never be in the service industry—in any capacity.
But I needed this money to run! I had my own rules, and in three years I’d never broken them.
1. Never say anything above and beyond what is absolutely necessary.
2. Never create links between you and anything else.
3. Never stay in a place longer than six months.
4. Never get soft.
5. Never attract undue attention.
6. Forgodsakes, never, never, never trust another man.
Without funds, I was going to break rule number three.
“Trust me, Cat, with your business savvy, you’re going to make a killing,” Ivanna assured me.
How savvy was I? Although I had six houses to clean each week—including hers—five of the women beat me up on my fee, assuming I was an undocumented worker from Cuba.
