Chapter Four

AT HOME I GO immediately to my bedroom, kick my shoes off, tear my dress over my head. My bra comes next, and I fling it onto the bed. I'm angry. Horny. In need. And not all of it is physical, which is even worse. As if the lust ravaging my system isn't hard enough to deal with.

I glance at the clock. It's already after nine. But I grab my purse from where I threw it on the bed and pull out my cell phone, checking for messages, hoping for a client. I already checked at least three times on the way home. But I fucking need it tonight. And not being able to get myself off is excruciating.

Pathetic.

There are no more messages than there were when I checked five minutes ago. Tossing my cell phone down, I stalk into the bathroom, glare at my reflection in the big, brass-framed mirror. I look flushed. My bare breasts seem fuller than usual, the nipples two hard peaks of reddened flesh, begging to be touched, kissed, sucked.

Groaning, I bring my hands to my breasts, watch in the mirror as I caress the nipples, tease them. Groan again as I pinch them hard between my fingers. And my sex is absolutely burning.

I slide my panties off, feeling the damp silk as it glides over my legs. I'm soaked. Slipping a hand between my thighs, I touch just the tip of my clit. It's a hard little nub of flesh, a small, aching erection. Unbearable, to be in this much need.

Probing my slick flesh with my fingers, I arc into my searching hand. Playing with my swollen pussy lips with one hand, tweaking my nipple with the other. And my fevered gaze reflected back to me in the mirror: need and confusion and fury! I fuck myself with my fingers, driving harder, using the heel of my hand to grind against my clit. And it feels so damn good.

Joshua's hands would feel infinitely better.

Yes, Joshua.

“Make me come, Joshua,” I whisper into the quiet air.

Sensation builds, pleasure pouring through me, scalding hot. I spread my legs wide, watch my fingers moving in and out of my body, imagine it is his hand working my flesh. If I try hard enough, I can conjure up his scent. Imagine his hazel eyes staring back at me in the mirror. I can imagine his cock hardening as he watches me fuck myself.

Oh, yes …

I pull in a deep breath, and I can almost feel his warm hands on my skin.

Joshua …

I pump my fingers harder, deeper, hurting myself. But I don't care. He is there with me, fucking me. And pleasure is pouring through my body like an electric current, hot and rich. I'm grating hard against my G-spot on the inside, and my clit on the outside. And I could almost come.

Please…

Oh, yes, Joshua. Fuck me. Yes. Make me come, into your hands. Into your mouth …

Almost there. And my gaze is locked on my image in the mirror. But it is him watching me, stroking his rigid cock now, thick and beautiful in his hand, the tip wet with pre-come. My mouth waters, I need to suck his flesh so badly, to suck his beautiful cock, to feel it slip between my thighs.

Joshua…

Closing my eyes, I see him before me, parting my pussy lips with his fingers, massaging them, massaging my clit. I press harder, faster. Pleasure builds, surging through me, small waves that grow, sharper, pounding through me. And I pause on that keen edge. It is painful. Exquisite.

Joshua, Joshua, Joshua …

And just like that, I tumble right over. And all the doubt and fear is washed away in Joshua's face, his scent. And I'm coming, hard, into my hand. Into his hands.

Joshua!

Coming so damn hard I am sobbing his name. Over and over. My legs go loose and I fall into the hard edge of the granite counter. But it doesn't matter. / came. And it was so good. For the moment I don't care about anything else.

I stand there, stunned, supporting myself on the cool granite, trying to catch my breath. When I look into the mirror again, my eyes are glittering, my cheeks bright, my mouth looks loose and red, as though someone has kissed me for hours.

If only that were true.

I am in shock. No money on the counter. Just Joshua in my mind, and as good an orgasm as I've ever had with a client.

Impossible.

But my body is still vibrating, small frissons of pleasure hot on my skin. It really did happen.

And I realize that as triumphant as I feel about this lovely, solitary orgasm, the first I've ever had this way, I am still as alone as ever.

IT'S SATURDAY AND I'VE slept in. Again. I took all of Friday off, skipping my yoga class, my facial, canceling on a client. I couldn't seem to face getting out of bed.

Joshua called yesterday morning. He left a message, his voice deep, certain, telling me he wants to see me again. Asking me to please call him. So polite, yet commanding at the same time. I didn't call. I can't do it.

I cannot do it.

Fucking torture, frankly, how badly I want to simply hear his voice. Pathetic that I played his message half a dozen times during the day. I finally made myself erase it around ten o'clock last night.

I hate when I brood, not that I do it often. I spent all of yesterday pretending not to: not to brood, not to be obsessed with Joshua's voice over the telephone line. I stayed in bed, drank tea, read magazines, watched a few movies on television, as though I were sick. Maybe I am, on some level.

One of the stations was running a marathon of eighties flicks: Pretty in Pink, The Breakfast Club. I have a secret love for these films. They're so innocent. Nothing is ever truly ugly, even the hard parts. Total escapism, which is exactly what I needed. But I can never indulge myself for too long. Today I'm hoping for a client. Either that or I'll be reduced to cleaning out my closets simply to prevent myself from picking up the phone.

I get up and shower, being careful to shave, exfoliate, moisturize, in case I get a call. But I don't stay in the shower for too long; something about the steam, the heat of the water, is too tempting.

I am pretending not to think about Joshua. I did a lousy job of it yesterday. I fought the need to masturbate all day and all night. I'm fighting it again today. I'm too afraid it was just a fluke, that it won't work again. I'm too afraid of being disappointed. And today he is with me, just behind my eyes. As half invisible as this vague sense of need that is heavy in my chest, that has nothing to do with my intense physical attraction to him.

I can pretend all I want, but I'm still thinking about him, every moment. I love that he's so honest, how truth slips from his mouth without him really thinking about it; that's just him. I love the way my body responds to him, am shocked by it. I am every bit as shocked at how I respond to him emotionally, and I'm not happy about that at all.

He is a danger to me.

One more reason never to see him again.

I slip into my silk robe, a short kimono-style in a deep plum with cranes flying across the hem. A gift from a client who had just returned from a business trip to Japan. It's the finest quality, like everything else in my life. Except for my actual life, of course. I'm still a prostitute. I'm still a girl from the Valley. From a totally fucked-up family. Still a girl who would have had no life at all if it weren't for this faux glamorous job of mine.

Why am I thinking about these things suddenly? I've gone years simply floating along, enjoying what I have without question.

Stop it.

Yes, I need to stop thinking. I need to get out of the house, out of my own head.

Moving down the hall into the living room, I check my orchids, my babies, then go into the kitchen to start tea and grab my watering can. I take care of the orchids on the kitchen windowsill first, then go back to the living room, water each of them carefully, sparingly. One of the most common mistakes people make in raising orchids is overwatering. They need a good amount of water, but not too much. Too much and it will kill them.

Too much of a good thing is always dangerous.

And suddenly I am thinking of him again. Joshua.

The kettle whistles and I go back to the kitchen, make my tea. I am just adding a small spoonful of sugar to the cup when my cell phone goes off.

My heart is pounding. Could it be him?

Bad idea, Valentine.

Yes, I know. And he doesn't even have my cell number. My cell phone is only for work. Why am I being so ridiculous?

I pick it up, look at the caller ID.

It's Colin Harper. Movie producer, gorgeous bad boy turned good, married to a beautiful young woman. He is a golden boy with a golden life. But he likes to have anal sex with prostitutes because his golden wife won't give it to him. And it's really a fetish for him. He likes it dirty, loves to call me a whore. I don't mind. I even like it. I can be a bit twisted when it comes to sex. Or maybe I'm just jaded. I think the more sex you have, the more stimulation you need to make it exciting.

I've had a lot of sex.

And I'm here to serve, aren't I?

I pick up the phone, take a breath, plaster a smile on my face.

“Colin,” I say, making my voice deep, sultry. “So nice to hear from you. What can I do for you?”

“Ah, Val, you know what you can do for me. And you do it so well.”

He chuckles at his little joke, and I am going warm with need already. Yes, this is what I need. Sex. Sex for money, to be more exact. Everything simple, clean, straightforward.

“Tell me when and where, Colin.”

He loves the cheap little motels that rent by the hour. No Beverly Wilshire or W or Roosevelt for him. His hooker fetish must include the proper setting. So he gives me the name and address of some crap hole off Sunset. Fine with me. I don't really care today, although normally I must admit this bugs me a little. What can I say? I'm a snob about good hotels. I've been trained to be. I would never go anyplace without room service on my own. But this isn't about me, is it?

Or is it?

I could swear I'm about to come just knowing I'm going to see a client today. I'm burning, swollen, throbbing with desire as I hang up the phone.

I slip into a slutty dress, a tight, hot-pink number that pushes my small breasts together, forcing cleavage. I skip the underwear. Not my usual fare, but this is Colin's fantasy, not mine. And I always have wardrobe on hand: the black leather dominatrix gear, the little plaid schoolgirl outfit, the nurse's uniform, the gray pencil skirt and a pair of black-framed glasses for the hot-for-teacher fantasy. The wardrobe, the toys. An enormous supply of condoms and lube. I am as prepared as any good Boy Scout. This is my job.

I remind myself of that as I drive through the underbelly of Hollywood, south of Sunset. This is exactly the reminder I need, I think, as I pull into the parking lot of an old motel with peeling blue paint, half the yellow lights on the neon sign burned out. There's a homeless guy curled up on the sidewalk, his eyes closed. I don't even know if he's asleep or if he's dead. And I feel sort of distant from the whole idea. This is how people like me protect ourselves from the ugliness of our own truth.

But despite the shabby building, the homeless guy, the stench of dirty pavement, I can hardly wait to get to the room with the inevitable worn seventies decor and let Golden Boy fuck me.

I make my way upstairs, and Colin opens the door even before I have a chance to knock.

He's hot. Classic Hollywood good looks, with his perfectly groomed wavy blond hair, chiseled jaw, piercing blue eyes. He looks a hell of a lot like Jude Law. But that's not what turns me on. And he knows it.

Smiling, he grabs my wrist, pulling me into the room. He shoves a wad of hundred-dollar bills into my hand at almost the same moment he unzips his fly, and I'm wet instantly. Then he's pushing me up against the chipped dresser, bending me over, lifting the hem of my dress. I can see him behind me in the mirror, pulling his cock out. He's hard as iron already. I shiver. Lick my lips. Spread my legs wide for him.

He rolls a condom over his dick, spreads a good gob of lube on it, then between my ass cheeks.

Good boy.

Using his fingers, he slips a hand between my thighs from behind, over the slick folds of my pussy. Pleasure ripples through me, and I spread a little wider for him.

I love knowing what he's about to do. I love that he loves it. I love the feeling of the rolled-up hundred-dollar bills clenched in my left hand.

He's rubbing my clit now, tugging on it, and I groan. He's great with his hands, this one. He knows just how to get me there. He knows to bring me almost to orgasm before he puts his cock in my ass.

“You are a dirty little bitch. You love when I fuck you with my hand. Just like this. Don't you, Val?”

His voice is harsh, low, as he pushes two fingers inside me, pleasure shafting deep into my body, and I grind against him.

“Oh, God, I'm going to come,” I tell him.

“Not yet. Not until my cock is buried in your ass.”

“Do it now. Please.”

I mean every word of it. I can hardly hold back. I need to come so badly. Need it.

He uses his free hand to spread my ass cheeks, and slips the tip of his cock into that tight entrance. I push back against him.

“Come on. I can take it,” I tell him. He's still got his fingers deep inside my pussy, but I need more. And truthfully, Colin isn't very well endowed, so taking him is easy. “Please, baby.”

“You're such a whore, Val.”

“Yes …”

He pushes in an inch. I bear down, opening for him, accepting the head, then the rigid shaft. There is that exquisite sensation of being filled, even by his less-than-impressive dick. And then he pushes a little deeper.

“Oh!”

Joshua's face invading my mind again. Beautiful.

And I'm coming, onto his hand, his cock in my ass, Joshua's, not Colin's. I'm coming so damn hard it hurts. But I don't care. Even in between spasms I whisper to him, “Really fuck me now. Please.”

And he does, sliding his cock in, slowly, deeply. I hear his breath quicken behind me. He's still playing with my clit, and the tension is building again already.

“Yes, that's it. Oh, God, yes …” I'm moaning, gasping for breath.

He moves a little faster, rubbing my clit hard.

“Make me come again, baby. I need it,” I tell him. Beg him.

Yes, so honest. And I know he'll give me exactly what I ask for, what I need.

He's really fucking me now, slamming into my ass, hurting just a little. But I like it. Need it. And his hand doing its magic, pleasure ramming into me with every stroke of his fingertips, every thrust of his cock.

My legs are shaking. I'm coming again, long, hard waves washing over me.

Joshua …

And he goes tense, absolutely rigid all over, yells, “Fuck!” as he comes, shuddering. His hand slides up into my hair, pulling hard, and I'm still shivering with the last ripples of my own climax.

Colin pulls out as soon as he's done coming. There's no lingering for him. But that's fine. I'm not his lover, after all, am I? I don't need the cuddling.

Pulling my dress down, I stuff the wad of cash into my purse, give him a wink in the mirror as I go to the bathroom to clean up.

I don't look too carefully in the mirror as I use a wet washcloth to clean myself. I don't want to see myself looking back at me, questioning anything. Not now.

When I come back out Colin has disposed of the condom and is reclined on the bed, fully dressed, not a hair out of place. You'd never know he'd just had sex, except for the glow in his pretty blue eyes.

“That was great, Val.”

I smile at him. “Yes it was,” I say, meaning it.

I feel good. Better than I have in days. Colin was exactly what I needed.

“How about another round?” I ask him.

He glances at his watch. “I have a meeting in thirty minutes. Can't do it. You really are a dirty little whore, aren't you?”

I smile at him. This is our usual game. And while we're having sex it's fine. It's part of the thrill. And I know he likes it. But for some reason it bothers me when he says it now. I try not to let it show.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Be a pro, Valentine. Get it together.

“So, same time next week?” I ask him playfully.

“I have to be in Vegas next week,” he says.

“Ah. Well, plenty of hookers in Vegas. You should be in heaven.”

He gets up, comes and sweeps a hand across the back of my neck. “Never as good as you, Val.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out some more cash. “I'm feeling generous today.”

Smiling, I take the money. Of course I do. “I should almost be paying you today, Colin,” I tell him truthfully. “Almost.”

I pat his cheek, my good mood back. I can really feel how loose my body is now.

He looks at his watch again. “Gotta go.”

He pats me on the ass as he sweeps past me, opens the door, and walks out.

I stand for a moment in front of the mirror, reapplying my lip gloss. My brown hair is a little mussed, my green eyes as on fire as Colin's. I don't want to see.

I look down at the bills in my hand, bring them to my face, to my nose, inhale the scent of money. Lowering my hand a little, I press my lips to the paper. And feel that thrill race through me, as it always does.

I am aching again. Insatiable. Luckily it's early enough that I can see another client today. It's Saturday; someone is bound to call.

I am praying that someone calls.

I guess Colin didn't give me what I needed after all. Maybe that's just a lie I tell myself sometimes, when questions, doubts, are hovering in the back of my mind. Like the ones I'm trying desperately to ignore right now.

MY PHONE STARTS RINGING the minute I get home. I kick the front door shut behind me, set the take-out sushi I picked up on my way home on the hall table and pick up without checking the caller ID.

“Hello?”

Lhe voice is deep, with a rough edge that makes me think of good bourbon. “Valentine, it's Joshua.”

Shit.

But I'm going warm and loose all over at the sound of his voice, my pulse fluttering. I can't help myself. “Hi. How are you?” I'm buying time. I'm a little in shock. I didn't want to talk to him.

No, that's a lie. I'm dying to talk to him.

“I'm fine, great. How are you doing? I hope you don't mind that I got your number from my caller ID after you called the other night.”

God, can I make small talk with this man? I feel utterly unprepared for this. When was the last time I did this sort of dating dance?

“No, of course not; that's fine. And I'm fine, thanks. I was just about to eat.”

“And I was about to ask you to dinner.”

“Joshua …”

“Valentine, did I do something the other night?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Because I like you. But something happened that night, and you haven't returned my calls. I'm not admonishing you. Christ, I don't mean to sound like an asshole.”

“You don't.” I wave my hand in front of my face, as though he can see me.

I feel absolutely backed into a corner. I can't even come up with an excuse. I don't really want to.

A long pause. Then he says, “I'd like to see you again.” Another pause in which I don't say anything. He goes on. “I don't even know why I'm doing this. Pushing the issue. I consider myself to be a fairly intelligent guy. I can usually take a hint. But I need to see you, Valentine. Don't make me fight for it.”

A line from that Dylan Thomas poem goes through my mind: “Do not go gentle into that good night” But the poem was talking about not fighting against death. I really am screwed up. This is only a date, for God's sake!

Pure torture, hearing his voice. My body is on fire.

Yes, see him. Just once. Be with him.

“I want to see you, too, Joshua.” It slips out before I can do anything about it. But I can almost feel his radiant smile on the other end of the phone. My heart is absolutely pounding in my chest.

“Good. You won't be sorry.” He says it in a low tone that reverberates through my system like a caress. “Do you like Thai?”

“I like everything.”

“There's a great place in Malibu I'd love to take you to. Tomorrow night, seven o'clock?”

“Yes, sure. I can meet you if you tell me where it is.”

“Or I can pick you up. I'd like to. You can relax on the drive out there, we can talk.”

I freeze a little at that idea. Too close, to have him here in my house. But irresistible.

I am going to do this.

“Yes, that sounds fine. Come and pick me up, then.” I give him the address.

“I can't wait to see you, Valentine.”

God, that voice, like warm whiskey going down my throat. My sex is heating up, pulsing with need. And my head is half empty, I'm trying so hard not to think about what I'm doing.

My cell phone starts ringing, and I pull it out of my purse, check the ID.

Shit.

“Joshua, I have another call and I have to take it. I'm sorry.”

“No problem. I'll see you tomorrow evening.”

I hang up, staring a moment at my phone. It's Deirdre, my boss. The Broker. “Madam” seems much too tame a term for this elegant, steely woman. Deirdre looks a lot like Catherine Deneuve—a tall, pale blonde with classic features—and has that same aura of regal Ice Queen. She's the one who finds my clients for me, and while regulars can book directly by calling my cell, new clients or anyone who wants an out-of-town trick has to go through The Broker.

This is exactly what I need. I know it. But she's the last person I want to talk to right now.

I flip open the phone.

“Hi, Deirdre.”

“Val. I'm glad I caught you.” Her voice is cool, her elocution flawless.

“So am I. What do you have for me?”

“I hope you're free tomorrow—and for the next few days. And if you're not, make it happen.”

A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but relief, too. “Who is it?”

“Zayed. He wants to send you, Regan, and Rosalyn to New York.”

“Ah, I love New York.” My palms are sweating. I curl my fingers into a tight little knot.

“You know how he is, Val. He'll want to keep you three cloistered in the hotel room. No shopping, no museums.”

“Yes, I know. We'll be the perfect harem, waiting for his every command.”

“Yes, you will.”

Deirdre never did have a sense of humor.

“When do we leave?”

“Be at LAX tomorrow at nine a.m. He's sending his jet for you. You know what to do, I trust?”

“Of course. Any idea how long he'll want us?”

“It's Zayed. It could be a night. It could be two weeks.”

I make a mental note to ask my housekeeper to water my orchids. I'm already thinking of what to pack.

“I'll be prepared. Thank you, Deirdre.”

“Just keep him happy, Val.”

“As always.”

She hangs up, and I see there's a message on my cell. It's Bennett, probably making up for the night he had to cancel on the opera. Which leads me back to Joshua.

Damn it.

This is exactly why I can't do this. This dating thing. Why I cannot have a personal life. I've been perfectly fine with the way things are for over nine years. Why is everything so complicated suddenly?

I pace the floor, back and forth in front of the window, the scenery outside a blur of green beyond my pots of orchids.

I know why. It's because I actually like Joshua, aside from the intense attraction. If it was just sex, I could handle it. And I'm not allowed to feel like this. This is the end for a girl in my position.

But why not? I have plenty of money.

It's not about the money.

No, it's not. It's about condemning myself to a life of disappointing sex. And frankly, I like it far too much to do that to myself. It's the sex. Not that I have any craving for a normal life. For a real relationship. I don't even know what that is.

I have to call him.

Shit. Shit!

I pace for another ten minutes before picking up my phone and dialing his number. I don't know what the hell I'm going to tell him.

The conversation is as brief as I can make it. I tell him I have to go away on business and I'm not sure how long I'll be gone, all of which is true. He sounds disappointed, polite. I feel like there's a weight on my chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. It's not any better when I hang up the phone.

I try to tell myself this is for the best as I head into the bedroom to pack for the trip: slinky little dresses, my sexiest silk and lace lingerie, my highest heels. A few vibrators, individual packets of lube, condoms. The equipment of a call girl. A nice little reminder.

I'll be away for a while, be distracted. I'll have some time and distance to get things back in perspective. On some level I think the universe has intervened to keep me from doing what can only be destructive for both of us, ultimately. It wouldn't be fair of me to start something I have no intention of finishing.

But sometimes I just think the universe is fucked.