“You’re the second person today who’s said I have a look,” I say, surprised I had air in my lungs to speak. “I don’t have a look.”
“The fuck you don’t.” Talent stops when our waitress arrives to deliver our bottle of whisky. She places one glass in front of me and the other in front of Talent. When she retreats, promising to be back to check on us soon, he continues, “The muscles in your jaw tighten and two little creases appear between your eyebrows.”
I laugh out loud. “That’s bullshit.”
Talent pops the top from our bottle and pours us each a finger, smiling and nodding. “I saw it when you bolted from my office and again when you ran from the coffee shop last week.”
“I didn’t run.”
He winks and holds his glass up. “Let’s make a toast.”
Contemplating the drink and how my laugh slackened the onslaught unease unleashed upon me, I take my glass and hold it close to his and say, “I’ll have one drink.”
“You won’t regret it.”
“What should we toast to?” I ask.
“To that motherfucker Phillip Vogel. Without him, I’d never have found you.” Talent lifts his glass. He smirks. “He’s still a dead man.”
Twelve-hundred-dollar whisky goes down as smooth as Talent’s charm. One promised drink turns into three, and I’ve tied my hair up and taken my jacket off as the temperature in the bar rises. Our conversation is mostly one-sided with Talent doing all the talking. He doesn’t mind, even pulling his chair to my side of the table as the bar fills up just like he said it would.
He speaks over the commotion and serves himself twice as many drinks as I’ve had.
“My brother, Wilder, is the responsible son. He’ll take over the business once my dad steps down,” he rambles, going on and on about people I’ll never know and a business I don’t understand.
I hang on to every word, not necessarily to understand what he’s talking about, but to memorize the way his lips move around each syllable and to hear how his tone changes when he’s curious, excited, and happy. He talks with his hands and shoulders, expressing just as much through body language and swagger as his voice.
Talent Ridge is all whisky eyes and whisky smiles. He slides his hand across the back of my chair, and it’s easy to pretend I’m not a prostitute and he doesn’t merely want to pay me for sexual favors. I suppose this is what it’s like to be out with a friend, but it’s hard to place myself in this setting without motives attached. Even if this feels real, I know it’s not.
“Is that why you’re here with me?” I ask once he’s done giving multiple examples as to why Wilder is a better son and brother than he is. “Because you don’t think you’re as good as your older brother? It doesn’t sound like he’d ever be caught dead with an escort in public, but maybe it’s almost expected from you.”
He shakes his head, turning his gaze away bashfully. “It’s not like that, Lydia. He’s not entirely good, and I’m not the defiant son who’s suffocating under my father’s watchful eye. We’re not the normal family everyone seems to think we are. Wilder just happens to follow the rules better than I do.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy,” I say, sliding my empty glass toward the bottle for a refill.
“Now that you mention it, you two are a lot alike in that no-sense-of-humor type of way.” He smirks, serving me another drink.
Jabbing my finger at him, I say, “That’s where you’re wrong. A particularly good sense of humor is a must in my line of work. Some of the most influential men in Grand Haven are absolutely pathetic behind closed doors. Nothing shocks me.”
Talent slouches in his seat with his knees parted, resting his hand on my thigh while I give him a very quick rundown on how I conduct business. My bra strap slips down my shoulder, and my long fringe falls loose in my eyes. At the other side of the bar, the band sets up their equipment, checking the drum kick and whispering, “Testing, testing,” into the microphone.
“What did you think about me?” Talent asks. There’s not a tinge of skepticism in his tone, only genuine interest about the first time we met.
Using booze as a buffer between us, I take a small swallow before answering. “To be honest, I went to your office with the same expectations I have for every client: none at all. You’ll be surprised to learn that everyone’s offices look exactly the same—neutral color on the walls, large desks, and furniture that gets uncomfortable pretty fast.”
“Basically, the Ridge & Sons waiting room.”
“After a while, every office and every client starts to blend together. They’re different squares in different buildings around the city, but the people inside want the exact same thing. I used to be able to get through my week because it’s so mundane.”
“What happened?”
I stare at his lips before capturing his eyes and admit, “You happened.”
“Can you tell me how it works? Don’t escorts get paid to … escort? I had the impression escorts accompany older men to work functions and vacations to show off to their friends.”
Chuckling, I say, “I’m more hands-on.”
“Women solicit themselves to me all the time,” he says conversationally without ego.
“In Grand Haven, they’re definitely one of Inez’s girls. She has a monopoly from here to San Francisco. I’m the only one who works the way I do, but I don’t leave the city. Everyone else is free to roam.”
An image of Camilla flashes through my mind. If she’s determined to live this lifestyle, showing her how I managed to make it this far is the kind thing to do. I know from experience that if she’s left to her own devices, it’ll only be a matter of time before she finds herself in the company of someone who won’t take her safety into consideration. Inez sees possibility in the girl, and I have to respect her instinct. She let me use her as a stepping-stone, after all.
Motioning between Talent and me, I say, “I don’t do this with clients. The only reason you have access to me is because I dropped my phone in your office. But nothing concerning you has been routine, and it drives me fucking insane.”
Conversation around us rises in volume, getting louder, like the humming of bees as the bar fills to capacity. Talent and I gravitate toward one another, with my leg pressed against his and his arm draped entirely across the back of my chair. I hover somewhere between resting into his side and maintaining an illusion that I’m not drunk and in total control, thank you very much.
Our faces wait inches apart. Up close, I can see the whispering of freckles across his cheeks and the different shades of gray in his irises. The woodsy aroma of whisky hangs on his lips, and it takes every bit of restraint I have not to lick it off.
Talent closes the space between us and whispers into my ear, “At least you finally admit it.”
Chills run down my arms, and I shiver as his warm breath caresses the side of my face. Talent studies my reaction to him, and a low moan rumbles in his chest. Then his mouth is on my burning skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses from the top of my shoulder to the spot where my pulse sails in his honor. I tilt my head to the side, giving Talent permission to continue. My eyes slowly fall shut as his tongue touches my skin, leaving behind the whisky’s sting as he moves closer and closer to my mouth.