You Get What You Pay For, J. C. Laird [read aloud TXT] 📗

You Get What You Pay For

 

YOU GET WHAT YOU PAY FOR

 

 

 

Adam hadn’t been this jumpy since Wendy Ward asked him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance at Hoover High back in the ninth grade. Then again, he had been as nervous as a dog in a thunderstorm when he and Wendy married nine years later. Tonight, he was on the verge of sheer panic.

He looked in the bathroom mirror, squared his shoulders and peered critically at the length of his conservative brown tie; it hung an inch below his beltline, an acceptable distance. He had already re-tied it three times to get it just right. The plain, gold tie-bar holding it to his shirt was perfectly horizontal. The pale yellow, long-sleeve dress shirt still hid his slight potbelly and the thickening of his waistline, his “love handles.”

Adam leaned forward and peered at the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the loosening of the skin at his neck, the weak chin, his thinning sandy hair, and receding hairline. The eyes staring back at him, now faded and washed out, had once been a bright and penetrating blue. His right one was slightly bloodshot, but no amount of Murine would fix that. And the headache was only a nagging twinge tonight.

Adam took a step back and evaluated his image again. He was 58 years old, and all things considered, he was not an ugly man. He was still in decent shape and if he remembered to take Wendy’s advice to “stand up straight and not to stoop,” clocked in at over six feet tall. But he had to remember things on his own now since Wendy was gone...

Adam looked at his watch, paced out into the luxurious master bedroom and checked the clock on the dark, mahogany nightstand and compared the times; they corresponded, 7:45 p.m. He had fifteen minutes left. He walked into the expansive living room and sitting area, still in awe of the spacious 1525 sq. ft. Cypress Suite he had decided on booking. He lifted his dark-brown suit coat off the back of a chair, put it on and tugged, pulled, smoothed, and adjusted.

He continued fidgeting and scurried over to the large picture window overlooking the front of the Bellagio Hotel and Casino. From thirty-four stories up he couldn’t discern much; the cars were like toys and the bustling people ant-sized figures in the early evening twilight. The hotel’s vast array of neon lights would soon substitute for Mother Nature. Adam jammed his hands in his pockets. He was as nervous as “a whore in church,” as the old saying went. He laughed without humor at his inadvertent wit.

How had he gotten talked into this? It was his friends—the good ol’ boys—at the Elks Lodge who had pushed him to this point. No…, of course, it wasn’t, there was a lot more at play here than something stemming from a few beers with the guys. They had commiserated with him numerous times during his wife’s long illness and had shared more than a few drinks with him after her death. Later, they had continued to encourage him to get him back into the social scene. After that, many more were tipped in silence once the doctors had confirmed Adam’s medical test results. Originally, this had been his best friend Pete’s idea, an achingly irresistible idea for Adam, and… well… here he was.

Another glance at the clock, 7:55. Maybe she was running late, maybe she would not show up at all. Now, he had to pee. He hurried to the bathroom, relieved himself, washed his hands, and paused again in front of the mirror for another check. Back in the living room, he stared at his watch, 8:00, on the money.

When the soft knocking sounded at the door, Adam jumped, dreading but expecting it. Panicked, he briefly considered ignoring the gentle rapping, scrapping the whole idea. Instead, he took a deep breath, licked his lips and ran his hands down the front of his suit, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles while drying sweaty palms. He opened the door.

Adam’s nervousness vanished as his mind turned to mush. He no longer worried about what to say as the power of speech fell by the wayside. He was also unaware he was gaping, bug-eyed at the vision in the hallway. Adam was struck dumb; she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen but describing her as only beautiful was like saying the Great Wall of China was only a fence.

His Wendy had been a short, petite blue-eyed blonde and, as her illnesses progressed, had gradually wasted away before death claimed her. He’d felt guilty when the escort service returned his call. Adam had told the lady on the phone he wanted a young, attractive woman, tall and dark-complexioned. The caller must have been a psychic. And more.

In her late twenties or early thirties, the dream standing in front of him had to be six feet tall in her high heels. His first impression was that of a light-skinned black woman, but something about her facial features hinted at Hispanic. Then again, the shape of the eyes suggested a dash of Asian or Hawaiian, eyes that were so dark as to be almost ebony. Jet-black hair pulled away from her face and clipped in the back with a pearl clasp accented a slim neck, joining bare shoulders marred only by the spaghetti straps of her red evening gown. A dress whose fabric clung to the curves and contours of her body, from her full bodice to her narrow waist, to the erotic flair of her hips, to the long length of her legs. Simple white pearls adorned her neck, matched by a set of tasteful pearl studs at her ears. A white lace shawl hung loosely from her arms, draped down to her waist. It was as if the woman had walked off the pages of Elle Magazine, suggesting a promise of things to come from Victoria’s Secret…

Adam had been oblivious to the fact that the exotic, mocha-hued woman had been talking. Now, as the initial shock of seeing her was wearing off, words were filtering through. “... Mr. Anderson… Mr. Adam C. Anderson…? Excuse me, sir; this is room 3426, correct?” She was smiling through full red lips and perfect white teeth, but now the smile reflected a tinge of concern.

He gulped, took in some air as he resumed breathing. “I’m sorry... yes, I’m Adam Anderson… and you must be…?”

“Gabriella Marguerite Duchene. I know, I know, a real mouthful. All my friends call me Gabby.” She held out her hand. “You can call me Gabby.”

Adam shook her hand, a hand firm and cool. “Please come in Ms. Duchene… I mean Gabby.” He almost swooned as she brushed by him in a light draft of delicate perfume, the eddying currents of air carrying the subtle essence of roses in the early morning dew.

Inside, she stood facing him, her smile still full and warm. “Mr. Anderson…”

“Adam, please.”

“Adam. I assume you’re aware of the escort fees?”

He had it memorized. “Yes, $1,000 an hour, $5,000 for the evening, $10,000 for the night.”

“And?” Her expression was appraising.

He gulped self-consciously, “The whole… uh… night, $10,000,” he stammered. Adam pulled out a cashier’s check and thrust it at her. “You can fill in the name… please.” He wiped his moist hand on the front of his suit coat.

Without looking at it, she slipped it into her small, red handbag. She smiled warmly. “Well, Adam, what do you have in mind? Where would you like to go—a show, dinner, a little gambling? Or would you like to stay here?” Her expression was open and engaging.

Adam was still a little pole-axed looking at her, was still on edge and uncomfortable. Dinner and a few drinks might help him relax, postponing the inevitable. “Ah… believe it or not, it’s my first time in Las Vegas. I have no idea where to go. And it’s my first time with… ah… um…” Blushing, Adam let the thought die.

Gabby smiled and continued, “Okay, Adam, leave it to me. I think we can get into the Venetian for the 9:00 pm show of ‘The Blue Man Group’—I have connections—and they have several great restaurants on site.”

 

Gabby did, indeed, get them into the show. Laughing and clapping throughout, she seemed to delight in the comedy routines. Her wide-eyed fascination was almost childlike and certainly disarming. Although Adam found the comedic skits enjoyable, he was unable to fully relax. The exotic woman’s nearness was almost paralyzing. She seemed to suck the air out of the room, creating a vacuum in which only they existed. She would occasionally touch his arm or hand in a relaxed camaraderie, and twice lay her head on his shoulder, her perfume torturing him with future promises.

By the time the show ended, Adam found his nervous tension rising like a swelling tsunami. Instead of the comedy show relaxing him, he was again on the verge of panic. His heart was pounding in his chest and he kept swallowing compulsively. He was debating about bolting and running out on the whole thing, but his inner turmoil took too long to resolve. The next thing he knew they were sitting in the Canaletto Restaurant.

The Italian/Venetian restaurant’s lavish, Renaissance décor, sixteen-foot ceilings, hardwood floors, and its exhibition kitchen helped ease Adam’s discomfort. Their table had a view of the Grand Canal outside with the occasional passing gondola. It was enchanting and romantic.

Adam had noticed at the show and, even more so now in the restaurant, the subtle, but envious and sometimes leering looks he and Gabriella were getting from the men, and even several women. He realized that a few might assume anyone as beautiful as she had to be bought and paid for being with someone like him. But Adam didn’t care; he was grateful to have Gabby draped on one arm as they came and went. Her devotion to him was singular and undivided. She acted as if he were the only person worthy of her attention.

Adam’s eyes glazed over as he scanned the menu, most of which were in Italian.

Gabby looked at him, musing, a forefinger tapping her lip in thought, one eye squinting at him appraisingly. “I bet you’re a meat and potatoes man and, I’d guess... um… medium-well on preparing the meat?”

“Yes, I suppose I am, and correct on the medium-well, too.”

She continued, “I speak a little Italian, and since this was my idea, would you like me to order for both of us?”

Adam’s sheepish grin turned into a grateful smile. “That’s okay with me.”

One glance from Gabriella and the white-clad Maître d’ glided over to their table. Gabby launched into seemly fluent Italian. The waiter nodded and smiled in approval, replying and asking questions in equally unintelligible Italian.

Adam listened, open-mouthed.

When she finished, and the waiter had gone, it was her turn to grin self-consciously.

“Okay, so I know more than a little Italian.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask, what are we eating?” Adam asked, ignoring her confession.

“For me, ‘branzino al sale o alla griglia,’ which translates to Mediterranean sea bass, under a salted crust.” Abby winked, pointed at Adam, and continued, “And for you big guy, ‘costata di manzo,’ akin to a grilled, bone-in 22-ounce rib-eye with roasted potatoes. For dessert, we’ll be looking at ‘tiramisu al cuchiaio,’ an Italian custard thingy that’s to die for. Also, the sommelier is bringing us a bottle of ’06 Barolo Serralunga, an excellent wine which should go well with both our entrees.”

Despite Gabby’s easy banter, Adam couldn’t relax, fidgeting with his napkin and rearranging his silverware. She reached across and took his hand. “Hey, loosen up, there’s nothing to be nervous about.”

He laughed, more than a little self-conscious. “Right. I’m in a strange place, sitting with the most beautiful woman