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

on the planet, with everyone staring at us, doing things I’ve never done before, facing a night of… well… it’s been so long I’m afraid that I… and… you might think that… um… well…,” he stammered to a stop, his face growing hot.

She squeezed his hand. “Okay, so tell me why you’re doing this. Obviously, this is the first time you’ve been…” her smile widened... “with an ‘escort,’ and I’m guessing that a thousand-dollar-an-hour hooker wouldn’t normally be within your budget either. So, why?”

Adam took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. She seemed so warm, so genuinely concerned, it was hard to believe she was acting this way only because of the money. But what did he have to lose? Other than his drinking buddies at the Elks, he had never talked to anyone else about it, let alone a woman—any woman.

He rushed on before he could second guess himself. “My wife, Wendy, and I were high school sweethearts, marrying right after we graduated from college; we were both twenty-four. We never had any children and found out later that Wendy had a ‘bifurcated’ uterus. Several operations failed to correct it, so we resigned ourselves to never having children.” He rambled on for several more minutes before stopping.

He took a nervous sip of wine before continuing. “Wendy’s health problems started in her mid-thirties. By age forty-two she was diagnosed with Sclera Derma and Renaud’s Syndrome, by forty-eight with Multiple Sclerosis. Her auto-immune system was severely compromised. I retired from my job as a history teacher at Hoover High School to help take care of her. Fortunately, I had my twenty-five years in and received a full pension and retiree medical benefits for myself and Wendy.”

The waiter arrived with their dinner, and the next few minutes were occupied with readying themselves for their meal, conversation limited to trivial, food-related topics. Gabriella had not commented on the earlier, one-sided conversation. Now, cutting into her fillet, she looked at him, her smile warm. “Please, Adam, go on, about you and Wendy.”

Adam couldn’t return the smile. He took several deep breaths, unable to get enough air, his appetite waning. “There’s not a whole lot left to say. She deteriorated gradually, and the last several years she was in a wheelchair. Soon, I had to hire someone to help me with her and, even then, had to put her in an assisted living home for the last year. I visited her every day. Wendy died almost a year ago.”

Again, Gabby reached across the table and touched his hand. “I’m so very sorry, Adam.”

They finished their meal in silence. While waiting for their tiramisu to arrive, Gabby pressed on. “You never answered my question, Adam.”

He stared at her, confused.

“Why are you here, why are you doing this?”

Adam averted his eyes, blushing. “Wendy was too sick to… because of her illness, she didn’t want to, she couldn’t…” He fumbled with his napkin. “… I… I haven’t… um… I haven’t been with a woman… in 12 years.”

He expected the charming prostitute to laugh in scorn, to joke or ridicule. Instead, she was staring at him, deep in thought. Several seconds passed before she leaned forward, grinned, and whispered, “Well, now I know why you’ve been looking at me like a starving man in front of a buffet table.”

Adam thought if that were the case, every man in the restaurant was suffering from severe malnutrition.

But Gabby was continuing. “You’re trying to tell me you were never with another woman during those 12 years? Not once? Never sought solace or comfort, never cheated on your wife? I mean, it certainly would have been understandable.”

“I loved my wife; I took our wedding vows seriously. Sure, I was tempted many times, but no… I never did.”

Gabriella accepted this unusual confession without argument. “Well, Mr.

Anderson, that certainly puts you in a rare category, a definite minority among men.” Every time she leaned forward to take his hand, her cleavage breathtakingly deepened. Her smile took on a mischievous look as his eyes gravitated to the swell of her breasts and the bare expanse of her upper chest and shoulders. His starving eyes traced the delicate curve of her collar bone, followed the graceful upsweep of her neck, before tracking to her exotic face and penetrating dark eyes.

Gabriella laughed at his discreet, but ogling look. Not a derisive laugh, but one light-hearted and smile-inducing. “Believe it or not, Adam, I’m familiar with many things, and desire, lust, and need are included on that list. Still, being here with me under these circumstances seems to be a big leap for someone like you. I don’t mean to be critical or derogatory… but this just isn’t you. So, again, why are you here? You’re a decent looking man, still relatively young. Why aren’t you out meeting eligible women, establishing relationships, getting on with your life?”

As if on cue, the piercing, stabbing pain struck. Involuntarily, his hand flew up, covering his now watering eye, the sudden movement knocking his knife and fork off the table, both clattering to the hardwood floor. Adam recovered quickly, pulled out a small pill container from his pocket and fished out two oxy-codeine tablets, washing them down with a gulp of wine. He had forgotten to take them before leaving his room.

Gabby had been watching with concern shadowing her face. “Are you okay, Adam? What’s wrong?”

Although the pain had abated somewhat on its own, his watery right eye still flickered open and shut involuntarily. He wiped at a tear that had escaped and was coursing down his cheek. The urge to run away and hide gripped him, and he found it difficult to look at the beautiful woman staring at him. He stared at his dinner plate instead. “It was several months after Wendy died and all my friends were encouraging me to get back into the social scene. I started by checking out a few of those Internet dating sites and joined a couple of groups at our church. But I had been having these bad headaches for some time, well before Wendy died, and when they became painful enough, I made a doctor’s appointment.”

Gabriella was listening intently, a look of concern on her face. “I’m not liking any of these stories,” she said.

Adam glanced up at her before continuing. “They ran a lot of tests and came up with a diagnosis of invasive neoplasia, the exact term being glioblastoma multiforme. In layman’s lingo, a rapidly growing and spreading inoperable brain tumor. They could delay the inevitable outcome with radiotherapy and chemotherapy, but it would only be a delay. It’s pressing on the optic nerve behind my right eye, so I get to look forward to deteriorating vision and eventual blindness.” He glanced down at his left hand, flexing it several times. “I already have the tingly, ‘pins and needles’ sensations in my left hand and the sole of my left foot. It won’t be long until I am totally paralyzed unless the tumor takes out my autonomic nervous system first—things like my heart and breathing—in which case nothing else will make much difference.”

Gabby’s expression didn’t reflect shock or surprise, only sadness. “How long?”

“They said maybe six months, tops. And that was four months ago.”

Gabriella was silent for several long seconds before replying. “Adam, I’m so sorry; I can only imagine how difficult your life has been these last years. To say it doesn’t seem fair would definitely qualify as an understatement.” She cocked her head, frowning. “I apologize for being this blunt, but that had to make you very bitter, Adam. Years of tending to your invalid wife. Then you receive your own death sentence almost immediately after her passing.” Gabby shook her head and looked down, toying with the last of the dessert on her plate.

The Maître d’ materialized out of nowhere and replaced Adam’s silverware, then just as unobtrusively, disappeared.

Adam stared at Gabriella, his expression stony, his right eye still only a slit. “Bitter? You could say that. I cursed God and everyone else I could think of. I was drunk for a week and broke everything in the house that was breakable. But in the end, I asked for forgiveness for all those curses. I’ve always believed there was a reason for everything, and one day God would explain all the things I can’t understand right now.”

Gabriella looked up and shook her head again. “You certainly are a rather unusual man, Adam, a real ‘dinosaur’ by today’s morality. But somewhat refreshing, I must say. And yet, here you are, with me. Kind of contradictory, don’t you think? You haven’t finished explaining yet, have you?”

Adam stumbled on, “I’m not sure how… how I can explain this… without sounding completely shallow… and… and selfish… and self-absorbed. But I guess I am because… it’s just that I wanted…” he stopped, took a deep breath, another gulp of wine and stared at the woman across from him.

“Go on, Adam.”

The crumbling dam finally broke, the words poured out. “Yes… twelve years without a woman. And I miss it. I’ve longed, yearned and ached for it, remembered and dreamt of it. The sight, sound, feel and taste of physical love. The gentle caresses, the tangle of legs and arms, the softness of breasts and thighs, the moans and cries, the peaks and valleys, the shadows, nooks and hollows, the satiny smoothness of skin, the body’s scent, the legs wrapped…” he stopped, afraid that if he continued, he would cry in front of this woman. He tried reminding himself that she was only a prostitute, a high-priced one, true, but still…

He realized that Gabby had taken his hand again, her silence encouraging him to continue. “I know how trivial and shallow this all sounds, but when I realized that I would never get the chance to feel any of those things again… and then my friend, Pete, at the Elks Lodge, said he had heard about an escort service here in Las Vegas, Morrison and Dunlap, LLC, that catered to high-end clientele, like movie stars and politicians. He said, under the circumstances, I should get the best hooker that money could buy and go out in a blaze of glory. I don’t mean to sound crude, but the idea sounded great at the time. Please understand, I love… I loved my wife… it’s just that…”

Still holding his hand, Gabriella stood, moved to his side of the table and pulled him to his feet. “It’s still a good idea. And I am the best. I can’t make up for twelve years or guarantee glory, but I can make it a pretty big blaze.”

 

Gabriella’s body was a magnificent gateway, a highway leading Adam on journeys he never imagined existed. With hands and lips, he followed and explored the exquisite hills and valleys, the curves and hollows, the planes and expanses, from the tip of her toes to the top of her head. She was the fountain and he the thirsting traveler, she the drug, he the willing addict. He reveled in the flawless beauty of her form, its contrasting softness, firmness, its light, and shadow, the finest work of Michelangelo and Donatello come to life.

He couldn’t imagine anyone more versed in the art of sex and erotica than Gabby. She was a concert maestro, orchestrating intricate symphonies of the senses, sensual music that only she knew how to conduct and deliver. The consummate artist, painting masterpieces with the brushes of her imagination, their bodies, the canvas—sight and sound, touch, taste and smell the medium for her creations. She was the teacher, he the student—a devoted supplicant at the altar of her learning. She knew all the whens, wheres and hows. Gabby’s knowledge was the sexual equivalent of the Library of Congress, Viagra in human form.

She built an all-consuming blaze that even paled the fire burning in his head.

After that first night, they used room service. They used it a lot.

 

Adam stared at his reflection in the mirror, a repeat performance of a week earlier.