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    The Escort
    The Escort
    The Escort
    Ebook205 pages4 hours

    The Escort

    By Christiane France and KC Kendricks

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    About this ebook

    Ryan James’ job as a professional escort is the perfect mix of challenge and satisfaction. He’s handsome and charming, and the constant variety ensures he’s never bored. One day he’s attending a special exhibition at the River Street Art Gallery with a political wannabe who has trouble holding his liquor. Then later delivering the man to the home of a campaign contributor with no stops on the way. The next, he’s preserving the anonymity of a restaurant reviewer, showing a young tourist the town, or helping a spurned lover deal with a broken heart. For his clients, Ryan is a dream come true. He’s everything they could have wished for and more.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChristiane France
    Release dateJun 16, 2017
    ISBN9781386825722
    The Escort

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      Book preview

      The Escort - Christiane France

      The Escort

      Second Edition

      This collection was previously published as individual stories under the name Parker Linn.

      This book is a work of fiction. While references to actual places or events may occur, the names, characters, incidents and locations are from the author’s imagination and any resemblance to anyone, living or dead, is coincidental.

      The Escort: In The Public Eye: Copyright © 2013, 2017 Christiane France & KC Kendricks

      The Escort: Yes, Master: Copyright © 2013, 2017 Christiane France & KC Kendricks

      The Escort: On The Menu: Copyright © 2013, 2017 Christiane France & KC Kendricks

      The Escort: A Night On The Town: Copyright © 2013, 2017 Christiane France & KC Kendricks

      The Escort: At The Lake House: Copyright © 2014, 2017 Christiane France & KC Kendricks

      Cover art © 2017 KC Kendricks

      All Rights Reserved

      Reproduction of this digital e-book for file sharing or selling, regardless of whether any type of currency is exchanged, other than what the author grants, is strictly prohibited by law. Piracy is a crime.

      WARNING: This book is intended for readers over the age of 18.

      It contains explicit sexual content and language.

      The Escort: In The Public Eye

      I looked at myself in the full-length mirror, turning this way and that to admire my new designer tux. To be honest, it was a knock-off I’d picked up for pennies in one of those big-box stores on the edge of town. But who was to know? After my genius of a tailor finished performing his usual magic, it looked great. The jacket fit like a glove and the razor-sharp creases in the pants qualified as a work of art. And those extra sessions at the gym had really made a difference. At one hundred and fifty pounds, I looked toned, trim, and ready for anything. Exactly as advertised.

      A paid escort needed to be attractive, well dressed and well mannered. I took my job seriously and did whatever was required to maintain a professional image. A few extra minutes of attention to detail had been known to pay off in repeat business or the occasional referral, and I wasn’t about to bite success on the ass.

      I checked my freshly manicured nails, which I thought looked fab, and ran a hand over my newly styled hair, which I was still getting used to. It was supposed to be the latest look and had cost a small fortune. That’s because the man with the scissors was none other than Ramon, Oaktown, New York’s current go-to men’s stylist. Ramon had worked in New York City and he was who you went to if you wanted to look like you belonged in this century rather than the last. With luck, the style would grow on me, but... Dampening the tip of my forefinger with spit, I readjusted the strand of my dark brown hair he’d designed to droop down over my right eye. Ramon said the new style was cute and sexy with my blue eyes. I thought it made me look like an over-age twink.

      But if the clients liked it, and I could almost guarantee they would, who was I to make a fuss?

      I straightened my black tie, flicked a miniscule piece of lint from the left shoulder of the dinner jacket, and continued with my routine check.

      The black, handmade Italian shoes were new, as were my black silk socks, black silk boxers, and white dress shirt.

      I treated my mouth to a second shot of minty freshness and put on my gold watch, a gift from a grateful client. The poor guy thought he was impotent, but as we found out, with a little patience and a pinch of TLC, I cured him of his foolish notions.

      I took two condoms from the bedside table drawer and tucked them in the specially designed back pocket of my pants. Other than that, all I needed to take with me was my apartment key and a couple of emergency twenties. I slipped the key under the lining of my left shoe, and the twenties under the lining of the right, and I was good to go for the evening.

      I smiled at my reflection in the mirror. Damn, but I looked hot tonight.

      With five minutes still to go before the limo picked me up for my first appointment, I took a deep breath and released it slowly. Careful not to crease the seat of my pants, I sat down on the edge of a chair to wait.

      By now you may be wondering how I got into the escort business.

      Actually, I kinda slid in sideways. As a general construction worker by trade, the well-known uncertainties that went with that particular territory, and the current economic slump, plus a stack of overdue bills and an empty bank account, had been great motivators. I’d had enough of worrying about where my next paycheck would come from or how to get by when every job site I visited had a notice saying no more general laborers needed. Maybe some people were happy to live like that, but not me. I’d been brought up to be a responsible citizen, and it was time I started behaving like one. And the reason I’ve stayed in the biz? I wasn’t given much choice. A late-night visit from a burly dude wielding a baseball bat to remind me my tab at the corner bar was six weeks in arrears, along with the fact I also had a bank loan that was racking up interest, a dentist’s bill that could have kept a small country going for months, the bill for my last check-up, plus a couple of maxed out credit cards had taken care of any thoughts I might have had of quitting.

      What I do sometimes wonder is why I enjoy the work so much and why I seem to do so well. Am I good at it because I like it, or do I like it because I’m good at it?

      I’m a person who gets bored easily, so maybe it’s the variety that keeps me ready and eager for the next assignment. One night being some perverted bastard’s whipping boy, literally—I shuddered in remembrance of the still vivid memory—and the next listening to a poor old fart bewail the fact he can no longer get it up, or so he believed. But once again, between my magic touch and a little patience, I had him up, purring and pushing against me like a randy tomcat in no time at all.

      Then there are the easy gigs, like tonight’s first appointment where all I’m required to do is attend a special exhibition at the River Street Art Gallery with a political wannabe. Apparently, the man can’t hold his liquor. It’s up to me to make sure there’s nothing stronger than ginger ale in his glass, and to prevent him from sneaking a real drink behind my back. After we leave the gallery, I’m to deliver him to the home of a campaign contributor for dinner with no stops on the way.

      As jobs went, this one sounded like a snap. A veritable piece of cake. Even so, I knew to always be on guard for the unexpected.

      The buzzer sounded, and I looked again at my watch. Eight o’clock on the dot.

      I pressed the talk button on the intercom. Who is it?

      Brock Becker for Ryan James.

      I’ll be right down.

      It didn’t surprise me the client was on time. Punctuality was specified in the agreement covering my services due to the fact I might have two or more appointments in the same evening. What did surprise me was the incredibly handsome, tall, dark stranger waiting for me in the lobby by the door. He was just an inch or two taller than my own six feet. You’re Mr. Becker’s driver?

      My driver’s waiting in the car. His dark eyes flashed with impatience, and his upper lip developed a slight curl. He looked me up and down—twice.

      I didn’t appreciate the attitude, but I made a stab at politeness and held out my hand.

      I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Becker.

      He stared at my hand as if it were covered in manure. Instead of taking it, he just nodded. You’ll do. He turned on his heel and headed out the main door, and I followed with all due alacrity.

      Of course, I’d do. I knew what was required of me, namely not decking the arrogant bastard before the night was over, no matter the provocation or temptation.

      And speaking of temptation, the man had a very fine ass. I hoped he’d take his hands out of his pockets so the back of his jacket would fall into place and hide it from view again. I didn’t need to be caught eyeballing the client.

      But don’t expect me to act as if I’m enjoying your company, he added as I followed him to the limo. I’m doing this on the advice of my campaign manager and strictly under protest. Got it?

      I understand, sir. And I did.

      This one would posture and strut, but at the end of the evening, I hoped he’d unbend sufficiently to let me know if I’d performed my job well. That’s all I cared about.

      The driver stepped out of the limo and opened the doors for us to get in. Once we were settled and on our way, Becker shifted in his seat to look at me.

      Before you get carried away with the notion I’m an alcoholic who needs a minder, I want to set you straight.

      You’re just allergic to the stuff?

      No. It was my campaign manager’s idea to say that rather than go into details. A small smile tugged at his oh-so-kissable lips and, for a moment, I almost forgot my manners.

      I’m thinking of running in the upcoming by-election to fill the job of councilman on the town council. I knew there would be competition, but it’s turned out to be more complicated than I thought.

      In what way? I asked.

      Dirty tricks. He looked at me as if assessing my value as a confidant. This is a town with conservative values. Voters check out the candidates carefully. In the last election, a candidate was believed to have spiked another candidate’s drink with aftershave, of all things. He didn’t drink any of it, thank God, but an uptight, upright citizen caught a whiff of what was in the glass and labeled him an out-of-control secret drinker to anyone who’d listen and that put an end to his chances.

      That stunt went beyond a dirty trick and all the way to deadly. The guy was lucky he didn’t die.

      What happened to the person suspected of doing it?

      Nothing. No proof. But the candidate didn’t get elected and he’s running again this time.

      Wonderful. Just freaking wonderful. A man like that was not the sort of person we needed in office running things.

      So, you need me to keep an eye on your drink any time it isn’t in your hand?

      I need you to keep a close watch on it no matter where it is. A clever operator can slip something into a glass when it’s halfway to your mouth.

      I hesitated, thinking. Can’t you say you’re not thirsty?

      I could, but I’d like to catch the bastard. Getting away with it once may have given him the confidence to do it again.

      Putting stuff in a person’s drink, even as a joke, was dangerous. It could make them ill or even kill them. While I was willing to give Becker an assist, I didn’t want to get dragged into a court of law. But wasn’t it worth the inconvenience if I helped keep a piece of slime from hurting people? I knew it was.

      Okay. I’ll keep my eyes peeled, as they say. If I do see something happen, what are my instructions?

      He raised an eyebrow at me. Discretion above all else. I was informed it’s one of your finer attributes.

      I nodded. It is, although I do have others.

      Becker settled back in his seat. I’ll just bet you do. He was silent after that, almost brooding, as he stared out the window. Finally, he looked at me again.

      If you observe what you think is someone spiking anyone’s drink, including mine, we’ll need the glass and its contents.

      His pretty eyes sparkled with little stars in the dim light in the back of the limo. I wished I hadn’t noticed, but it was too late to be unobservant.

      Without a witness, it won’t get you anywhere.

      But I’ll have a witness, won’t I? You’ll be paid for your time if you need to testify—discreetly, of course.

      Of course. I assume if the person you suspect is at this event you’ll point him out to me?

      The corner of his mouth twitched in what might be the beginnings of a smile had it been anyone else. I suppose you want to give him a code name.

      Son of a bitch. He’d actually made a stab at humor. Becker was human.

      Messing with another person’s drink makes him an ass in my book, but I don’t think it would be appropriate for you to be heard saying, ‘asshole at twelve o’clock.’ Maybe you could say ‘bandit’ instead.

      You mean like in war movies where someone says ‘Bandits at twelve o’clock’?

      Exactly.

      Becker covered his mouth with his hand and rubbed his lips. Uh-huh. I knew the move. It was to wipe away a genuine smile. I had him now. He was warming up to me.

      They all did, sooner or later.

      *          *          *

      I’d grown up in a middle-class household with blue-collar parents. I was fortunate in that I had a reasonable intelligence and was able to do well in my studies. But there hadn’t been money for college and I’d gone to work straight out of high school. The only appreciation of fine art I’d learned came from an art teacher in the ninth grade. I knew a guy named Monet, or was it Manet? I knew whichever one it was had painted a lot of pictures people liked. They sold for millions at auction, but I couldn’t recognize his work. Tonight afforded me an opportunity for some on-the-job education.

      The gallery was down a side street, the entrance set back enough from the sidewalk that the two adjoining structures formed a small courtyard. Well-designed, stylish lighting illuminated the space and created a sense of welcome to gallery clientele. No garish promo posters for tonight’s event were visible, but a small placard beside the door said By Invitation Only.

      And if someone thought they could just slide in without being noticed, two security guards were on duty at the entrance, discreetly lurking, to make sure that didn’t happen.

      Brock handed over his invitation to one of the pair, and we were ushered in with a nod.

      Just beyond the entrance was an artist’s easel with a notice informing guests that tonight’s special showing was solely the work of local artists. Everything on display was for sale with a percentage of the profits going to the local children’s hospital.

      The gallery was composed of a series of inter-connected rooms. As we entered the first one, Brock paused and glanced casually around at the dozen or so guests. A black-suited waiter came by with a tray containing glasses of red and white wine.

      Would you care for something to drink, gentlemen?

      Brock selected a glass of sparkling water. I shook my head. No thanks. Maybe later.

      The waiter moved on, and I said quietly, Is he here?

      Not in this room. Maybe in one of the others.

      And maybe he’s not coming.

      That, too.

      He went over to the wall and studied the pictures, each in turn. I followed along, more interested in the slight but erotic movement of his buttocks under all that fine tailoring and the way he seemed to glide over the floor rather than actually walk.

      So, what’s your opinion of our local talent so far? Brock asked as we continued on to the next room.

      Hey, don’t ask me. I’m no art expert. Yet.

      Mischief danced in his eyes while a small smile teased at his lips. But you must know what you like.

      Sure, I do. To be part of the show, I assume they must be good. And I admit I like the series of dog sculptures. But I’m afraid faceless stick figures with large droopy breasts do not inspire me to reach for my wallet.

      I know what you mean. Although there was a charcoal sketch of an old guy in a rocking chair I thought was rather good. I may go back later and take a second look.

      We continued on through the various rooms, checking out the art and the other guests. The event was well attended, so whenever Brock stopped

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