Page 1 of Consorting with Romance

Chapter 1

Jesse

I paced through the peaceful hallway like an idiot. Twenty-two steps from the elevator to the door. Twenty-two steps back. Again. At least at this rate, I’d be able to cut my evening run in half. Thank God the building seemed quiet this time of day.

Although, come to think of it, that was a bit curious considering there were quite a few professionals in residence. Maybe it was because my appointment was at 3:15 instead of 3:00 or 3:30. It was an odd time to schedule an appointment, but what do I know about the way a consort’s schedule works. Maybe randomly timed appointments were normal. If that were the case though, shouldn’t I have encountered more people as I attempted to wear holes through the stormy grey carpet? Who puts carpet this light in a public area anyway? Surely that must lead to stains and the need to constantly hire cleaners. I didn’t see any stains.

I’d only had to pause my pacing and force a pained smile once during the ten…quick glance at my watch…no…twelve minutes I’d been doing this. I was certain there were video cameras in every corner of the hallway—nearly every business and living complex has them these days—and as each minute passed, it grew more and more likely that security would arrive. Oh, they’d probably smile and ask how they could help as they politely questioned why I was in the building, but it wouldn’t matter. I was too anxious to even knock on the door. I would unquestionably lose the ability to speak and start stammering the moment I opened my mouth in an attempt to answer their questions. They’d grow concerned, escort me out, and I’d lose this opportunity. I needed this opportunity.

I’ve always been a hard worker. Growing up on a farm will do that to a person. The value of hard work and cooperation was embedded into me from the time I was…well… younger than I can remember. My whole family would rise early, and together we would tend to the crops in the fields during long summer days, and in the hydroponic buildings during the winter.

From the time I was three years old, I’d been given small chores to complete just like my two older siblings. Simple things really. Looking back, the tasks I was given were so simple they weren’t really chores at first. Things like making sure the shoes by the front door were lined up neatly, and following my dad while he fed the chickens to ensure that they seemed happy with their breakfast. Eventually, I was given actual chores, of course. When I was eight, it became my job to sweep out the hydroponic barns once a week. At thirteen, I learned to drive the collection truck behind mom’s tractor during the harvests. By the time I was sixteen, I could have run a smaller farm on my own.

My parents are good farmers, and good parents. They tried their best to balance fun and responsibility, and I never felt they pushed us too hard while still managing to teach us that it was important to contribute. Hard work is simply a way of life on a family farm.

I suppose it sounds like it would have been hard on a child; that the demands of school and farm life would push a teen to rebellion. Maybe in another family that would have been true, but not mine. Chores were games when I was young, and work remained playful as I’d gotten older. My parents would wake us with love and laughter, andbreakfast always hot and waiting on the table. We’d laugh as we worked together, enjoying one another’s company while completing our tasks. Evenings were even better. We’d cook together, complete our homework, read, and play games. My youth was filled with joy and laughter. I can remember only a handful of moments where arguments or unhappiness slipped their way into the peace our family worked so hard to cultivate. If we were hurt or sad or upset—as children are inclined to be on occasion—our parents would gather us into their arms and listen. They supported, they loved, and I always felt cherished. How could one rebel against that even if it was accompanied by hard work.

I’ve always considered myself to be intelligent, largely because my parents and siblings took the time to listen to my ideas, no matter how childish they may have seemed when I was young. As I’d grown older, they’d encouraged me, both in school and on the farm, often taking the time to sit with me as I laid out complicated inventions and elaborate schemes. They’d smile as I finished, and gently offer suggestions or tweak my ideas; encouraging me to do the same. I learned the art of creative thinking and developed the ability to trust in myself. By the time I was a teenager, many of my suggestions for improving yields or making our lives simpler had been implemented as part of our daily lives.

When I was twenty, I’d told my family that I wanted to go to college and then medical school instead of staying on the family farm. They didn’t blink an eye even though I knew it must have crushed them that I didn’t intend to follow in their footsteps. They’d hugged me, supported me, and told me they were sure that I was going to be an amazing success no matter what path I chose. They’d saved every penny they could while I completed my base courses at the free public university and by the time I’d finished five years later, they’d been able to send me off to the city with my tuition paid and enough money for rent and food. I have no idea how they’d done that. They must have given me most, if not all, of their savings.

It wasn’t enough.

Life in the city was far more expensive than any of us had imagined. So, despite my careful planning and tight budget, I was already having to limit my spending to one or two meals a day in order to stretch what meager funds I had left as I headed toward the end of my first of three years of courses. Even if I thought my family had anything left to spare, I’d never have asked them for anything more. They’d already given me far too much. They’d already given me everything. I needed a job to survive, and there were very few jobs in the city that seemed compatible with my skill set and schedule.

After fourteen minutes of pacing, I stood in front of the door, counting my heartbeats and fighting to slow my breath as I focused a bit more intently on my unfamiliar surroundings. The hall was a calming shade of pale blue, the lighting soft and warm. There were tall trees in several of the corners; bright green with dust-free leaves. They looked healthy and happy even without access to direct sunlight. Surely this was a good environment if the houseplants seemed happy here. For the fourth time, I raised my hand to knock. I could do this.

Ash

Fuck.I thought in frustration. This is going nowhere.

I had just politely exited the fourth potential assistant I’d interviewed. Somehow each one seemedworse than the previous. I was thankful I’d decided to restrict interviews to the first half of my workday and keep one client in the late afternoon. At least it wouldn’t feel like a completely wasted day. I heard the buzzer at the door and sighed audibly to myself.

At least it’s the last one. I thought, Maybe I’m just being too picky.

I knew I wasn’t. Working as the assistant to a consort is an unusual job. An individual has to be diplomatic, discrete, autonomous, and amenabletoeverything from scheduling appointments to changing umm…dirty…sheets. It certainly isn’t for everyone. Most people that apply think it’s some sort of cake receptionist gig where they can simply answer a few callsand daydream. They never consider they’ll have to be involved in any of the messy stuff. I've found candidates who don’t feel that way tend to be curious about the industryand are hoping to use the experience to see if they are interested in going through guild consort training themselves. I’m not running an exploratory internship program; I need an assistant.

Working as a consort has been a legal and respectable profession for close to a century now. Sometimes the job is exactly what people imagine it to be, but not always. After the last world war, so many people had been lost that many found themselves desperately alone. As a result, prostitution ran rampant, and the spread of illness took a large toll on the remaining population. Eventually, the new governments intervened, and it became a reputable profession for those who joined the Guild of Consorts andcompleted therigorous training program. The Guild’s curriculum is intensive and doesn’t simply consist of an education in sexual practices and safety precautions; it also includes courses indiplomacy, psychology, finance, and communication. Consorts havebecome something that people hire for everything from simple sexual interaction, to sought after companions for all manner of events including high level diplomatic functions. Though the profession itself is widely accepted, ona personal level, many people still judge those of us that choose to engage in it quite harshly.

I’ve been a consort for nearly twenty years. I’m good at what I do, and my practice has flourished. Even though I’m nearing forty, thanks to a combination of proper nutrition, a regular exercise routine, and fortunate genetics,I can easily pass for much younger. I’m slightly taller than average at exactly 6 ft., and while I may not be as muscular as I was in my twenties, I still have a slim, athletic build. My skin is pale, and my eyes are an unusual shade of light green that resembles tumbled sea glass. I keep my pale blondhair shoulder length, though Itypically pull it back when I’m working. On occasion clients will request it down, and I wear it loose when I’m on my own. It falls in subtle waves that curve around my jaw, and cascades forward in a way that almost allows me to hide behind it. I don’t have much of a social life outside of work and in truth, I wouldn’t even know how to go about such a thing. I often find myself sitting on the train or in the corner of local cafes, melting into the background andwatching the way others interact with a sort of confused awe.

I have enough stamina to regularly see three or four clients a day,four or five days a week, without the need for medication to assist my performance. My clientele largely consists of regulars at this point, although they tend to make enough new client referrals to keep things interesting. I've done well enough for myself thatseveral years back I was able to purchase asmall house with a yard outside the city, and my work apartment is in an upscale part of town. All things considered, I’m happy with my life. Aside from the fact that, at the moment, I still need to find a new assistant.

I forced the muscles of my face into the shape of my welcoming, professional smile as I answered the door.

The man on the other side surprised me. He was several inches taller than me, and wore tight, dark brownslacks with a deep blue long-sleeved T-shirt that clung to his broadshoulders and fell like water over the rise of a well-formed chest. It looked soft, maybe cashmere, or some other rich, natural fabric and I had to suppress the urge to reach out and trace myfingers along his arm. He seemed to carry a bit more body fat than I, but not much, and his muscular physique looked like it had been hard earned withphysical labor rather than deliberately sculptedin the gym. His skin was perfectly tanned; the type that appeared to be a perpetually golden caramel color because his genetics were flawless rather than because he’d recently spent time in the sun, and his chocolate hair was just long enough for a few stray locks to dipdown acrosshis forehead, drawing my gaze to eyes that pulled me in and held me. I found myself unable to move for a long moment as I lost myself in their embrace. They were a color I’d never seen before. A warm, pale, golden brown, almost as if they were pools of caramel or wildflower honey.

Fuck. If I hire this guy, clients are going to be disappointed when they have to sleep with me instead of him.

I offered my hand. “Good morning. You’re Jesse?”

“Yes Sir. That’s me.” He smiled broadly and his eyes held my gaze, but his fingers seemed to tremble as I held them momentarily in mine. Probably just my imagination.

I stepped back from the door and gestured to the seating area in the middle of my waiting room. I’d tried to make it both comfortable and professional, furnished in clean whites, charcoals, and warm dark wood. A sofa and a pair of wingback chairs clustered around a coffee table that was stocked with glass water bottles and a few books on various subjects; art, architecture, gardening. Calm subjects, things that I enjoyed. Just past the seating area sat a desk that held little other than a computer screen. The wall behind the desk was composed entirely of windows.

My office was in an upscale part of town, and the view on clear nights when the lights of the city sparkled in the darkness was breathtaking. On the right side of the room were French doors that led to my workspaces, and to the left, a second set of French doors led to a small kitchen.

Jesse moved past me and took a seat in one of the wingbacks.

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