Page 4 of The Plus One Professional

Just as I was about to let myself go, freezing water erupted from the showerhead, soaking me. The extreme change in temperature had the effect that cold water had on men. I went from rock-hard to half-chub and lost all my momentum.

“Shower!” I called out.

This building was over a hundred years old, and the plumbing was finicky. You couldn’t run the dishwasher or washing machine and take a shower with hot water.

“Sorry!” my sister shouted.

I glanced down at the sorry excuse for a boner in my palm. My shoulders slumped in defeat, but I knew I had to rally. I didn’t have the luxury of privacy in this household. The prospect of bringing someone home when I slept on the couch in a two-bedroom, one-bath, 800-square-foot apartment that I shared with my sister, my eleven-year-old niece, and my five-year-old twin nephews was not exactly appealing to me as a single man. Because of that, I was seriously backed up. So backed up, I’d started having wet dreams like a horny preteen. Nocturnal emissions were bad enough on their own; add the fact that my nephews regularly woke me up on the weekends watching cartoons—made them a nightmare.

As much as I’d love to abort my mission, I knew if I didn’t jack off now, I’d have to risk waking up with wet shorts.

Closing my eyes once more, I pictured those green eyes. Those full red lips. That long golden hair. My balls had just begun to tingle when there was a rapid, loud knock on the door.

“Fuck!” I groaned beneath my breath as I rested my head against the tiled wall.

“Uncle CJ, I gotta go!” One of my nephews called out.

“Just a minute!”

I shut the water off, dried off, and slid my boxer briefs and black suit pants on before opening the door. “It’s all yours, little man.”

Luke rushed past me doing the pee-pee dance.

“Aim for the toilet,” I instructed as I walked a few steps to the hall closet—my clothes closet—where I hung up the empty hanger that my slacks had been on before putting my arms through a button-down white shirt. I thumbed through my ties, reading the post-its denoting their color, and grabbed a blue one to match my balls. Kidding. Sort of.

Today’s suit was charcoal gray, and I’d been told that the blue matched it nicely. Not that I’d be able to tell. I started going color blind when I was my nephews’ age, and by the time I was eight, my entire world was black, white, and shades of gray. But about a year ago, I started dreaming in color again.

Green eyes. Red lips. Golden hair.

I put the small end of the tie through the loop I’d made as I walked into the kitchen. Sara, my sister, was seated at the round kitchen table that sat in the corner folding laundry. Dark circles lay beneath her eyes, and I might not be able to see color, but I could definitely see that there was a distinct lack of it in her face. She was as pale as Casper.

Sara suffered from various health issues, including, but not limited to, two auto-immune diseases: rheumatoid arthritis and lupus, epilepsy, and hypertension. She had good days and bad days—sadly more bad than good.

When she saw me, she cringed. “Sorry about the dishwasher.”

“No worries.” I smiled as I grabbed an energy drink from the fridge.

“You look nice,” she observed as she sipped her green smoothie through a glass straw. “You have adatetonight?”

“A job,” I corrected her. I wasn’t sure why my sister insisted on calling them dates. I was a plus one for hire. This was work, not pleasure.

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Jenna. Her sister Holly is getting married; she’s been in four of her cousin’s weddings the past two years and she doesn’t want to show up to another one alone.”

Sara nodded and pursed her lips. Whenever she did that, I knew she had more to say on the subject.

“What?” I prompted. “Just say it.”

“I’m just worried. You started your ‘service’”—she made bunny ears with her fingers—“right after you and Linds broke up. I just…I just worry that you’re doing this to avoid a real relationship.”

“Why the air quotes? It is a service. It’s my business.”

A few years ago, I’d started bartending as a second job to help make ends meet with the medical bills, rent, groceries, and just life in general. I’d worked at the bar for a few months when a co-worker asked me if I’d be a plus one at her cousin’s wedding. She said she’d pay me five hundred bucks if I’d go with her. I said yes. A month later, she told a friend who was in her sorority, and I booked four weddings that summer, each one paying more than the last.

Once I saw there was a demand for it, I hired a tech guy on Fiverr to make me an app, and The Plus One Professional was born. I was able to stop working as a bartender, and moonlight as a plus one. Technically, TPOP was an escort service, but since I had a strict no-sex policy, calling it that seemed misleading.

“Sorry. I know, it’s your business, and your business is none of my business. It’s just…I worry about you. I know that you loved Linds and?—”

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