Page 15 of Hired Help

Her suit is a perfect fit, perfect cut. Bespoke or she altered it herself after purchase. A chunky necklace that could be beaten silver but has the rigid sheen of platinum. Her hair is tied back in a deceptively simple ponytail with not a single shimmering strand out of place.

It’s black, but the word doesn’t do it justice, doesn’t come close to describing the depth of its darkness, its lustre. It can’t capture how it plays with the light—gleaming, rich, full, thick. Hair made to be felt, to be stroked, brushed, to tangle your hands into.

Hair that could turn a grown man into a salivating dog.

There are four in the café keeping tabs on her. The guy behind the counter I can understand, he’s close in age. The others are old enough to know better.

A man near the exit looks near to seventy but he’s tilted his wrist to display an ostentatious Rolex, like a peacock splaying its tail feathers.

He must know he’s wasting his time but all I see in his eyes is the thrill of the chase.

It’s five steps from the café door to her table. Five steps to decide that I want her after all.

I set up the meeting because of her age, thinking I would spend fifteen minutes convincing her this was a bad idea and sending her back to the schoolyard to pursue whatever age-appropriate boys are on offer.

Five steps and I’ve never wanted to land a client as much as I want this one. A strong warning sign I shouldn’t take her on.

“Brooke?” I say softly, not wanting her to startle.

She turns slowly, eyes widening for a moment as she takes in my appearance, the only facial movement not under her rigid control. Even that settles in the blink of an eye, replaced with a welcoming smile so performative she might as well be on the stage.

“Jesse?”

The first rule of the game is never to put any true personal details anywhere online ever, but it’s still weird to hear the wrong name come out of such a pretty mouth. I imagine what it would sound like for her to moan the right name,myname, then snap my attention back to the task at hand.

I’m not here for fun or to pull a girl. This is a job. About time I put my work hat back on and got my mind straight.

“That’s right. Can I get you another coffee?”

The moment I offer, a barista is behind me with a cup topped with an elaborate work of art in foam. “Courtesy of the gentleman by the door,” the female server says, frowning in displeasure.

The old letch leans forward, an expectant expression on his face, but Brooke doesn’t even turn.

“Thank you so much,” she says in a loud voice, “but I’ll pay for it myself. Please keep the money or give a freebie to someone who looks in need of it, later.”

The barista’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Will do.”

Brooke pushes the cup away from her with a moue of distaste, then meets my gaze again. “Can we move this someplace more private? I’m not really comfortable discussing things in public.”

“Where did you have in mind?”

Her lips twist for a second, then her gaze moves to glance into the lobby of the hotel next door. “I could book a room.”

I picked the café because it was central. The first-class hotel is far beyond what I’d expect a client to pay for. Usually, a first meeting would be a casual introduction, a chat outlining each other’s parameters. Nothing that can’t take place in a public setting but with the way her eyes flick to the door every time someone walks past, I sense she won’t take part in any discussion until we move.

“We can do that but it doesn’t mean I’ve agreed to anything. This is still an exploratory meeting.”

She nods, already pushing back her chair and going to the counter to pay.

I trail her into the hotel lobby, waiting back while she strides to reception and sorts out a room. When the man at the counter tries to explain the features and services on offer, she impatiently holds out her hand for the key.

She walks towards the lift, only turning once she’s there to check that I followed her. When we’re inside, she presses the button for the top floor.

“You booked a penthouse suite?” I raise an eyebrow, wondering who’s picking up the tab for this. Surely even a rich parent would think twice about funding their daughter’s sexual adventures.

“Yes.”

“It’s a chat. We could do it in their cheapest room.”

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