Page 4 of A Mistake of Identity
Who Rochelle was, Ellis couldn’t say.
The man sitting in the café section next to the fountain didn’t seem like someone who would pay for sex, especially not from a rundown, non-union cathouse like Heart Court. Everything about him radiated old money and corporate power—from the black tailored suit that seemed to drink in the light to the deep red button-down underneath. He was the type who would usually seek discreet services tucked away in luxurious Second Cat mansions, not low-ball it at a Fourth Cat joint with one of Kevin Donovan’s budget options.
Donovan’s words from earlier rang in Ellis’ mind: “real money, actual connections.” Ellis rubbed his chin, remembering the bruising grip. Someone who’d done Donovan a favor, now getting repaid with Ellis at half-price.
Maybe this was his client, after all, strange as it seemed. Instead of making private arrangements through exclusive channels, here he sat in the flashy Lumière Casino, staring intently at his tablet with a frown creasing the space between his eyebrows as if he were reviewing quarterly projections rather than waiting for an escort.
His height was apparent even seated—he would tower over Ellis when standing. His rich chestnut hair caught the light, and though Ellis couldn’t make out the exact color of his eyes from this distance, he could tell they weren’t brown.
Through long practice, Ellis kept his face neutral as he approached, even as his mind raced at how out of place this man was to be meeting him. Everything about him radiated wealth and status that Heart Court never saw—from the cut of his suit to his perfectly manicured nails. This wasn’t the type of man who’d even know Heart Court existed, let alone seek its services. Even their wealthier clients were low-level executives and local business owners, not whatever corporate aristocrat this man was.
Every instinct screamed that there had to be some mistake, but Ellis couldn’t afford to walk away. Not if he wanted to keep his spot at Heart Court.
With a deep breath and all the desperate courage he could muster, Ellis approached the stranger. He slid easily into the seat next to the man, a smile plastered on his face.
He hoped it didn’t look as fake as it felt.
The man’s eyes shot up to meet his; they were intensely blue before roaming over the rest of his body. The man didn’t say anything; he merely turned off his tablet before setting it next to his coffee.
Ellis never understood how people could drink coffee this late at night. Any caffeine that went into his system past 4 pm would keep him awake all night.
Ellis continued to smile, waiting for the man to say something that would confirm he was the client Donovan sent him to meet. The man’s arctic stare traced over Ellis’ body before fixing on his cheek, where Ellis knew the concealer was doing a poor job hiding the darkening bruise. Every instinct told Ellis to turn his head, to hide the mark, but he forced himself to hold still under that cold assessment. The silence stretched uncomfortably, making his rehearsed greeting stick in his throat.
Awkward.
“I’m Ellis, from Heart Court.” Ellis withdrew his calling card from his pants pocket and handed it to the man. “I’m yours for the night.” Ellis winced internally. That sounded cheap and desperate.
“Are you now?” The man’s bass timber rolled over Ellis like the tide. He studied the card briefly before slipping it into an inner pocket on his suit jacket. “How much for the night, Ellis Anouilh?” His perfect, rolling pronunciation sent a pleasant shiver down Ellis’ spine.
“Already taken care of,” Ellis said. Did this man not pay his own bills? Taking in the expensive, high-end, hi-tech watch, worth more than Heart Court’s monthly revenue, and where they were meeting, the answer was probably no.
There was likely some harried accountant somewhere crunching numbers and crying into an energy drink.
“Has it?” The man smiled, though it wasn’t altogether a pleasant one.
Something deep inside of Ellis screamed at him to run.
Ellis squashed the urge. He needed this to go perfectly, or he would be back on the streets by morning. Kevin Donovan was not a man to threaten eviction lightly. In the few years Ellis had worked for the man, he had already done so to half a dozen underperforming escorts. Whatever the client before him wanted, Ellis would give him.
He stretched out and ran his fingertips over the man’s hand. “Yes, sir,” He replied coyly or attempted to. It came off just a bit left of coy, verging on sarcastic. Jean was better at playing these games, even if he was new. Ellis did his best to keep his forced smile on his face. “Did you rent a room at the Lumière? Or at a nearby hotel?”
The man grabbed Ellis’ wrist in a punishing hold, causing him to suck in air between his teeth. For hands that looked sorefined, they clamped down with a strength that reminded Ellis of the bouncers at Heart Court—a grip meant to hurt, to control.
“I was meeting someone here.” The man said, squeezing Ellis’ wrist painfully before releasing it. “I have a small apartment in Lafayette Square. We’ll go there.” He lifted two perfectly manicured fingers in that imperious twitch that only the obscenely wealthy seemed born knowing how to do, summoning the server with his check.
“It was a pleasure serving you. Please, come again.” The server’s voice held all the warmth he’d likely been lavishing on the client all evening, though his eyes cut to Ellis with undisguised resentment.
Ellis’ client tapped his watch over the payment device, which dinged happily. The man closed his tablet and stood gracefully to his feet, pulling his suit jacket closed. With a few taps on his watch, the man turned back to Ellis.
“My driver will meet us out front.” The man gestured for Ellis to lead the way.
A driver? Ellis almost stumbled at that. In an age where even the most economical of cars drove themselves, having an actual human driver was the kind of old-money extravagance he’d only heard about. Still, he stood from the chair, nowhere near as gracefully as the man who seemed to unfold from it. Ellis strode with all the confidence he could muster toward the lobby entrance, painfully aware of how his movements must look in comparison. A warm hand settled on his lower back—possessive, steering—as they approached the doors. The bellhop bowed at their approach, reaching out and opening the doors with well-practiced deference.
“Always a pleasure, Monsieur Rohan. Please, come again.” The bellhop said, causing Ellis to stiffen momentarily.
Certainly, this man wasn’t…
“Of course, Carlo.” His client, Rohan, replied, urging Ellis forward. He handed the bellhop a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Carlo took it with ease, as if he was given large tips every day.
