I sat at my kitchen table, staring at the screen.
On the one hand, Josh Lane was handsome, intelligent and intriguing. And he was right: an extraordinary chemistry flowed between us. He had the means to solve my short term problems and he was willing to do it, something I couldn’t take for granted from anyone else in my life.
On the other hand, he wanted me not for my smarts, or for friendship, companionship or affection. If he had, I might have found some justification for my actions. But he’d made it clear he wanted me for a limited engagement, only for sex, and not just sex of the usual variety. I was a transaction to him, a pretty common one apparently, an object he could buy, use and discard.
But freedom was a powerful motivator when coupled with duty and the idea of making my own demands heartened me. My fingers began to click on the keyboard.
* * *
Here it is, what you wanted, how you wanted it, but I have four conditions of my own.
First, you’ll call off those people who keep following me around. Yes, I’ve noticed, and I’m sure you have something to do with it, so don’t deny it. I don’t need or want bodyguards.
Second, you’ll bring current proof of health to our first meeting. Just as you need to know that I’m safe for you, I need to know that you’re safe for me.
Third, you’ll limit your “activities” exclusively to me for the duration of this agreement. I realize this might be a hardship to you, but in the spirit of my second condition, safety first.
Finally, I require privacy. The content of any communication between us is confidential. The contents of the attached clip and any other products related to me are private. Failure to respect my privacy or to comply with the specified terms will result in the immediate unilateral termination of this agreement.
* * *
Take that, Josh Lane. He was not the only one capable of speaking legalese. Sure, I got my wording from contract101.com , but I’d made my point. At least I’d tried to even up the match. Somewhere far past midnight—technically after my deadline—I clicked on the mouse and sent the email.
At four in the morning, I gave up on the idea of sleeping, got up and took a shower. In an act of defiance, I groomed myself. No need to have strangers perusing my privates. I dressed in my standard uniform, black pants, black button-down shirt and the mandatory slip-resistant sneakers. I grabbed my old jacket and my polka dot umbrella and was out the door by five. I braved the icy rain and walked to work. Bree was already there. I told her I had to leave early to meet with Mom’s doctors, which was half true.
Her blue eyes bored into my skull. “Something’s bothering you,” she said. “You’re looking sickly this morning.” She studied me further. “Oh, my God, Lily. Are you pregnant?”
“No!”
“Thank God.” Bree exhaled in relief. “You’ll never get rid of Martin if you get pregnant.”
“Bree!”
“It’s the truth and you know it.” She donned her apron, adjusting it over her full figure and tying it at the back. “I can’t understand why you’re still with the idiot. But there’s something else. What is it?”
I shrugged. I couldn’t tell Bree, or anybody else for that matter, what I had done. Thankfully, our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the first customers spearheading the morning rush, which required our full attention for the next few hours.
I called the nursing home at seven, but no one picked up the phone. After that, I called every twenty minutes. The coffee house went crazy busy between seven and nine, and yet in between lattes, macchiatos, cappuccinos and mochas, I managed to leave six messages, explaining that I’d be in later today to pay the bill. I worried. I was over six months late and they didn’t have any reason not to kick us out.
After my sleepless night and frantic morning at work, exhausted, worried, and fueled by a stream of pure caffeine, I raced to
On the one hand, Josh Lane was handsome, intelligent and intriguing. And he was right: an extraordinary chemistry flowed between us. He had the means to solve my short term problems and he was willing to do it, something I couldn’t take for granted from anyone else in my life.
On the other hand, he wanted me not for my smarts, or for friendship, companionship or affection. If he had, I might have found some justification for my actions. But he’d made it clear he wanted me for a limited engagement, only for sex, and not just sex of the usual variety. I was a transaction to him, a pretty common one apparently, an object he could buy, use and discard.
But freedom was a powerful motivator when coupled with duty and the idea of making my own demands heartened me. My fingers began to click on the keyboard.
* * *
Here it is, what you wanted, how you wanted it, but I have four conditions of my own.
First, you’ll call off those people who keep following me around. Yes, I’ve noticed, and I’m sure you have something to do with it, so don’t deny it. I don’t need or want bodyguards.
Second, you’ll bring current proof of health to our first meeting. Just as you need to know that I’m safe for you, I need to know that you’re safe for me.
Third, you’ll limit your “activities” exclusively to me for the duration of this agreement. I realize this might be a hardship to you, but in the spirit of my second condition, safety first.
Finally, I require privacy. The content of any communication between us is confidential. The contents of the attached clip and any other products related to me are private. Failure to respect my privacy or to comply with the specified terms will result in the immediate unilateral termination of this agreement.
* * *
Take that, Josh Lane. He was not the only one capable of speaking legalese. Sure, I got my wording from contract101.com , but I’d made my point. At least I’d tried to even up the match. Somewhere far past midnight—technically after my deadline—I clicked on the mouse and sent the email.
At four in the morning, I gave up on the idea of sleeping, got up and took a shower. In an act of defiance, I groomed myself. No need to have strangers perusing my privates. I dressed in my standard uniform, black pants, black button-down shirt and the mandatory slip-resistant sneakers. I grabbed my old jacket and my polka dot umbrella and was out the door by five. I braved the icy rain and walked to work. Bree was already there. I told her I had to leave early to meet with Mom’s doctors, which was half true.
Her blue eyes bored into my skull. “Something’s bothering you,” she said. “You’re looking sickly this morning.” She studied me further. “Oh, my God, Lily. Are you pregnant?”
“No!”
“Thank God.” Bree exhaled in relief. “You’ll never get rid of Martin if you get pregnant.”
“Bree!”
“It’s the truth and you know it.” She donned her apron, adjusting it over her full figure and tying it at the back. “I can’t understand why you’re still with the idiot. But there’s something else. What is it?”
I shrugged. I couldn’t tell Bree, or anybody else for that matter, what I had done. Thankfully, our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the first customers spearheading the morning rush, which required our full attention for the next few hours.
I called the nursing home at seven, but no one picked up the phone. After that, I called every twenty minutes. The coffee house went crazy busy between seven and nine, and yet in between lattes, macchiatos, cappuccinos and mochas, I managed to leave six messages, explaining that I’d be in later today to pay the bill. I worried. I was over six months late and they didn’t have any reason not to kick us out.
After my sleepless night and frantic morning at work, exhausted, worried, and fueled by a stream of pure caffeine, I raced to
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