Chapter 8

Elite

Please fill out your exit sheet.

Right.Cameron nodded to himself, knowing he couldn't be paid until he sent in his paper work.

Cameron

I know, sorry. I just got home.

Elite

Your text says you clocked out at 4:43am.

It was a little after five p.m. now.

Cameron

I did.

And what he did after that was his business.

Elite

What time did you get home? I will extend your engagement time sheet and contact his agent for appropriate remuneration.

They called it a "time sheet," and he would "clock out" so they knew that a job was over, but he was never really on any clock. Clients paid by the job, whether it was for an hour, a day, or a week. The clocking-out text was meant to be a safety check. He was supposed to text his employer when he got home so they'd know he was safe and the gig was over.

This job hadn't included going home with Dusty, of course.

Cameron

Don't extend. As far as the job goes, it was over at 4:43.

There was a pause in their conversation. No three little dots, no acknowledgment at all for what felt like forever. He crossed the living room to his bedroom in just a few steps—his apartment was small, smaller than it needed to be. He was paid well, and he could afford a much nicer one, but he'd never seen the need for more room and he hated moving. He'd moved into this little place once he could afford not to deal with roommates, and it was just…his. It felt like home, and he needed that because half his life was a lie.

A lie he got paid for, that was creative and that wasn't hurting anyone, but still a lie.

Elite

What's your favorite color?

Oh, wow. A wellness check. It had been a while since he'd gotten one of those. It was probably a good call—clocking out and staying with the client was far from normal behavior for him. Regardless, he appreciated that the agency made his safety such a high priority.

His favorite color was green, but if he replied with any color at all, they'd send security to his apartment, to Dusty's, and maybe even to Ann's. They'd also send security if they got no reply at all.

They didn't want a color. The answer was random by design.

Cameron

Eggs.

He read it carefully before he hit Send, making sure there were no typos, and that it included a period. Precision was important.

Elite

Good. I'll mark the job complete. Have a nap. Then get your paper work in.

Cameron

Will do.

He snorted as he headed for the kitchen. Have a nap. These guys were so formal that any sign of humanity was unexpected. He didn't know names, he didn't have a phone number he could call, he wasn't sure he got the same handler every time he texted.

He enjoyed his job, but really, what wasn't there to like? He got to keep the very wealthy company. He'd been on yachts, been to galas and gallery openings, parties and conventions. He'd eaten in every exclusive restaurant in LA, been to countless private clubs. He'd done some random gigs too—he'd once gone to Disney World with a client and their kids as a nanny, once he'd been paid to pretend to be a doorman outside a building that didn't usually have one. He'd been a dog sitter for a wealthy politician. Random was part of his job, and he just went with the flow.

His parameters were simple: he didn't sleep with clients, he didn't do anything that was even vaguely illegal, and he didn't get on a private airplane with a client the agency didn't vouch for—no new clients, no one that hadn't taken their escorts on planes before, that kind of thing. He didn't want to end up in Dubai or Moscow or something worse.

He assumed all of that went on; wealthy clients would pay for what they wanted, and some escorts were probably braver—and richer—than he was. Some probably enjoyed the risk. He was boring, but he made good money anyway.

He dropped his tux jacket over a chair in his tiny kitchen and rolled up his sleeves, then got eggs out of the fridge and milk and cheese. He found onions, mushrooms, and spinach, and put a pan on the stove to warm up while he chopped veggies and made himself a quick omelet. His stomach growled as he split an English muffin and dropped it into the toaster.

All of that was a great distraction, but when his dinner was finished and he sat down on his couch to eat, he was still alone with his thoughts.

And they were X-rated.

Dusty had the best skin, so smooth and warm, and even in bed he was so graceful and fluid. He was sexy. He was fucking hot. Cameron couldn't remember ever waking up to a blowjob in progress. That had been incredible. And the several hours they'd spent touching and kissing and fucking after that were a blur of hormones and pornographic memories he wasn't going to forget any time soon.

Maybe never.

He kind of hoped never.

But now what? He'd said he'd call later, and he would, but what were they going to say? "Thanks for last night" phone calls were awkward at best, and surely Dusty would have figured out by now that his showing up there had been a shocking coincidence to everyone but him.

He'd logged in to read the dossier and the job details, so he'd known everything. And he'd been ready to turn it down until he read the personal statement—a paragraph they required of all clients that said in their own words why they wanted or needed an escort. Sometimes they said things like "to impress my business partners" or "I need someone who can schmooze" or something like that. Dusty's had said, "It's an important night, and he's terrified. Send someone that will make him feel special."

"Terrified" had gotten his attention. The man he'd dated wasn't ever terrified. And who was hiring a date for him anyway? Did Dusty know? He'd been too curious, and he'd had to accept the job. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was make his clients feel special.

He turned on some mindless TV and opened his laptop to log onto the site where his exit interview was stored. A token was sent to his phone, which he then entered, and the questionnaire opened up. When a gig went smoothly, it was a simple series of clicks. If something went haywire, the interview, of course, took longer.

This one was easy. It had been a good night. Hopefully whoever was filling out his review on Dusty's behalf felt the same way.

He submitted his interview and logged out, then closed his laptop and went back to his omelet, which had barely had time to cool off. He should have made himself some boozy coffee to go with it, but he didn't feel like getting up. He'd have a nightcap later.

A text came in with the Mission Impossible ringtone and he knew without picking up his phone that it was work. It was goofy, and he cracked himself up. His first instinct was to ignore it. He'd just sat down…what if they wanted him out the door tonight? But it was rare they tossed a last-minute gig his way. He took a big bite of his omelet, then picked up the phone.

Elite

Fri-Sun, NYC.

He sighed. Overnight, airplane…not in his wheelhouse, and they knew it.

Cameron

Why are you offering me this gig?

Elite

You were specifically requested.

So, someone he'd worked with before.

Cameron

Who?

Elite

Long-term client in excellent standing, suite with two rooms.

Cameron

No suite. I need my own room.

Elite

Client requires suite for optics.

Cameron

Adjoining rooms, then.

He needed a lock on his door.

Cameron

Who is it?

Elite

You know I can't disclose until you accept.

Yeah, this felt fishy.

Cameron

No.

He got the three dots again and they hovered forever, long enough that he put the phone down and went back to his dinner. Eventually a new text came in and he glanced at the screen.

Elite

Jasper Kennedy

Jasper Kennedy. Big-money CEO, known for his lavish parties. He remembered Jasper. He was older, and he wanted a younger man to fawn over him. Harmless, as he recalled, all flirt and no hint of follow-up, and kind too. But he lived in Beverly Hills.

Cameron

What's he doing in New York?

Elite

It will be in the dossier. Do you accept?

Cameron

Yes, I accept.

He was texted a link, which he knew would go to the dossier, but decided to look at it later. He was taking the night off.

He leaned back in his seat with his food, determined to polish it off; then he'd keep his promise and call Dusty.