A 21st Century Courtesan (24 page)

“I'm going to fuck you, Valentine.”

“Yes!”

He pulls his fingers from me, brings them to my lips, watches my face intently as he presses them into my mouth, and I can taste my own juices, salty sweet, before he lowers his hand. He grasps my hips, lifting me.

“Now, Valentine,” he growls before impaling me on his hard cock.

He slides right in, up to the hilt. Pain and pleasure all at once. Too good, this sense of being commanded by him.

Possessed.

That's becoming my favorite word.

His hips begin to piston, and he drives into me, pleasure knifing into my body. Pleasure and a sense of belonging I can hardly describe, even to myself.

“Just need to fuck you, baby,” he says between teeth clenched in pleasure; I can see it on his face. “Just fucking you.”

He slams into me, and the wall is hard and cold against my back, and he's fucking me so damn hard. Desire builds inside
me, hot and shimmering, my sex filling, swelling. My nipples hard against his chest.

“Joshua … more!”

He drives deeper, and it really does hurt now. The wall is digging into my spine, his cock is digging deep inside my body. But he feels so good. Better than anything I've ever felt before.

“Joshua … Joshua … God …”

“Tell me you love me, Valentine,” he demands, his voice rough.

“I love you. I love you …”

His hands tighten their grip, his nails biting into my skin. And I hold on to his shoulders, gouging his flesh as he thrusts into me, over and over, driving my pleasure higher and higher.

“I'm going to come,” he tells me, “into you, baby. Love you, baby …”

“Yes …”

I am right there with him, my sex clenching, clasping him, pleasure like a hammer, shattering me inside. And as he cries out, my body convulses, a long, shuddering wave. I am coming so hard; coming itself is that same pain and pleasure, intensified, overwhelming.

It goes on and on, our shivering bodies sealed together by sweat, by heat, by our unwillingness to separate. I don't know how I know this, love being such an unfamiliar concept to me, but I do.

We are both panting. But his grip on my body, holding me up, is as strong as ever. He carries me back to the big sofa, lays me down, settles in beside me, an arm around me, our legs entwined. Lovely. I breathe a sigh of… I'm not sure what it is. Gratitude? Relief?

I have never felt so happy before. This is bliss to me.

The sun is dipping low in the sky, filtering in through the wide expanse of glass that is the front of his house. No drapes in here, just wooden shutters, folded back now to let the view inside. There is enough light still that I can see the room. So oddly like my own house: the imported furniture, all dark, heavy pieces, some of them carved, inlaid, and painted in the way Indian and Balinese and Moroccan furniture often is.

There are enormous pieces of gorgeously carved teak on the walls, from Indonesia, I know, because I have two of them myself. A small collection of baskets that are clearly African sit on a hand-painted Indian chest. Beautiful. And again, amazingly similar to the things I have in my own house.

I smile to myself, feeling a new surge of familiar comfort.

Don't get too used to it.

I really have to shut down those old tapes in my head. I'm going to have to find a way if we are to have anything together. Because I am damn well going to get used to it. I am going to get over all the shit that is my life so I can find some sort of life with him. I have to learn not to believe those voices.

It's going to be hard. Because the fact is, I still do. Everything I'm doing right now is pretend to me, on some level. Deep down, I'm still afraid the idea that this is going to last is nothing more than illusion.

Don't think about it.

No, just be here with him, with this man who says he loves me. With this man I love. Keep pretending as hard as I can.

I had no idea love would be so overwhelmingly wonderful. I had no idea love could hurt this much, simply at the idea of losing it.

WE MADE LOVE ALL
weekend, ate, walked on the beach, got coffee at the funny little café down the street from Joshua's house. Then made love again, letting it turn into raw, lovely fucking, in his big bed, on the floor, in the backseat of his car on the way home from dinner.

I hate Monday mornings. I always have. I remember as a kid, that sinking feeling of waking up on Monday morning, time for school. I never wanted to let the weekend go.

I feel like that now.

Joshua had to go to work. He's asked me to stay at his house, which I'll do for a day or two. But eventually I'll have to get back to my house, check on my orchids. Deal with the lingering ashes of my life.

I need to go talk to Lydia. Joshua has offered me the use of his other car: a black Lexus sedan. An incognito car. I like that idea. I don't want to be myself today.

He's left already. The scent of coffee and toast lingers in the kitchen, and as I clean up the breakfast dishes I have this odd flash of myself doing this very thing forever.

Don't be stupid.

No, it's Monday, reality time. Hasn't that always been what Monday is for?

I shower, dress in a pair of jeans and my cashmere sweater. Then I call Lydia. She can see me in an hour. I'm not sure if this is fate intervening, but it feels like it. It feels almost ridiculously important that I see her now.

I get into the car and pull out of the garage, a knot of dread in my stomach at leaving the womblike safety of Joshua's house. But I swallow it down as I hit Pacific Avenue and head north toward Santa Monica.

At Lydia's office, she greets me with a warm smile, as always. Why is my pulse racing?

I sit in my spot on her sofa and she settles in opposite me.

“Tell me what's happened, Valentine.”

“How do you know anything has?”

“You called and asked for a same-day appointment, which I assume is somewhat urgent as I know you're no longer working and don't have a full calendar. And even if that were not the case, you're pale as a sheet.”

“You don't beat around the bush, do you?”

“Would it be at all helpful to you if I did?”

“No.” I have to smile a little.
bo …?

“A lot has happened. A lot.” I pause, catch my breath. “I told him. Everything. About what I do. What I've done. I told him how it happened, how I ended up here. That I've quit. I told him that I love him.”

“Ah. And what does he have to say about it?”

“He's been incredible. So accepting. I mean, it's been hard for him. He asked me some pretty tough questions. He wanted details. And I really did not want to tell him that stuff, but I felt I had to. He said I owed him that, and he's right. So I told him. How I got into the business, the kinds of things I've done with my clients, with the other girls. But he still wants me, still wants to try. And I still only half believe it.” I stop, run my hands through my hair, take a breath. “I'm afraid to … I'm afraid to let myself depend on that. But he says he loves me. I don't know why.”

“Why not?”

“Come on, I'd think that would be obvious.”

“Valentine, you don't have to sell yourself short because you earned your living in the sex trade. You don't have to punish yourself that way, you know.”

“No, I don't know that! I don't know that at all.” I'm angry.
But none of this is her fault. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to be sharp with you.”

“You don't have to apologize to me. Part of what we do in this room is to help you face your feelings, and some of those feelings are going to be anger.”

“Yes. I have a lot of anger. I know that.”

“What is the main source of that anger, Valentine? Because once you identify it, you can really begin to deal with it, to process it and move forward. Do you know where the anger begins?”

“Of course I know. That's something I've never been in denial about. It begins and ends with my mother.”

“And how have you dealt with it? With her, with those emotions?”

“I haven't seen my mother for years. I put her behind me.”

“Did you?”

“What are you saying?”

“Refusing to see her doesn't mean you've put her behind you. It may mean that you've done nothing more than ignore her, and all of those feelings of anger and sadness that are attached to her.”

“I never said I was sad.”

“You don't have to.”

“No, you're wrong there. I'm not sad. Not about her.”

“Okay.” Lydia nods, smiles. She's being patronizing. And I'm getting angrier.

“So, what do you suggest I do, Lydia? That I go and see her and look for some sort of closure? Well, it won't work. That woman will never change. She's still exactly the same, I'm sure. Just a stinking, rotting alcoholic. She'll never change.”

“But you have.”

“Not that much!”

“But you want to.”

Fuck. I hate it when she makes sense that I don't want to hear.

I'm quiet, absorbing.

“So … you really are saying I need to go see her. Is that it?”

“I am suggesting you think about it, yes. But you have to go in with an open mind, or it won't accomplish anything. Are you ready to do that?”

“Yes!” I stop, tug on the ends of my hair. Am I really going to do this? It's been so long. “I don't know. I'd like to think I am. To think I'm ready for anything. I know my life has to transform completely, that I have to. I know you're right about dealing with my mother. But it's not like she's going to welcome me with open arms. It's not as though she'll apologize for anything.”

“No, she probably won't. This isn't about what she does. It's about adjusting your own perspective. And perhaps seeing her through adult eyes, eyes that have been opened a bit, will color your worldview a little differently.”

I nod my head. “I understand what you're saying.” And I do. It's almost habit that's keeping me from going. But look where habit has gotten me. “I know you're right. I know I need to do this. I need to face her. To stop running from her.” How did Lydia manage to turn this around so it seems like my idea? “Okay, I'll go. Maybe I'll even do it today. I might as well get it over with.”

“It's entirely up to you.”

I nod, knowing damn well it's not. I would never have thought of this if it weren't for Lydia.

“Okay. Okay. I'm going to do it.”

We talk a little more, but it feels like filler. I can't forget
that I am going to see my mother this afternoon. That I have to face her, and everything her presence in my life has meant for me.

I do not want to do this. An evil necessity.

When my appointment is over I get in the car and head into the Valley. If I don't do this now, I may never do it at all.

The trip goes quickly. And as soon as I come up over the rise of the 405, the San Fernando Valley spread out before me, my stomach lurches. But I make myself do it, following the 405 to the 101, taking the too-familiar exit.

The houses become more run-down with each passing block as I get closer to my old neighborhood. Pale. Miserable. The neighborhood has changed, fallen apart over the years. Maybe she doesn't even live there anymore. Maybe she's dead. Anything could have happened. It's been at least eight years since I drove down this sad street.

It looks a lot like it did when I was growing up, but dingier, more depressing than before. Houses and apartment buildings with faded paint, weeds in the yards. And I know the moment I pull up in front of her house that she is there, inside it.

I park the car and have to breathe, pulling air deep into my lungs, fighting the nausea.

Just do it. Get it over with.

It would be easier if even a small part of me was convinced it would do any good. If I believed it would make creating a new life for myself, being with Joshua, any more possible. But I have to try, don't I? I have to practice believing.

I get out of the car, holding my purse tightly in my hand, as though it's some sort of talisman. The house is in bad shape. The paint is absolutely peeling off the walls. The weeds are
knee-high, and the hardy rosebushes that once bloomed against the front windows are dead and dried. A victim of neglect. I can relate.

Heart hammering in my chest, I reach out and ring the bell.

NOTHING FROM INSIDE, NO
sound at all. But I have this odd feeling she's in there. I know it down in my bones. I ring the bell again. And again, nothing.

Maybe this was a mistake. If it were meant to happen, she'd answer the door.

I have this sudden, horrible flash of her lying dead in the living room, a glass clutched in her cold hand, a little vodka pooled in the bottom of it. Too fucking awful. Even worse that I feel a wave of sadness.

I shake my head, turn to go, and the door swings open behind me.

“Who's there?”

God, her voice, the same under the unfamiliar creak of a woman who is old now. But she couldn't be more than fifty, fifty-two maybe. Far from old. She sounds like she is a hundred.

I turn, but the house is dark and dingy inside, and all I can see is the dim outline of a person. Not even recognizable
as female. Not recognizable to me at all. She steps closer, opens the torn screen door, and I see her.