The Billionaire’s Escort

Their voices rang in his head this time, as usual. It was a usual thing for him—listening to the voices of his parents, especially his cheating father. Carlos veered around on the big bed, thoughts on how to handle the situation, cramming in his head. The last time he made an effort to settle issues between his parents, it amounted to nothing but worse problems. No. He would not put himself in such a crisis again, they played with his head and did not have the subtlest idea, how. "You keep doing this over and over," he heard the voice of a woman. It was none other than his mother, Elizabeth. "Don't you have shame?" "What about some respect for himself?" Carlos mumbled. Ever since his childhood days, his father came home either drunk or with a woman's underwear, or even gloss hanging on his shirt. Who the hell does that? Carlos had thought it over and over. To sum it all up, Manuel had shown no atom of remorse, nor did he apologize to Elizabeth, his wife. Growing up in such a house was like feasting with the devil. It felt so. "I don't know what you're talking about, Elizabeth," he listened to his father's contradiction. "What are you saying?" "You had it with an escort!" Elizabeth's words streamed forth, giving Carlos a shock. What escort? Was it the escort he thought about, or did another meaning for the word, exist? "You don't have any evidence, do you?" Manuel screamed. "Who did you pay to give useless information to you?" More voices came up, and Carlos's thoughts could not be controlled. He heard a sound, and stopped thinking to wait for a cry—Manuel probably has done it again. No, for the first time. Never did his father lay his hand on the woman. This was New York, and the first punishment that would be served was to take Manuel to jail or set him up. He was right, anyway. Nothing transpired. It must have been something that fell onto the floor, the flower vase, or the key to the car, plunging off Manuel's hand. Now, the bluster was intolerable. Unbelievably from the apartment he lived in, with his parents. Carlos flinched to his feet and caught up with the drawer next to his bed. He grabbed the key to his car and headed down to the main room of the house. They would not respect themselves, he would give some space to them. Attaining the living room — the part of the house that was on fire, he heard his mother say, "I want a divorce, Manuel." His jaw dropped at the realization of such reality. Has it gotten to this breadth? Did couples not have quarrels and come to terms? What was he thinking? This was more than just a quarrel and had commenced a very long time ago. The woman he referred to as 'mom' desired some peace—plenty of them. The expression on the face of his father went blank, he was probably trying to process the information and shook his head. "How can you want a divorce, Elizabeth?" He asked, becoming humble, suddenly. "Are you asking?" Elizabeth scoffed at the question. "Get the papers or I'll do it myself." The sound of key clinking drew their awareness to their only son, and child, staring at them from a distance. Carlos said nothing, he goggled on for seconds and walked past them, headed for his car. "Carlos!" Elizabeth called, but he walked away. Hopping in on his car, Carlos let out a demoralized sigh, his hands resting on the sterling angle. What was that about? He questioned himself. Was marriage even essential? No, it isn't. He would not be married to a lady, and punish her that way, nor would he marry a woman who would punish him this way. Where to? He didn't know. He however started the car and obtained the gate. The old man who served as a gateman to the family, did his job the moment a car was sighted, attaining the gate. Carlos drove out in seconds, with over a million and one thoughts, cramming his head. It was an opportunity to feed his eyes with sights, beautiful sights in New York City. Carlos's thoughts were taken away when he sighted a fancy shop, with funny-looking photos, plastered on the glass door, leading to the shop. He halted and gazed for some time, then continued his drive to 'God knows where' after a while. Finally, he halted at the front of a bar. It happened to be one of the biggest in the city of New York. The plan was not to stop by at a bar, but thoughts that came back to his head after leaving the fancy shops area pushed him to the edge. Now, he found himself at a bar, parking his car in a lot, built for customers with cars. Luckily for him, there was more than enough space to take in his car. "Good evening, sir," a man at the gate hailed. A man flashed Carlos a smile, but he was uninterested. He didn't plan to be here, and now that he was, it wasn't to have moments with strangers. A man at the gate is no stranger, but he could care less. They don't know from no place, and a connection with some woman, or man is the last to happen. Carlos reached for the inside of the bar after a check was run on him, he headed for the part where a waiter served customers directly. Taking a seat as wished, he gave the waiter a nod. The skinny man walked over to him from the opposite, giving a short bow. "Welcome," he said, "what do I offer you tonight?" "You have strong drinks, don't you?" Carlos asked, placing his phone and wallet on the surface of the table. "I want one bottle, just one bottle." The man left his side and reached for a shelf with frozen drinks. The sight of cold bottles got Carlos nodding in expectation, his hand reaching for the wallet this time, while he counted a few dollar notes. A bottle of strong alcohol got to him in seconds. Thereafter, he handed over the money to the man, seated at the spot for seconds, before flinching to his feet. "Would you like another?" The man who served him asked, smiling. Carlos smiled genuinely for the first time. "No," he said, showing off the bottle. "I guess I have more than enough here with me, not taken up to half, either." He told the man, then walked off. He was not drunk, yet. It was a bottle he had gotten, and a bottle was too small to get him drunk. What he wanted for the evening was to spend some time outside, away from the house. Not drunk, nor close to getting drunk. Who would take him home if such a disaster occurred? Music blared from a well-made speaker into his ears. Carlos couldn't help but move to the beat of the songs. One of his favourite tracks was played, eventually. The bottle of alcohol he had taken was done with, which meant he would leave the bar in no time, and get back home before it was too late. He sat up on the chair he rested on, after some time of heavy thoughts to himself. He checked the watch on his wrist for the time and realized how much time he spent. He would leave soon, he told himself. Carlos picked up the bottle he drank from, and realized someone, standing in front of him. Finally, he looked up to meet with her gaze.