My Escort

Driving him Nuts

Red hugs me tenderly as we both take a breath. I'm sweating, but he isn't. I feel his erratic breath, his capricious heartbeat, and it's a very beautiful tune.

He kisses my shoulder, and I lay my head on his.

The warm water cascades down my skin as the shower does its magic. I rub my hair gently, my head tilted heavenward, letting myself lost into my world of bliss and sexy fantasy.

My God, I f****d him again!

First time was a mistake. But what about this time? I ponder.And yet my profligate, shameless face twists into a million roses smile at the marvel of Red's kisses and all the things he did to me earlier.

You're in deep trouble, Mia. Fresh from the shower, I slip into the closet. I need something simple and homey to suffice my evening that’s just begun. Holy s**t, I've got to cook dinner. The thought makes me wary and excited at the same time.

"What should I cook, huh?" I mumble while skimming through the hung up clothes in the open wardrobe.

"And what should I wear?" I sigh, glad that my troubles right now are all sleazy and mundane. I've casted aside all the bigger ones. I want to feel normal.

A red sundress draws my attention right away. Is it the color? I flush. Decidedly, I pluck it from the hanger.

Spaghetti straps, thigh length, and loose— it's just perfect for my mood. Red is still in his room.

The kitchen is neat and well arranged, including the forsaken groceries. I wonder when Red cleared everything. I giggle at the sight of our crime scene. Oh boy!

****************

"I miss you, too, but that's not the only reason I called. I want the recipe for that

chicken grill you make," I whine into the phone, talking to my mom.

Sophie Diaz gasps loudly enough for me to hear. I roll my eyes while opening the fridge.

So what if I'm famous for having a natural feud with the kitchen? A lazy girl can cook sometimes, come on!

"You want to cook, honey? Why? What have you done this time?" my mom asks

mildly. I hold the fridge door open,huffing.

"What have I done? What do you mean?" Gosh, she can be so absurd. "I mean, you only cook when every restaurant is closed, Mia. Or when you want to please someone.

So have you fought with your husband and you're trying to make up with him through his stomach?" Mom probes, pretending to know it all. I chuckle. I so miss her.

"None of that, Sophie." I proceed with my task, taking the ingredients out to start making my intended meal.

"I just want to try making that delicious chicken only you can make."

"Hmm. Okay. Tell me what else you're making so that I can decide which recipe to give you," she says happily.

"Um . . .Baked potatoes and cucumber salad," I reply. Putting my phone into a

louder speaker right on the breakfast table, I start moving here and there as I follow mom's instructions.

One hour later the chicken is well marinated, even though mom says it turns out best when left overnight. Well, I don’t have time for that.

The smell is terrific as I lay every piece on the grill ready to cook.

"So that's it. Lana broke up with that potato-faced guy. Ugh, I'm so glad because she was seriously losing her mind.

Can you imagine at that age she started going to club again?" Mom rants, and I giggle with delight.

"You don't say?" I start peeling the potatoes when imagining them as someone's face. Mom! My mom and Aunt Lana are sisters and best friends.

They're both single moms who raised their kids on their own. I grew up in the same home with Lana’s two sons, Marc and Derek.

The five of us make our own little family. I seriously miss them. "So, you're not telling me what the occasion is?" My mom keeps prying after telling me all the important juicy gossip about everyone's life at home.

"I'll call you later, Mom.

I'm taking this dinner very serious for my own needs and not for what you're busy imagining," I blurt, my hands busy.

"Hmm. Okay, I'm going!" she grunts, and I can imagine her pouty lips.

"You didn't forget smearing some olive oil, did you? It's important for that golden brown crust. You should do it on the potatoes, too."

"Okay, Mom. Thank you, huh? I love you," I mutter, smiling fondly. "I love you, too, baby. As long as you're happy, mommy is happy." Her voice is warm and amorous. Ugh, that sentimental speech.

I don't want to cry right now. "Take care. Say hi to everyone. Will wire you some money when I return to Portland," I tell her.

"Forget about that, Mia. You have

problems of your own, honey, so think of

yourself only right now.

We are okay here," Sophie rebukes. Stubborn woman! I just smile, for I can tell it's genetic. My mom is so hard in accepting help unless it’s a matter of life and death.

"Yeah, yeah. As if I said I can't afford paying for my mom's health just because I'm

broke. I'm sending the money and you're going to get that back checked," I snap

quietly.

As I end the call Red is approaching silently. My gaze meets his when I head

towards the sink to wash the chopped potatoes.

Man, he's looking good: a simple

T-shirt and a pair of washed out denim shorts.

"Hi. Need help?" he asks gently, smiling at me. "Um, no. I'm good." I smile back, my breath taken away. "You sure?" He eyes the mess I've created on the countertop.

Jeez! So chaotic here. I stifle a laugh. Will clean later. "Yeah. Thanks for offering," I assure him.

"Okay. I think it's going to rain tonight," Red says ingeniously, and my eyes

wander towards the window.

It does seem cloudy and dark outside, all of a sudden. "I'll light up the fire in your bedroom," he adds. Oh my! My poor, perverted mind. Lighting fire in my bedroom? Okay, focus, Mia! "Sure." I nod, my heart content.

Watching Red leaving, a soft sigh escapes me. "How will you survive this, Mia?" I puff out some air and proceed with the

cooking. Pinot Gris slides smoothly as Red pours it into our glasses.

Looking me in the eyes, the fire in them a bit smoldering, he slides one glass to my side before taking a seat

beside me. Why am I blushing?

"Thank you," I murmur and take a soft sip. Spicy and sweet— Hmm, so exquisite. "No, I should thank you. The food smells nice." Red beams, watching his plate

filled with everything I made.