The Biker's Paid Obsession

Elizabeth Christmas is my day off, so I'm in the kitchen baking cookies with my daughter, just like I promised. The moment feels almost perfect, until my phone starts ringing on the counter, loud and insistent, like it doesn’t care that this moment matters. I don't need to look at the screen to know who it is. My manager never calls on holidays unless someone backed out, or unless the client isn't someone you can say no to. “I'll let it go to voicemail,” I say when Mia lets out a frustrated sigh. “We both know he'll call again and again,” she shrugs. She's right, my manager calls right after the first call goes unanswered and I hesitantly pull a paper towel, wiping my hands clean before picking up the phone. “I'm not working today,” I say, skipping any pleasantries. There's a pause on the line. Then, quietly, “You have an appointment.” “It's Christmas,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose as I turn my back to Mia. I can’t watch the disappointment written across her face any longer. “I know,” Mr. Smith says. “But this one isn't optional.” “Where's it?” I ask, frustrated. “A Jail.” I frown. “It's a conjugal visit,” he adds. My fingers tighten around the phone. “Tonight?” “Yes,” he says. There's silence as I try to wrap my head around this impromptu appointment. “I'll send the details, don't be late,” he says, breaking the silence before hanging up. A message comes through seconds later. Address attached. No name. No photo. Just a warning: He's not like your usual clients. He's dangerous. A chill runs up my spine. In all my ten years of working with Smith’s Sensual Agency, nobody has ever had an appointment like this one. A conjugal visit? Never. “You're leaving, aren't you?” Mia says. “I'm sorry,” I say, turning to face her. She shakes her head, her eyes welling up and I move closer to wrap my arms around her but she stops me before I can do it. “Don't!” I sigh, regretting the day I started doing this job. “Listen, Mia, I'll make sure to get back home as early as possible and we can watch a movie together then, huh?” “I'll go to Dad's,” she says, sliding off her stool. “At least he values Christmas and family time.” Her words pierce straight through my heart. “And me?” She lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “You clearly value your job, Mom. You value your job and worship your manager. Look at you, you can't even turn down a task from him that's invading your time off.” She shakes her head as she says the last part, her voice laced with pity. She stands in the doorway, expecting a reply but I don't say a word. What can I say, anyway? Everything I've done in the past ten years has been for Mia, so hearing that she thinks I put work before her is a blow to the head and It hurts so bad, I want to cry. When she realizes that I won't say anything, she storms out of the kitchen. I remain standing in that spot until the oven timer goes off, pulling me out of my galaxy of depressing thoughts. I slide my hands into a pair of mittens and pull out the last tray of cookies, leaving them on the open to cool off. I later put them into a cookie jar and help myself to a glass of wine as I clean the kitchen. At 5:30PM I get myself ready for the appointment. Red lipstick. Makeup. Hair down. Short dress. Stilettos. It's just the right amount of slutty. It's a rule at the agency to look as slutty as possible for every appointment. To feed the eyes of the client first. It's even in the tagline: Smith’s Sensual Agency, where your eyes eat before you do. Mr. Smith always emphasizes that your appearance with clothes on should have an aphrodisiac effect, and I try to go with that, hoping it won't be too much, given the location. My ex-husband is packed in the driveway when I walk outside of the house. “Really, you couldn't use Uber?” I mouth to Mia who is walking from the car toward me. She just rolls her eyes and walks past me, exposing my ex-husband who is now walking to the porch. “Elizabeth,” he says, stopping a few feet away from me. “Michael,” I say, uninterested in whatever he's going to say next. “Merry Christmas.” He smirks. “Abandoning your daughter for a Christmas f**k, huh?” I force a laugh, looking down at my phone. “Apparently. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm running late.” I walk away before he can say anything else, but that doesn't stop him from saying something. “You look beautiful.” Ten years ago, those words would have stopped me in my tracks but I keep walking because I now know they'll be followed by an insult. To my surprise, that doesn't happen. Maybe Christmas miracles do exist after all. Maybe this is my Christmas miracle. I pull my Corolla out of the garage and drive behind Michaels cyber truck before he makes a turn, leaving me on the road that leads to the Facility. The hairs on my arms stand up as I pull into the parking lot. I smudge another layer of lipstick across my lips before sliding out of the car with only my agency ID in hand. “Elizabeth Turner,” I say to the receptionist, sliding my ID across the counter. She looks down at it and dials away on her landline, informing someone about my arrival. A woman arrives at the counter shortly and greets me with, “I didn't think you'd come.” I chuckle nervously. “Did I have much of an option?” She bobs her head in the direction of a security scanner. “Follow me.” I pick up my ID from the counter and walk cautiously behind her, taking in the facility. On the drive here, I imagined walking down an aisle with angry men in orange behind bars. The aisle I'm walking down is quite the opposite, with bright white light and many closed doors on either side, numbers printed on each door from one. We stop at door number eight and the woman thrusts a key into a lock without turning it to open. “You better follow the rules in there,” she says. My heart skips a beat. Mr. Smith didn't mention any rules. The only rule we have at the agency is to pleasure the client to their satisfaction. “What rules?” I ask. She clears her throat. “Don't touch him unless he asks you to. He has many changing rules but that one's constant.” “Should I just go in there and watch him then?” I ask, but the woman has already turned the key and opened the door, revealing the man behind it.