I met him out in the lobby of the Constante Grande. He was tall, six-foot, average frame for a man, I guess, with rich tanned skin and smoldering brown eyes, an aquiline face like a hawk, and well-cut, short black hair with long bangs to loop in a curve past his eyes. He looked very European, as were his clothes, those consisting of a black turtleneck with an open black vest-jacket, and his dark and handsome look was completed by black slacks held up by a thin, expensive-looking black belt with a narrow gold buckle. On his feet were black socks and a pair of black Altimari's, expensive special-order and Italian made dress shoes, something to add to his allure and appeal. He looked to be in his late twenties, possibly early thirties, but to this day I do not know how old he actually was.
I, myself, was nothing special. I'd just turned twenty-one a month ago, a rite of passage for me, that legal drinking age in this country that we crawl toward when we're teenagers. I was five-six, thin, between one-twenty-six and one hundred and thirty pounds most of the time, but that fluctuated depending upon the time of the year and my mood. I had straight hair in a soft brown hue that fell to my shoulders, and this framed a pixie face with hazel eyes, so I guess I was more 'cute' than any other description. I had small breasts, only a B-cup, and small hips, not something for men to really drool over. As I said, I was nothing special.
When I met him there in the lobby, I was still wearing my university pullover, a thick dark-green shirt with long sleeves, because the hotel was chilly in general due to their constant air-conditioning. I had on my nice tan slacks, salmon-pink crew socks, and brown dress shoes, an off-color combination of cheap clothes that made me look out of place here in the Constante Grande, which I was. I was not wearing a bra, which I probably should have, considering my small nipples were hard due to the colder air in here.
I was not particularly worried about my looks. I had just laid down ten-thousand for the hotel room for only one night, and I had spent a little over fifteen-thousand for this man I was about to meet, my entire life savings wiped out in one sitting. That savings had been put together by myself, my parents, and my extended family, and I was grateful for it, if only for this night. Even though it had been meant for a different purpose, that purpose being a way to live after school was finished, I had spent it all now, because having it sit in a bank was a waste at this point.
It had been a frustrating process in finding these people. It had taken me two years of searching to do so, and I had been subject to background checks and doctor's visits to show that I was both safe and clean as a client. They were secretive in their methods for obvious reasons. What we were doing was very illegal in most states, if not most countries.
Now I was here at the Constante Grande, and there he was, my purchase, and this made my heart beat fast just looking at him. He was definitely far out of my league, above me in station in every way...Still, I paid for him, so he was mine for the moment, for one single night.
"Are you Stephen?" I asked as I approached him.
In truth, he could have been anyone. I was simply hopeful that he was the agent that had been sent. Very hopeful. I had picked him out, and he looked like his profile, but I still had the uneasy thought that I had been duped. People almost never looked like their profiles.
He gave me an odd glance, his smoldering eyes running over my out-of-place figure in this place of opulence, his line of gaze starting at my shoes to run up to the top of my head.
"Miss Jodie Welsh?" he asked.
He had no accent. He was American, though he looked European, but that didn't matter to me.
"Yes, Sir," I said with a quick nod.
He pulled out his phone from his left vest pocket, briefly studied the flat black slab for a second, and then put it back in his pocket.
"Excellent," he said with a quick smile. "I assume everything is in order here?"
"Yes, Sir," I replied.
I gave a glance toward the front desk resting within this huge lobby and then turned toward the elevators.
"The room is paid for," I said without looking at him, "but it's on the fifteenth-floor."
I turned back toward him, and he flashed me a professional smile and a nod.
"Excellent," he replied. "Shall we?"
"Yes, Sir," I replied.
We walked as a couple to the elevator, but I said nothing. I said nothing because we were as mismatched a pair as could possibly be, so it was embarrassing to walk with this man in this hotel, and I felt a little flushed, but the money was already spent, and he was here, so that was all there was to it. It was night outside, after eight, so at least there were not so many people down here in the lobby, those people all far above my station, anyway.
We walked into the elevator, and the bellhop, an older gentleman with greying hair dressed in a dapper brown jacket, brown slacks, and a white dress shirt, asked us what floor. I told him the fifteenth, and we were on our way.
We arrived on my floor, and I made my way to 1505, unlocked the door, and ushered in my companion.
The room was more 'pleasant' than anything else. It had a king-size bed with white sheets covered with small blue-print flowers, a brown wooden base board and head between its ends, nothing fancy, exactly what I wanted. The room itself was decked in the feel of the mid to late eighteen-hundreds, an old and prairie look to it, but it sported modern conveniences such as a fridge, TV, and soft beige carpeting covering the floor. It even had a small wooden table with a wagon wheel for a stand, that wheel held up by a thick cross beam at its base. It had a balcony with another wagon wheel table upon the deck, that balcony the very reason I chose this room. The young woman at the front desk had told me this room was rarely used because of its style, and they had been thinking of remodeling it. They would definitely remodel it after I was done with it.
Stephen stood in the center of the room and nodded once.
"Pardon the intrusion upon your privacy," he said in a gentle voice, "but you are not exactly the...type...of client we normally service. May I ask 'why' you decided to hire us? You are under no obligation to answer that, of course. I was only curious."
"That's okay," I said, but I was a little nervous. "I was...uhh...'inspired' by a short story."
"Oh, really?" asked Stephen, sudden and clear interest in his voice. "And what would that be, if I might inquire?"
I was nervous about this. I didn't really want to tell him, but I told him anyway.
"Yes," I breathed out. "I was inspired by a story by Willa Cather called 'Paul's Case'. Have you read it?"
