Room 143

Chapter 3

Caroline

With arms spread wide, I twirl around in a circle, squealing and giggling as I look at the living room of the house I bought on a whim. Back in Atlanta, my arms probably would have hit a multitude of things as I spun around, because back there I couldn’t afford anything like this. Nothing this spacious. The name of the game in the big city is tiny, cramped, suffocating.

Stopping as my head spins, I give time for the room to calibrate back to normal before I dance a jig. Excitement bubbles in my stomach for the first time in years. My head doesn’t hurt, my body isn’t tense, and I’m not worried that someone is going to mug me as I walk from my apartment to the MARTA, because guess what? I’ve gone from city girl to small-town girl, and I think I f*cking love it!

Like many twenty-somethings, I followed the rules. Graduate high school, go to college, find a job that pays enough to take care of your student loans, and sell your soul to the devil if it’s required. I haven’t had a boyfriend since my senior year of college, that long since I’ve been kissed or touched by anything other than my vibrator either. I ran that rat race for the last five years, after graduating c*m laude at twenty-three. Last year, when I had a breakdown before a board meeting, I decided enough was enough.

Under the advisement of no one but myself and the need to live, I cashed out my 401K, sold my apartment in Atlanta - along with almost everything I owned, and quit my corporate job. When the student loans had been taken care of and the dust had settled on some other bills I had, I realized there would be enough money for me to buy a home, but it would have to be in a much cheaper area. Which was fine, because at that point, the hustle and bustle was literally making me sick.

That night, I got on the phone with my best friend, Taylor, who told me about a few houses for sale in Harper Valley. The rest they say is history, because now I not only live in Harper Valley, but I’m a homeowner, and come Monday a productive member of society at some local garage who needed a bookkeeper. I can walk to the bank, post office, grocery store, and local salon from my front porch. And if I want a bigger city, there’s one thirty miles north and ninety minutes south is Atlanta.

This change is going to rock my world. A knock at my door startles me, since the only person I know here is Taylor, and I’m almost positive she told me she had to work today. In a motion ingrained into me from living in Atlanta, I check the peephole, seeing her on the other side.

“Hey,” I greet her, opening the door wide. “I thought you had to work today.”

“I did,” she confirms, her voice tight. “I do, but I need your help.” Her hands are shaking, tears are running down her face. “They’ve taken momma to the hospital. They aren’t sure if it’s a heart attack or something else.”

“You need me to go sit with her?” I don’t know her mom that well; Taylor and I met in college, and we never got around to meeting the parents. But we’ve been best friends since the moment some girl at a sorority party made fun of me for wearing what she called a moo-moo.

Spoiler alert – it was a wrap dress that had gotten too big. Senior year of high school I’d changed my eating habits and lost sixty pounds. Back then I was still trying to adjust to the new me. If it hadn’t been for Taylor, I would’ve spent the majority of the night crying in the bathroom. Instead, she’d looked at the Barbie wannabe and told her with a sneer of her lip, At least her boobs aren’t plastic, handed me a shot, and we’ve been best friends ever since. Through her leaving school her senior year to take care of a mother who developed a heart condition to my breakdown about what the hell my life had become in the corporate box I was being trapped in. We’ve always been there for each other.

“No.” She shakes her head, wiping at tears under her cheeks. The mascara always coating her lashes is smearing, and it makes my heart break for her. She’s been through so much as an only child to a single mother. “I need you to go do my job for me. This is one I can’t cancel; I need the money, Caroline. Especially if this is a heart attack for mom. The bills are going to be astronomical.”

Immediately all of the air is sucked out of the room. Taylor is an escort, and there is absolutely no way I can do that job for her. I’ve never been comfortable with my sexuality, especially after being a teenager on the bigger side, having one boyfriend, and then being celibate for the last five years. A guy will look at me and know there are cobwebs growing in my va-jay-jay. “No way, no f*cking way.” I shake my head.

“This is going to be simple, Caroline, just tell him you’re me. He’s being set up by his friends because he hasn’t been out in a while. The guy I’m meeting tonight? His wife died five years ago. The widowers? They all want to talk, they want to sob on your shoulder and tell you about how much they miss their wives. All you’re offering is support. Trust me when I say they don’t want to get naked. They’re lonely. They don’t know how to approach women anymore, and this is just a way for them to get back those basic communication skills.”

My heart is beating out of my chest. I don’t know what to do, this is my best friend who used her off-weekend to help me move, who has spent every night with me this week helping me set up this house. She’s listened to me for the last year complain about how much I hated my job, my life, and then basically directed me into what I feel is going to be a better one. Then I remember everything we’ve gone through, how stressed she’s been about her mom, how she gave up everything to take care of the one person who’d taken care of her. Taylor has never asked anyone for anything. She’s figured the world out on her own. This is the one time she’s asking for help. How can I abandon her in her time of need? Isn’t this what best friends do?

“Where do I need to go?” I ask, before I can change my mind.

She slams a hotel key in my hand, pulls me out to her car, and pushes a bag into the same hand. “This is clothes, the bras and panties are new - I never wear the same twice and they still have tags on them. Feel free to use my makeup, curling iron, whatever. I’ll check in on you tonight, and I’ll call you in the morning.” She hands me a phone. “If things get difficult, call the one number programmed here. They know you’re filling in for me tonight. You’ll get fifty-percent of the take, and you’ll have my indebted gratitude forever. You can already get into the hotel room if you want to go ahead and get ready, and it’s yours for the weekend. Room service and whatever you want will be taken care of by the people who purchased the night. Who knows, maybe it’ll be love at first sight and you’ll be able to use something besides that vibrator.” She shrugs her shoulder, holding her bottom lip in between her teeth. “We all have that Pretty Woman fantasy.”

“I don’t,” I laugh, not fully believing where this is going. “I’m not really an escort.”

“Have fun with it, Caroline. No one knows you here, and Lord knows you could stand to have a little fun every once in a while.”

With those words, she scrambles into her car, leaving me standing there holding what I guess is an escort go bag, similar to one used by paramedics. I can do this; I faked my way through thousands of meetings with men who thought I was stupid just because I didn’t have a d**k between my legs. I can do this.

Besides, the story of the man kind of tugs at my heartstrings. A widower for the last five years. That must be awful. Going back into the house, I grab my car keys and head for the Harper Valley Hideaway.

*****

This room could rival some of the nice hotels in Atlanta. I hadn’t been expecting such a gem here in a small town. No one questioned me when I checked in, even though I was worried, but it seems as if Taylor’s company uses this hotel a lot.

Throwing the bag on the bed, I open it to see what’s inside. At least if I need to go buy something, I have plenty of time. On top is a manila file folder. Grabbing it out, I have a seat on the bed and open it. Stapled to a sheet is a picture of one of the best-looking guys I’ve ever seen in my life. His head is covered by a backward black baseball hat, and my fingers itch to push it off, to see if he has hair there, or if it’s a buzzcut, or maybe he’s bald. His face is strong, jawline cut, covered by the smattering of a dark beard, his nose is a teeny bit crooked, and I imagine he broke it once. Maybe in a bar fight? Or better yet, knowing the area I’m in, he may have been in a four-wheeler wreck as a youth. His lips are pink and full, looking almost as if he licked them before the picture was taken, but his smile doesn’t show teeth. It’s more of a smirk, and I imagine it’s directed toward me. It reeks of the type of bad-boy you want to tame, but he’s always just a little too wild. What pulls me in, more than anything, is his eyes. Such a deep blue, they’re almost black. They lack emotion, a blank canvas on an otherwise expressive face. Losing his wife hurt him, and if this picture is recent, he still hasn’t opened up and allowed himself to feel anything other than the hurt.

My eyes travel farther down the picture, taking notice of his biceps and strong forearms, the latter covered in tattoos, trailing to the biggest hands I’ve ever seen. Long, elegant fingers rest near thighs encased in a pair of jeans that appear just as muscular as his arms. This man has poured his grief into working out, it seems. The tank top he wears is tight against what I can tell is a washboard stomach. My breathing increases as I wonder what that stomach looks like as he thrusts and then retreats while laying over me. A vision flashes in my head, and I immediately feel an answering tug at the core of my body. Something about this guy piques my interest, and I’m not sure if he propositions me that I can say no. Running my fingers over the picture of his face, I have a desire to put some feeling into those blank eyes of his. I want to be the catalyst that brings passion into those depths.

“Caroline, you’re playing with fire if those are your thoughts five minutes into your perusal of this man.”

I throw the file down on the bed and lay back, staring up at the ceiling. “Nash Gilbert,” I try the name on my tongue, speaking it aloud twice. Sort of makes me wonder if he’s related to any of the people who own the garage I’m starting at on Monday, but if Harper Valley is anything like any of the towns I’ve lived in, they probably don’t even know each other. “Nash Gilbert,” I try the name again. It’s got a decidedly country twang to it. Like if he were a country star, he’d be outlaw all the way. Even though I’ve settled for men who obey the law, go to bed at a decent hour, and drink wine at dinner, I’ve always wanted rougher. The man in the picture looks like he drinks Jack, drives at least ten miles over the speed limit, and would keep a woman up all night with him behind her, underneath her, or her pressed up against a wall. “I think you and I may have a good time tonight.”

Taylor was right, no one knows me here. There will be zero repercussions if I have a fling. The end of a drought, the beginnings of a new life. I walk over to the bar, pour myself a glass of wine, and toast to the future. For the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to it.

*****

By ten o’clock I’m sure he’s not coming. I’ve hidden the escort go bag, gone over every part of the file with a fine-tooth comb. He’s a mechanic and has a couple of brothers. He goes fishing on Sunday, instead of to church, and he’s been known to ride a motorcycle if the weather is nice.

I’m nervous, so I keep pacing in front of the body-length mirror in the bedroom, trying to decide if I look hot or just stupid. “You look hot.” I twirl the curl I painstakingly placed in my hair two hours earlier around my index finger. “If he shows up, you will blow his mind.” The mirror me is giving real me a peptalk. “Damn right I will.”

It’s in that moment, I hear the lock on the door disengaging and my heart begins to pound. He showed up. He really f*cking showed up.

When I don’t hear anything else, I slowly make my way out of the bedroom and into the living area. The wine I’ve drank off and on throughout the day has made my voice deeper and relaxed me so that I’m able to sound like a s****l siren. “Hello? Nash? Is that you?”

As the man comes around the wall that separates the living area from the kitchen, my breath gets caught in my throat. Oh my dear God, he’s fine. In the way you look at your best friend, raise your eyebrows, and say dayum – kind of fine. The picture didn’t do him justice. He’s mammoth, standing tall, taking up all the free space in the hallway, and when he speaks? It’s one of those deep, southern voices that makes panties drop.

“I’m Nash.” He looks around, seeming to take in the scenery before those blue eyes come back to me. “And I think I’m here to f*ck you.”