Sorry for the no show Friday... real life is kicking my butt 😅 Next update will be 2nd Sept as I'm on vacation in a few days! Big thanks to Monica, Meg, May and Mel for looking over this a bunch of times, I've still tweaked so all mistakes are mine.

Chapter 2

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Four Years Before

Mid-May and the city shimmers, lights flickering on in high-rise buildings as we travel in an Uber to the Four Seasons. Our driver's name is Syed, and he drives aggressively: a blare of a horn, heavy-footed on the accelerator and the brake as he navigates busy downtown traffic.

Rose has been fidgeting beside me since we left her apartment; unzipping and zipping her clutch bag open and closed, twisting a silver ring around and around her pinky finger. As we get closer to our destination, she pulls out a lip gloss and sweeps the sponge brush over her bottom lip.

"Why am I nervous?" she asks me finally. "I'm actually sweating. Aren't you?"

And I'm not any of those things—nervous or sweating—because the Uber has air conditioning, and this evening isn't anything I haven't done before. For me, this is just a regular Friday night. It is for her too, which is why I find her behavior so off. A glance at Syed reassures me that he's occupied—chatting away on a bluetooth headset in the front—and we can talk freely.

"Nervous? Why would I be? Why are you?"

Rose sighs and shoves the lip gloss back into her bag.

"I don't know. I kinda think I've had enough. It's not the same. I'm bored," she complains. "I never thought I'd be bored but I am... I'm also due on my period soon, so…urgh. I'm probably being irrational for no reason other than mother nature."

"You don't need to be PMS-ing for you to be irrational."

"You're not funny, Bella."

"Yes, I am. And what do you mean enough? Of this?"

"Yes. Of this." She waves her hand over us. "Let's just get through tonight and then maybe you can help me figure out my life this weekend. We can get a tub of ice cream and watch Schitt's Creek, maybe drown ourselves in a bottle of that nasty champagne Lauren bought last Christmas. That's if Charlie doesn't need you," she adds as an afterthought.

It takes me a moment to register that Rose is being serious. In a way, it's unexpected—she's the one who guided me into this line of work when I came back from Michigan. I don't understand why she would want to give it up; with all the things it's affording her. Still, I agree to help her, because that's what best friends do.

Syed finally stops the car, gesturing to the curb with a finger, the hand it belongs to still firmly on the wheel. Craning his head around, he grins. "I'd drive you to the front door, but it's the Four Seasons and this is a Prius."

"Makes sense," Rose agrees, as I laugh.

"Here's fine, thank you,'' I tell him, throwing open the door. Even as I do, Syed's back talking on his headset, barely acknowledging us as Rose slides out behind me and closes the door.

Syed drives off, and arm in arm, we walk up the street toward the towering white building that houses the hotel, silhouetted against a pastel-hued sky, darkness fast hunting it down.

A homeless man approaches us, trying to sell wilted roses from a bucket of foul-smelling water.

"Please, pretty ladies," he begs, after Rose declines. "Even if you don't want a flower—"

"I've got nothing," Rose tells him abruptly. "Sorry."

He looks at me, but the truth is, I don't have any cash on me, either. I feel a pang as I tell him as much.

"I feel bad," I say as we walk further away, looking back to see him pleading with a couple behind us.

"You have better things to be spending money on than dying flowers, and homeless people," Rose tells me.

She might be right, but I can't help but feel a few dollars wouldn't really break me, either. When I sigh, Rose tuts.

"He'll just spend it on drugs," she insists. "You're not a saint, Bella. You're a sinner. Like me."

"You don't need to be a saint to help people, Rose."

"Help him get high? Honestly, half these people are earning more in a day begging than working at Wingstop. You fall for it every time…" She rolls her eyes. "Come on, Saint Maria, we're going to be late."

As it turns out, we are late.

Volturi Investment bankers are apparently more punctual than others. The two of them are already sitting in Adorn, The Four Seasons' upmarket restaurant. Ties loose and the top button of shirts undone—a bottle of champagne resting in an ice bucket.

I've never really found this to be the awkward part—the introductions—I'm always bright smiles and soft kisses against five o'clock shadows. It's an act, and I like playing the part well.

Seated with menus that are gilded with gold foil, the conversation starts as it normally does: stilted, and by the time our first drinks arrive, it's the menu that holds my attention, rather than the company.

This is a perk. There were no fine dining experiences when I was putting in shift after shift at a down-town club until the early hours of the morning, and definitely not when I was a child in a lone parent household.

A hand on my bare thigh draws my eyes away from the myriad of main courses. Warm and large, it only moves to squeeze gently, as its owner leans in towards me. Dimples, curly hair, a smile that would entice most women. I don't understand why Emmett McCarty would need to hire an escort… yet, here I am.

"I recommend the seared heart of palm as a starter," he says, as our eyes meet.

"What else do you recommend?"

"Well, I like the 20oz steak, but I'm guessing you're not a big fan of red meat?"

"How did you know?"

"Educated guess."

"Well, you'd be right."

He throws me a knowing smile, pleased with himself.

"I'd recommend the ÅŒra king salmon for a main, if that's the case. They have a fantastic tasting menu too. It's sold out today though. I already checked."

"I'll bear that in mind for next time."

He considers me, his next question pointed.

"Come here often, do you?"

I suppose this is a fair thing to ask—the implication that I come here often, and by proxy sleep with men often—men just like him. That's the crux of the matter. Some men like the idea; it turns them on. Some want to know they're not going to get an STI, despite it being on file that I test regularly, and I'm clean.

I decide to play it safe.

"First time," I stress.

He reaches for his champagne flute—and I do the same.

"Well, then I suppose we should toast to a night of firsts."

"To a night of firsts."

The truth is tonight is far removed from the first. This is one night of many this month that I'll spend with men who pay for my company.

As an escort, I offer companionship first and foremost. A pretty face, a pleasant conversation. If clients want more than that, I'm willing—but only if they meet certain requirements through my agency.

It feels safer this way.

I pick and I choose.

I'm in control, never forced.

"I know. Sometimes I think we're very lucky," I hear Rose say to Emmett's friend—Garrett. She catches my eye and nods. "Maria and I have been friends since our high school days."

"And now you do this…together?" Garrett asks, as he momentarily stumbles over his words.

"Not together. This is a rare occasion," Rose rebukes.

"Go on," Garrett says, recovering, his face red. "Tell me. Do you go home and compare notes?"

"I promise, we never kiss and tell," Rose lies.

I hide my smile. Exchanging stories is part of our deal. We can commiserate together, and celebrate the times we get more than two minutes and an orgasm out of it.

After dinner, we retreat to the bar. Plush couches and chairs, ambient lighting, and music. Emmett is a gentleman—for the most part. His hands keep touching places: the small of my back, just underneath where my dress rests on my thighs. It quickly becomes apparent that he's starving for conversation and attention, and once I prise open the doors, everything comes tumbling out.

We talk about his impending divorce and his soon-to-be ex-wife, Jane. His high-flying career. His passions: ice hockey and IndyCar. I enjoy the boy-ish enthusiasm, his gruff laughter. Emmett is funny, and self-depreciating, and I don't have to force anything. It's the kind of night I appreciate the most; making someone feel good who might feel neglected for whatever reason.

I'm so engrossed in him, I barely notice when Rose and Garrett retreat to a suite upstairs.

"I don't think I've ever talked about myself for so long," Emmett admits to me sometime later. His smile fades, face becoming more clouded, his tone morose and full of self-pity. "But only because I'm paying for you to be here."

From where I'm nestled in the crook of his arm, I toy with a button on his shirt.

"That's true, but it can also be true that I'm enjoying your company as well."

"You're good. And I might be drunk right now, darlin', but I'm no fool. I'd be a sucker for believing that."

I'm about to respond, to tell him I'm not lying, but Emmett's distracted—he removes his arm from around my shoulders as he sits up straighter. It forces me to do the same.

"Edward?" he calls out across the room.

Following his gaze, I find a man a few feet away from us, at the bar: tall, dark-haired, dressed in black-tie attire, bow tie undone, and seemingly alone. But the most startling thing about him to me isn't how good looking he is. I mean, he's that too, but it's the fact that I know him.

Not personally. But I know his face from television, magazines, and the internet. I follow him on Twitter. I voted for him. My mouth parts and my stomach lurches with a mixture of nerves and excitement. It's not every day you're in close proximity to something of a political stick of dynamite.

"McCarty. Man, it's been a while." Edward strides over, confident and smiling as Emmett stands. They draw each other into a back slapping hug; the kind that indicates to me they know each other well.

"How are you doing?" Edward's eyes shift over Emmett's shoulder to me. "No Jane?"

"We're separating. Heading for divorce, thank fuck."

"When? How? You've been having problems? You never said." Edward's brows knit together.

"A few weeks ago…" Emmett shrugs. "Single life has its perks. I highly recommend it."

Edward looks over Emmett's shoulder at me again, and Emmett must notice, because he beckons for me to join them with a grin.

"Case in point. Maria, come meet Edward Cullen. The absolute finest man I know. Edward meet Maria."

Emmett leans forward, his voice low. And I have a feeling he's letting Edward know exactly what I am to him: not an acquaintance or a colleague or a girlfriend or an affair: the truth. I can tell from the way Edward's face changes—the bob of his throat, the brief clench of his jaw, the way his eyes sweep over me from head to toe.

I hold out a hand, a dark purple manicure shining under the lights as I strive for confidence, trying not to feel ashamed at his hesitation, but the longer he stares, the more I feel it bite.

I'm only human, and there's something completely dehumanizing when someone doesn't want to engage with you.

In a split-second my appreciation for him wanes.

But then Edward takes my hand in his. The anger dissipates, replaced with warmth beating its wings against my cheeks. He shakes my hand gently with the slightest of squeezes.

"Sorry," he recovers.

"Nice to meet you, Senator."

"You know who I am?"

I offer a wry smile at Edward's surprise, tucking hair behind my ear. "I think most people who pay attention to the news would know who you are. But just for the record, I'm studying for my postgrad in Political Science and International Affairs at UoC."

Edward's mouth curves. "Really?"

"Mhm, really."

Emmett's hand finds the small of my back again, a caress with fingers just under where the fabric dips low on my back.

"Why don't you two take a seat," he suggests. "You'll have a lot in common, I imagine. I'll be back in a second. Just need to—ah, visit the bathroom."

Edward sways on the spot.

"I don't know…"

"Come on, just for one drink?" Emmett cajoles. "It can't hurt."

"I know. Fine," Edward replies, resigned. "I'll be back with you in a minute. Need to actually order a drink first. Excuse me, Maria."

There's a brief hint of a smile before they leave with each other, heads bowed inward in low conversation.

Alone, I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding, reaching into my clutch bag to check my cell. It's past midnight, and amongst the Instagram and Twitter notifications, there's a message from Sue—the woman my dad married a year ago. She's more like a friend than a step-mom, to me though, knowing her only as an adult and not as a child.

He's finally asleep, she's written.

I type out a hurried message in response.

Thanks for letting me know. Hope you have a good night. Give him a kiss from me x

Letting my body sink into the sofa, I tilt my head back to the ceiling, trying to ignore the guilty feeling that always accompanies me when I'm somewhere that's not there.

I find a distraction instead. The obvious one.

Edward stands at the bar; black suit jacket fitting snugly over broad shoulders. He's different in person, I decide. More angular, his jawline, his nose somehow sharper than his pictures—he's a little taller than I had thought, too. I watch as he entertains the bartender with easy, animated conversation, and I wonder whether he feels the same as I do sometimes: playing a part. Putting on a different face.

The bartender retreats with a cocktail shaker in hand, and suddenly I'm looking into sharp hazel eyes that are focused intently on me.

Caught.

Mumbling a 'fuck' under my breath, I turn my head toward the bathrooms, hoping Emmett will reappear and save me from the embarrassment I'm currently drowning in.

He doesn't.

Compulsion means that not long after I'm chancing a glimpse of Edward again, hoping he's brushed off my gawking as nothing. Instead, he's leaning back against the bar casually, still watching me. His mouth quirks upward as our eyes lock steadily again, his head tilting.

This time, I don't look away.

The moment runs past awkward and into something else entirely. And I'm too experienced to dismiss what I see in his gaze— what I feel—unspoken, raw attraction. The kind that crosses the room, and lands as a shiver that runs the length of your spine.

It blooms.

It blossoms.

Heat flushes through me, goosebumps prickling on my arms.

The bartender returns, and when Edward's attention finally vanishes, I'm left cold.