Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
I hadn’t factored in all the time we’d be spending talking, cuddling—hell, even napping. I definitely hadn’t planned on falling asleep this afternoon. But I didn’t regret it, because waking up with him in my arms had felt wonderful.
And no matter what we ended up doing, it was important to me that Timothy got compensated for every single minute of his time. I never wanted to feel like I was short-changing him, or taking advantage of him.
On top of that, I really wanted him to walk away at the end of this with a life-changing amount of money, so he’d be able to go anywhere and do anything he wanted. It was vitally important to me that his life ended up significantly better—not worse—because of this arrangement.
I made myself wait two hours before sending Timothy a text, so he’d have time to get home, settle in, and think about things. I wasn’t quite sure what to say, so I ended up writing: Any regrets?
He replied right away: Absolutely not. What about you?
I wrote: I regret not inviting you to stay for dinner.
He responded: Next time.
I had to ask: Are you sure you want there to be a next time?
His next message asked if he could call me, and when I agreed, the phone rang right away. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said, when I answered. “And I’m glad you checked in. I wanted to ask if your first time being intimate with a man was all you’d hoped for.”
It felt strange to put it in those terms. It had been phenomenal, not because I’d been with a man in some general sense, but because I’d been with Timothy. If it had been anyone else, it couldn’t possibly have been that perfect.
I didn’t know how to explain that though, so I left it at, “It was wonderful.”
“Good. I really wanted it to be a positive experience for you.”
I sat down on my bed and picked up a pillow, which carried a faint trace of his clean scent. “So, tell me, what are you doing now?”
He launched into a funny story involving his housemates, and as I let myself relax, I realized I felt better than I had in a very long time.
8
Timothy
On Monday evening, my shift at the restaurant began just like it always did. Alan Allen was on a rampage, Daniel complained about his customers, and we hustled through the first and second waves of our dinner rush.
I’d been looking forward to seeing Aleksei, but his usual arrival time came and went. I spent the next couple of hours watching for him, but he ended up being a no-show. I didn’t know what to make of that.
When I left work, I was surprised to find the town car out front. The driver got out and opened the back door for me, and I came up to him and said, “Hi there, Reuben. Where’s Aleksei?”
“He’s at home, sir.”
“Please call me Timothy, and I don’t understand. If he already went home, why are you here?”
“He sent me to pick you up and drive you to your house.”
“But the only reason he usually takes me home is because he’s leaving the restaurant around the same time.” Reuben was a big guy of about fifty, with a shaved head and a permanently grave expression. He just stared at me for a few moments, until I said, “Fine, but I’m riding up front with you.”
A look of uncertainty crossed his features, but then he pulled up his usual poker face and said, “As you wish.”
He closed the back door and opened the passenger door for me, and I flashed him a smile and said, “Thanks, Reuben,” as I took a seat.
Once we were on our way across town, I asked, “How long have you worked for Aleksei?”
“Eight years.”
“Did you drive his wife around too, when they were married?”
“No. She had her own car and driver.”
“Does Aleksei ever go anyplace besides work?”
He shot me a concerned sidelong glance. “I don’t think he’d want me to discuss this with you.”
“With me specifically, or with anyone?”
“With anyone.”
“One last question,” I said. “What time did he go home tonight?”
“Around eight p.m.” That told me he could have come into the restaurant if he’d wanted to. He just chose not to.
When I got home, I went upstairs and changed out of my work clothes before dropping onto my beanbag chair. Then I sent a text to Aleksei: Are you okay?
He replied: I’m fine. Why do you ask?
I wrote: This was the first time in a month that you didn’t come in for dinner while I was working.
In his next message, he asked if he could call me. The phone rang a moment after I said yes, and when I answered he said, “I like this better than texting.”
“Me, too. So, why didn’t you come to the restaurant?”