John Locke - A Girl Like You

“That makes sense. Tell you what. I’m staying at the Pierre. Put the cash in a box, wrap it like a birthday present, and leave it at the front desk for me.”

“How do I know you’ll give it to the hooker?”

“Does it really matter?”

“What if you take the money and claim I never brought it?”

“Billy, listen to me. I’m a billionaire. I’d rather break your nose every time I come to town than steal your money. You asked what it would take for me to go away, and I’ve told you. But there’s one caveat.”

“What now?”

“You have to promise to stay away from her.”

“No problem.”

“I’m serious, Billy.”

“Me too.”

“No running into her, no booking her under an assumed name, no following her around.”

“The bitch is nothing but trouble. I never want to see her again.”

“In that case, we’ve got a deal.”

“What time should I bring the box?”

“Anytime tomorrow before five p.m. Surprise me.”

“You trust the front desk?”

“Billy. It’s the Pierre.”

“Okay.”

47.

Miranda Rodriguez looks like a million dollars. Then again, I love watching a gorgeous girl dig into a sixteen-ounce prime strip steak and a side of skillet potatoes and onions.

“Are we really going to see Jersey Boys tonight?” she says.

“We are.”

“That is so cool!”

Cool. Sometimes, when I forget I’m twice her age, she brings me back to reality with a single word like “cool.” She’s trying to say the right thing, but “awesome” is what she’d say if I were her age. “Cool” doesn’t sound right, coming from her twenty-year-old throat. I catch myself wondering what Rachel would have said, and come up with nothing. Because the fact is, Rachel is exactly what she claimed to be that very first day we had sex: unpredictable.

We’re at Del Frisco’s in Midtown, and my favorite waiter, Rob, is working hard to make me look good in front of my date. He brings us a couple of pineapple-infused vodka martinis. Miranda takes a sip and swoons.

“Oh…my…God!” she says. “This is to die for!”

She’s wearing the low-cut burgundy petal dress I bought her earlier this afternoon. After spending an hour trying to find matching shoes, I talked her into a pair of black (“goes with anything”) triple-platform strappy sandals with 5 ¾ inch heels that make her six feet tall.

“Do your feet hurt yet?” I ask.

“If they start to, I’ll deal with it,” she says, with a wink.

Normally I wouldn’t put a lady in such a pair of shoes. But the way her eyes lit up this afternoon when lifting the display shoe to inspect it, rendered me incapable of saying no.

“There are only so many years you can wear something like that,” I say. “May as well enjoy it while you can.”

Miranda doesn’t know it yet, but there’s a comfortable pair of black sandals in the box Billy left for me at the front desk. I opened it earlier, to check the contents, and tossed the shoes in as an afterthought. I’ll give her the present after the show, when her feet are killing her. The fifty grand should have a soothing effect as well.

“You’re pensive,” she says. “Anything wrong? Please say no!”

I smile. “That dress looks fantastic on you.”

“Wait till you see how it looks on the floor tonight,” she purrs.

I already know how it’s going to go. We’ll have a great time at the show, we’ll go to her place afterward, and she’ll be overwhelmed by the cash. She’ll say and do all the right things. When we start having sex, she’ll pretend I’m a stallion. She’ll start whimpering that breath-catching sound Hollywood taught women to identify with orgasm. It’ll start with a low moan, and build to a crescendo worthy of a porn star. She’ll throw in a few “Oh, God’s” and maybe call out my name. I start to say something about all this, and then change my mind.

“I’m sorry,” Miranda says. “I didn’t hear you.”

I had started to say, If we wind up in bed tonight, will you do me a favor? And she would have said, Of course. And I would have said, Could you be perfectly quiet while we have sex? And she would have said, Of course. And the fact that she wouldn’t have asked me why, or gotten the least bit offended about my asking, is why I decided not to pose the question in the first place. Because each brick of predictability might eventually pile up and make a wall between us.

“Donovan?” she says.

“Sorry. I was going to ask if you wanted me to order a soufflé.”

“You’re so sweet!” She touches my arm with her hand. “I couldn’t possibly. Is that okay?”

“Perfectly.”

Rachel thinks she knows me, but there’s a lot to be said for predictability. By the time we get to Miranda’s place tonight, my body will be screaming for her to relieve the sexual tension that’s been building up all afternoon. It’s a joy to know that having sex tonight is a foregone conclusion. I’ll not only get sex tonight, but it will be whatever type of sex I’m in the mood for. Of course, this is less a function of predictability than it is a feature of paying a hooker for her time.

Wait. That’s not a fair characterization. Miranda’s a courtesan, not a hooker.

But still.

As a plus, I won’t have to worry about falling asleep and possibly getting my throat slit, which is more a function of being with a sane woman than being with Rachel, who I love dearly.

Another excellent feature of being with a courtesan is, whatever I say will be fascinating to her. And damn it, sometimes it’s nice to be able to just say anything that’s on your mind, knowing the woman you’re with is not going to give you a look of disgust, or indignation. In fact, there’s nothing I can say to Miranda right now that would make her say, That’s disgusting! I hope you’re happy, you just ruined my dinner!”

Want an example? Check this out:

“Miranda?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Did you know there was a time in history when the entire world ran out of coffins?”

“What? Oh, my God! Really?”

“Yup.”

“What happened?”

“Ever hear about the Spanish Flu Pandemic of 1918?”

“No. Please tell me!”

—See what I mean? I’m with a beautiful girl half my age. I’m enjoying a wonderful dinner, getting ready to see an incredible show. I’m a fascinating conversationalist, and I’m going to get laid tonight by a woman whose mission in life is to be the best fuck I’ve ever had.

Want another example of how I can say anything to Miranda and not get in trouble?“Honey?” I say.

“Yes?”

“Have I ever told you I’m in love with a girl named Rachel?”

“I don’t think so, not that I recall.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Who wouldn’t be? She’s got to be the luckiest woman in the whole world!”

“You think?”

“I do,” she says. “But not tonight.”

“No?”

“Nope. ’Cause tonight, I’m the luckiest woman in the world!”

I hoist my vodka martini and realize with all this going for me, something’s missing.

What’s that? You think what’s missing at this moment is Rachel?

What’re you, nuts?

I lift my chin in Rob’s direction, and my overly-attentive waiter instantly appears.

“Yes, Mr. Creed?”

“Do you happen to have any single-barrel Kentucky bourbon in this joint?”

Rob smiles. “We do, indeed, sir!”

“Would you be so kind?”

“Absolutely, sir! And would the lady care for some?”

Miranda looks at me. Most women hate bourbon, and I’m sure she’s no exception.

“That sounds delightful!” she says.

Rob leaves to fetch our bourbon, and I notice Miranda is squirming slightly.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She gives me a shy, practiced smile, looks down at her hand. My eyes follow hers. She opens it, revealing the tiniest pair of black panties.

“A present,” she says.

“For me?”

“Uh huh.”

She smiles again.

“If you put them in your jacket pocket, only you and I will know it’s not a handkerchief!”

She kisses her panties and hands them to me. I put them where my pocket square had been, and never bother wondering how many men she’s said that to before tonight.

Is she pretending?

Of course.

Do I care?

Of course not. In truth, I’m beginning to question how much of a future I have with Rachel. Her unpredictability has become predictable.

Maybe I’ll pretend something too. Maybe I’ll pretend the fifty grand is a present from me. Am I capable of doing something that shady, just to enrich my status in her eyes?

Of course I am. But will I?

I haven’t decided yet.

Rob brings us a shot of premium bourbon.

Miranda and I share a toast.

Life is good.

Then the chip in my head starts to buzz…

Coming soon!

VEGAS MOON

(A Donovan Creed Novel)

Expected date of publication: May, 2011

Thanks for your support. We’ll see you in May!

About the Author

John Locke is the international best-selling author of six novels including Saving Rachel, Wish List, Now & Then, Lethal People, Lethal Experiment, and Follow the Stone. He lives in Kentucky, where he is working on his seventh Donovan Creed novel, Vegas Moon. To view book trailers and other information, check the author’s website: www.SavingRachel.com, or follow his blog: www.donovancreed.blogspot.com

Table of Contents

Prologue