John Locke - Maybe

Miranda’s a grad student at NYU, working toward her master’s in counseling psychology. Smart, witty, pretty, she’s the whole package.

“Donovan!” she squeals. “I was just thinking about you!”

“Still angry I canceled the Chicago trip yesterday?”

She laughs. “Don’t be silly! That wasn’t your fault. Your daughter surprised you with a visit. That’s a wonderful thing!”

“True. So why were you thinking about me just now?”

She laughs again, harder.

I love Miranda’s laugh. Can’t describe it except to say it reminds me of the tinkling of piano keys and a waterfall.

I know, I know.

“Spill it, Miranda. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

“Well…I’ve got a tuition payment coming up.”

Right. So of course she was thinking about me. You see, Miranda’s fucking her way through college. Tuition and living expenses being what they are in NYC, it’s either earn the money or take out a school loan for three hundred grand.

“When can we get together?” I say.

“Name it, handsome,” she says, and I feel her warmth coming through the phone.

“Tonight?” I say, knowing she’ll say it’s too late.

“Can you arrange a private jet?”

“I can.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!”

“ Omigod !” She squeals. “I’m so excited !”

I look at my watch.

Eleven twenty-two.

If Bob Koltech picks her up, we’ll lose three hours. One for him and the co-pilot to drive to the airport and get the jet ready, and two to fly to Teterboro Airport. Then two hours back, and another thirty minutes before Miranda can get to my hotel.

5:00 a.m.? That won’t work. I’ll have Lou Kelly book a private jet from NYC.

“I’ll have a limo at your place in fifteen minutes,” I say. “By the time you get to Teterboro, the jet will be ready to roll. “You can be here in three hours.”

“How many days?”

“Pack light.”

“Oh, Pooh.”

“If you stay longer we can shop for whatever clothes you might need.”

“That’s my boy!” she says.

“Can’t wait to see you,” I say.

“Me too!”

We’re both quiet a minute. Then she says, “It’s not just about the money, Donovan.”

“I know.”

“I really like you.”

“I know that, too.”

“I just don’t want you to think…you know.”

“I do know.”

“I mean, nobody treats me like you.”

“Miranda?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Pack your shit.”

“Okay.”

She makes a kissing sound and we hang up. Then I call Lou and have him make the arrangements. He doesn’t ask if I’m in Louisville, and I don’t volunteer the information.

With that done, I call room service and order a bottle of their finest bourbon, two tumblers and flutes, and champagne on ice for Miranda. I’d wait a couple of hours on the champagne, but room service shuts down at midnight.

When the guy brings my order, I ask where the ice machine is, knowing I’ll need to refill the bucket in a couple of hours. As he leaves, Lou calls me back to say Miranda’s on her way to the airport.

He says, “Have you seen the news?”

“Dani Ripper?”

“Hell of a story!” Lou says. “Can’t wait to read the book.”

“I’d read it just to hear what went through her mind when she learned about the door key.”

“No kidding! You think she broke the story to sell the book?”

“Probably. And if it’s money she’s after, she’ll be flush with clients soon enough.”

“I’d hire her just to look at her,” he says.

We both go quiet, allowing our thoughts of Dani Ripper to go where they may.

Breaking the mood, I ask, “Anything new on Felix?”

“No. But I’ll have all the victim information by tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Lou.”

Miranda Rodriguez.

MIRANDA DOESN’T LIKE the way the limo driver keeps looking into his mirror, staring at her. It’s nearly midnight, the road shiny, slick with rain. It wouldn’t do to have an accident. She presses the button on the armrest and holds it while the glass between her and the driver goes up. She continues holding the button until the thick material of the divider rises to block his view completely. She doesn’t want to be rude, but he seems to know what she’s up to, and he’s made her uncomfortable.

She takes this opportunity to call her new best friend, who says, “Miranda! Hi!”

“Did I wake you?”

“No, of course not! I’m a night owl. What’s up?”

“I’m meeting Donovan Creed tonight.”

“Yes.”

“You… knew ?”

She laughs. “How could I possibly know?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“It was my first thought why you might call me this late.”

“He’s flying me to Louisville on a private jet.”

“And you’re excited.”

“Yes.”

Her friend’s voice is warm. “You like him,” she says.

“I do, Rose. A lot.”

“That’s good. I’m so happy you do.” Rose pauses, then adds, “It’s late. Are you tired?”

“I’ll sleep on the jet.”

The two friends are quiet for a moment.

Miranda says, “I’m excited and scared at the same time.”

“Enjoy the feeling. And remember everything we talked about.”

“I will. And thank you so much for everything!”

“It’s an exciting time for both of us,” Rose says.

Three hours later, Miranda knocks on Creed’s hotel room door.

Donovan Creed.

MIRANDA LOOKS LIKE a million bucks. By the time I shut the door behind us, she’s on me like fire on a match head! Between kisses it dawns on me the polite thing to do is offer her champagne, but then I realize propriety-like Miranda’s clothing-has been left at the door.

“Do me!” she says.

I smile. “Right now?”

“Do me!”

“No drinks or chitchat?”

“Do me!”

I do her.

Then roll onto my back to catch my breath.

After a few minutes Miranda says, “Are you comfortable?”

“And then some.”

She sits up in bed, flashing a sly smile.

“I hope you’re not too tired,” she says.

“Because?”

“Because sex is like pancakes.”

“Pancakes,” I say.

“Uh huh.”

“Do tell!”

“When you make pancakes, you always toss out the first one.”

“Ah. And that’s because?”

“The purpose of the first pancake is to get the skillet warmed up just right.”

“In this example, which of us is the skillet?”

“That would be me,” she says.

“And this means?”

“I’m going to rock your world!”

“Right now?”

“If we haven’t used up all the batter.”

I sit up, figuring we’ll start with a kiss. But she pushes me back gently and says, “I’ll take it from here, Flapjack!”

“Okay.”

There are two absolutes where hookers are concerned.

One, cash is king.

Two, you get what you pay for.

The escort food chain ranges from street walker to courtesan. Top of the list initials include C, PS, and GF, in that order, and less than one percent attain it.

GF stands for girl friend experience. Young ladies fresh in the business naively offer clients a girl friend experience, a claim that triples their hourly price. But it’s usually unsustainable. Before meeting the first client it seems plausible a young lady could fake a warm smile, be super friendly, and tongue kiss Richard Gere from Pretty Woman, and-oh yeah, have romantic sex with him.