J. McKenna - Wanted - Kept Woman

Both soon dismissed the experience as just a silly lark, like mooning someone from a car window. A little bit dangerous, but not likely to cause any real harm.

The middle of the third week, Suzanne got a surprising message in her email box from a Rebecca Detwiler titled “Kept Woman”. Her heart pounding, she opened it.

Suzanne—you’ve passed first round. The next step is a video meeting. Would you like to proceed? If so, call me at 613-555-1904.

Rebecca Detwiler.

Suzanne thought it had to be a joke. How could she have been selected? Surely, this mystery man had far more beautiful women than she to choose from. A second later, she was on the phone.

“Wendy Thomason! Did you see it?”

“What?”

“The email from Rebecca. Didn’t you get it?”

“You’re kidding! She wrote back? What’d she say?”

“They said I passed the first round, then asked me if I wanted to meet him in a video hookup!”

“Oh my God! Hang on, let me check my email.” Suzanne heard Wendy fumbling around with her computer. She returned in a few seconds. “No, I’ve got nothing.” She sounded disappointed.

“Well, it’ll probably get there tomorrow. No way they’d pick me and not you.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Like I always say, you sell yourself short. Maybe he likes dark, mysterious, beautiful women.” Suzanne thought Wendy was being kind. “But I think that’s great for you! You are going to call her, aren’t you?”

“Well, I don’t know. You think I should?”

Wendy snorted. “Of course I think you should! Are you nuts? Do you know how many women would kill to be in your shoes?”

Suzanne had trouble believing her good fortune. “Yeah, I suppose. I just wish you’d get your email, too, so we could do this together.”

“Together! Girl, he doesn’t want a twin act, he wants a girlfriend. If you play your cards right, you might get laid.”

Sam sat in his car outside the Blue Bayou Co. warehouse, smoking cigarettes. He’d been sitting there since nine-thirty, parked in a lot across the street, just waiting to see if his information would prove to be correct.

It hadn’t been hard to find out the location of Suzanne’s job. Armed with her Social Security number—after all, he had been married to her for four years—Sam paid a few bucks to an Internet web site. Within a day, he had the address of her new apartment, her workplace, information about a used car she’d purchased since their divorce and even details of a parking ticket she’d failed to pay.

Now he had to be careful. He had no desire to go back to jail. Yet, just leaving her alone didn’t occur to him. She had put him in that jail, ruined his life. She would have to pay. The question was, how?

“These things must be handled del-icately ,” he cackled, like the Wicked Witch on The Wizard of Oz . “ Del-icately. ”

He spotted some activity across the street. People were streaming out for lunch. Sam checked his watch. It was ten minutes past noon. If she left, he should be able to spot her immediately.

Surreptitiously, he eased the small binoculars to his face and scanned the crowd. It didn’t take long. Within three minutes, Suzanne strolled out.

“Gotcha, you bitch.” His eyes followed her as she went to the parking lot and slipped into her car, a faded blue Dodge.

He was impressed—he hadn’t remembered Suzanne looking so good before. “Whadcha do, get one of them TV makeovers?” he muttered to himself. He started up his car and drove to the attendant’s shack, keeping an eye on the blue car. As he pulled alongside the window, he looked back to see Suzanne turn right into traffic, heading south on Third Street.

Sam paid his ticket and sped out after his ex. He caught up to her three blocks down and followed cautiously, slouching down in the seat in case she looked too closely in her rearview mirror. His car was different from the one he had when they were together so he hoped her eyes would just slide right off of it.

She parked outside a mall and entered. Sam parked a row over and down a few spaces, then followed her inside. He’d have to be careful—if she spotted him, it’d be all over.

Quite a few shoppers filled the mall. Sam hung back, letting his eyes rove around until he saw Suzanne entering a shoe store. He waited, staying out of sight, wishing this sissy state didn’t ban smoking in every goddamn building.

Suzanne came out suddenly and turned left, away from Sam. He watched for a moment then slipped into the foot traffic behind her. His brain recorded everything automatically, helping him to answer the questions that he needed to decide what to do with his ex-wife. Where does she go? Who does she see? Does she have a boyfriend? Does she live alone?

The voice on the line was prim, professional. “Rebecca Detwiler.” That was it—no company name or other information that might give away the mystery man’s true identity.

“Hel-hello,” Suzanne said, glancing over at Wendy. She’d made Wendy come over before she’d agreed to call. She could never have done it on her own. “This is Suzanne, I’m one of the finalists. I, uh, have some questions.”

“Yes, Suzanne Montgomery? I’m so glad you called.”

“You are?”

“Oh, yes. My boss was very taken with your questionnaire.”

Suzanne recoiled. Is she just saying that? “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You see, I’m really very nervous about all this. I’m very concerned that this is all just a scam. That you’ll either ask me for money or you’ll—your boss—will start stalking me.”

“Yes, that’s the same thing I hear from some of the other finalists. Several of them dropped out because of it, sorry to say.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of the thirty finalists, so far just twenty-two have responded. Eight of them said they felt they made a mistake and asked that they be taken off the list and left alone. I wish I could have convinced them that this is all on the up-and-up.”

“But how can you? I mean, you’re just a voice on the phone. You could be anyone. Maybe Mr. Big doesn’t exist. Maybe this is some teenager’s sick joke. You know, a lot of women could be hurt.”

“Oh, we’re aware of it. I told Mr., uh, my boss that this probably wouldn’t work. But he’s just been so depressed lately, meeting women who, um, weren’t his type. He thought he might, just might, meet what he calls ‘a real woman’ this way.”

“Then why advertise for a ‘kept woman’? That begs for gold-diggers.”

“Yes, but that’s what he wants. He’s definitely an Alpha Male, but in a good way, I’d say. He wants a woman who enjoys being kept—as long as it’s for the right reasons.”

“And what reasons are those?”

“Oh, I’d better let him tell you all that. Would you like to meet him via a video conference?”

“Uh…” She looked over at Wendy, who nodded emphatically. “Yes, I guess I would.”

“You don’t sound positive.”

Wendy was giving her the evil eye, as if to say, “Don’t you blow this!”

“No, I want to. I’m just a little scared, that’s all.”

“That’s understandable, but completely unnecessary. He’s a perfect gentleman, I can assure you.”

“How many other women will be meeting him?”

“We’ve narrowed it down to twenty-two. If we need to, we have many more.”

“Really? You had a good response?”

“Oh, yes. I’d say fifteen hundred women wrote in.”

Suzanne was suddenly very impressed that she had made it. “And all those women really filled out those embarrassing questionnaires?”

“Yes, they did. I suppose they were curious, just like you.”