I Pay Double

Every night used to begin the same way. Not literally every night, of course, because even I occasionally had dinners I could not escape, charity galas requiring photographs beside people I disliked, quarterly meetings that stretched past midnight because men who had been speaking for forty years still believed every thought deserved another twenty minutes, but often enough that the ritual had become something between a habit and a private joke, I would leave whichever obligation had consumed my evening, dismiss my driver because I preferred doing this part myself, and take the long route back to the Beaumont. The streets changed. The women changed. I did not. I drove slowly. I looked. I chose. Sometimes she was Black, sometimes white, sometimes Asian, sometimes Latina, sometimes thirty and confident enough to meet my eyes before I had even slowed down, sometimes forty-five and carrying the weary elegance of someone who had discovered long ago that men underestimated women who smiled at them, and my standards, if I am going to pretend there was anything noble about them, were uncomplicated. Adult. Alert. Clean enough that I did not immediately worry about bringing something contagious upstairs. And interesting. That last part mattered more than beauty. Beauty was everywhere after midnight. Interesting was harder. When I saw one I liked, I pulled over, lowered the passenger window and pointed. Usually she approached cautiously. Usually she leaned down. Usually she began with, “What are you looking for?” And usually I interrupted before she could give me prices. “Get in. I pay double.” That generally stopped them. “Double what?” “Whatever you were going to ask.” “You don't even know what I was going to ask.” “I don't care.” There would be a pause then, because women accustomed to bargaining recognized immediately that refusing to bargain was its own form of power. Then, inevitably— “You a cop?” “No.” “You filming something?” “No.” “You crazy?” “Possibly.” And then, because money is one of humanity's most efficient arguments, she got in. The first time I brought a woman through the Beaumont's private entrance, the night manager nearly swallowed his tongue. By the twentieth, he had learned discretion. By the fiftieth, he had perfected the blank expression of a man who earned far too much money to possess opinions. Still, the staff noticed. Of course they did. Different woman. Different night. Different dress. Different perfume. Same private elevator. Same forty-second floor. Same suite. The Beaumont was technically a hotel, although the top three floors had been converted into residences years before, and I owned the largest one along with enough of the building itself that nobody was ever going to ask what I did in it. The women usually asked instead. The moment the elevator doors closed, there was always that glance around at the brass walls, the private key panel, the polished stone floor. “Jesus.” Sometimes— “You live here?” “Yes.” “This whole floor?” “Most of it.” Then— “You sure you're not married?” “No husband.” “Boyfriend?” “No.” “Girlfriend?” “No.” The more perceptive ones would look at me and smile. “That why I'm here?” “That is exactly why you're here.” Upstairs I showed them the guest bathroom. Fresh towels. A robe. Toiletries. Whatever they needed. “Take a shower.” That often earned another suspicious look. “You saying I stink?” “I am saying you have been standing outside in a city for several hours, and there is a marble shower large enough to improve anyone's evening.” Occasionally they laughed. Occasionally they rolled their eyes. But they showered. And it was remarkable what twenty minutes of hot water could do. Mascara disappeared. Hair came back to life. Shoulders relaxed. Defiance softened. Most of them cleaned up beautifully, although beautiful was not really the point, because what I wanted was variety, conversation, laughter, sometimes touch, sometimes sex when both of us wanted it, sometimes simply a woman sprawled barefoot across my sofa drinking champagne and telling me extraordinary stories about extraordinary people who had made very ordinary mistakes. I paid for the night. Not obedience. That distinction mattered to me. “No strings,” I told them. “No worries.” “No issues.” One woman, a forty-one-year-old redhead named Denise who laughed like she had invented laughter personally, once looked at the envelope on my kitchen counter and said, “Lady, you know you're terrible at this, right?” “At what?” “Being a rich predator.” I raised an eyebrow. “Should I be offended?” “You feed us, let us shower, don't care whether we sleep with you, pay double, and call a car in the morning.” “I have high standards.” “You have loneliness.” I looked at her. She lifted her champagne. “I pay double,” I said. She laughed. “Yeah. You sure do.” I did not see Denise again. That was the point. No strings. No worries. No issues. And then, one Thursday in October, everything went wrong. Or right. I still haven't decided. It had been raining for nearly two hours, not heavily but steadily enough that the city had become black glass under the streetlights, and I was three blocks from the Beaumont when I saw a woman running. At first I thought she was simply late. Then I saw she was barefoot. Then I saw the dress. Black, torn high along one thigh, one thin strap hanging loose from her shoulder. Then I saw the men. Three of them. Twenty yards behind her. Running too. The woman looked over her shoulder and screamed. Not the theatrical scream of someone arguing outside a club. A real scream. The kind that goes through the windshield. I hit the brakes. She saw my car. Our eyes met. I unlocked the doors. “Get in!” She changed direction immediately. One of the men shouted something. She reached the passenger side, yanked the door open and practically fell into the seat. “Drive!” I did not move. Not yet. “Close the door.” “Drive!” “Close the damn door.” She slammed it. The locks engaged. A second later the first man reached us and struck both hands against the passenger window. She screamed again. I accelerated. Hard. His palms slid across the glass. The second man struck the rear quarter panel. The third kicked at the back door as we pulled away. For perhaps five seconds nobody said anything. Then the woman beside me whispered, “Don't stop.” “I wasn't planning to.” “Please.” “I won't.” “Please don't stop.” “I said I won't.” She folded forward suddenly, hands over her face, and began shaking so violently I could hear her teeth clicking. I glanced at her. “You're safe.” She said nothing. “Can you hear me?” A small nod. “Are you injured?” Another pause. “I don't know.” “Did they cut you?” “No.” “Shoot you?” “No.” “Hit you?” Silence. That was answer enough. I drove another block. “What's your name?” She turned toward me so quickly that I regretted asking. “All right,” I said. “Forget that.” “Where are you taking me?” “The Beaumont.” “No police.” “I didn't say police.” “No police.” “Fine.” “You promise?” “I don't make promises to strangers.” Her face changed. I softened my voice. “But I am not calling anyone without telling you.” She looked at me for several seconds. “Why?” “Why what?” “Why did you stop?” I looked through the windshield. “I saw you running.” “People see things.” “I stopped.” She hugged herself. Only then did I realize how little fabric remained over one shoulder. I pulled my coat from behind my seat and handed it across. “Put this around you.” She stared at it. “It's a coat.” “I know.” “Then take it.” She did. The Beaumont staff had seen me arrive with women wearing almost everything imaginable. They had never seen me arrive with one wrapped in my coat, barefoot, bleeding lightly from one knee and unable to stop shaking. Daniel, the night manager, came forward immediately. “Ms. Voss?” “Private elevator.” His eyes moved to the woman. “Do you need a physician?” “No,” she said instantly. Daniel froze. I looked at him. “Not yet.” “Yes, ma'am.” A bell attendant brought a blanket without being asked. I wrapped it around her shoulders. The woman stared at the lobby. Marble. Chandeliers. Gold. Security. Too many eyes. She leaned closer. “People are looking.” “They'll survive.” “I look—” “You look like somebody who needs to get upstairs.” She looked at me. “You don't care?” “No.” That was not entirely true. I cared very much. I simply did not care what they thought. Inside the elevator she stood in the farthest corner. I remained near the panel. When the doors opened upstairs, I stepped out first. She didn't move. “You coming?” “Is anyone else here?” “No.” “Anyone?” “No.” She looked down the private corridor. “How do I know that?” “You don't.” That frightened her again. I realized it too late. I stepped backward. “All right. Stay in the elevator.” “What?” “Stay there. Doors won't close while I'm blocking them.” She stared. “I'll show you the suite from here.” I pointed. “Kitchen there. Guest room there. Bathroom beyond it. Main bedroom opposite side. No staff. No guests. Just me.” “Why are you doing this?” “I haven't decided yet.” Her expression tightened. I sighed. “That was a joke. Bad timing.” She almost smiled. Almost. I showed her the bathroom without entering it. “You can lock this door from inside.” She checked. Twice. “There are towels in the cabinet. Robe behind the door. New toothbrushes in the drawer. Use whatever you want.” “What do you want?” “Right now?” “Yes.” “For you to take a shower before you freeze.” “And after?” “After, you can tell me what you want.” She looked suspicious. I knew that look. I had seen it dozens of times. Only this time it made me uncomfortable. “No,” I said. “No what?” “Whatever you're thinking.” “You don't know what I'm thinking.” “I've seen the expression.” Her eyes dropped. “You expect something.” “I expect you not to bleed on the carpet if it can be avoided.” She stared at me. Then, unbelievably, she laughed. It lasted only a second. But she laughed. I went to the kitchen while she showered. Twenty minutes. Thirty. Forty. At forty-seven minutes I considered checking on her and decided against it. At fifty-two she emerged in the Beaumont robe, hair wet, face scrubbed clean, and I stopped with a coffee cup halfway to my mouth. Not because she had become beautiful. She had already been beautiful in the car. But fear had hidden most of her. Without the ruined makeup and rainwater, I could see warm brown skin, large dark eyes, thick black curls and a face that would have looked mischievous under almost any other circumstances. She was perhaps thirty. Maybe thirty-two. She caught me looking. I looked away deliberately. “Coffee?” “No.” “Tea?” “No.” “Wine?” Her eyes flickered. “No.” “Water?” A nod. I poured a glass and left it on the counter rather than handing it to her. She noticed. “What's your name?” she asked. “Camille.” “Camille what?” “Voss.” Her eyebrows rose slightly. “You're Camille Voss?” “That depends what you've heard.” “You own half this hotel.” “Less than half.” “You're rich.” “I've been accused.” She looked around. Then back at me. “Why were you driving there?” There it was. I could have lied. Instead I said, “Looking for a woman.” Her eyes hardened. “What kind of woman?” “One who wanted to earn money spending the night with me.” She went very still. “Oh.” “I thought honesty would be less alarming than you discovering it later.” “So you pick up prostitutes.” “Sometimes.” “And bring them here.” “Yes.” “For sex.” “Sometimes.” She pulled the robe tighter. I understood instantly. “No.” Her chin rose. “You keep saying that.” “Because you keep thinking I rescued you as some sort of replacement.” She said nothing. “I didn't.” “How do I know?” “You don't.” “You keep saying that too.” “Because I can't prove anything tonight.” That silenced her. I took my coffee and moved farther away. “The guest bedroom locks from inside.” She stared at me. “So lock it.” “And you?” “My bedroom is across the suite.” “You're just going to sleep?” “That was the plan before three men tried to climb through my car.” “Camille.” “Yes?” “Why do you pay double?” I blinked. “What?” “You said you were looking for someone.” “I was.” “So why double?” “How did you—” “You said it under your breath in the car.” Had I? I smiled faintly. “I hate haggling.” “That simple?” “I like simple.” She looked at me for a long moment. “No strings?” “Exactly.” “No worries?” “Preferably.” “No issues?” “That is the dream.” Her expression became strange. Almost sad. “That must be nice.” She went into the guest room. Locked the door. And at three seventeen in the morning, she started screaming. I was out of bed before I was fully awake. “Elena!” I did not know why I shouted the name. She had never told me. But she was screaming it herself. “Stop! Elena, run! Run!” I reached the guest door and stopped myself from opening it. “Elena?” Silence. “Elena, it's Camille.” Something struck the floor. “Don't!” “I am outside the door.” “Don't come in!” “I won't.” Breathing. Fast. Panicked. “I won't come in.” Another long silence. Then the lock clicked. The door opened three inches. Her face appeared. Wet with tears. “I had a dream.” “I gathered that.” “I'm sorry.” “For what?” She looked toward the bed. “For waking you.” “Elena.” Her eyes came back. “You were being murdered in your sleep. I can forgive the noise.” She gave a broken laugh. Then she started crying again. I did not touch her. That may have been the first important thing I ever did for her. I simply stood there. Eventually she whispered, “Can you stay?” “Yes.” “Not… not in the bed.” “I understood.” I sat in the chair beside the window. She returned to bed. For twenty minutes neither of us spoke. Then— “They weren't clients.” I looked at her. She was staring at the ceiling. “The men.” “All right.” “They owned the place.” “What place?” “A club.” I waited. She swallowed. “I worked there.” “Dancing?” “Hostessing. Dancing sometimes. Whatever kept them happy.” I did not ask what that meant. “They took our identification,” she continued. “Said it was safer. Then they started charging for everything. Clothes. Rooms. Food. Security. You'd owe them money before you even earned it.” “And tonight?” “One of the girls disappeared.” My stomach tightened. “Elena—” “I asked where she went.” “And?” “They told me not to ask.” She turned her face toward me. “So I asked again.” I felt something cold settle behind my ribs. “They took you somewhere?” “A back room.” Her eyes closed. “I got out.” “How?” “I broke a lamp across somebody's face.” For the first time that night I smiled. “Good.” Her eyes opened. “You think that's funny?” “No.” “You smiled.” “I was impressed.” That earned the faintest smile from her too. Then it disappeared. “They'll find me.” “No.” “You don't know them.” “They don't know me.” “They saw your car.” I remembered the hands against the window. The man kicking the rear door. The plate. My plate. “They'll find the car,” she whispered. I leaned back. “Then I'll change the car.” “You can't just—” “Elena.” “Yes?” “I own fourteen.” She stared. I shrugged. “I told you I was rich.” Three days later, she was still there. Not because I asked. Because she had nowhere safe to go. On the fourth morning she appeared in my kitchen wearing jeans and a sweater my house manager had bought for her and said, “I need a job.” I lowered the newspaper. “You need rest.” “I need money.” “I can give you money.” “No.” “You seemed less opposed to my money Thursday.” “You saved my life Thursday.” “Possibly.” “I don't want to owe you.” I folded the paper. “You don't.” “I do.” “Elena—” “Give me a job.” “Doing what?” “Anything.” “You have experience?” “I managed schedules at the club. Inventory. Staff. Reservations. Cash. Accounts when they let me.” I raised an eyebrow. “You did accounting?” “I did everything nobody noticed.” That interested me. “What do you know about hotel operations?” “Nothing.” “Good.” “Good?” “You won't arrive convinced you know everything.” She crossed her arms. “Is that a yes?” “It is an interview.” “When?” I looked at my watch. “Apparently now.” She became my temporary assistant that afternoon. Temporary lasted eleven months. She was terrible for the first week. Too fast. Too defensive. Too determined to prove she belonged. By the third week she had reorganized my calendar. By the fifth she fired one of my consultants. I discovered this when he called me. “Your assistant just terminated my contract.” “Yes?” “Can she do that?” I looked through the glass wall of my office. Elena was staring at me while holding another phone. “Apparently.” “She said my reports were useless.” “Were they?” Silence. I smiled. “I'll call you back.” Elena entered. “He's furious.” “So I gathered.” “You're going to rehire him.” “No.” She stopped. “No?” “You were right.” “Oh.” “Try not to look disappointed.” “I thought we'd have our first fight.” “We've had forty-three.” “Those were arguments.” “What distinguishes a fight?” “Kissing afterward.” I stared at her. She froze. Then slowly turned red. “That,” she said, “was not meant to come out.” “No?” “No.” “Pity.” She stared harder. “Camille.” “Yes?” “Don't.” “Don't what?” “Flirt with me because you're bored.” That hit harder than she intended. Or perhaps exactly as hard. “I don't flirt because I'm bored.” “You used to pick women off corners.” “I haven't done that since October.” “I know.” I blinked. “How?” “Daniel talks.” “I am firing Daniel.” “No, you're not.” I leaned back. “Why do you care?” She looked toward the window. “I don't.” “Elena.” “Because I live here half the time.” “In the guest room.” “I know.” “And work for me.” “I know.” “And?” She looked back. “And I don't like thinking about you driving around looking for somebody else.” There it was. A string. A worry. An issue. Everything I had spent years avoiding. I stood. She stepped backward. I stopped immediately. “May I kiss you?” Her eyes widened. For a few seconds she did nothing. Then she laughed softly. “You ask now?” “With you? Yes.” “Why?” “Because with you it matters.” The smile left her face. She came closer. “You're sure?” “No.” “Good.” “Good?” “I'd be worried if you were.” She kissed me first. And for the first time in years, there was no envelope waiting in the kitchen. The men returned six weeks later. They found me through the license plate after all, although it took them longer than Elena feared because the sedan belonged to one of my holding companies, and by the time they connected it to me, my security team had already learned quite a lot about them. They approached us outside the Beaumont after dinner. Elena saw them first. Her hand locked around mine. “Camille.” One word. I knew. Three men. Same faces. Same arrogance. The tallest smiled. “You remember us.” I stepped in front of Elena. “I remember what you did to my car.” His smile vanished. “Where is she?” Elena whispered, “I'm right here.” “No,” I said. The man looked at me. “What?” “You don't address her.” He laughed. “You think money makes you—” I lifted my phone. “It makes lawyers answer at midnight.” His expression changed slightly. “And private investigators work weekends,” I continued, “and hotel cameras preserve footage, and prosecutors become interested when someone provides banking records, employee statements and the name of a missing woman.” Silence. Elena's fingers tightened around my coat. The bald man looked at the others. “What the hell did you do?” The tall man's face hardened. “You don't know who you're dealing with.” “That sentence sounds much better in movies.” “You think you're untouchable?” “No.” I looked beyond him. Two Beaumont security officers were approaching from one side. Two detectives from the other. “But tonight I am extremely well accompanied.” Elena whispered, “You called the police.” “I called people who know which police to call.” The men turned. Too late. The confrontation lasted less than two minutes. It felt like twenty years. When they were gone, Elena stood motionless beside me. Then she slapped my arm. I stared at her. “You scared me!” “They were being arrested.” “You didn't tell me!” “I didn't know they would come tonight.” “You knew they might.” “Yes.” She hit my arm again. “Elena.” “I thought they were going to take me.” I caught her wrist. Then immediately loosened my hand. She looked down. Then back at me. “You can hold me,” she whispered. So I did. Right there on the sidewalk. In front of Daniel. In front of security. In front of half the Beaumont lobby. I held her while she cried into my shoulder. “I've got you.” “You can't promise that.” “Yes, I can.” “You said you don't make promises.” “I've revised the policy.” Months passed. Then a year. Her title changed from temporary assistant to executive assistant. Then chief of staff. Then director. Then, after she calmly explained to three board members why their proposed expansion would lose eight million dollars within eighteen months and produced a better plan before dessert, I stopped pretending she worked for me. One evening I slid a folder across my desk. She opened it. Read the first page. Then looked up. “What is this?” “Partnership agreement.” “You already have partners.” “I am aware.” “You want me to buy in?” “No.” Her eyes narrowed. “Camille.” “You've created enough value to earn it.” “How much?” “Ten percent of my operating company.” She stared at me. Then down at the papers. Then up again. “No.” I smiled. “No?” “I want twelve.” I burst out laughing. She folded her arms. “You said I earned it.” “You did.” “So twelve.” “Eleven.” “Twelve.” “Eleven and a half.” “Twelve and I let you take me to dinner.” I leaned back. “That's extortion.” “You taught me negotiation.” “I specifically avoid negotiation.” She smiled. “Not anymore.” I signed twelve. That night we went downstairs instead of driving anywhere. The Beaumont restaurant gave us the corner table by the windows. After dinner, Elena rested her chin on her hand and studied me. “What?” “Nothing.” “You're staring.” “I was thinking.” “Dangerous.” “Do you remember the night you found me?” “Every detail.” “You were going out looking for somebody.” “Yes.” “You never did explain something.” “What?” “Why women?” I laughed. “Seriously?” “Seriously.” “I like women.” “I had gathered that.” “I have always liked women.” “Only women?” “Only women.” She smiled. “Different women.” “Yes.” “Different ages.” “Yes.” “Different backgrounds.” “Yes.” “Different everything.” “Yes.” She reached across the table. “And every time you said—” “I pay double.” She laughed. “There it is.” “What?” “That ridiculous line.” “It worked.” “It was terrible.” “It worked on dozens of women.” She stopped smiling. “Dozens?” I squeezed her fingers. “Past tense.” “Good answer.” “It also worked on you.” Her eyebrows rose. “You never paid me.” “I pay you extremely well.” “Salary doesn't count.” “You demanded twelve percent of my company.” “Still doesn't count.” I leaned closer. “What would count?” She pretended to think. “A lifetime.” I went quiet. So did she. Her expression changed. “Too much?” “No.” “No?” I turned her hand over and kissed her palm. “For once, Elena, I think you underpriced yourself.” Her eyes filled. I smiled. “I pay double.” She laughed through the tears. “You're impossible.” “Twenty years.” “What?” “You asked for a lifetime. I'm proposing twenty years with an automatic renewal.” She came around the table. “That isn't how lifetimes work.” “It is how contracts work.” “You're not drafting our relationship.” “Why not?” “Because I'll renegotiate.” “Of course you will.” She sat sideways in my lap, ignoring the scandalized glance of an elderly couple two tables away. “No strings?” she whispered. I wrapped my arms around her. “No.” “No worries?” “Plenty.” “No issues?” “Constantly.” She smiled. “Sounds terrible.” “It is.” “And?” I looked at the woman I had once seen running barefoot through the rain, at the woman who had locked herself in my guest room because she did not yet know whether I was another danger, at the woman who had become my assistant because she refused charity, my lover because neither of us could continue pretending, and finally my partner because there had never been anything unequal about us except the time it took me to understand it. “And I wouldn't trade it for anything.” She kissed me. Outside, the city glittered beneath another autumn rain, and somewhere down there women still stood beneath streetlights, men still made bargains, strangers still climbed into cars, and lives intersected for an hour before separating forever. I had believed that was what I wanted. A different woman. A different night. A clean ending. No names worth remembering. No complications worth fearing. No possibility of being hurt because nothing lasted long enough to matter. Then one woman ran toward my car instead of waiting for me to choose her. She never named a price. She never asked me to rescue her. And she never left. For years I had thought paying double guaranteed that I owed nobody anything. Elena taught me the truth. The most expensive things in life are the ones nobody can buy. Trust. Safety. A second chance. Someone waiting when the private elevator doors open. Someone whose shoes sit beside yours in the hall. Someone who knows exactly how terrible you are before coffee. Someone who can make you terrified simply by having something to lose. I used to drive those streets looking for a night without strings. Now I drive straight home. Because she is there. And because, for once in my life, I found something worth every worry, every issue and every string attached.