The 7: Gluttony Read online

  A sinking feeling brought on by the memory takes over my mind as I acknowledge my God is very much alive while my lover nearly killed me before she died. I guess to be fair, the game of basketball didn’t almost kill me; it came very close to destroying me first, then it tried to kill me. The growing weight of fame and, most importantly, the money, shaped my world into the larger than life factious tale of woe. The reality and reminiscence of the rise and fall of my life the past eight years causes acid to churn wildly in my gut. I’ve spent too much time the last few months in grief, grief I had damn well put to rest while sitting on a harder than rock bunk bed in a six by eight prison cell. For some reason, I keep reopening this wound of late, as if the pain I get from it is somehow satisfying. I probably need a fucking shrink.

  Christ, why can’t I leave the past alone already?

  Keeping my gaze locked on the female praying, I push the thoughts back down in the deadened, charred corners of my mind lest I get pulled under and never surface again. The surrounding candles dance, casting a golden illumination around the woman’s hair, reminding me of hot coffee on a frigid day, warming my soul to the depths. But I’m no longer surprised by the feeling, it’s been like this each time I see her here, and each time, like now, she crosses her body, rises gracefully, and walks to the right and down a small hallway, never looking my way.

  Not that I blame the girl. She really would think I’m stalking her if she had an inkling I’ve been following her for weeks now. So far though, I’m pretty sure I remain undetected. Not following her hasn’t crossed my mind, and it’s almost like an addict needing a fix. Even knowing this, I won’t be stopping anytime soon. There’s just something about her, something I can’t stop seeking. It could be the way I felt that first day, as the snow fell and I was running late to an appointment, rushing down an icy sidewalk. The cold Chicago storm blew in from the North, snow thick all around making it difficult to see, and then, out of the blue, she was just there. This small figure wore these horrid fur boots and a too big quilted red coat that came mid-thigh, swallowing her dainty frame. The sight of such a tiny person wearing such a large outfit is what caught my attention first and, as is my nature, when I’m intrigued, I follow, so I ended up here in the church.

  In my defense, I didn’t know it was a church until it was too late. Once I was inside, I stood back by the door, letting the warmth of the antechamber thaw my bones as the woman shed her coat and proceeded down the aisle to pray. She was small, maybe five foot three at the most, but she was all feminine. Her curves were accentuated by tight black pants and full, round breasts strained in the light pink sweater, demanding my attention, causing me to miss her face altogether. When she was near the altar, I took a seat in the back, hoping to catch her on the way out. But that didn’t happen. Like today, the woman always exits down a hall to the right. As always, I’m let down once more.

  It’s been weeks since that first sighting, and it took me all of the first few days to learn her schedule. I now know the precise moment she emerges from the corner, and I have lived for these few minutes since. For weeks, I’ve watched her in the distance, enthralled by what lies beneath the hood she keeps drawn tight around her face against the cold. It’s been maddening and exciting all at once and, without having any idea why, I can’t seem to stop myself from seeking her out.

  “Hello again.” A voice I’ve grown to dislike very much lately comes from the owner of the accusatory eyes.

  “Hello Father,” I grumble, resenting the priest a bit.

  I’m not Catholic, not religious by any means unless you count the childhood attendance, so the practices can be challenging, but to keep up my stalking, I need to at least try and seem like I belong here.

  “Have you come to pray or possibly for confession today?” he inquires as he glides into the pew in front of where I sit. I speak to his broad back. It crosses my mind what deplorable actions I take on a daily basis, what kind of debauchery I practice and can confess to, but no, I will save the older man of God a heart attack this day.

  “Just here for the quiet, as usual,” I say, hoping like hell he takes the hint.

  “As usual.” The priest, who has introduced himself as Father Michael more than once, turns to face me. Those dark eyes bore into mine, examining me from the inside out. Were I a man of conviction, I would feel all of an inch tall under their scrutiny. I notice the stark white collar at his throat doesn’t move as he shifts. It stays perfectly situated as he places an arm over the pew and casually leans my way. “Would you like to step into my office and talk about what it is you need quiet from?”

  I scoff as a reply. Every visit to this church, the priest asks me if I want to confess anything. He looks stern, serious, and a little scary with his deeply lined face and steel gray hair, but there’s a knowing twinkle of humor in his keen stare that diminishes my annoyance slightly. He may not trust me, or it may be that I know the reasons I come to this place and am secretly ashamed I creepily follow a woman in here. Whichever the reason, it makes my stomach clench just thinking about confessing it. Or any of my other wrong doings, which there are many. But the feeling isn’t driven by guilt, it’s the thought of any accusation that would get back to my parole officer. Violating my parole isn’t something I’m looking to have revealed, not less than three years out.

  Clasping my hands together, I lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees, and smile politely.

  “I’m afraid, Father, that would take up too much of your time. And blister your ears.”

  “As usual.” The man gives an amused smile and nods. “How about we talk sports then?”

  “Won’t that encourage more conversation, maybe act as the precursor to confession?” I say, annoyed at the man’s constant need to talk and the mere mention of sports. Grinding my teeth as my irritation grows, I look down at my hands, hands that have done terrible things. If I look too long, I begin to imagine the strained grip on the steering wheel and dried blood creased in the lines. Squeezing my eyes shut, I ball up my fists at the memories, and I stand, ready to bolt.

  “Thanks for the quiet, Father,” I say, not bothering to hide my sudden disgust. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t react, as if we are both aware my demeanor has just done a one-eighty. No, the man just stares back blankly. This only angers me more because I want to be cussed at, or put down. I want to fight something, lash out and make it bleed until it feels as miserable as I do. With a sudden rush of rage and nothing to do with it, I head for the door, feeling the burn of judgment at my back.

  “Hang on, just a minute,” the priest calls after me, and I swear, as I open the door and a blast of icy wind smacks me in the face, I hear him say, “Wait. Come back, Colt.” Mostly out of shock at hearing the man call my name, I just stand still, my hand on the open door, frozen in stunned disbelief as the wind cuts like cat claws on my face.

  He couldn’t have called my name. No way he could possibly know. Could he?

  After a moment, a mere heartbeat, I dismiss it, blaming it on the anger, the fucking weather for all I know. I proceed outside, trying not to think about it, and walk as quickly as my snow boots will carry me. But like most things, it has taken root.

  Colt…that cursed name and face too many know. Why wouldn’t the man recognize me? I fucking hate it. No matter what I do to hide who I am, what I’m known for, people still know. This, I suppose, is my punishment for crimes that will never be paid for, lives I will never be able to bring back, and it is this that drives me further and further into obscurity. Yet, there is that hunger deep within my soul that is crippling and exhilarating all at once. It’s the insatiable need that drives me to be…the best at everything. My Goddamned past is the problem.

  Fuck that, my present is a big problem.

  THREE

  Vibration from my pocket alerts me it’s time to go to work, and I welcome the reminder. The quicker I get my head back on straight, the better. Lowering my head to the cold, I jog the three blocks to the hotel I currently call home. A
grand building with its dozens of floors decorated in golds and marble, the historic Estate is for the wealthy and stupid because nobody with a brain would pay the thousands of dollars a night to sleep here. Luckily, it’s generously provided for me by a client who happens to be part owner. As long as she’s happy, I can stay as long as I want.

  Bright lights illuminate the carpeted entrance, and I’m momentarily distracted by the absurdity of having carpet outside in a place like downtown Chicago in the winter. Welcoming me inside, the old but apt doorman holds open a heavy gold and crystal door, staying just out of sight, allowing me to stroll past without acknowledging him. Having learned my brisk pace, the man usually rushes to get me inside and the door shut before I enter the lobby elevator. He is even quicker on the draw when I’m leaving.

  Per my usual, I speak to no one, not the staff, not the patrons. Head down, I keep to myself and rarely make eye contact. This makes me a reclusive snob, I know, but it’s better than engaging in pleasantries only to be recognized, or worse, flirted with. What seems like forever with the ascension, I dart past the lift operator, punch in my security code, and pause just inside my suite to breathe a deep sigh of relief.

  “Honey, I’m home,” I call out to the empty space.

  Bitterness bubbles in my throat as I acknowledge, once again, I am alone. The same way I have been for years now, and how it will always be for me. Swallowing down the emotion, I proceed to get ready for the night’s events. After shedding my coat and boats and rubbing the cold from my hands, I wake up my laptop and make coffee. Once my favorite Godfather mug is full, I take the seat next to the window, propping my feet on the ledge, relaxing back into my usual position.

  The view is nice with the Willis Tower and Lake Michigan for my backyard. The snow falls heavy now, causing those who brave the outside to huddle close together as they walk. Watching a couple and their dog rush down the sidewalk, I curse them for being covered in warm ski jackets and boots while the animal walks without protection. They could’ve provided some kind of boot or cover from the wind at least.

  Watching the trio disappear around a building while I drink my first cup of coffee makes me wonder what that life would be like. The strange idea of sharing an umbrella with someone you care about in a snowstorm, dragging a mutt behind you hurrying to get home to eat together, fighting over the cap of the toothpaste tube and losing socks in the laundry. How very odd they all are, but I suppose I am the odd one. But is it odd to be in a relationship with the thing that matters above all others? Is money not the most fulfilling, most rewarding of all marriages? My union with my bank accounts is all that matters to me and, at the end of the day, it’s all I have. Friends lie, girlfriends betray, parents die, but money can buy me all of those and much more.

  A vision of chestnut hair resting in long, loose waves down a narrow back briefly flashes through my mind followed by several rapid blinks back to reality. My life of solitude pleases me most of the time. I receive what I need with my clients and my off-shore bank accounts grow by the day. Yes, it is me with the envious lifestyle and they are the miserable fools. There’s no comparison; I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

  Pulling my laptop closer, I see the deposit has been made and everything is a go. I search my client’s profile and confirm via email I will arrive in my custom Armani tuxedo no later than 6:30PM in the limo for retrieval. Once the confirmation has been sent, I peruse through the client’s files in preparation for the night’s event, which consists of a boring public affair at the art institute, of all things. Just once, I’d like a client who wants to do something simple, like go to a ballgame or joyriding. But in truth, I’m needed for few things, and being the handsome date for appearances is but a small portion of what I offer for the right price.

  Tonight, I will be escorting Mirana Perez, a woman of privilege and wealth beyond measure. These types of events can sometimes be challenging as I can be recognized. As uncomfortable as it is, however, it is a small price to pay for an evening compared to the payout in the end. This make the paranoia and uncomfortable questions tolerable. Lucky for me, the rich don’t bother themselves with forgotten college athletes, and it’s not often I am put in uncomfortable situations. Those special times are mostly reserved for locals of the city.

  Glancing over Mirana’s information, I see her tycoon husband died two years ago of a massive heart attack while fishing off the coast of Maine. Her profile states her worth is close to a billion dollars, but not all of that is from the husband. Apparently, Mirana Perez is a workaholic who manages her husband’s many businesses, but she herself has a personal passion.

  At the tender at of sixteen, Mirana made it to America from Cuba with her six siblings who all received asylum. Married at seventeen, she and her husband John raised her younger four brothers and two sisters. Mirana and her husband had worked hard, saving and investing in various endeavors until finally they struck gold, or plastic in this case, with a company that produces water bottles, of all things.

  From there, it was an all-out sprint to buy up the competition. Twenty years later, Mirana finds herself widowed without children of her own, but with a passion for art she’s held secret for many years while under the pressures of caring for her family and businesses. With more than forty oil canvases just recently made public, she’s managed to set the art world a blaze with her talent. Tonight is Mirana’s first appearance since her husband’s funeral, and her long years of sacrifice are paying off as she is to be honored at a prestigious gala at Chicago’s Art Institute.

  Reserved, shy, and socially awkward, her publicist hired me to “escort” the woman for the evening; which is a broad term used to say the woman needs to get laid and has neither the time nor energy to date around. I am not only a sure bet, I am discreet, lending only support, staying away from cameras, answering no questions. I am arm candy who delivers orgasms the way online retailers do all those books.

  Mirana’s profile is light in comparison to most, but it’s telling me just enough to make certain I have all I need to make the woman’s every wish come true, at least for the evening. More than that? I would need to work up a new bid for my services, and I am not cheap. But judging by the down payment wired upon scheduling, Ms. Perez can afford me.

  I set the computer aside and begin the ritual of dressing the part of a wealthy, good looking businessman from out of town. Luckily, these types of events attract people that are satisfied with only my first name and I can make up a last. Only on occasion do I get the odd look of recognition. Of course, I can play many roles, but this is the one most women prefer as my clients are all wealthy, and I am their favorite expense. Funny how I have no problem becoming a slave for a price. For an evening or a day, whichever the case may be, they own me, and I am perfectly fine with the exchange. These women are but a means to my own wealth, and the more I make, the more I want, never satisfied.

  FOUR

  Two things have grown abundantly clear over the last few years as a male escort. One, wealthy women are, for the most part, always lonely. Their lives are intertwined with pressures of their family obligations and roles laid out before them to follow according to what’s proper, leaving no room to just be a woman. Two, the quiet ones are nine times out of ten freaks in the bedroom. Their actions are guarded, words spoken with care, but get them turned on just a little, and out comes the mistress alter ego. It’s a coin toss if it’s a turn on or what the fuck have I got myself into?

  Mirana is no different in most ways. All night, she has clung to my arm, politely shook hands, and smiled and thanked all who congratulated her on a well put together nature exhibit. Her strangely pale skin and very small frame is a bit of an oddity, but otherwise, she is pleasant enough. She is also very talented. The nature oil canvases sold out within the hour of the museum opening while many more have been ordered. Upon realizing her work isn’t a huge flop, Ms. Perez has had a few glasses of wine in an attempt to seem normal and celebratory.

  But I can see it’s
an act. I see within, and that’s why females come undone. Attractive, frail, in her early fifties with age lines marking her pretty, plain features and grace so forced, Mirana looks as if she is mentally preparing for every step taken in her stilettoes. All evening, her too thin arm has been cupped in mine, and I can feel the trembling that cannot be seen by the others. Knowing my duties well, I have lightly touched the small of her back, brushed escaped strands of dark coffee colored hair away from her face while staring intently into her disparate, hungry gaze. In those looks, I have promised a good night and, considering my fee, it’s a guarantee.

  Around midnight, we say our goodbyes to the curator, to whom I was not introduced, and the staff, who I introduced myself to in order to keep the double shots of the fifty-year-old Dalmore coming steadily. The server, an attractive young man, happily provided my drinks along with his phone number scribbled on a napkin two glasses later. Tucking the napkin in my pocket, I glanced up and winked, knowing full well he cannot afford me.

  The ride back to Mirana’s rented apartment is uneventful. She stays on her side of the limo, I on mine, both of us watching the snowfall out of our windows in silence. Sensing the quiet is needed for her sanity, I choose my way of communicating. I reach for her hand and simply hold it in mine, lightly tracing the pad of my thumb over each finger, one at a time, feeling the stiffness relax and her heartbeat speed up. Money may be the thing I can’t get enough of, will never have enough of, but this is also a part that’s addictive. The human response to being touched is something I crave like a drug.

  Once we stop, I take the lead and escort Mirana out of the car and inside the posh Chicago sky line unit. I shut the door and help her slowly out of her Valentino Mink Coat before draping it casually over the foyer table. Her body is stiff, but her eyes are begging me to take the lead. Instinctively, I touch her cheek lovingly with the back of my hand and lean to brush her lips with mine, back and forth, thrilling when her breath catches. Just as she begins to react, pressing her small breasts into me, I pull back and search her face with my best faux concerned frown.