Karma: Quick-Read Series, #4

By Allison M. Azulay

A gigolo smells trouble when his texted instructions lead him to a vaguely familiar woman.  Soon, he finds himself caught in a game that is no harmless fantasy, and he takes desperate measures to save the reputation of a Washington rookie politician he had mistaken for a client.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ALLISON MARGARET AZULAY
• Release date: Feb 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781989215586

Allison M. Azulay

Born to Canadian parents of mixed, predominantly British heritage, Allison M. Azulay spent her formative years in a village outside of the capital city of Ottawa and her teen years in the steel city of Hamilton, Ontario. Like her mother, she read voraciously, and she composed stories of her own at home as well as in school. Later, encouraged by her husband to explore her ideas and talents, she wrote poems, short stories, children's storybooks for relatives, and more. After the death of her husband, she began to write and independently publish novels and short stories.

Book preview

1

MISTAKES

ISHOULD HAVE KNOWN .  Terry was a schmuck at the best of times, and these were by no means the best of times.  He was headed for rehab, and he asked a couple of us to take his gigs while he cleaned out.  I agreed.  I should have known better.

OLDER WOMEN HAD ALWAYS BEEN MY SPECIALTY.  Not that I liked them any more than I liked the younger ones; I just found it easier to play the game with them.  And they knew the score; so, most never expected more than I could give.  A few suggested marriage—a boy toy they could have at their beck and call—but I made it clear I wanted no strings, and all save one settled for regular visits and the odd weekend in the Caribbean or Switzerland.  That one persistent old broad, though, was a whiney pain in the ass for a year before a stroke took her and ended my torment.

Yeah, I know.  I’m a heartless bastard.  You have to be in this business.  And I suppose I come by it naturally, thanks to my mother and her friends.

Friends.  Mom never had a friend in her life.  She used people and that’s a fact.  She used me, and that’s a fact, too.  Not that I minded, at first.  Hell, at fifteen, getting laid regularly was a kid’s dream come true.  And we did need the money.

I was already tall at twelve and grew to six-foot-four, so I tend to stand out in a crowd.  Muscular even as a teenager, well tanned, with black hair I keep long and tied at my nape.  And I’m handsome; all my ladies tell me with their eyes if not their words.

But Mom was my first.  She called it training and, for all it felt great, it also felt...unnatural.  Wrong.  I guess that’s why I numbed myself inside.  It was the only way I could get it up with her after that first time.  And once she started bringing customers home, I avoided her as best I could.  But she had needs, and I was the only guy available back then.

But that’s all old news and I don’t think about it much anymore.

I suppose you could say I forgave her.  Not that I ever really begrudged her in the first place.  I even went to her funeral.  She’d overdosed along with her latest man, and the two had lain in the dump they lived in for a week before somebody finally decided to find out what that smell was.

I hadn’t seen her for years; that’s why I hadn’t realized she was using.  I’d been sending her cash every month, not knowing I was feeding the habit that would kill her.  I guess some would call that karma.

But, like I said, that’s all old news and not my problem.

The present:  Now, that’s my problem.

IT HAD ALL SEEMED NORMAL ENOUGH, though normal is not a word that remotely applies.  The agency texted me to take a plane to Washington and wired me the tickets and reservations for a hotel in D.C.  Normally, I stay as far from that hellhole as I can.  A nest of sickos and weirdos, that town, just like L.A. and New York—and that’s not counting the perverts.  Three places I don’t even like to visit, much less work in.  Just sitting in the airport on a layover makes me want to take a long shower.

But I’d promised Terry I’d take his regulars and, for all he was an asshole, he was the only friend I had.  Besides, the boss was still pissed at me for refusing a poor-little-rich-girl out of Chicago looking for action during her vacation in the south.  The sonofabitch had finally admitted I was right:  She was underage.  But the new management (the company I’d signed on with years ago got bought out a few months back) doesn’t give a damn about precautions; they’re just in it for the money.  And while I’d already decided to go independent, I needed extra cash to tide me over till I established myself in another city.

So, when I got the call to take one of Terry’s out-of-town specials, I figured I could make an exception to my personal rule this one time.

Should have known better.

THE ADDRESS I RECEIVED BY TEXT took me to a rundown section of Georgetown full of abandoned three-storey houses that had once been the elegant town homes of politicians and magnates.  It didn’t surprise me that I’d been directed here, because I’d read that a program of rehabilitation had been initiated and many a junior politician and bureaucrat was taking advantage of the low prices for the fixer-uppers.

I passed the brownstone at a crawl, checking it out, and I noticed a light on upstairs, on the second floor.  No illumination anywhere else, but I figured she was alone and getting herself ready for me.  So I continued on around the block and checked the time on my dash.  Couple of minutes yet.  I eased to the edge of the alley, turned off the headlights, and cut the engine.

I wanted a cigarette.  But I’d been trying to quit and I hadn’t brought any with me; so, I just stepped out of the car, locked it, and walked around to the front entrance.

Most of the houses were dark.  Only two at the end of the block, on the opposite side of the street, appeared inhabited.  Good.