Free Bad Behavior #1: Tales of an American Gigolo by Childers Lewis Page B

she's waiting by the curb for a taxi, dressed in a short, straight skirt and white blouse. She shoots me a smile, and I smile back because that's the kind of guy I am—friendly.
    “Heading to work?” she asks. Her voice is sweet, melodic, tainted with innocence.
    I shake my head. “Running errands.”
    “I’m Chloe.” She extends a hand, and I take it. Her grip is surprisingly firm and warm.
    “Nice to meet you.” I don’t give her my name. Names only lead to trouble.
    “Would you like to get some coffee? I don’t have to be at work for another hour.” Round, hopeful eyes lock on mine.  
    I stare back at her, feeling like a wolf in the presence of a sacrificial lamb. The sinner inside me wants to accept her offer, but the saint draws rein. I’ve been down this street before, and it leads to heartbreak—for her.
    “There’s a place around the corner, I think. I just moved here a few weeks ago.” She tucks a strand of brown hair behind her small, pink ear. “I still can’t find my way around.”
    “It’s that way.” I point in the opposite direction. In spite of my reservations, I can’t help smiling at her wholesome appeal.
    “Oh. Right.” Twin patches of red bloom in her cheeks. “I keep getting lost. The city—it’s so big. I’m from a small place in Indiana, you know? Chicago is on a completely different playing field than my hometown." I lift an eyebrow, and her blush deepens. "That was way too much information, wasn't it? I'm sorry." She rolls her eyes, and I fight back the urge to laugh at her cuteness.
    “You’re fine. No worries.” The phone inside my jeans pocket vibrates. I send the call to voicemail then give Chloe a nod before heading toward my car parked at the end of the block. Once I’m behind the wheel, I take a second to listen to the message. It’s Geneva calling with a referral.  
    As I hit redial on the phone, I watch Chloe. She tries without success to flag down two cabs. Neither gives her the time of day. She glances at her watch. Her shoulders droop. A woman’s voice answers on the other end of my call.
    “Good morning, Bastien,” she purrs. “How’s my boy this morning?”
    “Great. Enjoying my new car. How are you?" As I run a finger around the leather stitching on the steering wheel, Chloe hops up and down on the curb, waving at an approaching taxi like a mad woman. I chuckle.  
    “Honey, if I got any better, it would be illegal.” Her cultured voice washes over me. “But enough about me, I’m calling because I have a friend who’d like to meet you.”
    "Cool. Appreciate it." Good old Danvers. Not only did she save me from taking a wrong turn in life, but she is also responsible for half of my clients. Without her, I'd still be selling pot on a street corner in Garfield Park. "She's down with the terms?"
    “Yes. No problem.” She hesitates before speaking again. “Her husband is out of town on business. If you could work her in, she’d be very, very grateful.”
    I only accept new clients by referral. A guy in my line of work can't be too careful. Word of mouth is the best and safest advertising. "Okay. I'll see what I can do."
    “Shit, I’m late for court. I’ll see you Thursday.” She hangs up the phone, and I punch in the new prospect’s number.
    “Hello?” A woman answers on the second ring.
    "Hi, I'm calling for Mrs. Smith." Most women don't give their real names to protect their privacy, not at first.
    “Yes, this is Mrs. Smith.” The voice is soft-spoken, has a Texas drawl, and shakes a little. Obviously, she’s nervous, so I try to put her at ease. She clears her throat. “Are you—the consultant?”
    “Yes.” That’s me. Manwhore. Gigolo. Escort. I’m all those things and then some. “When would you like to get together?”
    “Is tonight okay?” I hear the frown in her voice. From the cadence of her speech and the precision of her diction, I’d peg her for an unhappily married woman in her forties. Probably got a few