A Night Of Mercy Page 3

  Of course, it's not just about the money, as much as I want it to be. No, the humiliation is hard to ignore. He clearly thought so little of me. And the sting of his rejection is certainly stronger than I'd care to admit. God, I really wanted him to want me. How stupid is that? I mean, yes, obviously I was attracted to him. What woman wouldn't be? But it wasn't just about that. He was so impressive, so confident and self-assured. He's the master of his universe and for just a brief second in time, I wanted him to be the master of mine.

  I pull out my iPhone, thinking to call the agency and let them know what happened. Part of me also knows I'll need to find another client so I can set up another date and go through this all over again. Just the thought makes my stomach roll. But what other option do I have?

  That's when a notification pops up on the screen. An alert from the bank where I set up an account after I signed on with the agency.

  It's saying that $30,000 has been transferred to my account.

  I blink down at the screen, positive I'm reading it wrong. I count the zeros and then I count them again. When the number doesn't change, I log on to the banking app. This morning when I checked it, my balance consisted of the meager savings I'd deposited when I opened the account. My heart wails against my ribs as I wait for the account summary page to load.

  When it does, my mouth falls open in shock. My current balance is $30,812.34. Is this a joke? A mistake? I dial the number of my boss at the agency.

  "Yes, hi, Vivian? It's Mercy Chase. Sorry to call so late, but I—"

  "Mercy, darling!" Vivian croons in her British accent. "I was about to call you. I've just gotten off the phone with Parker Callahan."

  My stomach drops. "He called you?" Oh, God. Did he tell her that I yelled at him? That I went into a blind rage and ruined his sex drive forever? Oh, God I'm gonna get fired. I'm a virgin hooker who couldn't seal the deal and I'm about to get fired.

  "Yes. He wanted to make sure you received your payment right away."

  "But—I—" Stunned, I search for words. "He left—"

  "Oh, he mentioned that. Urgent business out of state, he said. You know how it is with these businessmen, love. Anyway, you clearly managed to dazzle him in the short time you had with him. He's already booked two more dates and paid in advance. I just transferred the money to your account."

  "He did what?"

  "Isn't it wonderful! What's that?" I hear a separate, muffled voice. "Right, I'll take care of it. Mercy dear, I'm sorry but I've got to run. Kisses."

  * * * *

  At ten minutes till midnight, we pull up in front of my house. I thank the driver and offer to fix him a to-go cup of coffee for his drive back. He politely declines as he holds my door open and helps me out. He watches as I pick my way up the cobbled brick front walk to the big red front door. It isn't until I've fished my keys out of my clutch purse, unlocked the door and slipped inside that he finally drives away. I lock the door back behind me and quietly slip out of my heels before tiptoeing through the dark house.

  The family room is lit by the glow of the TV. Elena is dozing on the couch when I walk in. As I get closer to the couch, her eyes flutter open and she stares at me in a daze. After she's had a moment to process my presence, she shoots up in surprise.

  "What are you doing back?" She feels around for her cell phone and then squints down at the time. "I didn't think you'd be back until tomorrow morning."

  Elena is the only person in my life who knows about me working for the agency. The kids both think I was in the city visiting an old friend. And Dad... well. I doubt he even noticed I was gone.

  She pats the seat next to her and I plop down, head falling back with a groan.

  "Talk to me, Merce." Her voice sounds anxious. "Are you okay?"

  I peer one eye open to look at her and she appears to be as nauseated as I was earlier in the evening on my journey to Fifth Avenue. She hates what I'm doing, obviously. But she understands why I'm doing it. And she supports me. Of course, she's always supported me. Ever since we were kids. I don't know what I would've done without her this past year. She moved into the basement apartment a few months after the accident when it became clear that dad wasn't recovering nearly as fast as we'd hoped. She's tried to pay me rent, but considering she moved in to basically help me raise my younger siblings, I refuse to accept it. I look over at the nursing textbooks scattered across the coffee table. She must have fallen asleep studying.

  Fighting the pull of exhaustion, I give her a rundown of the evening.

  "So you didn't actually do anything?" she asks, looking relieved.

  "Nope," I say, popping the "p" sound with my lips. "He got called away on some kind of urgent business."

  "But he wasn't going to sleep with you anyway?"

  "That's what he said."

  "And then he gave you $30,000?"

  "Well, he paid in advance for two more dates," I say. "But essentially, yeah."

  "Holy shit," she says, running a hand through her raven black hair. "God, I was going crazy here all night. I kept having visions of you getting pawed at by some fat sweaty bald guy. And then I thought, oh God what if she ends up in a Fifty Shades kind've situation. I'm talking like whips, ball gags—

  "Yeah, Elena, I get the idea," I say with a roll of my eyes. "It wasn't like that." I pause. "He wasn't like that."

  "What was he like?"

  "He was...." I search for the right words. "I don't know. He just wasn't what I expected."

  She chews on her bottom lip. "Don't you think it's weird though? How he claims he doesn't pay for sex and then turns around and fronts you for two more dates? Talk about mixed signals."

  I snort, wishing I could tell Elena that Parker Callahan might be the king of mixed signals. But since I'm not allowed to divulge the names of clients to anyone under any circumstances, I keep my mouth shut.

  "I'm gonna go to bed." I pat her knee. "You have class tomorrow?"

  "Yeah, but I should be home by five."

  "Alright." I yawn so wide my jaw cracks. "Goodnight."

  "Night."

  On my way towards the stairs, I stop by the master bedroom. I can see the glow of the television under the door and I can hear the muffled sound of canned sitcom laughter.

  The little girl in me, the one that's scared and alone and doesn't know what to do, wants to go in there. She wants to curl up in her father's lap and sob into his shoulder. She wants him to rub her back and tell her everything is going to be okay. Wants him to tickle her sides and make funny faces until her tears give way to laughter.

  My hand ghosts over the door handle for a long second, before dropping back to my side. The father that little girl knew isn't in that room. These days, he isn't anywhere at all.

  Upstairs, I peek my head in Sophie's room. My mini-me is curled up in bed, swathed in a periwinkle blue comforter. Her chestnut hair spills across the pillow as she clings to Simba, her stuffed lion. I shut her door and then turn to ease open the one across the hall. Jason is sleeping on his back with one hand resting on his stomach. His mop of red curls is so much like our mother's it makes my chest ache.

  Jason's bedroom is essentially a shrine for New York's professional sports teams. The Mets, the Jets, and of course the New York Rangers. Between the posters, the pennants, the fatheads, and the tacked on season schedules, I doubt he has an inch of free wall space left.

  My room, at the end of the hall, hasn't changed much since I was in high school. The same tie-dyed comforter set covers the same double bed with the white iron headboard. The same dance team trophies are arranged on the white dresser mom and I picked out of the Pottery Barn teen catalogue six years ago.

  I strip out of the white dress and let it fall in a pile on the floor. The lacy underwear follows. Once I'm dressed in a big t-shirt and comfy cotton panties, I step out to the hall bath to scrub the make-up off my face and brush my teeth. By the time I stumble back to my bed, I'm dead on my feet.

  Roughly twelve seconds after my head hits t
he pillow, I am asleep— dreaming of beautiful, golden thing

  CHAPTER 6

  Parker

  I spend the entire flight to Miami pacing the length of my private jet, trying to get Mercy Chase out of my head.

  It had been an act of kindness, giving her that money. She's a young girl, clearly in over her head. Booking two more 'dates' with her as a front for sending her those funds in advance, surely that was enough to cover whatever necessity landed her in my penthouse in the first place. I even paid Mercy's boss, Vivian, a little extra to ensure that she didn't book Mercy on any more dates for the foreseeable future. The thought of that beautifully passionate, vibrant girl being sent into the clutches of the kind of men who sought out such services made me sick.

  Can you even imagine how desperate someone would have to be to sell their virginity?

  Jesus. Just the memory of her saying those words made me feel violent. Not because of her or her 'desperation' as she called it. But because of the people who willingly take advantage of women like her.

  You've done what you can for her. Move on. Now's not the time to get distracted by some girl.

  * * * *

  A car is waiting for me on the tarmac when I deplane. At five in the morning, the sky is still dark. I slip into the backseat, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on my eyeballs.

  "Where to, Mr. Callahan?"

  I let out a weary sigh. "Miami-Dade County Jail.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mercy

  "Jason! Let's go!" I holler in the direction of the stairs as I slather peanut butter on a piece of bread.

  "Is he still not down yet?" Elena asks as she comes into the kitchen with her school bag.

  "No," I grumble, wrapping up the now completed pb&j before putting it in Sophie's Doc McStuffins lunch box. "It's been impossible getting him out of bed lately. I've about knocked a dent into his door this morning."

  I steal a glance at the breakfast bar where Sophie is ignoring her yogurt and granola in favor of coloring. "Eat your breakfast, Soph."

  I wave at Elena as she walks out the door before stomping over to the bottom of the stairs. "Jason Michael Chase I'm not going to tell you again."

  Two seconds later he emerges, tearing down the stairs like the Tasmanian devil. "Coming!"

  I stop him as he tries to zoom past me. "Woah, woah. Where's your tie?"

  The St. Andrew's Catholic Day School uniform hasn't changed since my first day there, a decade and a half ago.

  For girls kindergarten to fifth grade, it’s a blue plaid dress and blue sweater. For girls sixth grade and up, it’s a white blouse, blue plaid skirt, blue tie and blue blazer. For boys K-5th, it’s khaki pants, white polo and navy sweaters. For boys sixth and up, it’s khaki pants, white oxford shirt, blue blazer, and striped blue tie.

  This is Jason's first year with the slightly more formal dress code and to say he's struggling with the change would be an understatement.

  "I hate wearing the stupid tie," he says with a shrug, blowing a lock of red hair out of his face.

  "Tough." I point towards the stairs. "Go put on a tie and then get back down here. The bus will be here in ten minutes."

  He sighs like the martyr he is and trudges up the stairs.

  Sophie calls me from the breakfast bar. "Mercy! I'm finished!"

  "You ate it all?"

  "Yes!"

  "Good job, big girl. Rinse your bowl out in the sink and then I'll fix your hair."

  I'm tying off the tail of Sophie's French braid when Jason returns from upstairs. It looks like his tie was tied by a blind man with no thumbs, but at least he's wearing one.

  I toss his New York Rangers lunch box at him before helping Sophie into her sweater. "Grab your backpack."

  "But I haven't had breakfast!"

  "Well you should have thought of that before taking forever to get out of bed!" I say before reaching into the pantry for a couple of power bars. I thrust them in his hand. "Here. Now let's go."

  Sophie and I walk hand in hand beside Jason to the bus stop at the corner just in time for them both to get on. When I get back to the house, I poke my head in the master bedroom to find dad's bed empty. I go back to the kitchen and load a tray up with cereal, fruit and coffee and take it to the screened-in back porch.

  Dad's wheelchair is facing towards the backyard while the radio rattles off a series of news headlines. "Hey, Daddy."

  He looks up at me, giving me a vague half-smile. "Hi."

  "I brought you some breakfast."

  When he doesn't say anything, I set the tray down next to him on the table and press a kiss to the top of his head. And then I leave him to himself, swallowing past the lump in my throat.

  * * * *

  That morning, I pay off six months’ worth of mortgage payments and a few of dad's outstanding medical bills. Thankfully, Jason and Sophie's tuition is taken care of for the rest of the year, but I put a good chunk away for next year's payments.

  I write a check out for Sophie's dance classes and another one for Jason's hockey coach. He'd been so devastated when I told him we might not be able to afford it this year. He may still have to use second-hand gear, but at least he'll get to play.

  By lunchtime, I've started to peruse a couple of used-car websites when the doorbell rings. When I open the front door, I'm greeted by a massive bouquet of long-stemmed roses. After taking them from the delivery man, I haul them into the kitchen and sit them on the island so I can read the card.

  Thank you for a lovely evening. — P.C.

  My reaction is instantaneous. My cheeks flush and my heart kicks into overdrive, thumping against my ribcage. Jesus. That man sure knows how to tie a girl up in knots. I take the flowers upstairs and put them on my dresser, not wanting the kids to see them. They would obviously ask who the flowers came from. And I have no clue what I'd tell them.

  That afternoon I take a bus into town to run some errands. I run by the pharmacy to refill a few of Dad's prescriptions before doing a bit of shopping for Jason's birthday. On impulse, I end up buying the latest edition PlayStation, along with a handful of games. At that point, I remind myself to cool it.

  $30,000 feels like a fortune to me, but I'll spend it in no time if I'm not careful. I take a cab home, holding the heavy box in my lap. As soon as I walk in the house, I take it upstairs and stash it in my closet.

  * * * *

  Three days later, I'm heading back into Manhattan to meet Sean Regan, a successful attorney who used to live in my neighborhood. A full six years older than me, Sean was like a big brother to me when we were growing up. And now, he's the only person I can think of to turn to for advice.

  We meet at a swanky bistro near Hyde Park. Sean is already waiting for me at a table when I arrive, his head bent over his phone. He looks up when I approach, flashing me a toothy white smile.

  "Mercy Chase?" He gets to his feet, rising to slightly above average height. He's skinnier than I remember, but he looks nice, dressed in a crisp, dove gray suit. His hair is dark in color and buzzed short, his green eyes twinkling behind a pair of black framed glasses. "Is that you?"

  "In the flesh," I say as we embrace lightly and kiss each other’s cheeks.

  He gestures at the chair across from his and I take it. "The last time I saw you, you were picking popcorn out of your braces at the Fourth of July block party."

  I laugh. "Glad I left you with such a lasting impression."

  His eyes soften just a bit in sympathy. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral."

  I take the cloth napkin folded on the table in front of me and spread it across my lap. "Don't be. It was all so sudden, you know?"

  He nods. "How are you?"

  That's quite a loaded question, Sean Regan. "I'm making it."

  "What about the kids? Your dad?"

  I take a sip of ice water. "That's actually what I was hoping to talk to you—"

  A throat clears pointedly from somewhere beside me and I turn, looking up into the face of a li
vid Parker Callahan.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mercy

  No. No, no, no! This can't be happening.

  The fact that I'm panicking must be obvious because Sean reaches across the table and puts a hand on my shoulder. "You alright, Merce?"

  Parker's gaze turns to my lunch companion and then looks back to me. "Good to see you again, Ms. Chase."

  I stare up at him, silently begging him not to say anything that might reveal the nature of our last encounter, to the son of a man who once coached my t-ball team. Surely he doesn't think Sean is a... client? Not only is it the middle of the day, but the modest sweater and skirt I'm currently wearing don't exactly scream expensive sex.

  "Mr. Callahan," I eventually croak out in a hoarse whisper.

  "Wait, are you Parker Callahan?" Sean interjects, apparently oblivious to the thick tension crackling in the air.

  Parker stiffly shifts his gaze to Sean. "I am. And you are?"

  Sean jumps to his feet, shaking Parker's hand with gusto. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Callahan. My husband is Steven Kuo, from your in-house counsel office. He just thinks the world of you."

  I watch as a wave of what looks like relief mixed with embarrassment passes over Parker's face. His eyes flash to mine briefly before returning to Sean. "Yes, well Steven is a valuable employee. A brilliant litigator. You should be proud."

  Sean beams at the praise as he returns to his seat while Parker is seated at the table directly behind ours, taking the chair closest to mine so that we’re sitting practically back to back. The urge to turn around to see who's eating with him is almost too powerful to ignore.

  "How do you know Callahan?" Sean asks in a whisper that isn't all that quiet.

  I bite my lip, feeling his presence at my back like a brand on my skin. "It's a long story."

  Before Sean can press the issue further, our waiter arrives. After we've both ordered, Sean rubs his hands together like a man ready to get down to business.