Sleep and dream about my night off and away from the sexually crazed, desperate women of Chicago.
JOSETTE
It’s taunting me.
The damn calendar entry is a constant reminder of how pathetic my life truly is. Well, maybe not pathetic. But definitely lacking in social engagements. At least, ones that aren’t work-related.
The retirement party for one of the founding partners is Saturday.
And it’s shaping up to be another blown opportunity to demonstrate to the partners I’m stable and reliable enough to be considered as a new partner. After busting my ass for them as a clerk during law school, and another five years as an associate, I’ve brought in more business than some of the damn partners.
Yet, they still don’t take me seriously as a partner candidate. The misogyny runs deep. These old codgers don’t believe a young, unmarried woman is partner material, no matter how good I am at my job or how much money I make for them.
Assholes.
I could sue them for sexual discrimination, but aside from the misogynist shit, I actually like working here. I have great co-workers, great benefits, and I’m free to do pretty much whatever I want. I don’t want to throw away all the hard work and long hours I’ve put in to establish my client base. But I need to do something. I can’t bust my ass for another five years of my life knowing there’s no potential for advancement. There’s no way I’m moving up in the firm without at least a stable relationship.
Which means I’m screwed, because it’s not like I have time to date.
Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I went on one. It was probably Jake whatever his last name is, and God, that had to be…what…eighteen months ago? Working eighty hours a week doesn’t really leave time for relationships. Other than the one I have with my BOB.
Which reminds me…I need more batteries.
I drop my face in my hands. God, I am pathetic. My life revolves around work and a battery-operated boyfriend.
Something needs to change.
I let my hands fall, and my gaze returns to the calendar. Only this time, it’s not the party reminder my eyes are drawn to, it’s a phone number scrawled along the side margin.
When Ginger told me about Made to Order, I thought she was full of shit. How in the world is there a male escort service in Chicago? Do women actually use it? I mean, what kind of woman pays a man for sex?
And I figured she had to be fucking with me when she told me her boyfriend, Dylan, used to be employed there, as something other than a butcher. He seemed perfectly normal when I met him at The Brown Bottle when Ginger dragged me there for dinner after work one night. Ginger got a kick out of my disbelief and assured me it was true, and that she actually met him because her sister booked her a date through Made to Order.
I’m glad things worked out for her, I really am. Dylan seems like a really amazing guy, and I love seeing her so happy. But come on, I’m a fucking lawyer.
I know escort services are legal as long as nothing sexual occurs, but hiring somebody to be my date is just so…I don’t know…sleazy. Plus, there’s no way sex isn’t happening with these guys. Ginger confirmed as much for me. So, getting involved with Made to Order, even for just a date, would be putting me in concert with illegal activities. And that is so not kosher.
Besides, even if I did book a date, no way I could pass off an escort as a legitimate romantic partner. My bosses would never buy it…would they?
Ginger insists the level of “cuts” they have is unlike anything I could ever imagine and that I’ll be surprised by their “quality.” But I can’t say I believe it. How could anyone I would actually be able to pass off as a date work as an escort?
When she slipped the menu underneath my office door this morning, I almost shit myself. It’s one thing to mention it to me over lunch—far, far away from the office—but she actually brought that thing into the firm. She’s lucky she’s an amazing assistant, otherwise I would smack her upside the head for bringing it here.
Instead, I quickly perused the menu and scribbled the phone number along the side of my calendar before I shredded the evidence.
Good thing my industrial shredder doesn’t leave anything for the cleaning crew to piece back together…
Dammit.
I don’t want to do it. Just thinking about calling and actually paying for a date has my stomach churning worse than before final exams in law school. But I don’t have a choice. It’s this or slave away for another five to ten years and maybe never make partner.
My hand shakes as I pick up the phone from my desk and then immediately slam it down.
Jesus Christ, I almost called from the work line.
Epic face-palm.
I’m not cut out for this cloak and dagger criminal shit.