Chapter 4

SIX WEEKS LATER

“Jack? I mean, Carter? It’s Renée. How are you? Great. I’m on a Bahamian island, it’s called Great Exuma. Yeah, I know—it’s a weird name, but the beaches here are completely spectacular.”

“You’re the spectacular one, Ren.”

“Quit it. But thanks. I’m darker now than you remember me.”

“Tan lines?”

“Some, I might want you to inspect them. I always had my bottoms on.”

“Oh, wow. Ah—you’re derailing my concentration. Mm. You’re telling me your vacation is winding up and you want to come meet with me?”

“Exactly. I believe Delta flies directly to Atlanta from this island. If I get a ticket, can you pick me up?”

“I’ll send my guy Martin, he will hold up a sign with your name and bring you here. Is that OK?”

“Of course. Can I text you the details when I book the flight?”

“That would be great. Are you good on your finances?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m great. I’ve missed you, my friend.”

“Oh, me too. Have a good flight.”

At this point, I had no idea how my meeting with Ren would go. Weeks ago, I had mentioned options like working and college. Or would she continue working as an escort?

Wealth taught me the thin line between helping and creating dependency. Years ago I helped fund a small clinic; when the primary donor died they expected me to bail them out. I kept them afloat for a few months, made it clear it was temporary, and then watched the place collapse anyway.

In Ren’s case, I might have extended a blank check to her and she could take advantage, such as being a college student but hooking instead of studying. I was taking a chance on what I learned during our brief hours together.

Two days later, I paced my foyer nervously, waiting for her to arrive. Martin met her at arrivals while holding up her name on a placard and her bag was in the trunk just minutes later. On the drive to the house he texted me: “RL in car. Quiet. Smiling.”

I pictured her watching the guardhouse and the parade of big homes on the way to my cul-de-sac.

At the front entry he opened Ren’s door so she could step out. I watched the front camera feed on my phone as she stood by the car, adjusted her sunglasses, then scanned the house’s façade—roofline down to the steps—like she was making sure it was real. She nodded, slung her bag over her shoulder, and followed Martin to the door.

She didn’t step forward at first; her fingers traced one deeply carved door as she took in the space. The ceiling soared two stories above us, polished marble floors shining under the lights. I suddenly understood how overwhelming the place must look—particularly after stepping out of a luxury car and seeing my mansion’s exterior. Then she exhaled and walked all the way inside, and Martin swung the doors closed behind her.

I couldn’t suppress an audible gasp. She warned me, but her darker skin tone was still a surprise—enough that she could be taken for a Latina now. I noticed her long black hair was now showing brown highlights: from the sun ... or added?

“As ever, Ren, you look amazing.”

“You’re looking hot, too. Even more muscular, I think. Like you could pick me up with one hand.”

“Probably. Did Martin take good care of you?”

“Oh, absolutely. While driving, he tried to warn me about the mansion you live in. But he undersold all of this, well, luxury. I never even imagined a home like this existed.” With a hint of sarcasm, she asked, “So ... guest room, or should I get a hotel?”