Chapter 4

If something is important enough for a plan, it's important enough for a backup plan. I learned that from watching reruns of the A-Team when I was a kid. Getting back together with my boyfriend William was very important to me.

So I had a plan, Plan A, which was to go to the library and have a talk with him. I knew he'd be working, and his answering machine wouldn't be able to stop me, nor would his roommate, Donald. It would just be me and William and he'd have to listen to me as I explained everything, calmly, coolly, and carefully.

Plan B was almost exactly like Plan A, except it was the backup plan, so it happened on Tuesday. It was basically the same as Plan A actually, except there was a lot more begging involved on my part. If William wouldn't listen to reason and admit that he still loved me, well, maybe I could sway his heart with pity. Or that was the theory anyway.

I went to my first class Monday morning, but all I could do was fidget and stare at the clock. I was so anxious waiting for the day to pass so I could see William that I just couldn't sit still, and I knew some of the other students, and maybe even the professor, thought I'd been jerking off probably. But I hadn't, sex was the furthest thing from my mind right then, which may seem like a strange thing to say, granted, but true nonetheless. I sat there dry as a bone, watching the clock impatiently and wasting an hour of my life.

After that experience, I just gave up on my classes for the rest of the day, deciding I needed better distractions than sitting in a classroom listening to some old guy telling me how the world was supposed to work. I needed something to take my mind off what was coming, and failing that, I thought I could at least do something positive about it. A girl of action, yeah, that was me. Right.

I headed off campus to find some flowers. I'd thought about the poetry thing, but that seemed kind of iffy. I knew what sort of flowers William liked anyway; being a guy, he liked roses, but his taste in poetry? Who knows what other people like? Plus he knew a whole lot more about that stuff than I ever would, so I didn't want to run the risk of picking out something really cheesy. But flowers? A dozen roses, that's what the situation called for in my expert opinion. I just hoped I had enough money. I didn't know exactly how much roses might cost, but they probably weren't cheap or they wouldn't mean as much, right?

I grabbed all the cash I had, about $238.47 and walked off campus, heading towards the shops and stores that constituted the local chamber of commerce. Mostly they were geared towards the college crowd, music stores, vintage clothing, little head shops selling clove cigarettes and the occasional water bong, just in case you liked your 'tobacco' real mellow. And of course there had to be a florist, several of them in fact, because there were always girls like me who needed to get back together with guys like William.

"Hmmm..." I stood in front of a big glass refrigerator, scratching my head because that's the universal signal for a woman in distress. The guy working the flower shop knew it well and it wasn't long before he walked over with a helpful, even sympathetic smile.

"Can I help you find something?" he asked pleasantly and I nodded.

"Yeah, um, I need some roses. What do the colors mean?"

I'd been looking at a rainbow of roses, white, black, blue, green, yellow, even red, although I wasn't sure why anyone would want red roses. Maybe for a funeral or something and I made a note of that in case something went terribly wrong later.

"Um, well, the white ones are mostly for romance," he made it sound like a question, "since they're, you know ... white?"

"Like the virgin thing." I nodded, looking at him just to see if he'd blush, but he didn't.

He just giggled and I wondered why he wasn't in school. He looked cute in his green apron and white blouse, but he looked about twelve-years-old too. Sort of a petite young man, you know? He wore a name tag shaped like a daisy or something and it said Peter on it.

"The blue ones are like for sick people? Or uh, if you have a baby and it's a girl, you give your husband blue roses."

"And pink ones for a boy. Okay." That seemed pretty obvious.

"Right," he smiled. "You, um ... You didn't have a baby, did you?"

"No!" I gave him a little laugh and then a look up and down. "Not yet. Why?"

"What?" Peter did blush then. "Uhhh ... Oh! Black ones are for apologies and stuff like that, and..."

"Apologies? So like if I wanted to apologize to my boyfriend for something, I'd get him black ones?"

"Yeah. Exactly," he nodded, brushing his brown hair back as it fell into his eyes. "Or white ones ... or both sometimes. Lots of people like to mix them up."

"Black, huh." I pondered that. "Why black?"

"I don't know," Peter shrugged.

"It's the shadow of guilt," a familiar voice said and I turned around and almost didn't recognize the young man standing there. "The renaissance painters used to darken their subjects, or place them in shadow if they were guilty. Like Judy Iscariot in the painting of the Last Supper."

"Wow! Cool." Peter smiled, nodding his head. "Thanks. I didn't know that."

"If the person you give one to accepts it, he's supposed to pull the petals off, tossing them into the wind as a symbol of forgiveness," the man explained. "A lost custom, I'm afraid."

"Valentine?" I asked, licking my lips nervously.

He was dressed differently, of course, wearing a yellow sundress that seemed practically sheer as the morning sun streamed though it. His blonde hair still lay across his shoulders in a perfect French curl though, and his eyes were still wonderfully green and smiling into mine. He looked even more beautiful than I remembered and as I suddenly recalled everything, I felt my cheeks redden. What did a girl say to the prostitute she'd pay for once upon a time and not so long ago?

"I thought it was you," Valentine nodded with a cheerful smile, holding his purse in front of him with both hands. "Hi, Jennifer."

"I'm ... I was just, uh ... I'm buying flowers," I said, feeling utterly helpless.

"But not for me." He laughed lightly and Peter gave us curious looks.

"For my boyfriend, William," I explained, not really sure what sort of ground I was treading on.

"Ah!" Valentine nodded again. "Good, we like flowers." Valentine reached out and gave my hand a little squeeze, surprising me.

"I'm just trying to figure out which kind," I shrugged. "Um, you wouldn't happen to..."

"You want advice from me?" he asked with a precious giggle. It seemed flirtatious, but innocent too and if I hadn't loved William so much...

"Well," I grinned. "Yeah."

Valentine had to be just about the most sophisticated person I'd ever met, really. Like he didn't belong in this little town at all, you know?

"Hmmm..." Valentine pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes a little, looking at the flowers, " ... roses for your boyfriend, right?"

"Uh-huh," I agreed.

"Making up with him?"

"Yeah. Sorta, um ... Yeah," I sighed.

"White would be best," he told me. "For your boyfriend."

"White." I nodded.

"But if it were me?" Valentine turned his beautiful face to look into my eyes. "I'd want the red ones."

"Red? For you?" Peter asked and the salesboy sounded shocked.

"Why red?" I asked him.

"Because red is the color of passion," Valentine smiled. "They're for secret loves, not husbands or boyfriends."

"I thought they were for funerals," I admitted, feeling foolish.

"Yellow is for funerals," the boy next to me shrugged. "Red is for, uh ... gallants."

"Yes," Valentine smiled at the look on Peter's face. "Give her a dozen white ones, with baby's breath..." he looked at me, " ... a dozen?"

"Uh, yeah," I nodded. "How much are they?"

"They're $8.50 each," Peter said, "That's $108.12 including tax."

"Let me have one red one too," I said, making up my mind on the spur of the moment. "Uh, separately."

"For me?" Valentine smiled. "You'll spoil me, Jennifer!" He laughed, clutching my arm briefly, and I seriously doubted I could ever spoil him.

"No problem," Peter said with a small laugh as he started selecting roses from the refrigerator. He probably saw all sorts of weird customers though, even college girls buying roses for prostitutes.

"Do you want to have lunch with me?" Valentine asked as we waited for the flower boy to do his job.

"Lunch?" I blinked at him. "I don't want to, um ... you know ... ah..."

"It's okay," Valentine giggled. "I'm not working right now. Just lunch, I promise."

"Uh, sure. Okay," I nodded, and I suppose part of me felt disappointed that he'd meant it so literally, but I was glad Valentine hadn't tried to talk me out of another hundred dollars too. I seriously doubt I could have said no more than once.

"So, now you have to tell me what happened," Valentine decided. We were seated in an outdoor restaurant, Trattoria Manzo, an Italian restaurant with red and white canopies over the tables.

"About what?" I asked innocently.

"About why you have to buy a dozen roses for your boyfriend." He smiled. "It couldn't have been me, so... ?"

"Oh, no. It's nothing." I shook my head.

"Maybe I can help." Valentine leaned across the table touching my hand. "I know an awful lot about boys, believe me."

He had a point there, but I wasn't sure talking to him about my boyfriend was necessarily a good idea. I did have some feelings for Valentine, although I wasn't comfortable with them and I did my best to hide them away. I remembered telling the man I loved him, and that was enough to redden my cheeks noticeably. Falling in love with a prostitute had to be some sort of cliché, didn't it? But Valentine had shrugged it off so easily, and not without some small amount of grace. Perhaps I wasn't the first customer who'd told him that and the thought made me vaguely jealous.

"Uh-hmmm..." I cleared my throat, looking down at his small hand holding mine. "He loves me, but he's graduating this year and, uh, well, he thinks we're too close." I shrugged. "That we'll get too close and when he has to leave, um ... when he has to leave me, it'll be too painful or something."

"So he broke up with you?" Valentine asked.

"Yeah, he broke up with me," I agreed with a sigh. "And he won't even talk to me about it." Which I suppose was what really bothered me most of all.

"Too close..." Valentine looked at me. "You mean if you have sex?"

"I don't know." I sighed. "He's a virgin so, yeah, maybe." I paused for a second. "But I wouldn't ever do anything, you know, force him or whatever."

"I know." Valentine gave me a supportive smile.

We stopped talking while the waiter took our order. Valentine wanted to order for me, since all I knew of Italian food was spaghetti, lasagna, and pizza, and I'd heard once that pizza wasn't even really Italian, so maybe I knew even less than I thought I did.

"Hey, that stuff with the roses and the paintings, how do you know so much about that?" I asked, trying one of the warm breadsticks that the waiter had left behind.

"I'm an artist," Valentine said. "I used to work on canvas, oils mostly, but now I like to sculpt."

"Porcelain?" I guessed and he rewarded me with his brilliant smile. "I saw the dolls and the figurines."

"Yeah, I did those," he nodded. "I want to go to Italy, to Florence. There's a famous school there, specializing in sculpture and porcelain."

"So you should be an art major," I suggested, "not a ... What was it? A psych major?"

"Ah, well, I lied about that," Valentine laughed. "I was a psych major once, but I dropped out. I wanted to make money and chase the dream..."

"Rather than spend money and end up chasing the clock, right?"

"Exactly," he shrugged. "I make good money, working..." he gave me a little smile, dropping his eyes modestly, " ... and I save quite a bit. I don't have any real expenses except my apartment."

"So when are you going to Italy?" I asked, not teasing him at all.

"Next year." Valentine's green eyes were shining with intent. "I've sent samples of my work, arranged letters of introduction through a gallery in San Francesca."

"A gallery, huh?" I nodded, wishing I was smart enough to really appreciate what Valentine was explaining to me.

"Yeah, I show my work there. Once in awhile they sell something, and that's always nice," he said. "But it hasn't made me rich."

"It's a start, right?" I smiled at him.

"It's a start," Valentine agreed.

We ate our meal, smiling and talking and becoming intimate, I think, without realizing it. We talked about our families and friends and growing up and plans for the future. Valentine was charming and beautiful all the while and he somehow seemed to bring out the best in me, or so it seemed. I couldn't remember feeling so comfortable with a boy, not even William until I'd known him several months at least. I couldn't imagine it was simply because Valentine was a prostitute and must have had more than a fair share of people skills, it had to be something else, something deeper, and it confused me.

"Do you want to come up to my apartment?" Valentine asked softly, leaning close across the table.

We'd finished our meal and sat there, sipping wine and smiling and paused in our conversation. Not one of those awkward pauses, but one of the good sort, the gentle, natural pauses in which we seldom indulge for lack of confidence.

"I thought you weren't working," I said, and immediately regretted it with a blush, but Valentine just giggled and I felt his bare foot rubbing my leg under the table.

"I'm not." He licked his passion red lips.

I stared at him for a long moment, thinking about William, or trying to at least. There was little doubt that I loved William, but my emotions were awash with desire for Valentine. He seemed too perfect, just sitting there. I hadn't looked for flaws, but how hard were they to find in another person, really? Usually not very and we would overlook them, or make our own silent excuses and forgive them, but Valentine ... There was nothing about the man I could find disagreeable to my nature, even knowing that he had sex for money couldn't stain my image of him.

"Yes." I let out the breath I was holding. "I want to come up to your apartment very much."

I insisted on paying for the meal, which had been exquisite, although that had more to do with Valentine's company than anything else. I wouldn't remember what I'd eaten a year or even a month later, but I'd remember his eyes, his smile and laugh. I'd remember him forever.

While we waited for the waiter to return, Valentine opened the small clear plastic box his single red rose had been packaged in, tied shut with a thin red ribbon.

"No one has ever given me a rose before." He smiled at me, holding up with his fingers just beneath the half opened bud and the remainder of the long stem curving down.

"I don't believe you," I laughed.

"Not a single rose, not once," he assured me.

"I should have bought you a dozen," I said, meaning every word of it.

"No, I've had a dozen." He smiled at the flower and his voice was soft. "This is better. It means more to me than a dozen roses ever would." His eyes lifted, looking into mine through a veil of golden hair. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said, feeling self-conscious for some reason, but every time he looked at me like that I felt ... not inadequate, not that, Valentine gave me confidence. I felt as though I wanted to be a better person; to be the person that he was seeing when he looked at me.

"I'm going to carry it like this," he giggled. "And hold your hand and everyone will know I'm your gallant. Not your husband. Not your boyfriend, but your lover."

"Are you?" I couldn't help but ask for fear that he was teasing me.

"Today I am." Valentine smiled and for the first time perhaps I saw something shy behind his eyes. "Tomorrow you can tell me."

The waiter returned and we left, with Valentine as good as his word, carrying the rose close to his chest and holding me close as well. I had my arm around his waist, as we walked the few blocks to his apartment. A gallant, pronounced in the French tradition, was a role much like that of a mistress, although there were rather more of the former than the latter, of course. And doubtless Valentine was playing with me, since a woman would be expected to provide for her gallant and I had barely the means to buy us lunch. But it was a very fine illusion and I enjoyed the man's attentions very much, even if I didn't understand why they should be mine.

"Why me?" I asked, standing close to Valentine in his apartment, holding him in my arms much as I had on my previous visit. "What did I do to deserve this? To deserve ... you?"

"Because you have to ask," Valentine sighed into my ear. "You're so sweet..."

He kissed me, pressing his lips to mine and I groaned into his mouth, pulling him hard against me so that I could feel my hard nipples against his chest through the t-shirt I wore. Valentine's tongue was wet and long, moving slowly around mine, and he had his hands low on my back, to my ass so that our hips pressed together. I felt his hard cock, barely contained beneath the thin cotton of his dress, grinding against my crotch.

Morning had changed to early afternoon by this time and sunlight streamed through the large windows behind the brass bed, filtered by scarlet curtains to give the room a warm, passionate glow. All around us were the porcelain dolls and figurines Valentine had crafted with his own delicate fingers. Soft music played and all I could feel and taste and smell was the man in my arms.

When Valentine began undressing me, I didn't resist. I moved as he desired, allowing his hands to roam where they would, lifting my shirt over my head so that we broke our kiss briefly, both of us smiling and flushed and panting for air. He tossed my shirt carelessly, returning us to kiss again as his hand found my breasts, caressing my body and making me shiver momentarily. My nipple was swollen and stiff beneath Valentine's thumb and I felt his other hand lower, working blindly at my pants.

"I want to suck you," Valentine breathed, undoing the zipper of my trousers and slipping his hand inside to feel the moist warmth of my sex.

"God yessss..." I hissed between my teeth, guiding the man down to kneel in front of me with a wonderful sense of déjà vu. He undressed me, just as he had the night I'd been with him, taking his time and making a sensual ceremony of the simplest acts imaginable.

The air felt cool on my skin, but the warmth of Valentine's breath felt even better and he kissed my thighs, his hands moving up and down on my calves, stroking the short dark hair curling from my skin. He teased me with his mouth, kissing around my sex, at the tops of my leg, across the swell of my pubis, and around to the other side.

"Like this..." Valentine was whispering, turning me with his soft hands on my hips, until I was turned completely and he knelt behind me.

Goosebumps broke out across my skin as he kissed the back of my thighs and finally my ass, dragging his teeth across the round swell of my cheeks. Valentine bit me, kissed and sucked at my skin, his hands in constant motion and finally spreading my ass so his mouth could delve into the soft warmth hidden there. I'd never had a rim job in my life and Valentine pressed his hand to the small of my back, reaching higher and urging me silently to bend over, thrusting back with my hips to present the man my most private places.