Acknowledgements

  Melanie, my wife, deserves a medal for her support and patience.

  Also special thanks to Joy Argento for her help.

  Cover art by Joy Argento. Check her work out at http://www.joysview.com

  Check me out at http://qkelly.blogspot.com and at http://qkelly.wordpress.com

  Email me at yllek_q@yahoo.com

  Strange Bedfellows

  Q. Kelly

  Ride the Rainbow Books

  www.ridetherainbowbooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced without the permission of the author.

  "Strange Bedfellows" Copyright © 2010 by Q. Kelly

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 1

  Frances hoped the prostitute would have alcohol. Surely she would. The other one, from three years ago, had. Every time. Besides, the agency had asked again about Frances's drinking preferences for a reason, right? High class, the agency. Their people knew that drinking preferences could change in three years. Not hers, though. A rum and Coke would hit the spot exactly, calm her nerves. She would have one glass. Maybe two. If she really needed a third, fine. Any more, and she refused to risk driving home.

  Frances reached the stairwell outside the Howard Johnson. She tightened her fingers around her briefcase handle. She should have worn a costume. Tonight was Halloween; with a costume, she would not look out of place. Stop worrying. You'll be fine. People hardly recognized her when she looked like this, with her glasses and with her hair down.

  Florescent lights illuminated the stairwell, and Frances found the green initials by the corner. She had noticed them last week when she staked out the Howard Johnson. Tiny initials, half the length of the tip of her pinky finger. A private, yet public, display of affection: HJK + DRS = 4ever.

  "Yeah, good luck with that," Frances muttered. She checked her watch--ten oh two. Perfect. No sense in coming across as eager. Frances ascended to the third floor, where a Coke machine welcomed her brightly.

  "Well, hello," Frances said, just to say something. To let some of her nervousness leak out. If the prostitute did not have alcohol, Coke would be good enough medicine. "Well, hello," Frances repeated. "Remember me? I was here last week. To make sure this place was okay. You know how it goes." She set down her briefcase and held her hand out. "I'm Frances Dourne."

  The prostitute would then supply a fake name. Nice to meet you. I'm Jane Doe.

  Like the Coke machine, the prostitute was red. Her hair, anyway. She had hazel eyes and a mysterious-sad smile. Not the alluring, come-hither smile of the other nineteen women in the photo album. The mysterious-sad smile was somehow honest. Too honest. Plus, the hourglass necklace the woman wore confirmed Frances's initial reaction. "Yeah," Frances told the machine. "Of all things, she wore an hourglass necklace." What would the prostitute say if she knew Frances had three hundred-plus hourglasses in a room at home?

  The Coke machine hummed.

  "A drink? Why, that’s very nice of you. Perhaps I will." Frances stepped up to the machine. Her choices were Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite and Dasani.

  I'm here visiting a friend.

  I'm here to help run an intervention.

  I'm here for a night to get away from the rat race.

  Here to meet with a prostitute? Goodness, no. Okay, maybe. But it's not what you think.

  Frances waited sixty ticks by her Mickey Mouse watch. Mickey's smirk deepened with each tick, and so did her paralysis. She should get in her car and leave. She could execute her plan herself. She did not need anyone else. Right?

  She waited another sixty ticks and envisioned her life two months from now. She would no longer be running and hiding. She would not be holding imaginary conversations with a damn Coke machine.

  Frances fished out her cellphone. She had gotten this far, an accomplishment worth documenting. Not by writing her initials on the wall. She turned so her back was to the Coke machine and extended her arm. "Say cheese!"

  Click. Snapshots flashed in her mind's eye--Nathaniel in the coffin only two weeks ago, Marissa's sobbing eleven years ago when Frances last saw her, and strangely enough, the way Frances had sex on her honeymoon night, with her clothes on.

  How she had never been completely naked with anyone.

  The picture was blurry. Mostly thumb. Figures. Frances seldom took pictures.

  Prostitute. Call girl. Frances’s chest was suddenly heavy. She was not sure why she was seeing a call girl again. A mishmash of reasons, probably. First, to tell someone her news. Once the news was out, once someone knew, the secret could not be stuffed back into its dingy old shoebox. Accountability, in other words.

  Second, to have someone in her corner, even if the person was being paid to do it. Someone to listen to her, to sympathize with her. Someone who would not look at her with a therapist’s squinty, judgmental eyes.

  Third, to have a sounding board for her coming-out plan.

  Fourth…

  Frances bit her lip and patted the Coke machine. "Goodbye. See you later." A right arrow indicated rooms 300-310. Its left-arrow counterpart indicated rooms 311-321. Frances crept right. 301. 302. 303. 304. 305. 306. 307. 308. 309. 310. Mickey informed her that she was nine minutes late.

  She needed that rum and Coke now.

  Fourth…okay, to practice. Frances wanted to be a good lover for her first girlfriend, not be a fumbling, awkward newbie. And, okay, maybe…maybe she wanted a little treat, too. Or several. But that would come later. Not at the first meeting, no siree. Probably not at all.

  Frances wondered if the prostitute was as nervous as she was. If she disgusted the prostitute. Frances was afraid she would see that something in the prostitute's eyes. The same something she saw three years ago in the other prostitute's eyes.

  Frances realized that part of her was hoping the second prostitute would be like the first. To remind Frances of the horrible things she had done, to remind Frances that she was the sort of person who had to sneak around with call girls.

  Someone not worthy of her own respect.

  Frances took a deep breath. "You're doing a good thing. The right thing." Don't ever forget that.

  *****

  Elena had meant to rest her eyes for a moment. A moment only. Best to do that than sit ramrod straight and be nervous about the new client. The new, late client. Instead of resting for a second, however, Elena closed her eyes and got to thinking about the sand again. Why was Kevin having such an impossible time understanding that her keeping the sand, not wanting to spread it, did not signal an inability to move on?

  She refused to call the remains of their son ashes, and it annoyed her how Kevin thought that was cute. The remains were light-colored bone fragments reduced by machinery, more like heavy sand than ashes, so sand was what Elena called them. How was that cute?

  A faint rap rap noise drifted to Elena. Rap, rap. Dr. Oates from college? If ever a rap could be annoying and arrogant, his was. Then Elena smelled honey and almond. Nice. Very nice. Not from the sand. Not from Dr. Oates. So from what?

  "Hello," a soft voice said, and Elena snapped her head up. A woman wearing jeans was in the middle of the room. She carried a black briefcase and a magazine.

  That damn urn, that damn sand.

  How long had the woman been there? Was she actually...

  Elena had been expecting Frances Dourne, with her trademark stern bun and bland, too-large suits.

  This woman's legs were long and lithe, giving the impression she could be a ballet dancer. Even the way she stood had a grace. Wavy blond hair fell in layers around her shoulders. She wore square, black-rimmed glasses. Elena overrode the temptation to scramble from the bed and appear further inelegant. She rose smoothly, and the mirror across from the bed confirmed that the nap had done no physical damage. No lines on her face, hair was okay, suit was not wrinkled.

  Elena found the woman's eyes through her glasses.

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  Success.

  The eyes never lied. These were Frances Dourne’s catlike, almond-shaped blue eyes. The eyes that kept her from being classically beautiful, but that made her arresting. Better than classic beauty.

  "Were you asleep?" Frances asked.

  Why lie? She knows you were asleep. "Yes," Elena said.

  Frances set down her briefcase. "I didn’t mean to be late. Traffic was, uh, you know how it is. D.C. people can’t drive."

  Elena offered a reassuring smile. At least she hoped it was reassuring. "I know how it is."

  "I didn't mean to startle you. I knocked. No answer." Frances held up the People magazine Elena had used to negate the electronic lock.

  Strike one: Letting Frances surprise you. Strike two: Being overdressed.

  Elena wore a black business pantsuit, with no hint of cleavage. The swell of her breasts and hips was barely visible. Her auburn hair was in a brisk ponytail. She wore no makeup, her usual policy, but the freckles dusting her nose and cheeks added a personal touch. Three bracelets, varying shades of green, decorated each wrist. Skimpy, sexy and lolling in bed was not the way to greet Frances Dourne. Businesslike was the approach--for now, anyway. Frances was not the kind of woman who wanted to feel like she was visiting a call girl. Elena had overdone it, however. She looked too severe. Too draconian. Too much like the image Frances herself projected to the public.

  Frances Dourne was in jeans. Jeans! The high and mighty president of Gay Is a Choice in jeans.

  Amanda, the booking agent, had said Frances was basically looking for a friend. Not sex. Frances had been clear. "No sex, no touching, no kissing," were her exact words. Not that Elena believed them. Her clients did not see her solely for sex, but they wanted sex too, oh yes they did. Some clients told Amanda they wanted a woman who would make them feel like they had a girlfriend: hang all over them, cuddle with them, praise them, cook for them. Some wanted to talk; they wanted companionship, someone to alleviate their loneliness. Some were honest about wanting sex. Some wanted to explore kinks that horrified their straitlaced partners.

  Whatever the reasons they gave Amanda, they all ended up having sex. Frances would eventually ask for it, no doubt. Possibly tonight.

  Elena took the People magazine and brushed Frances’s elbow. "Hello," Elena said, drawing the word out. Helllooo. She flashed a seductive smile, letting it say: I'm so glad you're here. Your wish is my command. She ran her tongue over her lips and lowered her hand to her breast for a slight caress. Frances fell for the gesture--who wouldn't?--but she did not let her gaze linger. She shrugged out of her coat and placed it on the bed. She wore a mock turtleneck. Interesting choice. To send off signals that she was not in a rush? That she was afraid, that they should go slow? Or did it mean she wanted to play a game?

  It's a shirt. It means squat. Analyzing an item of clothing was ridiculous.

  Frances held her hand out. "Nice to meet you. I'm Frances Dourne."

  "Pleasure meeting you, Frances." Elena caressed the name with her tongue, especially the a and the n. Another I'm here to gratify you signal, but Frances kept the handshake brisk. Businesslike.

  "Do you know who I am?" Frances asked.

  "Yes." Who doesn't?

  Frances got an envelope from her briefcase. Elena quickly verified that the full payment--$1,125 for three hours--was present. She set the envelope atop her own briefcase. She would take half the money. She would mail the rest of the cash to the post office box. From there, Amanda, the booking agent, received ten percent. The service got the rest.

  Elena touched Frances's elbow and lowered her own gaze in submission. "What can I do for you?"

  Frances stepped back, ending the contact. "Going to check the room." She examined the pillows first, plumping them with a brisk efficiency. Elena looked away. It would not do to stare. She was not sure why Frances had requested a Howard Johnson room. Specifically, a Howard Johnson in Cheverly, Maryland, right outside Washington.

  "Why here?" Elena asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You had other options. Why here?" Elena usually serviced well-known people at their homes. No risk for them being recognized, but she could see how inviting a prostitute home was awkward. She worked with most of her clients at the Four Seasons hotel the service used in Georgetown. The place was dependable. Known logistics. But expensive. Maybe Frances was trying to save a buck where she could, despite having millions of dollars to her name. Some people were like that. Perhaps Frances felt safer at the HoJo. More like she was on home turf, because she picked the place. Maybe it held personal significance for her.

  "Why here?" Frances echoed. She clasped a pillow to her chest. "I searched a travel site. This place came up, I think third. Or fourth. It's out of the way, but not too out of the way. Not too crowded. Not too simple, not too fancy. Decent neighborhood. Is this okay?"

  "Fine, fine. Perfect. You're safe here."

  "Should I have…"A shadow lurked in Frances's eyes. "You want the Four Seasons. Of course you do. You're used to finer things. I apologize. I'll find a nicer place. But not the Four Seasons. Too prominent. People will recognize me and--"

  "This is fine, I promise. Like you said, here isn't too fancy. Not too simple. It's the right amount of out of the way."

  Frances replaced the pillow. "I went to someone about three years ago. From your agency, too. Another, uh..."

  "Prostitute. Hooker. Call girl. Whore." Elena was violating a big rule: never say what was what. Use code words. Code names. You never knew who was wearing a wire. Or where wiretaps were. Frances was the kind of woman who would appreciate her honesty, though. Her bluntness. That meant better tips.

  "Yes. Prostitute. Hooker. Call girl. Whore. I actually--" Sheepish grin. "For the other one, I took out a six-month lease on a furnished apartment, just for our sessions. Isn't that silly?"

  "Not necessarily. You probably saved money in the long run."

  Frances inclined her head. She was a hundred and ten percent seriousness. All business. "Would you prefer I lease another apartment?"

  "Here is fine. Really. I only asked why here to make conversation."

  Frances wet her lips. "The bed seems all right. Spacious."

  Elena's stomach fluttered. Was Frances flirting? Testing the waters? In a few minutes, perhaps the next minute, even, Elena would be touching Frances sexually. What was this? Part of her job was smiling, grinning, flirting, putting her clients at ease. She was a two-and-a-half-year veteran, not a dewy-eyed new whore. She did not get stomach flutters.

  Until now.

  Another sign she needed out of the trenches. On the other hand, none of her other clients had been Marissa's mother, tears replayed on CNN for days and days.

  To be fair, none of her other clients had been this beautiful a woman, or this hidden of a person. Elena was going to know a Frances Dourne no one else did. Happened with pretty much every regular client. For example, hard-nosed business execs and chief executive officers turned sweet and soft. One had cried about the death of his childhood dog, a death more than forty years past. Lamar, the dog’s name was. Chocolate lab. The man was CEO of a major defense contractor. Best friend ever, the man said. Best, best, best friend ever, he added, weeping, and then wondering: Why am I thinking about him now? I haven’t in years.

  Elena had whispered: "It’s okay; you’re safe here, sweetie."

  Elena went to Frances, slipped her arms around Frances's waist. Their breasts pressed into each other. They were about the same height, five feet seven inches. Frances felt solid. Substantial. Elena brought her lips to Frances's ear. "You smell good," Elena murmured. The honey and almond had to be lotion.

  Frances broke away, and Elena found herself disappointed.

  "Please don't," Frances said. "Don’t touch me." She got a deck of cards from her briefcase. "Like I said, the bed has lots of room. Want to play rummy? And do you have alcohol?"

  The bed seems all right. Spacious. Cards, my ass.