Revenge for Christmas

"What about Art?"

"Let's not think about Art. Let's think about you. I don't think Hodges is going to give up on his need for revenge."

"How will be get down to the town? The helicopter—"

"Snowmobile. You didn't think that the helicopter would be our only means of transportation, did you? I'll take you down to town, but we won't check on flights for a couple of days, unless you insist. It's Christmas. Bad for travel tickets anyway. I have a small house in Steamboat Springs. If you—"

"Yes," I answered.

He indeed had an A-frame cottage in Steamboat Springs. And, surprise, surprise, there was a fireplace, with a Christmas tree beside it and a rug in front of the fireplace. Not an animal skin; something synthetic. But it didn't matter. He fucked me on his faux animal skin for two days. But he never once touched me at the soft center of me like Lester Hodges had the morning of Christmas Eve.

* * * *

Five weeks later, in Chicago, I hadn't been contacted by Art Brandeis. In fact, I never heard from him again. I have no idea how Lester Hodges got his revenge on Art. I just knew that he probably had. Hodges was not the kind of man to give up on something he wanted.

In that time, I had several dreams of Lester Hodges taking me cruelly and testing me to the limit. I couldn't really call them nightmares, although I probably should have.

On the last Friday in January, I got a call from the escort agency. I had been requested for a weekend trip assignment—at double my usual fees.

"Is there a name attached?" I asked.

"Yes. It's Lester Hodges. He said something about Christmas in January. Are you available?"

I swallowed hard, tempted for the opportunity to be totally used, but, somewhat reluctantly, I said, "Sorry, I'm not available for that client." I might be promiscuous and a risk taker, but I wasn't an idiot.