The Nightingale Agency Pt. 01

"Luke," she said harshly, "look at me."

Frightened, he looked up at her, "Yes Mistress?" he whispered.

"Not tonight. Tonight I am Eve. Your friend. You may speak to me plainly, without worry of any repercussions. Just be honest—don't be afraid."

Relaxing back into his chair, she watched relief wash over his face. He looked at her lovingly—not in a sexual way but in a platonic way. He told her everything: weeks before, he had begun to realize that he didn't really like women like that. He started to understand what his body had been trying to tell him ever since he was young—then, he out right said it to her.

"I am...I am gay. I like men. I like kissing them and oh, do I love the feel of a cock in my mouth and in my ass." He told her that he had filed for a divorce, just the day before he had moved all of his things out of the house and into a friend's basement. His uncle, who had recently passed away, left Luke his condo in New York and he intended on moving next week.

When his face grew sad, the worried tone carried over into his voice, "I guess what I am saying is...I won't be needing your services anymore."

The genuine smile on Eve's face instantly relaxed him, "I think that is the most wonderful thing you could have ever told me."

...

Legally, on paper, the Nightingale Agency is a therapeutic service and Eve is a life coach, personal trainer and nutritionist. She teaches people how to understand what their body needs, mentally and physically, which is more or less true. Her lawyer, the oddly proportioned, sexless man that he is, was a mastermind in crafting her client contracts and disclosure clause; he is so brilliant, he could very well work for the devil himself. If one didn't know or couldn't figure out by looking at her just what kind of woman she is, it would be very easy to sign their life away without realizing that she more or less owned them, body and soul. None of her clients are permitted to disclose any information about her to anyone—if asked, they would simply describe Eve as their 'life coach,' entirely omitting the whips, restraints, heels and orgasms.

Looking down at the sheet of paper with Jonathan Kellison's number, she wonders what Luke saw in him that made him pass the card along. It was clear in the man's voice that there was something desperately hopeless about his existence. Though she isn't looking for another client, doesn't need one and rather enjoys her open schedule, she decides to call him anyways.

The phone barely rings twice, "Hello?" The deep, male voice says, attempting to be cheery.

"Hello," she says with a tone thick like honey, "My name is Eve. I am calling from the Nightingale Agency. Is this Jonathan?"

"Hi, yes, thank you for returning my call so promptly," he replies eagerly.

"You're welcome. Now, Jonathan, what is it that you believe I can do for you?"

There is a pause as he thinks, "I'm...I guess I'm not sure, exactly. As I said, Luke gave me your card last week, when he was back in town for a party. He...he told me I should give you a call. I guess...I guess I'm just not very happy with how things are. Luke had said that you changed his whole life around and now he is the happiest he has ever been. I guess—I guess I just thought that maybe you'd be able to do that...for me." Though he started out strong, there is defeat in his voice.

"I see," Eve starts. She is glad that Luke didn't break the disclosure clause and kept his recommendation vague, however she speculates that Jonathan has no idea what he is stepping into, "Well, Jonathan, I work pretty intently with my clients. I usually only have five or six at any given time, as our relationships tend to last for a year or more. I do, in fact, have a bit of a waiting list."

"Oh," he says as if his heart had just been ripped out.

Eve bites her lip—something about his voice, the tone of it, forces the words out of her mouth, "However, I have decided to take another client on. Now, there are no guarantees but perhaps we could arrange a meeting so that I can discover what it is, exactly, that you need assistance with. At the very least it will ensure that you get added to the mix."

"That would be wonderful," he says, somewhat hopefully, "I am off of work tomorrow, if you're available?"

She was thinking sometime next week; slightly rolling her eyes, she sits up and glances at the calendar to discover that tomorrow is Thursday—an odd day to be off of work, "On Thursdays I meet with a regular client at one pm..." Just as she is about to suggest next week, he cuts her off.

"Nine am would work for me. If you are open...and if it only takes a few hours, it should be plenty of time." He suggests eagerly.

She slumps back onto her bed. She doesn't mind waking up early but getting into the city by nine, about thirty minutes away, means that she will be rushed a little. Suppressing a sigh, she makes her voice upbeat, "All right, nine am will work. I always meet my clients at their home, so if you would provide me with your address..."

After obtaining his pertinents, she hangs up the phone, beginning to regret offering a meeting. Though he sounds like he has lost any hope of a happy life, she finds that she is more intrigued and curious than guilt ridden. Grumbling to herself, she sets the alarm back two hours before flicking off the lights and crawling in between the sheets.

...

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