That’s what Stella texted me.
As if reading my mind, the next text came in with more specific instructions:
“There’s a Men’s Fashionhouse in town. Ask for Ta’quan. He’ll take care of you.”
Stella. She knew how to handle all of the details.
Every. Last. Fucking. Detail.
That’s how I showed up at the Stalin’s Creek Country Club looking like fucking James Bond.
A tuxedo. Underneath the tuxedo, a body by triathlon training. A body hewn by swimming, biking, and running. A body strengthened by weightlifting.
Within the body, knowledge from the afterlife on how to ultimately please a woman.
I was fucking loaded for bear.
The set-up was simple–Stella’s handywork.
I was to breeze through the lobby, notice Stella talking to some friends outside a conference room entry, drop in for a polite chat with Stella, and she would take it from there.
I must have met a dozen women that night.
All of them wealthy. Some of them still quite attractive. All of them in the market for something they weren’t getting at home.
An impromptu meet-and-greet that was Stella’s way of showing off a new stable property.
I must have passed muster.
Stella’s texts began blowing up my phone as soon as I was back in my Mercedes.
Stella: “A hit. Well done, sir.”
“Thank you, Svengali.”
“You’re too kind. You’re the real stud. We’re going to do quite well.”
“With your contacts and marketing capabilities, how could we not?”
“Just continue to bring that A game of yours and word of mouth will keep you busy for quite some time.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“Just hold me to that talented tongue of yours from time to time and we’ll be square.”
I pulled away from the country club and made my way back to the house.
One final text from Stella: “I know we had talked $750 an evening for you, but interest is really going through the roof. A seller’s market. I think I can get you an even thousand.”
“Good,” I texted at a stop light.
Here we grow again…