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</div></div><br/>Of all the principles by which a person could abide,<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.imgur.com%2FIFuMzeN.jpg&amp;hash=df6838a2c8d181a5e04f12ab1ff55d26" href="https://i.imgur.com/IFuMzeN.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Dexter </a>subscribed only to one - never settle. The world would have had him settle, of course, as would his parents. "You only get one trust fund," his father had warned, his voice set in a low, gravelly pitch; the result of years inhaling Cuban cigars. "Remember that, Dex." And he had. He had remembered it during long nights at clubs, he had remembered it during impromptu vacations to the Cayman Islands, and he had certainly remembered it the first day his accounts fell into the red. A then twenty-something-year-old Dexter Beckett had never seen a negative dollar amount before, much less a negative dollar amount in his own bank account.<br/><br/>Then went the credit cards. Electric bills. Late notices on the rent. Dexter had been many things as a young man - creative, resourceful, charming - but frugal and realistic were not among them. That particular combination of events had all but ruined him, but he had refused to settle. With an unfinished university degree and no real work experience on a CV, he had known from the start that he had nothing to fall back on. Nothing, that was, except a veritable bottomless well of creativity, resourcefulness, and charm. As a youth, he might have joked that he was so attractive, people should have paid good money to keep his company - now they did.<br/><br/>Dexter's services were not cheap. Half a night in a hotel room landed a client with a bill just breaking four figures. If they wanted him to stay until morning, his fee increased. Dinners, dates, and drinks were cheap, but if a client wanted the full experience, they were expected to spare no expense. By all accounts, Dexter thought himself worth the price. A good chunk of his income went into upkeep, after all; gym memberships, spa days, and bi-weekly trips to the barber didn't pay for themselves. Indeed, the raven-haired, grey-eyed escort considered himself worth what he charged.<br/><br/>To such a degree, in fact, that the moment he saw an opportunity to become a more exclusive provider of personal services, he took it. It had begun with<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.imgur.com%2F0vgLZ9s.jpg&amp;hash=d1d40acabe594ae39712b4e939c90d9b" href="https://i.imgur.com/0vgLZ9s.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Elizabeth White</a>, an upper-class socialite in an unhappy marriage, joking with him over post-coital cocktails that she should keep him on the payroll.<br/><br/>"You'd be one of my monthly expenses. Above the gardener, but below the girl who does my nails," she had remarked with a laugh.<br/><br/>Dexter had responded with a matter-of-fact, "Why don't you?" The following week, he moved into an uptown flat in his wealthy patron's name. He had yet to pay a single rent check.<br/><br/>Two others had followed in the years thereafter.<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2Foriginals%2F16%2Fa8%2Fd1%2F16a8d16247df8930dfef9b2c030990fa.jpg&amp;hash=31ff945aa78fdfc84527ae9616755558" href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/16/a8/d1/16a8d16247df8930dfef9b2c030990fa.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Margot Reynolds</a>, the head of a law firm near Kensington and<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=http%3A%2F%2Fworldofmodels.org%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2015%2F06%2Frori9-C%25C3%25B3pia.jpg&amp;hash=d7fdf6819be9156747772ce3890c76b1" href="http://worldofmodels.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/rori9-C%C3%B3pia.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Trevor Winchester</a>, an internationally renowned architect. They, along with Elizabeth, deposited lump sums into Dexter's offshore accounts every few weeks, each with the understanding that he would prioritize them over other clients. Although in days of late, there were no other clients to speak of. With three generous patrons, he simply had no need to work as regularly as he had years before. Every so often he would take a call, most of them referrals by his core clientele, none of whom were particularly possessive of him and his company. They knew the rules. Some even enjoyed playing by them - Elizabeth, especially.<br/><br/>It was, in fact, because of Elizabeth that Dexter found himself in the Emerald Lounge that evening, despite having made plans to catch an impromptu flight to Glasgow. There were other flights come morning, after all, and his benefactor had been quite insistent that he visit the lounge instead. "You don't mind men, do you?" she had asked over the phone that morning, as Dexter stood sipping coffee on his balcony. "Well, it's no matter. He isn't looking for the usual fare, but I'm sure he can tell you more himself."<br/><br/>"This is quite the imposition, Lizzie dear," he had teased, the low rumble of his voice coaxing a giggle from the woman. "You realize that I'd be doing this as a personal favor. And even then, I might expect a little something from that friend of yours."<br/><br/>"Oh, he knows. He only wants a companion, as far as I can tell, but he knows. You could wear the new suit I bought for you. You know, the-"<br/><br/>"The Gieves & Hawkes," Dexter had interrupted with a chuckle. "I was just looking for the right occasion to break it in. Ah, very well. The Emerald Lounge?"<br/><br/>Nothing if not prompt, Dexter had arrived at the upscale establishment at a full fifteen minutes before he was set to meet his client. With the assurance that Elizabeth had texted his photo to the other man, he had procured a tumbler of Irish whiskey - neat - before finding his way into an empty armchair facing the door and sinking down to sit. For the meeting, he had worn a<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.imgur.com%2FZlcso2l.jpg&amp;hash=6ffd7234b04993269ca32a8571f18a6d" href="https://i.imgur.com/Zlcso2l.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">crisp new suit of burgundy wool</a>, paired with a sleek black shirt beneath. His meticulously styled hair sat in a<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.imgur.com%2FWQsYHyE.jpg&amp;hash=4a00edadb0823e049ffeeb0385a916bf" href="https://i.imgur.com/WQsYHyE.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">flashy, modern pompadour</a>, his shoes polished to an impeccable shine, for if anyone could accuse him of anything, it would pertain to his attention to detail.<br/><br/>The eight o'clock hour chimed on the wall clock behind him. His client would arrive soon.