To Have

by Alessandra Torre

  My heart rate increases at the thought of leaving, of getting into a car and going somewhere unknown with this man, a stranger. “When would I return?”

  He grins slightly. “Later tonight. My driver can return you to the club.”

  I raise my chin slightly, keeping my eyes on him, pretending that we are alone in the room. “How much?”

  His mouth twitches a little, and his tone is wry in its response. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  I can’t fight the grin, it stretches across my face in what I can only imagine looks like a Cheshire grin. I bow my head to him, fighting the ridiculous urge to curtsey. “In that case, I’m all yours.”

  CHAPTER 4

  My view of love is an unfair one, created by Nicholas Sparks novels, Lifetime movies, and Michel Buble love songs. I recognize it for what it is — a fairytale fantasy, at least for a girl like me. Maybe I will be Julia Roberts, and a dashing, dignified Richard Gere will fall madly in love with me and whisk me away to a lifetime of diamonds, caviar, and True Love. But it is a long shot, and the last few years have proven that I carry poor odds.

  My best hope for a happily ever after is the Anna Nicole Smith Dream — that an old rich man will hobble in, decide to part with half his riches so his few remaining years will be filled with bouncing breasts, bubble baths, and blow jobs to celebrate mahjong wins. I am happy with that scenario, happy with a slice of the good life minus the love. Love seems to be set aside for those who deserve it, for those who plan ahead, are responsible, those who recycle and donate a dollar to the March of Dimes at the supermarket register. I’m a non-donater. I’m the girl who spends that spare dollar on a candy bar instead. I don’t deserve love. Ten years with a centenarian, living in his country mansion and sucking wrinkly penis? That seems an attainable thing to deserve.

  We haven’t had an old guy in quite some time. Coco came close to nabbing one, had a pasty white ancient who seemed all about her ethnic curves. But he died, mid-fuck, a heart attack yanking his life away as she rode up and down his scrawny body. His family was less than accommodating, kicking her out of the mansion with no ride home, and no invitation to the funeral. Coco is still despondent over that — her best chance at happily ever after gone with one thump of his weak heart.

  BlueEyes is too young to be my love story, too handsome, too perfect to have any part in the rest of my life. His type marries blueblood heiresses who keep their cardigans clean and their sex cleaner. I know that; I haven’t allowed my fantasies to hop and skip down the ‘happily-ever-after’ path, keeping my focus and my appreciation on what I have gotten from him already. Cash.

  And now, I’m taking this invitation as what it is: Sex, in a location less seedy than our VIP couch. Money, the amount seemingly up for discussion. With this man, I am willing to break my No Sex Rule, my body craving his touch — my bank account desperate for a cash infusion.

  Conversation buzzes as we walk through the club, dancers eyes meeting mine with questions as we head down the hall that leads to nowhere but outside. Dancers don’t leave the club, don’t go anywhere with clients — a rule of Rick’s that evidently can be easily broken by a handful of green. I pause by the front door, reaching for Rick’s arm. “Rick, my purse.”

  BlueEyes stops short of going out the door. “No,” he says with a short shake of his head. “No purse, no cell.”

  “What?” I shoot Rick an alarmed look and he shifts uneasily.

  The stranger speaks quickly. “She can get her stuff when we come back, if she chooses to come back.”

  If I choose to come back? This situation is moving from weird to weirder and I turn to the stranger and cross my arms. “I’m not going anywhere without my bag. And…” I add as an afterthought, “Rick will need to make a copy of your ID.”

  Rick laughs nervously and the small smile on BlueEyes’ face drops. I stand my ground, my arms crossed over my bra top. It is so hard to look imposing when you are practically naked. Rick waves his hands in a panicky motion. “Look Candy, that isn’t necessary. I’m sure that-”

  I cut him off with one glare. Turning back to the stranger, I raise one brow. “Are you comfortable with that? Because otherwise I’m going to need to decline your invitation.”

  He glances at one of the men beside him, silent communication passing between them. Then he looks back to me, his eyes making a slow path up and down my body, communicating his thoughts as clear as day. Am I worth it? I fight the urge to fidget, to weaken, to do anything; I try to keep my stance and stare strong. But I want to take back my words, my financial situation pulling out a bat and knocking me upside the head. I need this opportunity, need this cash.

  And, when it comes down to it - my body needs this man — in me, filling the gap that has sat vacant for too long. On top of me, his hands in my hair, mouth on my skin, his body brushing against mine as he dominates me with his cock. This man, with his breathtaking looks and padded wallet, could be my short-term salvation, satisfying both my body and my finances in one easy night. Instead, I may have just ruined the opportunity. My legs begin to tremble, the weight of my brash move weakening my resolve.

  He turns to Rick with a terse nod. “Fine. Let her get her bag and you can copy my documentation in the meantime.”

  A grin starts in my chest and pushes its happy, exuberant self through my throat and bursts out of my lips. I fight to hide it, dipping my head and turning, hurrying back down the dark hallway, back into the smoky bowels that are the Crystal Palace.

  I am on a high, whispering the news excitedly to Jez, stuffing anything and everything I might need into my purse. At the front of the club, unknown to me, more bills are exchanged in lieu of identification between Rick and BlueEyes.

  Security is a strange thing, a myth that the brain allows in exchange for a brief moment of peace. As I stride back down the hall, towards the frosted glass door that is the entrance, the security I feel is nothing but an illusion. Instead of heading towards salvation, I am delivering myself to the mouth of wolves, one in particular having very long teeth.

  CHAPTER 5

  As a child, I always pictured limos and strippers to go hand in hand — like peanut butter and jelly. Yet I, in my third year in this godforsaken profession, have never ridden in a limo. I try not to gawk, try to nod professionally at the man who opens the door for me. I stumble at the door’s opening, trying to figure out the most ladylike way to get in, my mind flipping through every movie I can think of, none of them providing a solution. It doesn’t help that I am still in my bra and a g-string. I end up doing some sort of dippy crawl that is a disaster, my face flushing as I right myself on the leather seat. The door closes and I have a moment of silence.

  The limo’s interior makes me feel right at home. The mirrored ceiling, with twinkling stars set into the headliner, is straight out of the low ceilings of the Crystal Palace. The black leather seats, ice chest of beer and wine set to one side, a velvet pillow lying against the front seat — are Stripperville USA. And for me, it is all incredible. High-class, fancy living, incredible. I am in a limo, with a wealthy stranger, pulling away from the Palace. If I squint hard enough, this is just like Pretty Woman’s final scene. Maybe I can be Julia Roberts. Maybe I can have a fairytale ending, despite my poor planning.

  I shut down my fantasy when the other door opens, long legs making the easy transition into the car, nothing like the fumbling disaster I had been. I fix my mouth into an easy smile, crossing my legs and leaning forward, striking the pose that makes my breasts appear biggest and causes my cellulite to disappear. “Where are we going?”

  He ignores my question, unzipping his pants and leaning back in the seat. “Make me cum.”

  My Julia Roberts alter ego slumps in her hypothetical seat, heading back to never never land, which she never ever should have visited from. I keep my smile fixed, keep the disappointment from my eyes. “With my hand or my mouth?”

  “Both.”

  And so my first ever limo ride ends in the way that
most stripper rides do. With me on my knees, automotive carpet itching raw spots onto my legs, his hand on my hair, pushing my head onto his cock, then pulling me off so that he can stare into my eyes. The car drives, I suck, and any excitement I have for the evening ends in a gulp of cum.

  I wake up to a breeze. Ruffling my hair, my face tucked into the crook of the car, my forehead propped up by the interior wall. The window is down and the ride is rough, a steady bump as the limo moves over an uneven surface. I sit up, looking around and see BlueEyes sitting next to me, his fingers flitting across a phone’s lit surface. His fingers pause and I look up to find him watching me. “Sleep well?”

  He has a nice voice, deep and masculine. Strong, one of those voices that causes you to trust the words that come out of it. His mouth is doing that thing again, where it twitches slightly, something akin to a smile, as if he has found something amusing but will refuse to share what it is.

  “Yes, thank you. Where are we?” I look out the window, seeing only darkness — trees passing with no identifiable landmarks.

  “Right now? We are about to turn down my driveway, and then we will be at my home.”

  “Your home? I thought we were going to a hotel.” I look out the window again, troubled by this new information, wanting to hide my displeasure from him. How did I fall asleep? I remember sucking his cock, then drinking a vodka cranberry. The drink. Maybe he put something in it. And now I am in a strange place, with three men. Poor planning.

  “I changed my mind. Your outfit didn’t really allow me to walk through the front doors without raising a few eyebrows. You will probably be more comfortable here.”

  No, I would probably not. I will probably be more comfortable in a populated place, a hotel — where I can scream and someone can hear. Where housekeeping will eventually find my dead body. Not your home which, according to you, sits in the middle of nowhere. I keep my face bland and reached for my purse, pulling out my cell phone. My heart sinks when I see the upper corner of the display. NO SERVICE.

  “Is there a problem?” His voice sounds from beside me, a hint of laughter in it.

  I shrug, trying to keep my voice light. “Nope.” I drop my phone back in my bag and turn back to the window, my eyes struggling to find something of hope in the blurry landscape passing by.

  By the time the limo turns, pulling through a large gate and traveling down a long, tree lined drive, I have convinced myself of the worst. He is planning to kill me, to cut off my limbs and feed them to his dogs. I will never see the Palace again, will never see Dibs, or my car, or Jezebel and the rest of the girls. My palms sweat, my anxiety causing me to almost miss the beautiful details: an enormous house, built with contrasting textures of stone and glass, with huge windows dominating its landscape. Even from the entrance, I can see clear through the house, past artwork and elegance, can see the rise and falls of the city, a rainbow of lights and the sparkle of ocean water reflecting against the moon. The city. So we are not so far away. The glitter of city lights comforts me, gives me a sense of where I am. I feel his hand on the small of my back and look over, surprised to see concern on his face. “You seem afraid. Are you uncomfortable here?”

  So much for my façade of bravery. I risk a smile. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” And actually, I am okay — his concern spreading a sea of calm throughout me. Maybe this will be okay. Maybe he isn’t planning on killing me. Maybe I’m paranoid.

  I am helped from the car by the driver, BlueEyes following me. He pushes gently on my back and I step forward, towards the glass house, unsure of what awaits me inside.

  CHAPTER 6

  He holds the commands, saying nothing as we move into a vaulted great room with nothing but windows before us, the city lights lying behind a lit pool and landscaped gardens. There is a contemporary guest house, a mini version of the main house, set off the side of the pool. It is a beautiful view, enhanced by his decorating theme of glass and stone. He pulls my arm, sliding his hands down to grip my hand. I glance down in surprise, the image of my hand in his an unfamiliar sight. A smile tugging his lips, he pulls me forward, taking me on a brief tour of the house. Four bedrooms, an office, minigym, and sauna float by, his head close to mine, his hand moving to the small of my back, his words soft and accommodating. I’m not really listening to what he is saying. It’s all about the wood used in the floors, the furniture ordered from Europe. I’m half-listening and instead wondering whatthefuck is about to happen. Why is he showing me around? It seems, ridiculously enough, that he is trying to impress me. The tour travels outside, through a stone walkway to the pool, a glowing blue square that drops off into the city view, twin hot tubs on either side.

  We step into the guest house, an unnecessary movement, since its entire interior is shown through the glass walls that make up three of its four walls. He points out the galley kitchen, the studio apartment, complete with a living room area, fireplace, walk-in closet and deluxe bath. He seems particular interested in my opinion, and I nod politely, a smile pasted on my features. “It is beautiful. You have a wonderful home.”

  Then, we return, back to the great room, my eyes flickering over the two bodyguards, who now frame the door, their eyes following us as his body guides me towards the kitchen.

  “Stop.”

  I stop, standing before a large dining table, it surface smooth and, like everything else, glass. I feel his hand on my back, sliding upward and then the release as my top is undone. I turn to face him, his eyes meeting mine as he reaches back and unties the strings around my neck, his fingers trailing over my skin as he pulls on the final pieces that holds my top in place. I wet my lips, unsure of my words, not wanting to say what I need to say.

  “We haven’t discussed money.”

  “That didn’t stop you from sucking my cock.” He doesn’t smile.

  I hesitate, feeling the fabric slide against my nipples as my top falls at my feet. “I don’t normally do this,” I whisper.

  “What, leave the club?”

  “No. Sex. That isn’t something I do with clients.” And not something I am going to do for free. No matter how big your house is. My body argues with my mind, physically pulled to the man, my hands wanting to reach forward right now and take his cock into my palm. My mind understands the reality of my situation and pushes back against my consumed-by-lust body.

  His eyes bore into mine, blue depths with flecks of domination in them, his olive skin bending as he speaks. “Ten grand.”

  I return his stare, wetting my lips as I feel his hands slide down my sides, feel them dip beneath the lace of my panties. Ten thousand dollars. A figure I can’t turn down. Not that, at this stage in the game, turning him down seems to be an option. “Okay.” I whisper.

  He yanks outward, the quick motion startling me, a ripping sound heard, and then I am naked, feeling a tickle of lace as the ruined cloth that was my panties drops to the ground between my heels, my eyes passing over his shoulder and alighting on the two men who stand at attention, watching us.

  “Your men,” I whisper, feeling the strength of his hands as they move over my body, gentle and caressing, my breasts the current object of their focus. His fingers spread, running lightly over my nipples, which stand to attention under his touch.

  “They stay.”

  “But…” my voice weak. “They can see us.”

  His hands still and he steps forward, until my face is tilted up to his. “That’s the point. I thought you, of all people, wouldn’t be shy.”

  I shut my mouth, hold my smartass response, don’t ask the questions that are burning on my lips. Why do you need protection? Why do they have to watch us? I think of the money to distract me, picture crisp dollar bills so I won’t have to think about the two men, their eyes following our movement. The men have already seen me give him head; this isn’t much different.

  But honestly, sex is different. It’s why I don’t have sex at the club. I’ve gotten to the point where hand and blowjobs are as casual to me as da
ncing, though the aftermath plays havoc on my self-esteem. Sex has always been that one line I won’t cross, proof to myself that I am not ruined, that I am still pure in some fucked-up form.

  He leans forward and kisses me, and I suddenly don’t need the image of dollar bills to distract my mind. Everything floods the moment his lips touch mine.

  Soft, sweet lips. Not what I expect from this commanding man. He brushes my lips softly, my lips parting for him, immediately wanting more. A groan slips from my mouth before I have a chance to capture it. His hands move up through my hair, gripping and pulling its strands. He tastes me, spreading my lips gently with his and dipping his tongue inside. I respond eagerly, my body taking over my mind, shoving it aside forcefully as a wave of arousal hits me. His touch turns harder, his mouth more demanding and he moves me backward, my heels skittering over tile, till the edge of the table is against me.

  His hands grip my ass, squeezing it roughly, one hand on each cheek and lifts me easily, setting me on the table, the surface cool against my skin.

  “Lay down,” he bites out against my mouth, taking one, last, torturous sweep of my mouth before he pulls off, stepping back and watching me.

  I grip the glass top, sliding backward until my elbows are resting on the glass. I watch him, watch as he unbuttons his sleeves. He breathes hard, his eyes glued to mine and walks towards me, stopping a foot from the table.

  I can’t figure out this man. Or rather, I can’t figure out how I feel about this man. He is cold to the point of being an asshole. A demander instead of an asker — expecting me to perform as instructed. But that is what I am — a hired orgasm-deliverer. Pleases and thank yous are not required, only appreciated. But despite his cold exterior, I am drawn to him, insanely attracted to him. Maybe it is the money, maybe it’s as simple as that. More likely it is that face, those blue eyes set under thick brows, a mess of dark hair that begs to have me run my hands through it, a strong jaw and kissable soft lips. Lips he happens to know exactly how to use.