To Have

by Alessandra Torre

  He throws something towards me, the motion startling me. A white towel. I pick it up, realize it’s a robe, and cover myself with it, looking back at the man.

  He has the audacity to smile at me. “Come with me. He wants you out of here and in the guesthouse.”

  Apparently the spark I felt, the incredibleness that was our sex, is not shared by BlueEyes. I feel sudden irritation at the fact that I don’t know his damn name. I don’t typically seek out names, our regulars worth the effort — everyone else forgettable. But with tonight, and with the other visits that comprised our history — I should have, at some point, learned his name. But, other than the house tour, he has never uttered more than a few words.

  Dance.

  Suck it.

  I’m going to fuck you.

  An introduction is probably seen as a waste of words to this man.

  I slip into the robe, my back to the bodyguard, not interested in giving him more of a look then he’s already had, my mind whirring as I cinch the belt, the soft fabric of the robe more luxurious than anything I have ever worn. I pull my hair out of the robe’s neck, stalling as I try to sort through things in my head.

  Should I ask to return home? My cell phone most likely still has no service. Was the ten grand to include the evening? Does he want more sex? I turn, my hands out of things to do, and face the man.

  “I’d like to ask your boss a few questions.”

  He grinned, shaking his head at me. “He’s not interested in that. You need to follow me to the guesthouse. You’ll sleep there.”

  “Sleep? Just sleep?” I raise an eyebrow skeptically.

  “Just sleep. In the morning he might have time for a conversation. Otherwise, I’ll take you back to the club.”

  Wow. A short response that covers most of my questions. “And when do I get paid?”

  He grins, rubbing a hand roughly over his mouth. “In the morning. Any more questions? He wants you out of here.”

  I hide my frown behind a small smile and move towards him, out the door and back into the greatroom. He leads the way, opening doors and ushering me to the guesthouse, my steps faltering slightly when we enter the smaller house.

  Its walls are all glass, showcasing the city view along its entire back wall. It’s beautiful, modern and clean, a large bed set against a slate wall, huge prints adding color and texture to the walls. The bathroom sinks are open to the bedroom, a large Jacuzzi tub prominently set in between dual vanities, and I can see into a small room that holds a shower and toilet. A lounge area sits to the right, with a low-slung cream sectional atop a rich chocolate rug.

  I feel a hand on my back and spin, bumping into the hard chest of the stranger. “Don’t touch me,” I snap, backing away as he raises his hands in innocence.

  “My apologies. I’m Drew, Mr. Dumont’s driver and security. The other man is Mark. If you need anything, you can use the intercom system to page us. I live on property, so will always be available. The main house will be locked, please don’t attempt to enter it during the night, the security system is extremely sensitive.”

  Mr. Dumont. Another question answered, though I’ll be damned if I refer to him in that manner. I turn, stepping into the center of the room and look around. “I don’t know where my clothes are…”

  “There is clothing in the dressers and closets, you should find something in your size there. I’ll be by in the morning.” He purses his lips, as if he has words inside that he is struggling to contain. “Goodnight.”

  I don’t say anything, watching as he slides the door shut. I lock it behind him and cross my fingers that this glass box has curtains.

  It does, and now I’m lying in a sea of lavender bubbles. I showered first, scrubbing my makeup off with a damp washcloth and washing my hair. Then I filled the tub, using a generous amount of bath gel and almost moaned with delight when I sank in.

  I haven’t had a bath in almost four years. My college apartment had a tub; that was the last time me and bubbles have had any contact. It is a long overdue reunion and I rest my head against the back of the tub in bliss.

  Of all places for me to spend the night, this glass box of luxury isn’t a bad deal. But I can’t fully relax, too many unknowns about BlueEyes. My cell phone’s lack of signal is a major thorn in my subconscious. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe if I had the security of my phone then there wouldn’t be these pits in my stomach, maybe then I would relax and appreciate the fact that I am at a mansion, ten thousand dollars richer, and just had the best sex of my life.

  It’s crazy that digital bars on a cell phone are the roadblock between me and a good night’s sleep. I curse under my breath and pull the drain plug, watching bubbles swirl towards the dark hole of Never Never Land.

  CHAPTER 9

  Bright light. It shines in through the glass walls, the sun unforgiving in its announcement of the day. I try to place the sun, try to place where I am and who is waking me up. I roll, the sheets soft and smooth, which causes my eyes to reopen. Soft and smooth don’t describe my sheets. Cheap and scratchy are my norm.

  Green eyes stare down at me. Green eyes that lead to a crooked nose, full lips and a few days of unshaven growth. The face is vaguely familiar and I blink, my brain fully waking up. The security guy. Some name that begins with a D.

  “Time to get up. Mr. Dumont would like to speak to you.”

  I cover my face in my hands, trying to wake up enough to think. “Then you’ll take me home?”

  I hear a chuckle. “If that’s what you want.”

  I sit up, pushing back the blankets and swinging my legs off of the bed. My brain hazily engages, memories of last night slowly clicking into place. “Wait.” I turn to the man with a glare. “I locked the door last night.”

  He shrugs. “We have a key.”

  I bite back a response, shooting him the stoniest glare I have, moving across the room and yanking open the closet door.

  “I see you found some pajamas.”

  “Yeah. You’ve got enough female clothing in here to outfit half of the city.” I grab a tee-shirt dress and a pair of underwear, the tags still hanging from the lace. Stepping fully into the closet I turn and shut the door on the man’s face, cutting off whatever words were about to come out of his mouth.

  I feel a bit of adolescent pleasure at the slight, at the ability to show some of the frustration that is building up inside me. I pull the panties on, popping off the tag and tug the dress over my head, forgoing a bra. I study myself in the mirror, a critical eye looking for flaws. I look younger, my makeup-free face much different than the vixen look I go for at the Club. My hair is curly, a result of going to bed with it wet, the strands exacting their revenge in the form of uncontrollable volume and curl. I run my hands through a few times before giving up and opening the door. To one irritated green-eyed face.

  “Sorry,” I say breezily, dipping down and grabbing a set of jeweled sandals from a basket by the door, examining the size before slipping them on. A size too big, but acceptable to get home with. Someone at the club will be all over them.

  I can feel his frustration, the emotion making me smile, my spirits rising as we exit the house and head to the main home, sunlight dancing off of the pool’s water and sending playful highlights over my legs. I am close to getting paid, getting in that limo, and heading back home in style. With this payday, I will be flush for a while, six months at least, six months of no stress, no blowjobs, and no bullshit from Dibs over late rent or the utility bill.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong. About getting paid, about going home, and about six months of bliss.

  CHAPTER 10

  I look at the document in confusion. My event-planning college courses never prepared me to read legal documents. But, despite my lack of legal knowhow, this document seems prepared for someone else entirely. Words that don’t belong near me jump from the pages.

  Marriage.

  Prenuptial.

  Assumption.

  Loyalty.

>   Confidentiality.

  I set down the page and look at him. BlueEyes. Mr. Dumont, sitting on the other end of the long dining table. The same table on which I laid naked, touched myself before him and his guards, begged him for more as I exploded before him.

  “I’m confused…” I say slowly. “Is this document for me?”

  “Yes.”

  Yes. As if that one simple word gives me any answer whatsoever. “Why?”

  “It’s a proposal. Last night was an audition of sorts. To see if we are sexually compatible. I have strong sexual needs, and you prove equipped to handle them. I need, for various reasons, a wife. I’ve had you followed for several weeks. You seem to have a fairly pathetic life, no security, no boyfriend, no familial connections. I am offering you a business proposition.”

  No familial connections. The statement hurts, reminding me of my abandonment of my father. An abandonment that our weekly phone calls doesn’t make up for. I glance back through the documents, taking my time, trying to calm my mind down from the hypothetical cliff edge it is standing on. “I don’t see a compensation structure.”

  That produces a laugh, one short bark that holds no humor whatsoever. “Compensation?”

  I meet his mocking smile head on. “Yes. Business propositions involve compensation on both parts. I understand what I am giving up, but fail to see what I am getting from this arrangement.”

  He held out his hands, gesturing to the house. “This life. You are barely struggling by. I am offering you a life of luxury, with everything you want, at your fingertips. You will not have to work, not have to straddle sweaty men with wandering fingers.”

  I arch a brow at him. “Like you?”

  He doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor, sliding back from the table and standing. “Look at the paperwork. If you are interested, sign the documents and return to the guesthouse — I will deal with you later. If not, Drew will give you your money and take you home. Either way, you will be paid.” He turned, grabbing a set of keys off of the counter and striding towards the door, his face a mask of nonchalance.

  I stand, the chair scraping the floor, the sound causing his steps to pause, and his head to turn. “Is this your idea of romance?”

  That causes him to come to a complete stop, his mouth turning up slightly as he turns to me. “Romance?”

  The close proximity gives me the full force of his eyes, the morning light turning them turquoise in color and I am surprised to see a hint of playfulness in their depths. “Yes, romance. Isn’t that what marriage is all about? Isn’t that what these papers are about? Me agreeing to be your wife?”

  He steps towards me, stopping when he is a foot away. “I need a wife. I am not signing up for romance, or affection, or a full time job. The papers will discuss your duties. I want nothing more from you then what is stated there. And as far as you — you should never expect that from me. I will not love you. I will have no use for you other than sex and photo ops. That is something you might want to consider when making your decision.”

  It is the most he has ever said, and what I understand from it far surpasses the short speech. I step back, trying to distance myself from this strange man, this man that I am both scared of and yearning to know more about. He studies me, his mouth tightening a bit, then turns, his steps softening as the distance lengthens, one of the men, Mark, moving to join him. The slam of a door sounds and I can feel the lack of his presence, the entire house lightening without his intensity.

  I sit, my eyes drawn to the papers. I am now alone with Drew, a man whose presence is distracting, the weight of his stare heavy on my back. I read the first paragraph three times, the words blurring, my brain unable to focus. I turn my head slightly. “Do you mind leaving me alone? I need to be able to think, which I can’t do with you breathing down my neck.”

  “There’s not really anything to think about.” His voice is loud in the room, echoing off of the vaulted ceilings, and I raise my head from my reading. His steps sound, moving around me until he is standing before me, his hands clasped before him in a subservient pose that, with his statue, looks anything but.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve seen your life. That despicable creature you live with, that dirty club you work at. He picked you because you are better than that. Because you have the qualities he wants. Most women with your qualities are in a lifestyle that they are comfortable with. They aren’t going to leave their lives behind, no matter how big his bank account is. You are a unique breed in a unique situation.”

  “And you are sharing this information with me because…” I set down the papers and lean back, looking into those green eyes, trying to sort the bullshit from the truth. The problem is, everything he is saying is just wretched enough to be true.

  “Because I know what you are thinking. I know that you are about to take the ten thousand dollars and ask me to take you home. And you will have a temporary reprieve from your miserableness. But then life will return and you will be in the same position as before. You cannot rise above your current life if you are always one paycheck away from homelessness.”

  One paycheck away from homelessness. A sobering thought, one that is true. My only ‘friends’ exist inside the Club, the women that I spend every day competing against. Jez would probably take me in for a week or two, offering up her couch and a worn sheet. But she struggles as I do, all of us selling our bodies at an exchange rate that is far too low. My college friends have all moved on, my shame causing me to cut all ties when I began to strip. And my family. My mother passed on four years ago, ovarian cancer taking her quickly. My father… he needs my help right now, not the other way around.

  The doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong with him. His health insurance is close to maxing out, our last conversation one of heavy stress. Ten thousand dollars would be swallowed by his hospital in three nights of treatment. I haven’t seen him in three years. He thinks I’m a wedding planner in Denver, that my busy schedule won’t allow a cross-country visit. The reality is that I haven’t had the money to take time off, to hold his hand in the hospital; I am scared to risk driving my car the four-hour journey to visit. With the dry cough of my engine, the shimmy that occurs over forty miles per hour, and the worn tread of my tires, the probability of being stranded on the side of the highway is too great; the thought wrecks too much havoc on my nerves.

  It is a sad moment when I sit back and take a critical inventory of my life. I have never allowed myself to dwell on it — I’ve put one foot before another and the years have passed, the time marked by late rent payments and the appearance of wrinkles — tiny ones, on the corners of my eyes. They are a reminder of my youth, and of the hourglass that we all live in, grains of sand slipping through the gap of time, each granule adding another wrinkle, another pocket of fat, another sag that I will fight to overcome, another grey hair to pluck or dye. My earning potential is at the highest point of the arc right now, and that is a terrifying reality.

  But we all know that, all know that our best chance in life lay in the clients. So here is my client, offering — not romance — but a contract, a business proposition. A proposition that the darkness of my life suggests I should strongly consider.

  The man is still before me, his green eyes still studying me. I look away from his face. “Let me read this please. Alone.”

  His stubborn ass, instead of moving, instead of listening to the third polite request, doesn’t move. He speaks instead. “There is another piece of the process. If you decide to stay here, the contract is contingent on acceptable results on a series of tests.” There is almost an apology in his tone, contrite tones that don’t match the man they are coming from.

  “Tests? Intelligence tests?”

  “We are already aware of your level of intelligence, having viewed your college transcript and SAT scores. The tests I am referring to are medical in nature. Blood tests. There will be a doctor visiting this afternoon.”

 
My face flushes at the thought of my college transcript. My grades had been average at best, indicative of my lack of interest in anything but keg stands and happy hours. My SAT scores are only marginally more complementary. They probably think I’m an idiot. Blood tests are less of a worry, though infinitely more invasive. “What’s the reason for the blood tests?”

  “A combination of things. A full STD workup, pregnancy tests, genetic markers, drugs. Do you do drugs?”

  I shake my head, unsure of the results of the rest of the tests. I have been practically celibate for the past three years, the strip club not a conducive environment for meeting quality men. But they say you can get STDs from oral sex, a fairly important piece of information I have conveniently ignored.

  “Could you be pregnant?”

  I give a short laugh. “No.”

  “Are you okay with the tests? I will need to let Mr. Dumont know.”

  “I still need to read this paperwork. If I agree to stay, then I am fine with the tests. But tell Mr. Dumont that I will require my own set of tests. Anything I am being tested for, I would like him also tested for. I may not be happy with the results of his tests.” I have a sudden burst of frustration, partly due to the tests, partly due to the legalese of the contract, and partly due to being sideswiped with this entire changeyourlife decision. I let go of a burst of angry air, picking up the papers and trying to concentrate on the initial text, hoping that this damn man will finally leave me the hell alone.

  I think there is a smile on his face from the sound of his words. “Very well, Ms. Tapers. I’ll let Mr. Dumont know your demands. I don’t imagine he will have an issue with that.”

  Then, the blessed sound of his strong steps making their exit and leaving me alone in the vast great room, trying to make sense of eight pages of legal confusion. Ms. Tapers. Proof that they have done their homework, proof that I have been watched, followed, researched. And all I have for BlueEyes is a last name. Dumont. A last name that could become my own.