by Messer Stone
A NIGHT
OF MERCY
By
MESSER STONE
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Messer Stone
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is dedicated to the incredible women that believed in me when no one else did. You know who you are.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
About The Author
Messer Stone is a North Carolina native, and a lifelong lover of all things romance. Today she lives in the suburbs of Charlotte with her fiancé and their two dogs.
A Night of Mercy is Messer’s debut novel.
CHAPTER 1
Mercy
You will not cry. You will not cry.
I repeat the words over and over again in my head like a mantra.
Now is not the time to be a wuss. Now is the time to be strong.
I pop open my knock-off Chanel clutch and pull out a well-worn photograph of me, Dad, and Jason taken the day that Sophie was born. My little sister was so tiny that day, so pink and soft and wonderful. Jason was so proud to be a big brother. And Dad was so.... happy.
I can make him smile again. I can make things better again.
I take a deep breath and as I stare down at their faces, a reassuring calm falls over me. I can do this. I have to do this.
I put the picture back in my clutch and whip out my phone. I type in the passcode and pull up the encrypted email that tells me everything I need to know about my first, and hopefully my last, client.
Parker Callahan is thirty years old with an estimated net worth of nineteen billion dollars. He's the CEO of The Callahan Group, a massive international business conglomerate. His interests include boating, hunting, and traveling. He's also an avid reader with a personal collection that rivals the greatest libraries in the world. Perhaps that's why I was chosen for him. Reading has been my favorite hobby since I was old enough to do it.
I pull up his picture and am pleasantly surprised. He's quite attractive. More than attractive — he's stunning. Golden skin, wavy blonde hair, finely sculpted cheekbones. The picture I have on my phone is one of him sitting behind an impressive-looking black desk. He's leaning back in a great leather chair, his hands clasped in front of him as he gives the camera a solemn, steely look.
Bethany, another girl that works for the agency, told me I was luckier than most. She's sort of been mentoring me since I was first hired by Empire Elite Escorts, the pinnacle of Manhattan escort services. According to Bethany, most of the men who solicit their services are old, fat pigs with wives and children at home. At least my first time will be with New York's hottest, most eligible bachelor.
And it will be my first time. My very first time. Ever.
The agency was thrilled when I'd let them in on that little secret. Apparently untouched merchandise always fetches a much higher price. My stomach rolls at the thought, all my earlier nerves bubbling back to the surface.
Ten thousand dollars, I remind myself. If I can just get through this, I'll make ten thousand dollars in just one night.
That should cover us through months’ worth of groceries, prescription refills, and mortgage payments. I'll be able to pay for Jason's new hockey equipment. Sign Sophie up for dance classes.
Are you really worth ten thousand dollars, though? What if he takes one look at you and decides you're not good enough to fetch such an exorbitant price, virgin or not?
Oh, God. The nerves in my stomach intensify. I've never been all that self-conscious when it comes to my looks. I know I'm alright to look at. I have a petite body with a decently-sized chest, and my rich chestnut hair falls to the center of my back. My face, however, is pretty plain. At least I've always thought so.
The town car inches through Midtown towards the Upper East Side as I smooth out the skirt of my dress with shaking hands. Everything I'm wearing, down to my white lace thong and garter set, was given to me by the agency. I spent most of the day in a hotel room, being pampered in preparation for my debut. Every inch of my skin that isn't on my head has been waxed smooth. My finger and toenails have been painted in matching shades of baby pink. The white dress, which I imagine was chosen to play up the whole pure virginal vibe, wraps around my curves perfectly. It has a very high hemline, quarter length sleeves, and bears a large portion of my back.
My biggest concerns, though, are the strappy gold heels that are twice as tall as what I'm used to wearing. Jesus, I hope I don't fall flat on my face. That would be the cherry on top of this nightmare.
"We're here, Ms. Chase."
Before I have a chance to respond to the driver, another man I've never seen before appears at my door and opens it, offering me a hand. Behind him, Mr. Callahan's building looms like a great ivory palace. With one final, steadying breath, I give him my hand and get out of the car.
"Right this way," he says, taking a gentle hold of my elbow.
The nausea that's kept me from eating anything substantial for the past two days rolls through my stomach again. He leads me inside through the sparkling lobby. I try not to be too obvious, but I fear I might as well be wearing a neon sign around my neck. And yet, no one we pass spares me a second glance.
We come to a private elevator, where the man who helped me out of the car punches in a code. The doors open and we step inside. The control panel offers only one button, one destination.
The Penthouse.
Neither of us says a word throughout the duration of our ascent, and when we arrive on the top floor he doesn't get out with me.
"Just through there," he mumbles, gesturing with his hand.
Trembling like a leaf, I step off the elevator and listen as the doors whoosh closed behind me. Taking in my surroundings, I realize I'm standing in an opulent foyer, practically the size of our entire house in Holtsville. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting a glow across the gleaming marble floors. Feeling like a deer caught in headlights, I fight the urge to dive back into the elevator and run away as fast as I can.
C'mon, now. No turning back. You can do this.
With my head held high — or as high as I can lift it — I step further into the room, listening to my high heels click against the floor. Man, I really should have tried to eat something. A feather could knock me down right about now.
A man enters the room and my breath catches in
my throat.
Apparently sensing my presence, the man looks up. Confusion furrows my brow. He's not Parker Callahan. Or at least, I don't think he is. He's got similar wavy blonde hair, but he's older. Early fifties, if I had to guess.
His gaze runs up the length of my body as his mouth curls up in a lewd smile. He folds up the newspaper and tosses it aside before leaning back in his chair and thumbing at his lower lip.
"Well. You're even more stunning in person than in your photo," he says before climbing to his feet, slow and predator-like. He stalks towards me with his hands in his pockets and I stand still, unspeaking as he circles around me, appraising me.
I jump when I feel one of his fingers ghost lightly across the back of my neck. "Perfect."
After swallowing back another wave of nausea, I manage to answer him. "Thank you, Mister...?”
"Bolton. Oliver Bolton." He circles back around to face me, standing well within my personal space. "Parker's uncle."
"Pleasure to meet you," I say through a tremulous smile.
He stares at me for a long moment, a sinister amusement in his eyes that makes me even more uncomfortable. Like he knows a secret that I don't. After what feels like an eternity, he raises a hand and beckons someone from the shadows.
"Gretchen, come here."
A mousy-looking blonde woman who can't be all that much older than me appears at Oliver's side dressed in a boxy black dress.
"This is Gretchen, Mr. Callahan's housekeeper," he says before nodding at me.
"Gretchen, this is Ms. Chase. A... guest of my nephew's. Show her to the media room and see that she makes herself comfortable."
The housekeeper bows her head dutifully. "Of course, Mr. Bolton."
He turns back to me. "I'll let my nephew know you're here." With a smirk, he takes my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles before releasing me with a wink. "Pleasure doing business with you."
CHAPTER 2
Parker
"That's fine. Tell Mr. Petrov's people to call my secretary and we'll set something up," I say into the receiver of my desk phone when a knock at the door of my home office snags my attention.
The door opens and my uncle steps through, dressed in one of his trademark three-piece suits, looking even more smug than usual.
I hold up a finger, asking him to wait just a moment. "I'll have my lawyers look over the proposal, and we'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks. You too."
Setting my phone back in its cradle, I stand up and walk around my desk to greet him with a handshake. "Oliver. This is a surprise. When did you get here?"
"Flew back in from Greece this morning and I came right over. I wanted to make up for not being here for your birthday last month."
I roll my eyes and slap him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. You know I'm not big on birthdays."
"Yeah, but this is the birthday. The big 3-0." Oliver laughs. "Your last chance to be truly depraved while you're still young enough to get away with it."
I choose not to mention that getting older has never stopped him. Oliver's life is one giant party. Instead, I head over to my drink cart. "Can I fix you a drink?" I ask as I pour myself a few fingers of Macallan.
"Actually, I'm not staying," he says, reaching into his breast pocket to extract an envelope. "I just came to drop off your present."
I arch a brow at him as I sip high-quality scotch from a crystal tumbler, leaning back against my desk. "A present?"
He grins. "You can thank me later."
I stare at the envelope in his outstretched hand for a long moment. With Oliver, everything leads to trouble. Ever since I was a teenager, he's been pressuring me to take a walk on the wild side. Thankfully I had my parents to keep me on the straight and narrow.
"C'mon," he says, dangling the envelope out in front of me. "Just trust me."
Oh hell. How much trouble could a simple envelope cause? I take it from him with a suffering sigh. "You sure you don't want to stick around?"
He barks out a laugh as he moves towards the door. "Nah. There are some things in life that an uncle and nephew shouldn't share." He pauses and looks at me over his shoulder with a lewd wink. "At least not the first time around."
My blood pressure spikes as he opens the door. "Have a good time."
Without another word he’s gone. I take my scotch and sink into one of the plush leather armchairs by the fireplace, tapping the envelope against my leg. After draining the glass, I set it down on the coffee table and then tear into the envelope before I can talk myself out of it. Inside are two pieces of paper. The first is a handwritten note from my uncle.
Have another glass of scotch and try to relax. She's yours till morning. P.S. - Don't tell your mother.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I groan, pinching my nose in exasperation. "Please tell me he didn't."
The second piece of paper is a thick parchment just slightly larger than a business card. The matte finish and black script writing give off an air of elegance and sophistication.
A night of Mercy.
Passion in its purest form.
Beauty untouched by man.
"Well that's bizarrely cryptic," I mutter to myself before rising to my feet and stuffing the card in my pocket. Taking my uncle’s advice, I go to the drink cart and pour myself another scotch.
As a general rule, I have no interest in paying for the company of women. No matter how high the price or civilized the practice, paying for sex is something I consider to be morally reprehensible. And then to a much less important point, is the matter of pride. I'm not a vain man, but I am a proud one. I like to think I have the requisite skills and finesse to earn a woman's affections without needing a formal business transaction.
Running a hand over my face, I hit the intercom button on my desk. "Miles can you come to my home office please."
A mere three minutes later my personal valet is standing in front of me, dressed in his usual dark suit. "What can I do for you, Mr. Callahan?"
I reach into my pocket and pull out the card, holding it up on display. "Did you know about this?"
Guilt flashes briefly across his stern face. "Mr. Bolton was adamant sir. No matter how much I objected, he—"
"It's alright, Miles. I'm not mad. At least not at you," I add before taking another gulp of scotch. "Is she here?”
"Yes. Waiting for you in the media room.”
"Are there any other surprises I should be aware of?"
"Mr. Bolton has arranged for a gourmet dinner to be served in the dining room."
"Of course he has."
I drain my second glass of scotch and take a moment to think. The right thing to do here, obviously, would be to send the girl home, ensure that she gets there safely, and then enjoy the dinner by myself. But the truth is, it's been a trying few weeks. I can't remember the last time I spent time with a woman in a non-professional setting.
For that matter, I can't remember the last time I enjoyed anyone's company outside a professional setting. To be honest, the idea of having someone to talk to over dinner is even more tempting than the prospect of sex.
And obviously, I won't be sleeping with her. That's a line I won't cross under any circumstances. But really, what could be the harm in us sharing a meal together? I can think of far worse things in life than sharing a meal with a beautiful woman. We can eat, make conversation, and enjoy each other's company. I can spend an evening not thinking about work, she can get paid without having to debase herself. And we'll both enjoy a gourmet meal on my uncle’s dime. A win, win.
The decision made, I head off to greet my guest.
CHAPTER 3
Mercy
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I take dainty sips from the flute of champagne I accepted from the housekeeper, Gretchen, unable to stop glancing at the door. I've been in the ‘media room’ for upwards of twenty minutes now. Internally, I roll my eyes at the extravagance of the excessively rich. What the hell is a media room anyway? Looking round, I gathe
r that the primary purpose of the space is entertainment. The plush leather L-shaped couch I’m sitting on faces and enormous flat screen TV. The other half of the room is taken up by a pool table and a wet bar.
Minutes upon minutes pass, and by the time I finish my champagne, my nerves are just about shot. Where is he? What if he doesn't show?
The prospect is as much a relief as it is a disappointment. On the one hand, the very idea of what I'm about to do— sell my virginity— is so completely vile that I can't bear to let myself think about it. On the other hand, ten thousand dollars is on the table. That kind of money is probably nothing to someone like Parker Callahan. For me and my family though, it could mean a new beginning. Or at least a brief respite from the brink of bankruptcy.
Unable to reconcile the torrent of emotions, I grab the bottle of champagne from where it sits in an ice bucket on the coffee table, filling up my glass and taking a large sip. I probably should have declined the alcohol, since I'm not legally old enough to drink it. But considering the nature of my presence here, I don't think anyone's too worried about strict adherence to the law.
I gaze at the fireplace, watching the flames dance. It’s an electric fireplace, nothing like the wood burning stove my Dad used to build fires in on cold winter nights. But it still makes the room feel delightfully cozy. A pleasant warmth is filling my cheeks— most likely a side effect of the champagne– when the door finally creaks open. Everything inside me goes completely still, before erupting into a frenzy of sensation. Goosebumps erupt across my trembling arms and heaving chest. In the periphery of my vision, I can see a tall, dark figure. The blood is rushing in my ears as I force myself to take slower breaths.
As calmly as I can, I lean forward to set my champagne glass on the coffee table before getting to my feet. The moment of truth. I move slowly, so slowly that I don't feel real anymore as I turn around to face him. And, oh. Oh my.
