The Client

by M. S. Parker

  By the time I cleared the steps, the two of them were having a quiet conversation that he didn't appear to be enjoying.

  I didn’t spare him another look as I lost myself on the dance floor.

  * * *

  An hour later, I was finishing up a bottle of water when somebody bumped into me – and hard.

  I crashed into the person next to me, felt my ankle giving out.

  Already prepared to fall, I wind milled my arms anyway.

  I didn’t fall though.

  Strong forearms came around my waist and a heated body pressed against mine.

  My heart skipped a beat in appreciation.

  The scent of clean male sweat filled my head, and I looked up, not quite ready to get hopeful. But then I met his eyes and hope started to race alongside my pulse.

  Dark brown eyes held mine.

  “I…I’m sorry.” Feeling a little breathless, I smiled up at him. “Excuse me.”

  “Please don’t.” He smiled and when he did, his teeth flashed white against the short, neat growth of his beard.

  I had dirty images of just how that beard might feel against my girl parts and his response took a minute to process. “Um…what? Please don’t what?”

  “Excuse yourself. As a matter of fact, feel free to fall into my arms anytime you want.” He helped steady me, but didn’t let go of my arms right away and I didn’t mind a bit. As a matter of fact, he could have held on a little longer.

  “Well, aren't you a flirt.”

  “Not much of a flirt. I just speak my mind. And if you hadn't fallen against me, I wouldn’t have gotten a hold of you.” He held out a hand, that wicked, sexy smile still on his lips. “Maybe you'll dance with me and let me hold you again?”

  I put my hand in his. “Maybe I’ll do just that.”

  Chapter Three

  Paxton

  “We didn’t do too bad.”

  Looking up, I met the eyes of Decker Marley, the man who’d played lead guitar for me ever since I’d first started singing. He was also my best friend, and I knew by the look in his eyes that he was being…polite.

  “Hey, fuck that. I think we nailed it.” Joker Trammel spun his drumsticks around, grinning at us as he jogged down the steps to join us at the door. “We fucking kicked ass. We ought to tell.

  Brinke to get sick more often.”

  Get sick was delivered with a roll of his eyes.

  The rest of the band laughed, save for Decker and me. Brinke was our main backup singer – and my wife. She told me she’d meet me at the studio this morning. She never had.

  My texts had gone unanswered as well.

  We needed to talk once I got back to the penthouse because this bullshit wasn’t going to keep happening.

  “So, are we going to recut the songs we did today?” Decker asked, ignoring the rest of the crew.

  “No.” Staring outside the double doors into the busy New York streets, I blew out a breath and then turned to look at everybody. They all looked more than a little surprised, but thankfully, none of them seemed upset. In fact, they looked relieved. “No. Brinke knows we’re on a deadline. She’ll understand.”

  “The fans might not.” Joker was the one to voice what all of us were thinking.

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I nodded. “Yeah. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But we can’t keep holding up work on the new album because of…”

  I couldn’t even say the lie this time.

  Brinke wasn’t sick – not physically at least – and I had a bad feeling I knew why she wasn’t there. She’d been out late last night, partying like we were still nineteen, without a care or responsibility. She didn’t get that our lives couldn’t go on like that anymore.

  “Brinke.” Decker said it for me. Moving up, he clapped a big hand on my shoulder. “Dude, look, you love her. We get that. But this shit – it ain’t good for you. Ain’t good for the band. Ain’t good for your career – or ours.”

  He didn’t even mention Brinke’s career, because, without me to keep her going, she probably wouldn’t have one. And I didn't say the other thing, that I wasn't even sure I did love her. Not like this.

  The energy we’d had going today – without Brinke – I missed that. Just being able to lose myself in the music again, without being caught up in her drama had been amazing. But she was my wife – and more.

  I sighed. “I gotta go. You all heading out?”

  “Nah.” He shrugged and looked back at everybody else. “I think we’re going to head out, hit a club maybe. Guess you’re not up for it.”

  “Not today.”

  I hitched my gig bag over my shoulder, then pulled out a ball cap and a pair of sunglasses. The others were doing the same. It was surprisingly easy to stay somewhat anonymous in the city with just a little effort.

  “Okay, man.” He punched me lightly on the shoulder. “Take it easy, Pax.”

  A few minutes later, I was tucked up in the back of a cab with my eyes closed.

  Some of the guys wondered how I could do that, relax in the back of a New York City taxi. But I’d ridden in cabs in Beijing, New Delhi, and Mexico City – so had they. I figured if I’d survived those, then a driver from the Big Apple was a cakewalk.

  I came awake to the sound of a heavy fist pounding on the glass between the driver and me. Groggily, I blinked my eyes a few times, then looked over and saw the towering spire that housed my penthouse. It wasn’t exactly what I’d planned for a home here, but Brinke had fallen in love with it, and sometimes it was just easier to give in to her when it wasn't something important.

  I’d gone along with it, and now I had to admit, the place was a lot more convenient than a house a little bit out of the city. Not to mention what a bitch it would've been to drive back and forth on the days we needed to be in the studio. Still, I wanted a house. Someplace with a yard and grass. Maybe we’d do that later. We could always keep the penthouse, stay here when we were recording, use it for guests and that sort of thing.

  I pushed money into the slot to pay the fare, along with the tip, and mumbled thanks, still half-asleep.

  By the time I hit the elevator bank, though, I was awake. Awake and hungry. We’d ordered in Chinese for lunch, and that had stuck with me for maybe an hour. I wanted a steak – one the size of Kansas. Maybe we could all –

  The second I stepped out of the elevator, I knew I wouldn’t be inviting Brinke out anywhere. Hell, she’d be lucky if I didn’t kick her ass out.

  Music blasted from the system we’d just installed last week.

  Next to my right foot, a puddle of what looked like vomit spread across the polished hardwood floors that Brinke had cooed over. A bottle of wine was spilled on the antique Aubusson rug she’d insisted we had to have, and there was a box of half-eaten pizza on the couch I had wanted. The stains from tomato sauce looked like they were already smeared in.

  Over the souring smell of vomit mingled with wine, I caught the familiar odor of marijuana and booze, food and cigarettes. The cigarette smoke was so thick it hung in a thick haze around the apartment, and I felt my jaw locking on me. There was a couple on the fat armchair I’d put by the windows so I could look outside at night, and I slammed my fist against the lights as I realized the two of them were screwing right there in my living room.

  Two sets of glassy eyes turned toward me. The woman smiled, then giggled. “Heya, Pax…wanna join us?”

  “Get out.”

  I recognized her vaguely. She was one of the girls Brinke liked to party with. “Get out,” I said again. “And don’t bother coming back. I’m telling building security you’re not allowed in anymore.”

  While she continued to blink at me, confused, I grabbed the phone and waited for the front desk to pick up – another thing to like about the building.

  I relayed my message while the couple by the window started to move again, low moans reaching my ears – and the guy on the phone. “Ah…Mr. Gorham, do you require assistance?”

  “I
think I require a lot – but not the kind you can give me. Just remember what I said, and make sure everybody knows.” Then I slammed the phone down and strode to the chair.

  Drawing back my foot, I kicked it hard enough that it skidded, even with the two of them screwing on it like wild rabbits.

  When they looked at me this time, there was sense in their eyes. At least a little. “You’ve got two minutes to be out of here, or you’ll be arrested for trespassing.”

  Every single person up here would be stopped on the way out, and none of them would be coming back. Brinke’s friend – Sanja? Sanya? I couldn’t remember – gaped at me, but her partner got it. He stood up, and she would've fallen if he hadn’t caught her.

  “Come on, Pax,” she said, her voice slurred. “Why so mad?”

  “Get out.”

  “Come on, Jay,” he said, finally managing to zip his jeans. He had the decency to smooth her skirt down, never once lifting his head to acknowledge me.

  It was Sanja then.

  From the corner of my eyes, I saw somebody looking at me from the kitchen. I pointed at her – no, them. Another couple came slinking around. “Get out.”

  Before moving away from the door, I pulled my phone out and pulled up the number for building security and called down, giving terse instructions to watch for the people leaving my penthouse. “First of them coming down now – remember, they are never allowed back in my place again. Ever.”

  “Hey…” Sanja said, a whine entering her voice. “You can’t do that. Brinke and I are best friends. I come see her all the time.”

  “Yeah. When you want to get high and don’t have any money.” Curling my lip at her, I stepped aside and pointed to the door. “I’m the one who paid for the place. It’s my name on all the papers. Now get out.”

  Brinke couldn’t be trusted to sign for anything as important as our home. She’d given a two-hundred-thousand dollar car to cover some debts to a dealer a couple years back. I’d told her then that my name was going on everything, and that if I caught her trying to give away or sell any of it, I'd send her to jail for theft.

  She’d cried, yelled, smacked me and thrown things.

  I hadn't given in that time, and I'd never regretted it.

  My stomach twisted as the door slammed shut behind the people I’d just kicked out. That better be the last…

  Disgusted, I stopped in front of the guest bedroom and opened the door to find a mini-orgy going on. Four people took up the massive custom king bed. I hit the light and held up my phone. “You’ve got five minutes to get out or I call the cops.”

  Like Sanja and the others, they were so strung out, it took a few seconds for my words to penetrate. When it did, one tried to argue, but I cut her off. “Brinke doesn’t own this place. I do. Get out or I’ll have you arrested. Now!”

  I didn’t bother to see if they listened. I’d called the cops if they weren’t gone. I had no problem with that.

  I strode to the end of the hall and looked toward our bedroom. I saw Brinke lying on the floor of the guest bathroom just ahead of me, but I ignored her. She wasn’t who I cared–

  “Ah, hell, no…” The door to Carter’s room was open. I took off at a run.

  I burst inside, already processing the low moans. Hitting the lights, I stared at the couple on my little girl’s canopy style bed. It was round and outfitted with sheer drape-like scarves that hung from the top. She’d seen it and the look on her face had sealed the deal without her asking. She’d wanted a princess bed, and my little girl had gotten her damn princess bed.

  “Get out!” I didn’t even remember crossing the room or grabbing the man.

  He was just on the floor, staring at me. The woman screamed and I half-turned toward her.

  “Where is my daughter?”

  They gaped at me, confused.

  “Dude…she…”

  The guy rubbed at his face, and then reached down, scratched at the curls near his still swollen dick. Fury exploded through me. I grabbed him off the floor and hauled him out into the hall, slamming him against the wall. “Where is my daughter?”

  “She went into the closet, dude! We told her we needed the bed…she seemed cool with it!” He blinked at me, looking confused.

  A second later, he looked unconscious – and bloody –because I’d all but punched his teeth through the other side of his head.

  They’d put my little girl in the closet so they could fuck in her bed.

  I was going to…

  Breathe…

  I forced myself to do just that as I turned and looked at the woman. She was still screaming and sobbing, her hands scrabbling at Carter’s pink and purple bedspread. She didn't matter. He didn't matter. Only my baby girl did.

  “Get out of that bedroom now unless you want to be arrested,” I said, barely able to squeeze the words out through my fury. “Get. Out. Now.”

  She half fell off the bed and started to reach for the blanket to cover herself.

  “Touch that and spend the night in jail.”

  Her hand fell away and she crawled toward her clothes. Ignoring her, I moved toward the closet.

  It was closed, but under it, I saw a thin beam of light. Carter kept flashlights everywhere. She was afraid of the dark. Maybe a lot of kids her age were.

  What in the hell had they said to make her go into the closet?

  I started to grab the handle but stopped at the sight of blood on my knuckles.

  Swearing, I shrugged out of the black button-down I'd worn over my t-shirt and used it to clean the blood from my hand. It wasn’t perfect, but I wasn’t leaving my daughter in there a minute longer.

  She was crouched there, sitting with her back against the wall, and the little camping styled lamp by her feet. It was decorated with Disney princesses, and she held a bow and arrow – Princess Merida, of course – tightly.

  She peeked up at me. “There’s monsters, Daddy.”

  My heart broke a little. “No, baby,” I said, shaking my head.

  “There’s monsters. I was having nightmares, and then they came in, and I screamed, and they said I had to be quiet and hide or the monsters would get me. Is it zombies?” Carter’s big eyes stared up at me and I wanted to punch something – or someone. Again.

  Brinke let Carter watch zombie shows a couple weeks ago, and now, instead of whatever kind of monsters kids should dream of, Carter thought zombies were real and might come get her.

  “I told you, sweetheart. Those zombies are just make-up and pretend. They aren’t real. Come on. Whatever monsters were here? I got rid of them.”

  * * *

  Carter lay sleeping on the big, beautiful bed of the Waldorf Astoria’s presidential suite.

  Brinke had been passed out when I finally checked on her, so deep under that I'd ended up letting hotel security contact a doctor – he’s discreet, I assure you.

  I hoped like hell whoever they'd called was discreet, but that wasn’t my main concern.

  Carter was.

  And because I had to think about my baby, I’d been sitting in the chair by the window, staring outside for the past hour as I came to the understanding that I had to do something. I couldn't just push it aside anymore.

  The woman I’d fallen in love with was pretty much gone.

  And the guy I’d been then? He didn’t even exist anymore.

  When we found out she was pregnant –

  Shit. No big mystery there. I’d grown up. Remembering the shit my parents had put me through, some of the stories that Brinke had told me about her folks, I’d known. The moment we'd looked at that little plus sign and realized we were going to have a baby, I’d known that things had to change.

  Brinke had seemed to get it too. But either she hadn’t meant it or she’d forgotten.

  And I didn’t care anymore.

  Whatever we once had was over.

  We were done.

  Carter made a low noise under her breath, something that sounded almost like a little puppy whimper
ing.

  Getting up, I went over to the big bed and settled down in the middle, pulling her in close to me. She snuggled up to me and the crying stopped immediately.

  “It’s okay, princess,” I said softly. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

  I’d make sure of it too.

  No matter what.

  Chapter Four

  Leslie

  I came awake in a bed that wasn’t mine, tucked up next to a hard, warm male body, and I put together pieces of a puzzle I wasn’t aware existed until I’d already solved it.

  I wasn’t at home.

  I hadn’t spent the night alone.

  Also, it was a little later in the morning than I liked. I only realized that when I saw the glowing red numbers on the clock on the table next to my head.

  It was almost ten.

  I needed to get home.

  When I stirred, the man next to me grunted and rolled onto his belly, but he didn't wake.

  After a moment, I eased onto my side and stared at him, waiting for my mind to clear.

  Bit by bit, it did.

  The guy – we’d met at Club Privé. He'd stopped me from falling. We'd danced. Had a few drinks.

  Then we ended up here.

  A few random flashes pierced the haze of alcohol and good, hard sex. I ached in a nice way, but beyond that, I couldn’t say much about the past night. Not the first time that'd happened.

  Easing out of the bed, I looked around for my clothes and gathered them up.

  My head pounded a little, and I grabbed my purse as well, hoping I’d remembered to throw some sort of over the counter pain killer in there.

  If not, I could always drown myself under the shower.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I was showered, and after having dry-swallowed two ibuprofen tablets, I felt something closer to normal. My dress from last night was wrinkled, but it would do for now. My panties would not – they’d been ripped. I tossed them into the garbage, relieved to see numerous condom wrappers in there. That was always the risk when mixing alcohol and sex.