His for the Summer: 50 Loving States, Florida

by Theodora Taylor

  She typed furiously into the reply box: “Who are you???”

  No answer.

  “Why are you doing this???” she typed again.

  No answer.

  Yet she felt compelled to try again. Wanting to know. Having to know. “What do you want from me?”

  “WHO ARE YOU???”

  The first message came in while Gus and his half-brother, Max, were showing Max’s other half-brother, Cole, around the construction site for The Sorley Miami.

  This being the first text he’d received on the phone Hank had given him, specifically for the purpose of executing Plan C, he pulled it out of his pocket as soon as it vibrated. The hard hat he was wearing tipped down over his forehead, casting a shadow across the phone’s screen as he read the three words.

  He stared at the message, studying the first words she’d ever written to him like they were a piece of art he’d been hoping to collect for a very long time. In a way, that was what they felt like.

  Then more words came through: “Why are you doing this???”

  His thumb itched to answer her. Even though that wasn’t part of the plan. No texting until May. That was the deal he’d made with himself.

  While he was resisting the temptation to answer, another message came through: “What do you want from me?”

  “Hey Gus, what you have going on there? Another hotel looking to poach you?” Cole asked.

  Gus looked up to see both Max and Cole staring at him. They technically looked nothing alike. Max was dark like his and Gus’s mother, while Cole took after his blonde mother. But their eyes were exact twins: green and currently narrowed with the same look of shrewd suspicion.

  Gus guessed that’s what you got when you left one brother’s employ to work with the half-brother you’d never even known you had. It had taken nearly a year for Cole, his former boss, to forgive him for leaving to enter into a partnership with Max before the ink was barely dry on his hiring paperwork. And even though all three of them were now partners in their extremely profitable enterprise, Benton Brothers Ventures, it would probably be a while before the two other sides of their weird half-brother triangle fully trusted him not to bail. Then again, it had taken Max and Cole decades to start trusting each other, and they’d known they were brothers from the start. So Gus supposed he shouldn’t expect them to start trusting him any time soon.

  “No,” he told them. “I’m only about Benton Brother Industries now. Hell, I even took your name. How much more invested could I be?”

  That seemed to mollify Max, at least. Even though Gus changing his name had been more of a practicality than anything else. It made it easier for the three of them to walk into business meetings without having to stop and explain why he had a different last name from the other two brothers in the business. Also, being introduced as Gus Benton reduced the chance of some clueless CEO asking him to fetch his coffee because of his obvious Latino heritage.

  But as it turned out, he liked being Gus Benton. The high-rises, the hotels, the respect, the money—seriously, the cars alone made the name switch worth it.

  Yet Cole continued to squint at him hard as he said, “You stopped in the middle of a sentence to check your phone, which isn’t like you. I’ve never seen you concentrate on anything non-business related like that.”

  “Not since my wife showed up at your first corporate retreat,” Max added. Then his eyes widened. “Wait, is it a woman? You finally get serious about somebody other than Pru now, Little Bro?”

  Gus shook his head. Supposedly, Max had forgiven him for aggressively coming on to Pru, the woman he’d eventually fall for head over heels. But forgiving wasn’t quite the same as letting Gus ever forget it. And leave it to Max to put his finger right on the cause of Gus’s inattention.

  Most days, Gus liked having Max as a big brother, especially after a lifetime on his own. But today wasn’t one of those days.

  “It’s nothing. Nobody,” he told them.

  “He wasn’t looking at the phone like it was nobody,” Cole said, looking over at Max.

  “So you met somebody new here in Miami,” Max said. “When can I meet her? How about I fly Pru out with me next time I come to town. We can do a double date…”

  “It’s nobody…” Gus insisted. Plan C could not handle Max. Especially not Max and his wife, Pru, who got paid to dig up shit on other people for a living

  But Max already had his smartphone out. “Putting you down for July 4th weekend. Can Pru and I stay with you at the penthouse, or do you want us to get a hotel?”

  “Max seriously, you don’t need to come out,” Gus answered.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Max said, typing all the info into his phone. “She’s nobody. Just the first girl I’ve ever seen you so much as give a number to—sure, whatever you want me to believe. Go with that. I’ll decide for myself when I meet her in July.”

  Gus threw Max a murderous look, already resenting the possible crimp he’d be putting in Plan C.

  He re-pocketed the phone, now reminded of why he hadn’t planned to respond to her messages in the first place.

  “Who are you?”— she’d never find out. He’d never let her find out.

  “Why are you doing this?”—she couldn’t handle the answer to that question.

  “What do you want from me?”—she’d find that out soon enough.

  5

  “Keerah Winslow!”

  Polite applause accompanied the slaughter of Cera’s name as she walked across the stage. They majority of the clapping came from her fellow grad school attendees, most of whom had already received their diplomas to the woots! and hollering of their significant others and family members. A few of which Cera doubted would even know her name was pronounced more like “Sara” than “Kee-rah.”

  Trying not to feel like the loneliest person on the planet, she murmured a quiet, “Thank you,” to the Dean of the Education Department as she took the leather portfolio with her new diploma inside of it.

  “I hope I pronounced your name right,” he said after handing it to her.

  Cera gave him a weak smile. The nice thing about having a somewhat unusual name associated with a criminal who’d made national headlines for his egregious deeds? You’re not that bothered when someone massacres it.

  Her phone vibrated with a text message shortly after she sat back down in the sea of white chairs on the University of West Miami’s football field. And her eyes widened when she saw the strange six-digit number on the screen, along with the message: “Congratulations.”

  Cera’s heart seized and it took a few moments before she was able to text back: “Are you here?”

  The screen stayed blank so long, she thought maybe he wouldn’t answer. But then a word appeared on her screen. “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  She scanned the crowd. But saw no one who looked like a mysterious benefactor—not that she was quite sure what one of those would look like. Fred Astaire in Daddy Long Legs, maybe? However, though there were a ton of men in suits texting on their phones, none of them were wearing top hats and tuxedos. At least none that she could see.

  No answer to her question appeared on her screen. Not even a dot-dot-dot animation to let her know he was thinking about answering it.

  So she tried another question. “Why are you here?”

  “Your sister couldn’t make it, and I figured you could use some support.”

  A bemused smile pulled on her lips. Why did she find him coming out here strangely touching? Probably because she hadn’t had a proper friend—in, well, ever.

  She typed: “You came out to support me even if I can’t see you?”

  “Yes. I’m here. And I’m proud of you for getting your degree. Especially after what you’ve been through.”

  And that was when she knew she’d lost it. Apparently she’d been alone for so long, a few nice words was enough to give her a serious case of the warm fuzzies—even if they came from someone who was, to all intents and purposes, a poten
tially creepy stalker with a lot of money.

  Three words suddenly appeared on her screen: “Open your diploma.”

  She did. Carefully and with her heart in her mouth, because she had a feeling about what she’d find. A bad one.

  But her feeling didn’t even come close to what was inside. Another cashier check. For two million dollars. Made out to her. And even though she knew what she’d find there before she looked, her eyes lowered to the Memo line. August, it read, along with the current year.

  The lawn suddenly became unbearably hot, like the sun was trying to put her flat on her back. Faint…she supposed this was what people meant when they said they felt faint.

  And indeed, she felt more than a little light-headed as she texted: “What is this for?”

  “You.”

  “But why? Why would you give me so much money?”

  “I’m not just giving it to you. I think you understand that, yes?”

  She did. She didn’t necessarily want to admit that she understood, but yes, she knew her mysterious benefactor expected something from her in exchange for all of this “generous support.” But the question was, what?

  “What exactly do you want from me in exchange for all this money?”

  “June, July, and August.”

  “So you want me to, what? Work for you? “

  Maybe this person had an autistic kid or something. And wanted a round-the-clock nanny for the summer. That would explain paying Dana’s tuition…but not much else, she thought with a grimace.

  “No, I don’t want you to work for me.” Just words on a screen, but it felt like whoever was on the other end was laughing at her.

  “Then what do you want from me?” she typed back irritably. “You haven’t exactly been clear about that.”

  Long moments passed before the dot-dot-dot gif reappeared on the screen. Then: “You’re right, Cera. I haven’t been clear. I want you. In my bed. For the summer.”

  She couldn’t breathe. He wanted her to…prostitute herself for the summer?

  “Are you serious?” she typed back. “You want me to have sex with you. All summer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because there are places you can go for that, right? And it would be a lot cheaper. And way more enjoyable.”

  Cera wasn’t sure how much he knew about her. A lot, judging by what he’d already said and done. But maybe he hadn’t realized she’d been too busy, first raising her sister, and then earning her degree, to get involved in any kind of real relationship. She couldn’t see him enjoying himself with her as much as he would with someone who actually got paid to use her body in that capacity, and knew how to service a man in bed.

  But his response came back immediate and final.

  “No, I want you. It has to be you.”

  “But why?”

  Dot-dot-dot for the longest time. Then: “I’m sending a car to your place on June 1. I want you packed and ready to spend the summer at my apartment.”

  Now it was her turn to dot-dot-dot. A thousand thoughts rush through her mind. How wrong this would be. How completely opposite of how she was raised. Good girls, even the ones who have bad fathers, don’t take large sums of money in exchange for letting a complete stranger use them as his personal sex doll for the summer.

  But then again, a truly good girl would never have deposited that June check in the first place. Or accepted the July money. She didn’t want to be bad. Her whole thing in life was to prove she was nothing like her father.

  But two million dollars…that would be enough to not only make her sister’s dreams come true, but also a few of her own. Like her vision of starting a K-6 charter school for autistic kids. It was a dream she’d always thought of as something she’d have to wait for a very long time to achieve. At least ten to twenty years down the road. If ever.

  But with this kind of money, she could start doing a lot of good right now.

  All she had to do was agree to be bad. Really bad. For an entire summer.

  Still, she had to do some kind of due diligence.

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Kids?”

  “No.”

  “And this deal would be just me and you, right? No threesomes? Or anything else?”

  “No, just you and me, baby.” Again it felt like he was laughing at her.

  It wasn’t the hottest day she’d experienced in Miami by far. But it certainly felt like it was as she typed the one word that would seal her fate for the next three months.

  “Okay.”

  6

  What am I doing? What am I doing? What the hell am I doing!?

  That was all Cera could think as she looked around the gorgeous apartment. Apartment? Ha!

  More like a mansion in the sky. What her mysterious benefactor had referred to as his so-called apartment, took up the entire floor of one of the tallest high rises in South Beach. With all of the bedrooms tucked into an area at the “apartment’s” center, and only a few pieces of white furniture spread throughout the general living space, her benefactor’s home looked like nothing less than a gleaming white display case of modern art, enclosed within a glass box.

  Literally a glass box. The elevator took up one sliver of enclosed space on the north wall. But aside from that, every external wall in the apartment was made up of floor-to-ceiling glass. South Beach glittered below the east-facing wall like a postcard designed to make everyone else jealous. While the rest of the city filled up the view to the west.

  And though Hank, the man who’d picked her up and shown her around, had assured her all the windows were tinted so they could see out but no one in the very few neighboring high rises could see in, it still felt like living in a fishbowl. A fishbowl owned by a very rich person.

  One she’d yet to meet, even though Hank picked her up from her own relatively modest apartment a few hours ago and was now making dinner as she tried to figure out what do with herself. Hank was clearly a jack-of-all-trades: driver, cook, butler. Quite frankly, Cera had no clue what his actual title might be. Assistant? Manservant? (Did anyone even use that term in the real world outside of Downton Abbey?)

  In any case, Hank looked like ex-military, with a blond buzz cut and a barrel chest. But he talked like a New Yorker and reminded her of a proud but embarrassed auntie as he showed her around the place.

  “Boss man bought it a few months ago, which I guess means he’ll be staying in Miami for a while. But every place the boss lives is like this. Bare bones. Nothing but the essentials. I’ve been trying to convince him to hire my boyfriend to come fix the place up for him. He’s dying to get his hands on a space like this, but so far, no dice.”

  Hank waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively. “Maybe you can change his mind about that?”

  “I’m only here for three months. Possibly only two,” she told him, thinking of the two million dollar August check she’d had yet to deposit.

  “Well, see what you can do, kiddo,” Hank said. Then he disappeared into the kitchen saying, “I’m going to make some pasta for dinner. Please tell me you eat pasta, because I’m desperate to make something that’s not all protein and veggies.”

  “I eat pasta,” she said, following him into the gleaming white kitchen. “But is that all your boss eats? Protein and veggies? And how many apartments does he have? Are they all in Miami? Or…”

  Hank’s answer was to pour a generous glass of red wine from the bottle he’d decanted when they first arrived, and slide it across the white countertop in her general direction.

  “Here ya go, Cera. Why don’t you go drink this on the balcony while I get dinner ready.”

  He all but shooed her from the kitchen, dismissing her and her many questions to the surprisingly spacious balcony.

  So here she was. Sitting on a deck chair next to an infinity pool that looked like it was flowing off the side of the building. She was even more confused now than when she got there. She’d expected her mysterious benefactor to be h
ere when she arrived, or at least, you know…show up.

  But despite her state of general bewilderment, she had to admit dinner was delicious. And it was a lot more sophisticated than the simple pasta Hank claimed to be making. More like a linguine work of art bursting with squash, olives, and cherry tomatoes.

  “You ate good, kid,” Hank said when she brought her thoroughly cleaned plate back to the kitchen. She watched him rinse it off and start the dishwater with an efficient flick of his wrist.

  Again, she had to wonder exactly what Hank’s job was. He seemed like some kind of personal assistant who also cooked, drove, and looked like he could mess somebody up bad if it came down to hand-to-hand combat. But at the moment, he felt more like her babysitter.

  At least until he said, “Well, I’m outta here. See ya tomorrow, kiddo.”

  That was when Cera found herself in the strange position of not wanting the babysitter to leave.

  “But wait,” she said. “Isn’t there more to go over? Like what I should do? How I should act when…”

  Hank cut her off with two raised hands. “None of my business, kiddo. But I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?”

  Cera helplessly watched him leave, feeling like he was abandoning her even though he’d been nothing but kind to her all day.

  She looked at the large TV hanging on one of the few divider walls. This and a simple white couch were all that made up what she supposed could be called the entertainment section of the fishbowl. But it would do.

  TV had become her best friend ever since Dana had gone off to boarding school five years ago. Maybe she could find something to binge-watch now that all the regular shows had ended.

  But first she should unpack, she reminded herself.

  She made her way across the white marble floor to the large interior square at the center of the apartment. There were two doors on the white east-facing inner wall. Only one of which was unlocked, as she’d found out earlier while doing her own bit of reconnaissance when Hank had gone out to pick up dinner supplies. Dead curious about what was behind the locked door on the left, she opened the door on the right and entered what Hank had referred to as her room.