Taint

by S. L. Jennings

  I move closer, close enough to smell the Chanel dabbed behind her ears. “Mrs. Carr, it is my job to make your business my business. In order to best serve my clients, full disclosure is key. There is no room for dirty little secrets here. We’ve all got them, and trust me, yours pale in comparison to most. And, believe it or not, no one in that dining room is here to judge your situation. They’re all too worried about their own reasons for being here.

  “With that said, I apologize if you felt my brand of honesty was too potent for you. It was callous of me. Still, that’s no reason to throw in the towel. Not when we’ve hardly scratched the surface.”

  She barks out a forged laugh and looks away towards the window. A sea of glittering stars dot the blackened sky, lighting a path toward a full moon. The paleness of night floods the room, bathing her fair complexion in the color of diamonds and sorrow.

  “You said I was exclusive,” she says just above a whisper, her voice distant yet infectious enough to echo in my head.

  “Excuse me?”

  She turns to me, eyes painted in angst. “You said I was exclusive to him in college. Not we. As if I was faithful while he was not.”

  She isn’t angry, or surprised, or even embarrassed. She’s stuck somewhere between jaded and indifferent. In perpetual limbo, writhing in the space between being hurt beyond words and too fed up to give a fuck anymore.

  She needs to give a fuck. I need her to give a fuck if I’m going to help her save her marriage.

  “I’m aware, Mrs. Carr. And so are you.”

  Allison smiles the kind of smile that’s meant to be a grimace. The kind contorted by deep-seated hurt and shame. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? That since I knew what kind of man he was from the start, yet married him anyway, I deserve this?”

  “It’s not my job to think that, Mrs. Carr.”

  “Right,” she smirks. “Just your job to point out what we’re doing wrong in the bedroom.” I open my mouth to object but she raises a palm to stop me. “I get it, you know. We all signed up for this. We all knew what we were getting into. That doesn’t make it any less humiliating.”

  I look at her– really look at her– and my head swirls with inner turmoil. Of course, she’s beautiful– they all are– but Allison is absolutely flawless. She wears very little makeup, and her face is unmarred by the telltale signs of plastic surgery or injections. Tiny, tan freckles dot her slender nose, giving her an almost innocent, youthful appeal. The fact that she hasn’t tried to hide a little piece of herself that society would deem blemished, intrigues me. Shit, it makes her kind of badass. Such a small act of rebellion, yet such a monumental Fuck You to a world that celebrates narcissism and bullshit images.

  Allison’s fiery halo of red hair falls to her shoulders in deep waves. It’s full and healthy, but not overly styled with product and extensions. It’s…her. Simple. Classic. Perfection.

  “What are you looking at?” she asks, her voice laced with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

  “You.” The word is out of my mouth before a lie can even begin to stifle the truth. Shit.

  “Why?” Less annoyance, more amusement.

  “You have freckles.”

  She twists her mouth to one side and raises a cynical brow. “That I do. Would you like to count my moles? I may be able to scrounge up some scars for you too.”

  “No, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just…you didn’t get laser surgery or bleach them. You don’t even try to hide them.”

  “Look, I know that I’m less than perfect, but you don’t have to be an ass-”

  Just as she turns away from me, her face flushed with anger, I clutch her elbow. Our heated gazes collide before sliding down to her arm, where my hand is grasping her soft, ivory skin. I pull away before the act is misconstrued as inappropriate as my traitorous thoughts.

  “I like it.”

  Can’t. Stop. The. Word. Vomit.

  I’m a lot of things– crass, stubborn, brutally honest, egotistical– but one thing I am not, is careless. I know my boundaries, and I never cross them. In a business where lines can be easily blurred, those boundaries are outlined in black Sharpie, traced in gasoline, then set the fuck on fire, ensuring that no one even gets close enough to inhale the fumes of temptation.

  Yet, here I am, touching, tempting, testing the limits. Begging to get burned by an angel with a halo of fire.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Carr,” I straighten, my defiant hands balled into tight fists at my sides. “I assure you-”

  “You like it?”

  I meet her eyes, which are as big and bright as the moon, casting an ethereal glow across her face. This close, much closer than deemed innocent, I see they’re not quite blue, as I’d initially thought. Flecks of green and gold illuminate the irises, and I find myself getting lost in the liquid depths, wondering what secrets lie beneath. What past pain is hidden behind those long, auburn-hued lashes.

  Yes, I like it. Much more than a narcissistic asshole like me should.

  Liking these women isn’t what made me the man I am today. It isn’t what built my solid reputation. I’m not known for my bleeding heart of gold or sugarcoated tongue. What I am known for is results. And that’s all Allison—or anyone else, for that matter—will get from me, and not a damn thing more.

  I’m facing the entrance to her suite by the time I realize I’ve abandoned her, leaving her mouth agape and her question unanswered. I imagine those blue-green eyes narrowed in confusion at my erratic behavior, but force myself not to look. There’s nothing to see there that I haven’t seen already. Just another poor, little, rich girl.

  “Class is in session at 10 am. Don’t be late.” My gaze stays fixed on the dark, cherry wood door, dying to break free. The walls are closing in, suffocating me, demanding I turn around and face my cowardice. That I confront my weakness, currently bubbling up like bile as I pass the threshold of her suite—away from those enigmatic eyes and the temptation to play connect-the-dots with those freckles, in hopes of uncovering more of her beautifully blemished skin.

  Day-fucking-One. I’m so screwed.

  “UNLESS HE’S COMPLETELY desperate or under the influence, a man can’t—and won’t—fuck what doesn’t get him hard.”

  Less gasps this time, but every perfectly powdered face is beet red with embarrassment, causing my mouth to slide into a sardonic smirk.

  Truth be told, I love this shit. I love ruffling their meticulously groomed feathers. Their obvious discomfort entertains me. Seeing the rosy hue of coyness bleed through their blush is like a balm to my little, sadistic soul.

  “And in that case,” I continue, “you don’t want him anyway. What you do want is for him to be salivating at the soles of your Jimmy Choos. And let’s face it, ladies… that’s not happening. Why do you think that is?”

  Crickets. Fucking crickets.

  “Anyone? Come on, ladies. I can’t help you unless you want to be helped. So unless you all have picture-perfect marriages, and husbands that blow your backs out on a regular, I should see some hands.”

  This time I’m rewarded with the almost simultaneous intake of eleven breaths. They’re all still here. All willing to bare their souls and dirty laundry, in an attempt to rekindle the doused flame between their thighs.

  You see, women are liars.

  Yeah, I said it. L-I-A-R-S.

  They want intimacy just as badly as men do. But to them, intimacy is more than just the physical act of sex. They want to be cherished, yet want a man that will get down and dirty. They want tenderness, but crave to be banged like a $2 hooker. They want a man that’ll go all night but still have the energy to kiss and cuddle and talk about their feelings afterward.

  Listen up, ladies. We’re fucking tired! You try going jackrabbit-style, throw in some Cirque du Soleil moves and see if you can keep your eyelids peeled. Us passing out after sex is a compliment—a testament to how good it was. And quite frankly, if your dude can hop out of the sack and go to work or run a
marathon, then he still has energy left for sex. He’s just done having sex with you.

  Much to my surprise, a hand goes up, pulling my attention. Of course, fate would have a sick sense of humor.

  “You’re saying our husbands aren’t attracted to us anymore,” Allison states flatly.

  As much as I want to dispute her answer and curse that pathetic excuse for a man known as Evan Carr, my game face is fastened tightly in place. Still, I look down at my notes, not trusting it wholeheartedly. Business, Drake, I tell myself. Business before bullshit.

  “Correct, Mrs. Carr.”

  “Ally,” she retorts, causing me to nearly choke on my words.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Call me Ally. Just call me Ally. No one’s called me Allison since St. Mary’s prep. And if you call me Mrs. Carr again, I may have to sue for defamation. Mrs. Carr is my lovely, gracious mother-in-law,” she replies with a hint of snark.

  Finally, someone who speaks my language.

  It’s no secret that Mrs. Elaine Carr is a raging bitch in designer heels. Since her stint on The Real Housewives of NYC a few years back, she’s been known as the Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side. When the show caught backlash after one of her Pinot-fueled tirades involving a gay server and derogatory slurs, she wasn’t invited for the following season. She was furious, of course, and threatened to sue the network. Not that she needed the money. It was the humiliation of being thrown out on her little, augmented ass.

  Lucky for her sake, Allison refused to be filmed, yet Evan was as much of a camera whore as his mother. As much as he enjoys screwing housewives, being a housewife seemed even more enticing to him.

  “Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “Where were we? Attraction, ladies. It’s a powerful thing. It’s what nabs them, captivates them and keeps them coming back for more. And it goes far beyond physical attributes. Point blank, you have to be what they want. You have to offer what they desire. You see, men are simple creatures. We want what we want. And if you aren’t what we want, we find something– or someone– we do.”

  “That’s disgusting,” says a murmur toward the back of the room. I look up, immediately recognizing the platinum blonde hair and disgruntled face of Lacey Rose, wife of legendary rocker Skylar Rose, who is also forty years her senior. They met and married when Lacey was only 16, which quickly sparked a media storm surrounding the child bride’s intentions, and the musician’s penchant for adolescent poon. That was ten years ago, and now that Lacey has blossomed into a woman and birthed two children, Skylar’s been trolling Forever 21 and mall food courts for another young flower to pollinate.

  Does this shit sound wrong to anybody else?

  “Disgusting, but true, Mrs. Rose,” I reply with a nod.

  “So what…we’re getting makeovers? We’re supposed to change who we are just so they’ll be attracted to us?”

  “Not necessarily. Think of yourselves as perfectly wrapped presents. All of you spend thousands on your appearance, so there’s not much we need to work on there. We just want to present the package in a different way. Not change what you have, just exploit it. Let me show you. Mrs. Rose?”

  I leave my place behind the lectern and go to stand in front of her with an outstretched hand. Reluctantly, she places hers in mine and stands, letting me lead her to the front of the room.

  “What are you going to do to me?” she asks, her eyes darting around the room nervously, as I move behind her.

  “Relax, Mrs. Rose. As you all have read in the documents you’ve signed, I will never physically harm nor violate you. In some instances, though, I will have to touch you. Guide you. If at any time you feel uncomfortable, simply say stop. That’s all. Now…may I touch you, Mrs. Rose?”

  Her shoulders rise and fall with her labored breaths, anticipating the feel of my hands on her. This is the tricky part. I know what I do to these women. I know what they see, what they feel from me. They’re used to powerful men– they’re attracted to them– and that fact alone draws them to me. Add in the denim-blue eyes and 6 foot 2 inch dominating physique, and I’m reduced to high-priced man candy for the next six weeks. That’s why I keep things very professional. My tone is always clipped and straight to the point. While I try to be cordial, I’m never overly friendly. So, while they may be attracted to the physical, I’m too much of an asshole to warrant unwelcomed advances from lonely housewives.

  “Yes,” she breathes. I can almost visualize her eyelids fluttering closed.

  Towering over her from behind, the calloused pads of my fingertips lightly graze the sides of her arms, raking over her skin in a harsh whisper. She shivers under my touch, her breath coming out in quick pants while the rest of the women stop breathing altogether, their mouths agape in enviable lust.

  I move in closer, letting my front mold into her back. She shudders for just a second before melting into the hard contours of my chest with a sigh. “You have amazing arms, Lacey,” I say just above a whisper, my lips only a breath away from her ear. “Toned, tan, smooth. Your shoulders are sexy. Has anyone ever told you that? Imagine hands massaging them– gently at first– kneading away the day’s tension. Then a little more pressure. Harder. Then harder still. Feels good, doesn’t it? Imagine lips trailing kisses across them before moving up to your neck. A tongue snakes out to taste you…so sweet…so soft…”

  Just as an anxious noise escapes her throat, I take a step back, causing Lacey to fall backwards into my arms, channeling her inner Scarlett O’Hara. Before she gets too comfortable, I set her on her feet, making it known that I’m nobody’s Rhett Butler.

  Her face flushed with embarrassment and arousal, Lacey quickly staggers to her seat, as ten women pelt her with questioning stares.

  “Now,” I bellow with a loud clap of my hands, capturing their attention. “That was the art of attraction—working with what you’ve got. Playing up your strengths, and being confident in your sexuality. Any more volunteers?”

  Eleven hands shoot to the sky. No, wait…make that 14. A few ladies are double fisting.

  AFTER A DAY of stroking fragile egos and another awkward dinner, painfully watching most of the diners push food around their plates pretending to eat, I nearly sprint to the main kitchen for a cold beer and to check in with my staff.

  “What’s up, J.D.? How’re the Erotic Eleven treating ya?” greets the Oasis sous chef, Riku. The kid is an anomaly. Half Japanese and half Brazilian, he’s used to getting mauled by horny housewives enamored with his jet black hair, broad build, copper-colored skin, and fine, Asian features. When I asked him how his parents managed to merge their cultures, he replied, “Everyone’s fluent in the language of love.”

  Yeah right.

  Still, he’s a good guy, if not slightly green when it comes to matters of the heart. If someone like me had friends, Riku would be it. But, alas, I am someone like me.

  I grab two cold ones out of the fridge and pop them open before handing Riku his, which he gladly accepts.

  Everyone here knows that, while I may sign their paychecks, I am as far from a boss as possible. There is no Mr. Drake here. No formal reprimands or hoops to jump through. The rules are simple: If you want to work with me, great. Do your job. If not, fine by me—everyone is replaceable. With the pay, benefits and mutual respect amongst all employees, whether you’re a dishwasher or head chef, I am rarely dealt the task of hiring or firing.

  “Erotic Eleven? Hmmm…not much different than the last group. What’d you call them? The Sizzling Seven?”

  Riku laughs before tipping back his beer, then looks down at the label. “Krombacher, eh? Where’d you get this one?”

  “Germany.”

  “That where you spend your summer? Corrupting a bevy of beauties in Berlin?”

  “One of the places,” I shrug. “Kinda just wandered through Europe. Stopped in Amsterdam, Brussels, Prague—even made it out to Spain.”

  Riku shakes his head, his mouth curled into a smirk. “You make it sound like you were backpack
ing and sleeping in hostels or some shit. Be real, man. You did it up playboy style like you always do. Probably found your very own Heidi Klum out there.”

  “Nah. Never that.”

  Riku is half right. I did roam Europe in style, driving up the coast of Monaco, staying at luxurious resorts and indulging in the most amazing cuisine. I also indulged in my fair share of hot, European pussy. But, hey, I was on vacation.

  “Sure, sure,” he remarks, not the least bit phased by my aloofness. He already knows that privacy is a big deal to me and that I rarely disclose any personal information. “Just toss one my way if you ever find your hands too full to juggle all those Vicky Secret Angels you like to keep stashed away.”

  One swimsuit model. One. And suddenly I’m Hugh Hefner with a fresh Viagra refill.

  I finish my beer in silence, listening to him ramble on about the insanely frustrating demands of our guests.

  “No butter. No gluten. No dairy. No fat, no calories, no flavor. What the hell do these chicks want to eat? Air?”

  “If you could put it on a plate and garnish it with parsley, it’d be a hit.”

  “Fuck that,” Riku remarks with a shake of his head. “I want a woman that eats. Someone I can cook for and feed while she’s curled up next to me in bed. Ain’t shit I can do with a bag of bones. I mean, have you seen most of them? Shit, if they turn to the side, they fucking disappear. I’ll take tits and ass over Skeletor any-damn-day.”

  I nod, feeling the double-edged sword of his words. Of course, these women want to eat. They crave rich foods and sugary desserts just like anyone else. They detest having to spend every waking moment obsessing over every pound and calorie. But when you live in a society that praises skinny and shames anything that doesn’t fit that extra-extra-small mold, you make sacrifices. And that’s exactly what they’ve done. They’ve sacrificed their happiness, their peace of mind, and in many cases, their health. And in the end, it’s not even about food or body image. It’s just another notch in the good ol’ fucked up, modern America belt.