by JA Huss
But those girls are too busy with their own gossip to even notice. Or they have the decency to ignore it, if they do.
“I’m going to fuck you,” I repeat as the door whooshes open and the three girls exit. “Say yes.”
She nods her head and then whispers, “Yes,” in a very small voice.
I place the vibrator in her hand and then cup her ass, lifting her up as I press her back against the stall door. She wraps her legs around my hips and holds tightly to my neck as I grab my cock and drag it back and forth across her wet opening. It slides in and she moans loudly this time.
“That’s my girl, just enjoy it. Forget everything else but how I make you feel.” I thrust inside her and she bites my shoulder. I take that as encouragement and do it again, making her grunt and squirm against me.
“Fuck, you are so hot, Grace.” I thrust deep, but I go slow. Taking my time. She matches my pace, embracing the moment like I asked, and I reward her with an open-mouthed kiss. Our tongues dance and twist together, just like our bodies and then, just as the bathroom door whooshes open again, she comes. Moaning and biting and writhing as I hold her close and pump her hard until I spill inside of her.
She collapses on my shoulder and I lean in and kiss her neck. “I know you’re on the pill, but I just want to hear it from your mouth.”
“I am,” she says sleepily. Her postcoital attitude is definitely something I love. And then she lifts her head and looks me in the eye as I watch her face. “How do you know I’m on the pill?” Her voice is normal, so obviously she’s no longer concerned about being found out. I peek over the stall door and see no one, so we must’ve scared them off.
I smile as I set her down and then move her aside so I can open the stall and wet some paper towels. I hand them over to her and she cleans herself up. “I know a lot about you, Grace. And if I see you after tomorrow, I’ll know even more.”
I hold out my hand after she’s finished and take her paper towels to the trash can. The door whooshes open and a woman with a name tag on her impeccable pastel-colored suit comes in. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to—” She stops and puts her hands up when she realizes who I am. And then she shakes her head a little, turns on her heel, and exits.
I look over to Grace, smirking. She’s not amused. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you spying on me? How do you know I’m on the pill?”
“Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”
I point a finger at her. “Hey, I’ve warned you about that.”
She slaps my finger down and points one up at me in return. “Have you gone through my things? Because I’m pretty sure you can’t hack into my medical records to see if I’m on the pill.”
I scratch my head as I ponder this. “Which is worse? Rummaging through your things or hacking?”
“You better be joking, Asher, because I’m not.”
“It’s a good guess. All women are on the pill these days.”
“I don’t believe you. And I think you went too far.”
“Jesus, Grace. Can we have one hour without fighting? For fuck’s sake, I hate the constant battle we have going on. Let’s go hit the lazy river.”
“You know enough, Asher—”
“And stop fucking calling me that!”
“So back off my space.”
“Fine,” I say as I open the door and almost walk into an orange cone blocking the entrance. When I look behind me there’s a sign on the door that says, Out of Service. I look at Grace and laugh. “Wanna go back for seconds?”
She does not find that funny at all, because she pushes past me and walks off.
I let her go work off steam. She’s so combative. I really need to come up with another way to bring her into compliance.
“You done in there, brother?”
Conner is walking towards me, so I shake Grace out of my thoughts and meet him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Dad’s right, you know. You’re gonna get caught. Someone is gonna get you back for all your douchebaggy ways and when that happens, I’m going to sit back and watch the way you do me.”
“Conner, what I do is private and none of your business. What you do is all of our business because you can’t settle down.”
“So I’m a free spirit, so what? I’m cool with it. And you’re such an asshole for bringing up that money. I’m off the ground now, bro. I’m gonna be paying you back soon.”
“Yeah, I was,” I admit. But I laugh anyway. “Dad’s so easy though, can you blame me?”
“You know what, V? You know what your biggest problem is?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I have too much money? I have too many girls?”
“You have it too easy. And one of these days, Vaughn, the shit’s gonna get hard and you’re not gonna know what to do. You live this charmed life and you think everything is forever. Money, girls, cars, jobs… but it’s not, brother. It’s finite. Everything and everyone has an expiration date.”
“Whatever.”
“So when your day comes, I do not want to hear your bitching.”
And then he pushes open the door to the men’s room and disappears inside.
I huff out a breath of air and shake my head. Fuck him. He’s just mad because he never made it as an actor and I’ve got blockbusters lined up in post-production for the next year and a half.
And I’ve got Grace. He might be a little jealous of that too, because while Conner can get a girl, he can’t seem to keep one.
I never have that problem.
My problem is how to get rid of them.
Chapter Nineteen
#IHaveLostMyMind
WHAT the hell am I doing?
This thought runs through my brain the whole way back to my bungalow.
Because I mean, what the hell, Grace? I do not even recognize myself right now. Since when do I let a man treat me like this? And yeah, I get that he’s a movie star, a man I’ve been obsessed with for years—but this?
I admit, I’m not usually one for confrontation and I have a hard time saying no to people. But this is not me. This person cannot be me.
And what the hell was that back there? He planned for me to meet his parents so he could humiliate me.
I don’t care how many ways you look at it, that’s what that was. Pure and simple. He was mad because I can’t be like the sluts he likes to fuck, so he made me pay for it.
Note to self, saying no to Vaughn Asher has consequences.
Right. But so does saying yes. Because saying yes gives him permission to do this shit. Is this what I am? A plaything for a wealthy man? Willing to sell myself to gain—what? What am I getting out of this tryst, as he likes to call it?
Fame? No, certainly not. He wants me to be a secret. Which is fine with me, I’m with his sister Sam on that shit. I have no desire to be in the spotlight with him or as a victim of his fetishes.
Gifts? I huff out a long breath of air. Yes, I have to admit as I look down at my clothes, I accepted a gift from him and I enjoyed it.
And now this whole outfit feels dirty.
I push my key card into the bungalow door and immediately begin taking off my clothes. I fold it all very carefully, sans underwear, since Vaughn still has those in his pocket, and place it all back inside the box. I run my fingertips across the fabric for a moment, enjoying the quality. It’s something I’d never in a million years be able to just buy without guilt over spending so much.
This makes me pause, because I’m like most girls who grew up with lots of limits in place. I want more. I do, I admit it. I want more than just a working a job that takes up most of my life just so I can afford to live in a neighborhood that doesn’t scare the shit out of me. I want to be taken to dinner and given presents to make me feel special. I want all those things.
But the reality of that want is that the men who are capable of fulfilling it are always asking for more than I’m willing to give in return. This presen
t was given to me for the wrong reasons. It was a payoff. It was a consolation. It was a bribe.
Do as I say, Grace, and I’ll give you the things you want.
But do I really want them if that’s how I have to get them? Isn’t getting them part of the journey? Aren’t things like success and money and a nice big house supposed to be the result of hard work, determination, tenacity, and a little bit of luck?
This dress symbolizes all the wrong things for me. It was all luck. There’s no hard work in being Asher’s plaything. There’s no satisfaction beyond an orgasm. I don’t want to be lucky, I want to be good. I want to succeed at more than just following the sexual commands of an ego-inflated movie star.
And I’m ashamed of myself for allowing this to happen. For being drawn in, for being seduced by him.
He seduced me into being someone else.
And it’s got nothing to do with the sex. Some of that is the real me, obviously, since I get off on it. That’s not the problem. The problem is not me, actually. It’s him.
He’s an asshole.
And that sucks because the little dream bubble I wrapped around Vaughn Asher the Movie Star is being shattered right before my eyes. The reality of Vaughn Asher the Man is such a disappointment, my heart hurts.
I sit down on the bed, still naked, and allow myself to feel it for the first time.
My dream man is a huge letdown.
I let the silent tears fall and then wipe them away with the back of my hand.
But he was right about one thing, all we’ve done is fight since we met. In fact, the whole relationship is based on who’s in charge. Not anything personal. And all that stuff he talked about last night doesn’t even count, because I was asleep for most of it and that’s the only reason he said all that. He thought I was asleep.
No, the only thing I know about Asher is that his cock is big, his sexual preferences are exotic, and he gets off making me do things I’d rather not.
I’m young. I’m on the verge of a promising career doing something I actually enjoy. I’m pretty enough, even in my own eyes, to know I deserve more than this. I deserve more than to be a man’s casual plaything. I deserve more than to be a man’s second thought. I deserve the dream. The fairy tale. I’m worth it.
A breath comes out and with it, heartache. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I’m so fucking sad that he’s a dick. I kneel down to my bag and rummage through it to find my last pair of clean shorts and tank top and then dress quickly. I drag a brush through my hair and I’m just about to flop down on the bed when there’s a knock at the door.
My stomach and heart both twist up with that small noise.
Vaughn? It must be him. Do I want to answer it?
I roll my eyes and sigh. As if there was ever any question.
I get up just as the second knock comes, and straighten my tank top. I have no bra on, and my girls are perky, but this morning he fucked me in the woods, so whatever. I walk over to the door slowly to make him wait, and then twist the handle and pull it open.
It’s a woman.
No, I take that back. It’s a girl. College-age maybe, and she’s dressed up in a tan skirt suit with a ruffly white blouse peeking through her cropped blazer.
OK, what the hell is this? “Can I help you?” I ask in my most annoyed voice.
She smiles stiffly at me, like she’s some kind of uptight librarian. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun like a ballerina might wear, her jewelry is large and gaudy like a grandma might wear, and her suit skirt is too short. A micro mini. “Ma’am,” she says, “Mr. Asher asked me to drop off your paperwork. He’d like me to notarize it and then bring it back to him immediately.”
I almost choke. “Excuse me?”
She pushes her glasses up her nose and tilts her head up. “I’m not privy to the details, ma’am, but he said the two of you had agreed to a contract.” She pulls a tablet out of her messenger bag and starts tapping on the screen with a stylus.
“Who are you?” I ask, annoyed. Something is wrong here. Something about her is—
“I’m Felicity, Mr. Asher’s lawyer—”
—off.
“I handle all his business arrangements. And he asked me to come here and have you sign the NDA the two of you discussed over the weekend.”
“Lawyer?” Ha! I laugh. “You’re like twelve years old.”
She pushes her glasses up again and crinkles her nose. “I was a child prodigy, Ma’am, it’s not my fault I’m young.”
And that’s when I realize what’s wrong with her. She’s made up. She’s fake. She’s… she’s… acting. She’s dressed like a lawyer might look on TV. Like she just walked out of wardrobe.
And suddenly all that heartache at finding out my dream man is an asshole disappears and is replaced by rage.
“Look, Felicity, if that’s your real name. I’m not sure what kind of game Mr. Asher”—I seethe the name out—“is playing with me, but it’s over. So you can take that tablet and that NDA and go tell him to shove it up his ass. Maybe that will give him the sexual satisfaction he’s looking for.”
I slam the door. Shaking. My whole body is trembling as I realize how big a joke he thinks I am.
How dare he? How dare he send this girl, who is probably one of his many, many, many sexual conquests, to my door to ask for my signature?
And I’m sure he does want that signature. He did all kinds of questionable things with me this weekend. He wants to make sure I’m silenced before he goes back to his life in LA.
Well, fuck him!
Chapter Twenty
#Follow
I HAVE to sit on my bed and breathe deeply to calm myself down. I’m so angry but beyond that, I’m so humiliated. Vaughn Asher is a complete asshole and I feel so dirty I want to take a shower. I want to get out of this room.
No, this resort. I want to go home. Like right now.
I’m leaving. I walk around the room and pick up all my things, stuffing them into my backpack, then hit the bathroom and grab my incidentals. There’s a pad of paper on the desk and I scribble out a note to Bebe.
Had to go back to Denver, emergency at work, they need me tomorrow. Love you—Grace
I can already hear her when she reads this. A party-planning emergency that requires you to leave a tropical island so you can work on Labor Day? She’ll never buy it, but I don’t care. I take a long steadying breath, hike the backpack strap up over my shoulder, and leave the bungalow. I take the path that takes me to the main hotel, ducking out of sight when I hear voices, just in case they are Vaughn or one of his minions, and make it to the valet area where there are a few cabs lined up waiting for fares. The valet is busy, lots of people checking in after the resort was closed for the wedding, so I walk past the guys unloading luggage and approach the first cab in line. “Airport?” I ask.
“Get in,” he says in his Island accent.
I do get in. And as soon as I settle into the backrest I relax and breathe a sigh of relief.
It takes a while to get to the airport even though this island is small and we’re not that far from the central business district of Charlotte Amalie. It’s all the way across the bay and there are times during the forty-minute ride through the coastal traffic that I think I could’ve gotten there faster if I was swimming. But finally, the cab pulls up into the departures area and I pay him and get out.
A few seconds later, I’m alone at the airport with no ticket home.
Inside it’s a madhouse. It’s Labor Day weekend and people want to get home in time to enjoy the holiday tomorrow before they have to go back to work on Tuesday. I get in the ticketing line and wait patiently as one by one we inch forward and finally, after an hour and a half, I’m next in line.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out and check the message.
Where are you? From an unknown number. Which by now I know is Vaughn.
I consider not answering, but it’s best to just get it over with. So I text back. At the airport,
on my way home. Thanks for the fun. Bye, Grace.
And then it’s my turn at the ticket counter, so I stuff the phone into my pocket and ignore the incessant buzzing as I concentrate on what they are telling me.
“First class? No, I can’t afford first class. I just want a coach ticket to Denver.”
“Miss, we have one seat left at a discounted price as it leaves in thirty minutes. You have five minutes to make up your mind and you can make that flight with the complimentary premium security access checkpoint. It’s eight hundred and seventy-two dollars. The next available flight is tomorrow.”
My phone rings in my pants and I grab it and press answer out of habit before I remember that I’m avoiding Asher. “Grace,” he says, his voice urgent. “Stay right where you are, I’ll be there to pick you up in ten minutes. Stay put, do you hear me, Grace?”
I press end and look the ticketing woman in the eye. “Book it. Here’s my card.”
I have exactly one thousand one hundred and two dollars in my bank account—that includes savings—but I do not care. I refuse to let that asshole find me stranded here at the airport like a child.
Fifteen minutes later I’m through security and I’m walking down the aisle to the only seat left in first class. I drop down into my seat, the window, so the woman next to me is put out, and stuff my backpack under the seat in front of me.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I hope I never see that man again. I never want to see his face, like ever. Even on TV. I’m not going to see Invisible Man 2, even though IM1 was my favorite movie last year. I am over it. Totally one hundred percent over it.
In fact, I grab my phone and bring up my Twitter account real fast. I look up for the flight attendant and he’s busy making coffee or something in that tiny galley kitchen, so I open up my account and start deleting tweets. I just want to erase Vaughn from my life. My fingers are flying down my profile page, but there’s no good way to delete them all without deleting my whole account. I consider that, out of desperation, and I’m just about to give in and do it when the flight attendant stands over my row and tsks his tongue.
