Wildcard

by Missy Johnson

  It’s Saturday morning, and today is the first day I’ve been left alone since they got here. They decided to take the opportunity of being in Paris to go sightseeing. I wait until I’m sure they won’t be back, and I push the sheet off me.

  Reaching inside my boxers, I grip my hand around my cock, my fingers gliding up and down the shaft. I’m moving at a snail’s pace, because anything more and the pain totally ruins the moment.

  After a few minutes, it’s obvious that it’s just not going to work. I am as hard as fuck, but the pain is too intense for me to get the traction I need to jack myself off.

  “Fuck,” I hiss, giving up. I am beyond frustrated. I’m now even hornier than I was before. Fucking great.

  Usually there were people I could call to help me out with this kind of problem, only I was still stuck—with my parents and sister—in an apartment in the middle of a foreign country. Not exactly a recipe for seduction. I fumble on top of my nightstand for my phone and punch in Josh’s number.

  “Man,” he answers on the second ring. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

  “No,” I mumble. “I’m going crazy here.”

  “Yeah, sorry, Ryder. I meant to come and visit before I flew back, but with training and all . . .”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m literally going crazy. Do you know how long it’s been since . . . you know?”

  He laughs. “Are you serious?”

  “I need your help. I have the place to myself today, but I can’t even jack off. It hurts so bad,” I groan. This is probably the most embarrassing conversation Josh and I will ever have.

  “Dude, I’m not yanking your—”

  “I don’t mean you!” I interrupt, cringing. “I need you to hook me up with someone. Someone who might be able to help me out. Come on, man, I need this so bad.”

  “Thank God. I thought you were asking me to—”

  “Josh!”

  “Fine, sorry, I’m sorry. Consider it done. Charlotte knows a girl over there who specializes in massage. I’m sure she’ll take care of you, if you know what I mean.” He chuckles.

  “Josh,” I say with a groan, “I know what you mean. That’s why I called, remember? What’s her name? I’ll call the front desk to let her up when she gets here.”

  “Eva Pierserre.”

  “Okay. Thanks man. I owe you one.”

  **

  “Hello? Monsieur Ryder?”

  “Uh, in here,” I yell, straightening out my sheets. A pretty brunette pokes her head through the open door. She smiles and steps into the room.

  Holy shit, she’s hot.

  She is wearing a short black skirt and a cream-colored silk shirt, which matches her cream heels perfectly. Her pale skin is striking against the deep, rich red of her lip-gloss. She smiles shyly at me and her gaze falls to the floor.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say awkwardly. I have no idea what to do or say next. I’ve paid for sex before, but never when I was incapable of movement. This whole thing feels weird and embarrassing. I like to be in control, and right now, I’m anything but that.

  “Injure?” she asks. Her delicate hands gently touch my side.

  “My back,” I reply with a smile. “Sorry, my French is not good.”

  “My English not good.” She giggles. “I do now?” she asks, raising her eyebrows as she gestures to my crotch.

  Well, she’s straight to the point.

  “Sure.” I grin. “Knock yourself out.”

  She bites the edge of her lip and unbuttons her shirt. I stare as she unclips her bra and lays it on the end of the bed. Her large, perky breasts look almost too big for her petite frame, but I’m not complaining.

  She smiles as she pulls back the sheet. Her fingers loop around my boxer shorts. This girl doesn’t mess around. I groan and lift myself off the bed, just enough for her to yank my shorts down. My manhood is already fully erect. She hides a giggle behind her hand.

  What can I say? I’ve been ready for this for days.

  “Bouche ou à la main?”

  “Sorry?” I ask, and she giggles again.

  “Mouth? Or Hand?” she repeats, this time in English. She runs her tongue over her bottom lip seductively. Like I need any seducing right now. I’m just about ready to explode.

  “Mouth is great,” I say, with a little too much enthusiasm.

  Oh God. Oh. Fuck. Me.

  I groan as her lips wrap around the tip of my cock. My legs tense when her tongue curls around my shaft. She places her fingers around the base and takes the length of me into her mouth. I gasp. It’s near impossible for me not to thrust myself down her throat, but I can barely handle the pain when I’m stationary—I don’t want to risk messing this up.

  “Fuck that feels good,” I moan. “Oh, God, yes.” I open my eyes and watch her as she works her mouth up and down my cock. I’m on the verge of exploding. My hands clutch at the sheets as I begin to climax. “Fuck,” I gasp.

  Then the worst possible thing in the world happens.

  “Ryder? Are you okay?” The door opens and Mum walks in. I’m on the verge of releasing, and my fucking mother is standing less than three feet away from me, a look of pure horror on her face.

  “Oh God, get out!” I yell.

  I reach for the sheet, sending the most excruciating bolt of pain shooting up my back. Poor Eva looks as mortified as I feel, and Mum, well, she’s just standing there like she has glue on her fucking feet.

  “Mum!” I roar.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she cries, shielding her face with her hands. She backs out of the room, tripping over her feet as she reaches the door. Catching her balance, she scurries out and slams the door shut, leaving me lying there with my dying erection, nursing my bruised ego.

  My mother just caught me getting head from a hooker. Sorry: a masseuse.

  This is the most humiliating moment of my life.

  Eva covers her mouth and eyes me helplessly, as if she doesn’t know whether to run or finish what she started. Not that there is anything to finish. That ship has well and truly sailed.

  That is a ship I will not be catching for a long, long time.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s been two days since the incident, and Mum still can’t look me in the eye.

  She sends every meal up with Hails, avoiding even being in the same room as me wherever possible. Dad hasn’t been around much either, which makes me wonder if she’s told him. I groan, because the only thing worse than Mum seeing what she saw is my father knowing about it.

  Mum avoiding me hasn’t gone unnoticed with Hailey either.

  “What’s up with Mum?” she asks, dropping the plate on my lap.

  I pick at the meatloaf, my face heating up.

  “She’s been acting weird for days. Did you guys have a fight or something?”

  “No,” I mutter. There is no way in hell I’m going to tell her about this. I’ll never hear the end of it.

  “She’s been weird since she came back for her purse the other day when we all went out,” she continues. “So I figured you must have said or done something.”

  “Why is it always my fault?” I grumble. I don’t care that I sound like a spoiled five-year-old. “Maybe she’s having a bad week.”

  Because walking in on your son mid-blowjob will do that to you.

  “Fine. Enjoy your dinner, bro.”

  “Hails, wait,” I call out.

  She stops and turns around, her hands shoved deep into her pockets of her jacket. “Yeah?” she asks, her expression suspicious.

  “Grab my wallet. It’s over on the desk.” I watch as she walks over to the desk and picks it up, throwing it to me. I catch it and pull out a fifty. “Here. Buy yourself something nice.”

  She stares at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I am, but I’m also now a third of the way to achieving my three good deeds for Scarlett.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Just take the money before I change my mind,” I growl.

&
nbsp; She winces and shoves the bills in her pocket. As she rushes from the room, I can hear her mumble the words “insane” and “freak,” but I don’t care. I’m too focused on trying to figure out what else can I do. My original plan had been to order Mum a big bunch of flowers, but after what she saw on Monday, I didn’t know how to do that without it looking like an apology.

  That’s it!

  I reach into my drawer and pull out Jake’s letter. Turning it over, I smile as I read the return address. I’ll buy the kid something. If that doesn’t scream selfless, then I don’t know what will.

  Ten minutes later, a brand new blue racing bike is on its way to Jake, and I’m pretty damn proud of myself. I made sure to order all the extras available: a matching helmet, lock, stand, pump, backpack, and drink bottle.

  He is going to fucking love it.

  Finally, I log onto a US-based flower delivery service and order Scarlett a bunch of red roses. There: three totally unselfish things done. I turn off my light and close my eyes.

  It’s hard work being nice.

  **

  “A bike?”

  She sounds annoyed. Why does she sound annoyed? It’s a freaking awesome present.

  “It was one of my good deeds,” I say defensively.

  “Yeah, great idea. Buy the kid with a bad set of lungs a bike he can’t freaking use.”

  Oh shit.

  “And not only that,” she continues. “Flowers? You seriously think I want you to buy me flowers? Why did you automatically associate being selfless with money? You think you can buy everyone off? I should have known,” she laughs. “I can’t wait to hear what your other good deed was.”

  “Yeah? And what was your selfish act, Ms Up-On-Her-Freaking-High-Horse?” I challenge her, annoyed at how ungrateful she is being. So the bike was a bad idea, but the intent was there.

  “I got a haircut.” Her tone is defensive, and it should be because it was a piss-weak attempt at being selfish.

  “A haircut?” I laugh. “Wow, you really splurged there. The guilt must be consuming you.”

  “Hey, I’ll have you know a haircut is a huge thing for me,” she declares. “I’ve cut my own hair since I was twenty-one. And another thing: when in the hell did a haircut become so Goddamned expensive?”

  “What happened when you were twenty-one? Was that when Jake was born?” I ask. She doesn’t like talking about herself, so I take whatever chance I get to find out more about her. Why, I’m not exactly sure yet. I keep telling myself that I’m so invested in them because I’m bored.

  “No. That’s when my mom died,” she says quietly. “I had Jake when I was sixteen.” All of a sudden she laughs. “Why am I even telling you all this?”

  “Why not?” I say. I like that she’s opening up to me. It’s like we are actually beginning to develop a friendship or something. “Seems like you need someone to talk to.”

  “So what? You’re offering to be my Therapist now?” she snorts. “Because that’s what I need. I need that like my son needs a bike.”

  “No, I’m offering to be your friend.”

  “Who says I need friends?” she mutters.

  “Maybe I’m the one who needs a friend. I’m lying on my arse doing nothing. Talking to you kind of passes the time.”

  “Well, I guess you’re not eating too far into my busy schedule,” she grumbles. “I’m a busy woman, you know.” She sighs and then clears her throat. “Okay, Ryder. I’ll give you another chance. I want you to do something for someone else without using your money. Do that, and we can be friends.”

  “Does that mean you’ll let me speak to Jake, too?”

  “Don’t push it,” she warns, laughing.

  “Fine. So what am I supposed to do not using money?” I mutter. To me it seems silly: I have money, so why not use it to spoil other people?

  “People manage it every day, Ryder. I’m sure you’ll think of something. Do something nice for your mother,” she suggests.

  “God, don’t mention my mother,” I groan, covering my face with my hand. I immediately regret saying anything.

  “Why not?” she says, laughing.

  “Because possibly the most embarrassing experience ever with my mother happened this week,” I mutter. God, I’m horrified just thinking about it.

  “Well, now I’m curious. You have to tell me.”

  “No fucking way. I can’t even think about it.”

  “Come on. You’ll probably feel better telling someone about it. And anyway, you’re talking to the girl who at sixteen had to tell her mom she was pregnant.”

  I close my eyes and groan. “Fine, I’ll tell you. But if you laugh…” I warn. “It’s been a little while since I got any relief if you know what I mean.”

  “Your mom caught you jacking off?” she guesses, smothering a giggle.

  “No. That was part of the problem. I’m in so much damn pain it fucking hurts to jack off. I can’t believe I’m actually telling you this,” I mutter. “I had the place to myself for the first time in ages so I arranged some, uh, company.” I’m hoping she understands so I don’t have to actually say it.

  She does. “Oh, God no,” she giggles. “What happened?”

  “Let’s just say a friend hooked me up with a very thorough masseuse. I thought I was home alone, but apparently I wasn’t. Mum came running in thinking I’d fallen out of the bed or something.” I groan again and cover my eyes. “I don’t think I can ever do anything sexual again without picturing the look on my mother’s face.”

  She dissolves into a fit of giggles, and I can’t help but smile.

  “I’m glad you find this so amusing.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s just…” her voice trails off. I’m pretty sure she’s dropped the phone because her insane laughter is now distant. “God, I’m sorry, but that is fucking hilarious. One day you’ll look back on this and laugh. My boyfriend’s father caught me in a similar situation when I was a teenager,” she adds. “I was mortified. I think the fact that I couldn’t look his dad in the eye anymore was part of the reason we broke up.”

  “Was that Jake’s father?” I ask. I’m being nosey, but I can’t help it. I need to know more about her.

  “No, Jake’s father is a useless piece of shit that’s had nothing to do with either of us since I told him I was pregnant with his kid,” she sighs. “Hey, don’t these phone calls cost you a fortune? Are you still in Paris?”

  “Yes and yes, but it’s okay. I’m hoping I’ll be able to travel the hour back home soon. God, to be in my own bed again.” I smile at the thought of being back in my own space. I can’t fucking wait.

  “Do you have Skype?” she asks suddenly.

  “Why?”

  “Because it would be a hell of a lot cheaper than these phone calls. And then I can see you and make sure you are who you say you are.”

  “Who else would I be?” I chuckle. But at the same time, I already love the idea of seeing her.

  “I don’t know,” she replies defensively. “Maybe you’re the creepy-looking dude who sleeps outside the bank I work at and follows me to my car.”

  “That really happens? Have you told the police?”

  “The police won’t do shit. Now, do you Skype or not?” she asks again.

  I grab a pen and the newspaper off the table next to the bed. “No, but give me your ID and I’ll make an account.”

  “‘SweetieTweetie’. How do you not have Skype with all the travelling you do? You’re throwing cash away.”

  “‘SweetieTweetie’?” I smirk. “And I don’t ring anyone when I’m away,” I respond with a laugh.

  “Not even your parents?”

  “That’s what email is for.”

  “Huh,” she says, like it explains a lot.

  “I suppose you’re the type of girl who calls her mum every day?” I tease.

  Oh shit. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could take back my words.

  “No. I told you not even five minutes ago that my mom died. D
o you even listen? I’m beginning to question our pending friendship, Ryder.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I need a verbal filter sometimes. I’m sorry about your mum,” I mumble, not sure what else I can say.

  “Why? Did you kill her?”

  I laugh. “No. I don’t have to be responsible for something to feel sorry. Believe it or not, I am capable of feeling empathy.”

  “Yeah, well, shit happens. I loved my mother, and I wish she was still here, but I can’t change life, can I?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Right. Anyway, I think you need to make more of an effort with your family,” she announces. “Email? Come on. You’ve spent hours over the last week talking on the phone to a complete stranger, but all your folks get is a lousy email when you’re out of town?”

  I smile. God, she’s sassy. I love her boldness. “You’re very opinionated, you know. I see where Jake gets it from now,” I comment, amused.

  “No, I’ve just learned to value what I have, is all. Do something nice for your family. Something unexpected.”

  “Fine. I better go anyway. Can I call you later?”

  She laughs. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”

  Chapter Nine

  If I have to sit through one more fucking episode of this shit I’ll kill myself.

  I grab the remote and switch channels. French daytime TV is worse than every other country put together. I can’t even understand the shit and I know it’s bad. I settle on what I think is a talk show. France’s answer to David Letterman. Or Ellen.

  Pushing the sheets off me, I slither to the side of the bed and let my feet fall over the edge. My toes touch the cold floor and I sigh. Just feeling the ground beneath me is fucking amazing.

  Apparently I have a few more days of being bedridden before I can attempt to move around. But I decide fuck that, because I’m so much more qualified than my team of doctors and physiotherapists. Besides, it’s been ten days now. It was bad enough pissing in a bottle, there’s no way I’m going to take a dump in a bedpan and then hand it to my mother to clean up.

  No. Fucking. Way.