Strife: Part One

by Sky Corgan

  “Sure.” I round the bar, and he places his hand on the small of my back to guide me outside.

  I wrap my shawl around my shoulders and hug myself protectively as we walk to the edge of the driveway, then I stare down the street, hoping that the taxi will show up soon. I want to get away from this house. Everything about it feels vile though I doubt where I'm going next will be much better. The objective is the same, have sex with the client. It doesn't matter where it happens, I suppose. I know that's a lie though. It will be better having Brodie to myself—not having to share him.

  “It's nice out tonight.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, gazing up at the stars.

  “It is.” It was nicer out on the balcony, but that doesn't really matter. Anything is nicer than being inside that house of sex.

  “Do you live around here?”

  “No.” I shake my head, thinking about the dank little apartment I share with my drug addicted roommate. Anywhere is better than there too. Maybe if I'm lucky, I won't have to go back tonight.

  Thankfully, a taxi rounds the corner before we have a chance to make anymore awkward conversation. Brodie opens the door for me, then climbs in on the other side. I cuddle up close to him, leaning against his shoulder. He rattles off the name of the hotel he's staying at and sits as still as a statue, looking at me occasionally as we make our way down the street and onto the highway.

  It takes a minute before the name of the hotel registers. Chateau Silverbridge. For a moment, I don't think that I heard him right.

  “Are you really staying at the Chateau Silverbridge?” I glance up at him.

  “Yes.” He keeps his eyes forward.

  “That's kind of exciting.” I wiggle slightly.

  “I suppose.”

  “That's where a lot of the stars stay when they're in town. Have you met anyone famous yet?” The thought that I'm going to get to visit the Chateau Silverbridge is absolutely thrilling. My mind is going wild with the possibility of running into someone famous. It kind of sucks that I'll be there as an escort though. It's not like I could break away from Brodie to try to get an autograph. I have to act poised and perfect and professional at all times. Major bummer.

  “I just got in a little while ago, so no, I haven't had a chance to meet anyone yet.”

  “It would be cool if you did.” I bite my bottom lip.

  “Would it?” He grins. The fact that it doesn't interest him in the least is a little off-putting. Then again, I don't think guys care as much about celebrities as women do.

  “I think it would,” I lower my voice, worried that I'm too chatty. The last thing I want is to come off as a bimbo if I haven't already.

  The cabbie chimes in with his stories of the famous guests of the Chateau Silverbridge. I listen in awe, happy to be talking to someone with the same interests as me. I did come out here to be a movie star, after all. Meeting a few legit actors and actresses might help.

  Brodie sits in near silence. Every once in a while, he grunts in acknowledgment that he's paying attention. If he's amused by the stories that the driver is telling us though, I can't tell.

  Finally, we pull up in front of the giant building that looks far more like a castle than a hotel. My heart speeds up as I realize I'm about to have the experience of a lifetime. Maybe being an escort will give me more opportunities than I had originally thought.

  “Keep your head low,” Brodie tells me as our taxi stops in front of the lobby.

  “Why?” I push myself to the edge of my seat. Is he embarrassed to be seen with me? That thought hurts.

  Brodie ignores me as he takes his wallet out of his pocket and gives the taxi driver a hundred dollar bill. My eyes nearly pop out of my head, and the driver has a similar reaction, thanking Brodie profusely.

  As soon as I step out of the cab, my focus instantly drifts to the arched doorway leading into the hotel. It looks ancient and almost medieval, and I can't help but stare in wonder. I'm actually about to go inside of the Chateau Silverbridge. I can't believe this.

  “Come on.” Brodie grabs my hand and pulls me through the door. He's walking so quickly that I can barely keep up. The lobby goes by me in a blur, as do the people inside. If there are any celebrities around us, we're moving too fast for me to get a good look at their faces.

  “Slow down.” I tug at his hand, planting my heels into the carpet.

  He doesn't stop though. His grip tightens, and I practically trip over my own feet as he pulls me toward the elevator, keeping his face down the entire time.

  I huff when we step inside, a bit pissed that he rushed me. Hopefully, he won't be escorting me down after we're done. I would like to get a look around since this is the first time I've been here.

  “Why are you in such a hurry? You're going to have me all night.” I lean against one of the walls in the elevator and cross my arms over my chest.

  “No reason,” he replies, his expression blank.

  We ride the elevator to the top floor. Before we even reach it, I realize he has a penthouse. Damn, this guy really is rich. Who is he? I stare at him, my mind repeating the name Brodie Grant over and over again. Maybe he's a foreign actor. I kind of want to ask, but I'm worried it would come off as rude. Then again, I've already made it pretty obvious that I have no idea who he is.

  The elevator opens, and Brodie takes a keycard out of his pocket. I hold my breath, knowing that the room will be absolutely exquisite. I wasn't wrong.

  DMITRI

  Her wide-eyed wonder is amusing to me. She timidly takes a step into my suite, moving like a cautious animal worried that there's a predator nearby. I'm not the predator she thinks I am though, far more interested in her as a human being than a sex object. That's why I really brought her here, to rescue her from the perversions back at the beach house. I thought she'd be more grateful. What do I know though?

  “Make yourself at home,” I tell her as I close the door behind us and brush past her to go to the kitchen and make myself another drink. I should really stop drinking, but I already have a good buzz on and I don't want to lose it. As long as I don't get so smashed that I can't function tomorrow, I should be alright. All I have to do is meet with people. It's not like I actually have to work.

  “This whole thing is yours?” She walks from room to room, disappearing out of view.

  It makes me a bit nervous. Part of me thinks she might try to steal something, but I try not to worry about it. There's not much in here that I can't afford to replace. Besides, it's not like she has anywhere to put things. She's not wearing much.

  “Yup,” I reply, staring at the chilled bottle of tequila in the refrigerator and wondering if she'd like a shot. “Do you want something to drink?”

  “No, I'm good.” She comes back into view, beaming as she walks up and leans over the bar to watch me. “What did you say you do for a living again?”

  “Business.” I decided a while ago that it's probably better that she doesn't know who I am. My anonymity will keep me safe for now, not that I'm working too hard to protect it. There was at least a dozen different times when my identity could have been given away. Talking to the cab driver. Walking through the lobby. I swear I heard someone call my name on the way to the elevator, but it was better to keep walking.

  “Must be some good business to afford a place like this.” Her eyes dance around the room.

  “You could say that.” I smirk, capping the bottle of Crown before grabbing my glass and walking into the living room to sit down on the charcoal gray sectional.

  Alexis follows behind me like a puppy. She doesn't look as lost as before, which makes me feel a bit better. Perhaps we're both more relaxed in this environment than we were at James' beach house.

  “I hope you don't mind, but I took a peak into the bedroom and saw a guitar case. Are you a musician?” She sits down next to me, crossing one leg over the other.

  My eyes are instantly drawn to her calves, to the nice definition of them. It looks like she does a lot of walking—k
eeps fit. I like girls who take care of themselves.

  “Something like that.” My grin broadens.

  She has all of the pieces to the puzzle, yet she can't seem to put them together. Unless she's secretly Amish, I know she's seen my face before. It's been too many places for her not to recognize me.

  “I can play too,” she chirps, staring at my drink.

  “Oh really?” I raise an eyebrow in surprise.

  “When I was younger, my parents got me lessons. Well, for a little while.” She cocks her head to the side, her happy expression sulking a bit as if she has suddenly recalled some painful memory.

  “Care to entertain me?” I stand to get my guitar before she even has a chance to respond.

  “Oh, no. I'm not any good.” She quickly shakes her head.

  “You can't do that,” I laugh at her.

  “Do what?” She wraps her arms around herself, becoming insecure. It's a rather adorable trait, and it makes her that much more attractive to me.

  “Tell me that you can play guitar and then not show me.”

  “It was a long time ago.” For the briefest of seconds, she bites her bottom lip. I feel heat rocket to my libido as I look at her mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss her.

  “Well, show me what you remember.” I set my drink down on the coffee table and head to my bedroom to retrieve my guitar.

  “I'm going to go get a glass of water,” she tells me, retreating back to the kitchen.

  When I get to the bedroom, I carefully remove my guitar from the case. It's kind of driving me batty that she doesn't recognize me though there's something satisfying about it too. Even though she's paid to kiss my ass, she hasn't been doing too much of it yet. If I plan to keep it that way, it's probably better that I don't disclose who I really am.

  By the time I return to the living room, she's seated with a glass of water clutched between both hands and raised to her lips. She looks over the glass at me, and I can sense how nervous she is. I sit with the guitar, strumming a few chords to make sure it's in tune before offering it to her.

  “Oh Brodie, I don't know. I'm just going to embarrass myself.” She lowers the glass.

  “Nonsense. This is a no judgment zone.”

  “Are you sure?” She finally sets the glass down, looking like she might actually be willing to take the guitar from me.

  “I promise.”

  “Alright.” She wrinkles her nose as she reaches for the guitar. The way she moves to place it on her lap is awkward, indicative that she hasn't held a guitar in a while.

  I fully expect her to play something novice, like Hot Cross Buns. She strokes the strings a few times and the guitar sings with no particular rhyme or reason. Then she takes a deep breath and her fingers go to work picking out a sad Spanish tune. It's not particularly complex, but far better than I thought she'd do.

  She stares at the strings through the entire song, her expression woefully melancholy. I can't seem to take my eyes off of her. She's so entrancing, so beautiful. All the while, I wonder what her life is like. Who is she? Where did she come from? More than I know she'd ever be willing to share because we have to keep anonymity on both sides. That's how this works. At least, I think it is.

  When she finishes the song, her lips tighten into a small smile. She gives the strings one last purposeless strum before looking up at me, her expression that of one seeking approval.

  “Bravo.” I clap.

  “Now it's your turn.” She gingerly hands the guitar back over to me.

  I know I can't play her something that I wrote, and I damn sure won't sing for her. Instead, I decide to go with an old classic, Stairway to Heaven.

  If she enjoys listening to me play, I can't tell. She simply sits there quietly, sipping her water and looking distant. It's the first time I've felt uncomfortable playing in front of someone in a long while. Maybe music really isn't her thing. When I'm done, I set the guitar down and take my drink back up, draining the contents to get over the strange feeling swirling inside of me.

  “That was lovely,” she says finally though it sounds more like an obligatory statement.

  “Thanks.” I lounge back. “So tell me, why are you an escort? I know you said that you liked the money. But why not just be a stripper?”

  “I can't dance,” she replies meekly.

  “Can't dance?” I let out a small laugh. “It's more about seduction than dancing.”

  “I don't really think so.” She shakes her head.

  “How many strip clubs have you been in?” I gesture towards her with my empty glass.

  She furrows her brow, and I have my answer. None. Just as I had suspected.

  “What will you have of me tonight?” The mood suddenly shifts as she decides to get straight down to business. She seems determined, but also a little angry.

  I find it funny how her professionalism comes in waves. One moment, she's the dedicated escort. The next, she's a lost little girl. It's interesting to watch her flop back and forth, fascinating even. I can't help but wonder what my night would have been like had I brought one of the other women here. Probably not anywhere near as interesting.

  “Dance for me.” A sly smirk plays across my lips.

  “What?” Her mouth falls agape for a moment and she stares at me, completely caught off guard by my request. “But I just told you that I can't dance.”

  “I don't believe in can't.” I lean forward to grab the remote for the stereo, turning it on and switching channels until I find a good station. Then I lower the volume so that we can still carry on a conversation over the music.

  Alexis hugs herself. I wait for her to make her move, but she stays planted on the sofa. I'm worried that I'm starting to lose her, that perhaps I pressed some button that I shouldn't have.

  “Here. I'll give you some lessons.” I stand, feeling emboldened by the alcohol running through my blood.

  “What?” Her head snaps forward, her attention instantly grabbed by my offer.

  “We can play the I Show You, You Show Me game tonight.” My eyes widen for effect, thinking about how I made her go first with the guitar. This only seems fair. Besides, if I go first, I can set the boundaries for how much clothing is removed.

  PEPPER

  What in the bloody hell? Is this guy for real? He's going to take his clothes off for me?

  I suppose we were going to get to this point eventually, I just didn't think this is how it would happen. It seems so silly, watching each other strip. It's going to take everything in me not to laugh at him. I can't laugh at him. It would be horribly offensive.

  I force myself to relax, fighting back the grin that's already threatening to spread my lips. How am I ever going to be able to take this seriously? He's hot, but I highly doubt he can dance. Oh well, at least the night doesn't lack entertainment.

  Brodie hops from one foot to the other, rubbing his hands together. That alone makes him a spectacle worth giggling at.

  “What?” He smiles up at me, and I see a glimmer of light in his eyes that makes me feel pleasant things—things I shouldn't be feeling. “I'm trying to figure out how to go about doing this without wearing tear-off pants.”

  I lose it at that, falling into a fit of chuckling. He makes it sounds like he's actually done this before. Maybe he has. You should never judge a book by its cover.

  Apparently deciding that his shoes will be in the way, Brodie walks over beside the entertainment center to kick them off before returning in front of me. He quirks his head to the side, presumably trying to catch the beat of the music. It takes me a minute to realize that he's waiting for the next song to come on, getting geared up for the foolish little dance he's about to show me.

  Finally, the song we're listening to ends and the next one begins with a strangely appropriate heavy bass. From the second that Brodie first moves, rolling his torso like his body is made of fluid, I feel transported from his living room to some Vegas strip club. My cheeks grow warm as I realize this isn't going
to be a fraction as bad as I had assumed.

  Holy shit, this guy can move.

  I sink back against the sofa, embarrassed that I'm so entranced. Every move that he makes is perfectly in time with the music. It's like he was born to do this—to dance and...seduce.

  For a moment, I think about interrupting him to call him a liar, to tell him that I was right when I said dancing is important, but I don't want him to stop. His hands play beneath the hem of his t-shirt as his body rocks to the music, and I catch glimpses of his chiseled abs. By the time he actually starts raising his shirt over his head, my mouth is watering and my core is heating up.

  He rounds the coffee table, grinding low until he's practically sitting on my lap, his shirt pulled up so that his entire stomach is exposed. I lean back, afraid to get too close. The truth is that I desperately want to touch him. There's a wild part of me that wants to come out to play—that wants to drown in the fantasy and accept that I'm actually enjoying myself. I hate that I'm liking this, but I am. I'm not sure if it's because I'm attracted to him or that he rescued me or that he hasn't gotten pushy yet. This night is turning out far better than I hoped it could, and it's only just begun.

  From the Author

  I hope you've enjoyed Strife: Part One. Part Two will be available shortly.

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