Buy Me Sir

by Jade West

  Her eyes are so pointed. “Everything?”

  “Yeah, everything. I want to know everything.”

  She stops cleaning and I do too. “I’ve been doing this nearly four years, and it was a whole different gig when I started, believe me. The kids were here then, and Claire, his wife. She was nice, the kids were cool, it wasn’t this stealth operation we have now, I’d knock on the door and she’d let me in, and we’d have a coffee sometimes while I was working.”

  “And then the divorce?”

  “Yeah, she took the kids.”

  “Why?”

  She grins. “You’re hot on him. I know. Sonnie told me, like it needed pointing out. It’s written all over you.”

  I’m so embarrassed I feel sick, so far from professional that I wish the ground would open up. “Sorry, I just…”

  She shrugs. “He’s beautiful. Talented. Smart. Driven. I get it.”

  “You do?” Of course she does.

  “Yeah, I get it, but if you’ve got any sense in that pretty head of yours you’ll steer well clear of him. The guy’s damaged. Broken.”

  “Broken?” The thought seems ridiculous. Alexander Henley seems anything but broken. He’s the most together person I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  “He used to be careful,” she says. “He still is. His passwords and security codes change monthly, like I said. He’s got a shredder in his study, and that gets plenty of action, but he’s not…”

  “Not what?”

  She pauses. “Not like he used to be. It’s like he’s careless on purpose, leaving loose ends hanging, like he wants to be caught somehow.”

  My heart is thumping. “Caught doing what?”

  She laughs. “Jeez, girl. Sonnie really did keep her mouth shut, kudos to that one.”

  I just gawp. Mute.

  She sighs. “Mr Henley has some issues. Not just the weird little habits he has like only using one set of cutlery, and smoking one cigarette before bed, none of that crap. The guy likes… pornography.”

  I smile.

  “A lot,” she adds. “He used to lock everything down. You’d never even get into his TV without a twenty digit passcode. Now he doesn’t care, let’s it all hang out, his browsing history sometimes still glaring on screen when I come in in the morning.”

  “So he likes porn.” I shrug it off. “Show me a guy who doesn’t.”

  “Not like this. You’ll see, that’s all I’m saying.”

  I want to ask her more, but she goes back to cleaning.

  I squirt some cream cleaner into his Belfast sink. “Ok, so he likes pornography. Anything else I should know?”

  “He has cases full of sex toys in his dressing room, all lined up ready to go.”

  “Ready to go where?”

  “It’s none of our business. I’m just telling you so they don’t shock you too much. Some of them are… yeah, you’ll see.”

  I decide to chance my luck. “Harley’s Tavern,” I say. “What is it?”

  She smirks. “Maybe not so much kudos for Sonnie’s big mouth after all.”

  “She told me to ask you.”

  “Seriously, you don’t want to be getting any ideas.”

  But I’m getting plenty. Ideas of dashing into the TV room and scrolling through that browsing history, rushing upstairs and looking through all those toys. Rolling naked in his bedsheets and waiting for him to come home, and then begging him, begging him to–

  “Harley’s Tavern is a venue for upmarket room hire. The kind of room hire you rent by the hour, no questions asked. He buys women and takes them there,” she says. “Fuck knows why, the guy could pick up whoever he wanted.”

  It really wasn’t what I was expecting. The idea seems absurd. “He pays? For sex?!”

  “Pays a lot of money for a lot of sex from what I can make of it. This isn’t any vanilla shit, either. You’ll see soon enough, just like I’ve seen. Pictures on his laptop, when it hasn’t shut down properly. His bedside drawer has… paperwork… pictures of some of these women… what they’ll do…”

  “What will they do?” My eyes feel like saucers.

  She sighs, then digs in the front pocket of her apron. “I gathered these up when we walked in, right before you saw them. See, this kind of shit, this careless shit, this is new. Six months max.”

  She hands over some folded paperwork. I hold my breath while I open it.

  Five girls. Pretty girls. Really pretty girls.

  My poor heart pangs.

  There’s a load of checked boxes underneath. Hard limits, the text says.

  Anal. BDSM. Pain. Watersports. DP. Fisting. Multiple partners.

  Jeez.

  There really are skeletons in the closet. I’m tingling all over, and I shouldn’t be. I really shouldn’t be, but I can’t stop.

  “He keeps the ones with fewer ticks in the boxes, just so you know.” Cindy holds out her hand. I give her the paperwork and she shoves it back into her apron.

  I still absolutely can’t imagine it, Mr Henley paying for sex. I mean he’s… gorgeous. Perfect.

  I tell Cindy so and she laughs, shakes her head. “He’s gorgeous, alright. Gorgeous and talented and sharp as fuck. But he’s broken, just like I said. The guy has some serious issues. His wife told me.”

  “His wife told you?!”

  Cindy looks really pleased with herself. “Bits and pieces. I’m only telling you so you know what you’re walking into. You signed some pretty hardcore non-disclosure shit, don’t even think about blabbing this around.”

  “I wouldn’t,” I tell her, and I’m not lying.

  “I’ve said enough. The rest you’ll pick up for yourself.”

  She heads for the utility room and drags out a vacuum, and I feel bereft, desperate to crawl inside her mind and soak up every single thing she knows about Alexander Henley.

  “You don’t seem put off any,” she comments, and I realise I’m still gawping at her.

  “The guy has kinks… that’s ok.”

  “The guy has more than kinks. The guy’s seriously messed up.”

  Skeletons in the closet. The adrenaline is pumping, excitement fizzing, and I shouldn’t be like this. I really, really shouldn’t be. Because I’m just a silly cleaner who managed to bag a promotion, not one of these girls, I don’t know anything, I’ve never done anything.

  But I want to.

  I want him, if I’m being paid for it or not.

  “Seriously,” Cindy says. “Stay away from him. He’s bad news. I mean it’s pretty tragic, losing his kids and all that, but he’s… dark…”

  “Damaged…” I repeat.

  “Yeah, all fucked up.” She sighs. “Such a shame, the guy is fucking gorgeous and fucking loaded. Guess he had to have some pretty major flaws to balance all that out, right?”

  I’m not interested in loaded. I’m not even interested in gorgeous right now.

  I’m interested in all fucked up. Damaged and dark.

  Broken.

  Like me.

  But I don’t pay for kinky sex in some weird pub on the outskirts of London. I don’t have a closet full of sex toys and a browsing history bad enough to come with a warning.

  And those girls on the pictures are so pretty… so perfect…

  And I’m so… not.

  Cindy groans. “Sonnie said you wouldn’t give a shit about my warning. I guess she was right.”

  I stare blankly. “What do you mean?”

  She eyeballs Brutus as he comes into the room, edges around the island to keep him at safe distance. “I mean that you’re already thinking about it, how to get to Harley’s Tavern. How to be one of those girls.”

  Even the thought jabs me in the ribs, because I’m not one of them. I couldn’t be one of them if I tried.

  I laugh it off, but my voice sounds pained. I tell her I could never be one of them. They’re beautiful, with great hair, and perfect makeup, and manicured nails and… other bits. I feel a billion miles away from that in my crappy uniform, without
so much a drop of foundation on my face.

  She closes the distance and pulls the cap from my head before I can blink. She yanks my hairnet loose and tousles my hair, then tips her head and pulls a face.

  “You could be one of them, if you tried.”

  I shake my head, cheeks burning, and gather my hair back up. “You’re being kind.”

  “I’m being honest. You could be one of them, but you’d need your head examined if you went in for that crazy shit.”

  The thought pricks.

  Hope.

  It’s both beautiful and dangerous.

  Like Alexander Henley himself.

  “So what? I just rock on up at that tavern and put myself up for sale?” She laughs and I fold my arms. “What?”

  I flinch as Brutus grumbles in the doorway, but he settles just fine.

  “You think you just roll on up with your pussy on show and hope Alexander Henley turns up for a good time? That really isn’t how it works, honey.”

  “So how does it work? Do you know?”

  She grins at me, and then she tuts. “You really are batshit. Sonnie told me you would be.”

  “Sonnie knows me pretty well.”

  “Yeah, and I know Mr Henley pretty well for someone who’s never officially met the guy. And you will too.” She vacuums before she says anything else, being careful not to venture too near the resting Brutus. I finish up the sink, wondering, thinking. Hoping.

  One day in his place and I’m already going insane. More insane.

  Christ help me. Sex toys, and prostitutes and hardcore pornography. I haven’t even seen his bedroom yet and I’m tumbling in deep.

  Cindy finishes up and I squeeze out my sponge.

  “Sonnie says you’ll find a way to get to Harley’s Tavern whether I help you or not. She says it’s only a matter of time. That once you set foot in this place you’d be on some crazy mission. I may as well set you straight, she said.”

  “Sonnie’s probably right,” I admit, holding her stare.

  “Is that why you’re here? To get close to Alexander?”

  Alexander.

  I can’t imagine being as close to him as she has for four years, and never even exchanging a simple hello.

  The thought is unbearable. The torture of being so near and still so far.

  I decide to be honest, and why not? She’s leaving in a few days, and she can help me, save me a bit of time that I’d otherwise spend finding all this crap out for myself. “I’m here because I always wanted to get close to him. This cleaning job was my best shot. My only shot. I met him when I was at school, he did a presentation. I wanted to be a lawyer.”

  She nods. “That’s some kinda crush. You have real balls spelling that out for me. I admire that.”

  “So tell me,” I push. “Tell me how I’d get to Harley’s Tavern. Tell me how I’d get a shot, presuming I could be… good enough…”

  “You really want to know how to line yourself up as Alexander Henley’s next hooker? For fucking real?”

  “Please.”

  She smiles. “I’ll point you in the right direction on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  She unplugs the vacuum. “On the condition you look through his browsing history first.”

  I nod. “And if that doesn’t put me off?”

  “If that doesn’t put you off, you’re even crazier than Sonnie says you are.”

  I picture Sonnie saying it and it makes me grin. “I might well be crazier than Sonnie said I am. A whole load crazier…”

  “We’ll find out,” she says. “The TV room is through here.”

  Chapter Ten

  Alexander

  I didn’t cheat on my wife. Not once in the entire decade we were married. That may well surprise some, including her, but it’s true.

  I took my marriage vows seriously, for better or worse, and with that came… sacrifices. Sacrifices I was prepared to make for the sake of having a family. A real family – not the pathetic excuse for one I’d known growing up.

  Just how many sacrifices I’d have to make didn’t become entirely apparent until after the rings were exchanged, when Claire dropped the bombshell I imagine so many newlyweds are unexpectedly burnt by. But I thought you’d change… I thought things would be different, now we’re… married.

  My wife Claire was a lot less keen on a rough anal pounding once that band of gold was on her finger. She no longer felt the urge to sidle up to me at social events and let me know how keen she was for later. My wife Claire turned her nose up at my dirtier sexual advances.

  Can’t we just do it like normal people, Alex? I’m too tired for all that tonight, Alex.

  Can you be quick, Alex?

  I’ve got a headache, Alex.

  And then we had our two beautiful boys.

  Not now, Alex.

  Not that, Alex.

  Why do you have to be such a fucking pervert, Alex?

  I had some choice answers for that question, but I digress.

  My point is, I understand restraint. I’m capable of restraint. Or I was.

  I’m determined I shall be again, which is why I walk into my office on Monday morning with a steely determination to plough myself into my caseload, and why my other phone is still at home on my bedside cabinet.

  I’m done with Claude.

  I’m done with paying for dirty sex.

  I’m certainly done with this grotesque bargaining-waltz I’m obliged to perform for the sake of sharing the same escort agency as my grubby shit-stain of a father.

  Cold turkey. It’s the only fucking way.

  And so it begins.

  I tell Brenda she has free rein of my diary and focus back on my client list like a rookie with a point to prove all over again. I organise catch-ups with my key networking associates, reinforcing once again why the industry not-so-affectionately labelled me the Puppet Master, and I give my clients my absolute undivided attention. I manage to get three driving offences thrown out of court in the first three days, and convince the local authorities that prosecuting Mr Rand for cannabis possession is a waste of both their resources and mine.

  I scope out upcoming matches for Portsmouth football club, swallowing down both my pride and my own preference for rugby to ensure I give my boys a good time on our Sundays, and then order them a couple of shirts to be delivered to Claire before I’ll see them next.

  I manage three days without jerking off to porn. Three nights of lying in bed at night, wide awake with a raging hard on I refuse to fucking finish.

  Day four since shooting my load and I’m irritable and foul-tempered, desperate to empty myself inside some dirty little bitch’s asshole and find some fucking relief.

  That’s why I finally switch on the other phone. Not to go crawling back to Claude and his seedy new meat auctions. I don’t go in for the new meat – virgins don’t hold any special interest for me. Not only do they not have a fucking clue what they’re doing, they also have no fucking clue what I’m doing. I’m not in the market for fucking up some naïve little plaything, staring at me doe-eyed, in blissful ignorance as to what exactly she’s signed up for.

  No. I switch on my other phone to re-engage with my other pastime. The only thing that’s ever been a semi-effective balm to soothe my self-loathing.

  It’s a band-aid on a bullet wound, but hell, I need something.

  Something more than this.

  I call the number as soon as I’m safely back through my front door. My cock is so fucking hard it actually hurts, my balls tight and aching, my temples pounding for relief. It’s Annabel who answers on the third ring, and the warmth in her tone takes me aback.

  “Ted! I was only talking about you yesterday! We’ve missed you.”

  I utter a load of bullshit apologies, tell her how I’ve been so busy, travelling across the country selling stationery, a lie I made up on the spot eighteen months ago and have upheld ever since. A conference, I tell her. No rest for the wicked, trying to plug m
y wares to hit targets. Boss is a ball-breaking wanker, blah, blah.

  She tells me she understands. Tells me they hope I can come back soon.

  I clear my throat and check my diary, and then I commit to coming back real soon.

  “Tomorrow?!” she asks. “Wow, that’s great! We could really do with the help. Stacie’s son is sick, we’ve barely had enough hands to get the food prepped. You know what Fridays are like, Ted, always a nightmare.”

  I tell her I’ll be there. Right on time.

  And I will be.

  I hang up and then feel a flash of concern.

  It’s been months since I last put on my incognito jeans and baseball cap, and I haven’t seen them since, which wouldn’t be any reason for alarm should I not have a new cleaner, and should new members of staff not inevitably feel the need to deviate from just about everything their predecessors did. I head upstairs to search through my dressing room, and the crisis is averted as I find the clothes I’m looking for in the odds and sods clothes drawer.

  I’d say I’d almost forgotten I have a new cleaner, but that would be a lie. There’s no way I could forget about the new cleaner, because the place looks impressively immaculate when I step through the door every evening. The old cleaner was good, but the new cleaner is something else, just as I’d hoped she would be.

  The new cleaner turns the corner of my bed sheets back. An odd little touch that makes the bed all the more inviting, even if I still can’t get to sleep at night.

  The new cleaner must have noticed the empty vases in the living room – the ones Claire used to fill – and has taken it upon herself to fill them with fresh white orchids to match the decor. It’s surprising both how much I appreciate them, and how much difference they make to the room.

  The new cleaner is getting my eggs from a different supplier, and I’ve had two double-yolkers for breakfast this week.

  It turns out that the new cleaner is also the reason I jerk myself off in bed on night four without using pornography. She’s the reason I shoot my load without any thought for some seedy guy’s asshole, and the reason I don’t feel the need to scrub my hands clean afterwards.

  The new cleaner is the reason I abstain from looking at Claude’s string of messages, although that makes no rational sense whatsoever.