by Jade West
“There’s twenty-five here,” he says. “Count for yourself. Fuck.”
But I don’t want to. I don’t want this to be about the money, even though it is. I’m going to treat Joseph to a brand new trainset, and maybe a nice meal or two for the three of us, clear my credit card of the excess, and then I’m going to deposit the rest in Joe’s trust fund.
“What is it?” Dean asks, and I shrug. “Did he hurt you?”
I wince as I take a seat beside him, but it’s not that. I tell him I’m fine.
“Then what?” He holds up a bundle of notes. “Lissa, you just earned twenty-five fucking grand.”
“I would’ve done it for free.”
He squeezes my elbow. “But you didn’t. You got so much money. You could quit the cleaning, go back to college…”
I smile. “I’m not going to give up the cleaning. This is all for Joe.”
He nods. “Sure. So it’s for Joe’s trust fund, that’s still good, right?”
It is good. It’s really good. I force this silly mood away. I’m pining before the night’s even over, and it’s stupid, it’s really stupid.
Dean clocks the change in me. He turns to face me and his eyes are wide and curious. “So what’s he like?”
The grin comes from nowhere. “He’s amazing.”
“No danger of going off the guy then.” He pauses. “Spill. What did he do?”
My cheeks burn at the memory. “Gory details?”
“Hell yeah.” He grins. “Gory details.”
I give him gory details. I give him every detail. Every single little squirmy one of them.
He hardly looks away as I recount the whole lot of it, and he’s shifting in his seat, clearing his throat when I talk about how rough he was, how hard he fucked me.
How he took my asshole and made it feel so good.
“Shit,” he says finally. “You really earned your fucking money.”
“I’d do it for free.” I smile. “And you would, too.”
He shrugs. “Don’t know about that,” he says.
But I do.
I’m absolutely positive.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alexander
I keep that tumbled stone in my pocket right through my Sunday afternoon with the boys. I roll it in my fingers while they eat their shitty burgers. I grip it tight in my palm as I hug them goodbye. And I grip it tight all the way home.
I tell myself I’ll put the stone in the cabinet with the rest of my collection, but it’s on my nightstand when I slip into bed, and back in my pocket in time to leave for work in the morning.
Amy Leigh Randall. Brooklyn Road, EC1.
I have a good memory for detail.
I hold it up to the window in my office. Examine every little inclusion. Angel hair. Blonde strands, like hers.
I remember how she smelled. How her eyelashes fluttered. How her tight little pussy gripped me so perfectly and sucked me dry.
And then I talk some sense into myself.
I shove it away in my desk drawer amongst my gifted fountain pens, just another useless gift that means nothing whatsoever.
So she likes crystals? Big fucking deal. A lot of people like crystals.
She probably thinks they transmit some ethereal energy from Heaven above. She probably rests a piece of malachite on her forehead and chants some zen bullshit to ward of headaches, leaving her little bag of stones under the light of the full moon to charge up their juju.
I don’t have time for mumbo fucking jumbo.
I take my meetings. I scan through reams of court paperwork. I threaten people with the full weight of the legal power invested in me, calling in shitty back-hand favours behind the scenes to ensure a favourable outcome for my asshole clients. Just another week of the same old grind with the same old people lying through their teeth about the same old things, as though I haven’t heard every excuse for piss poor behaviour a thousand times before.
Sweet little Amy should sit in my seat for a week – that would be ample enough opportunity to rethink her career goals.
Maybe a week in my shoes would make the prospect of selling me her pussy on an ongoing basis a more preferable option.
I’ve been thinking about it, of course – contemplating the likelihood of a repeat performance.
I’m not one for holding my breath, having paid her enough money to set her up for the long haul, and I’m certainly not one to expose myself to the embarrassment of a thanks but no thanks.
No. If she wants to barter a deal then Claude will be in touch. That’s his job – just a standard middle-man peddling pussy for sale.
But when he calls me from his off the record mobile on Friday evening, catching me on my way across town to cook up soup with that pissing gemstone of hers right back in my pocket, the rush in my chest is anything but fucking standard.
Melissa
Almost a week, that’s how long it took for me to hear a peep from Claude Finch.
I figured I’d been substandard, that maybe Mr Henley had reported back I really wasn’t as good as the other women on offer.
I’d told myself that was okay, that at least I’d had him, even just once, but I’d been fooling myself.
Being back in his house Monday morning was nothing but beautiful torture, deep breaths against his pillow nothing but fuel to my despair.
The notes stopped. The gifts stopped.
Everything stopped.
I smiled thinly as I dished up meals for the homeless on Wednesday evening, and faked my laughter while I played with Joseph at dinner time.
I even tried my best to hide my despair from Dean, settling down for coffee and TV at night with a shrug of the shoulders in answer to every question he asked about my day.
And then it had come – a call from number unknown on Dean’s phone on Thursday evening. Someone asking for Amy, and there he was, Claude Finch, his voice clipped and professional, asking whether I’d be interested in relisting my item for general sale.
My reply was instant enough that Dean raised his eyebrows across the room. Yes, please. Yes!
And so I’d trekked across the city on Friday lunchtime to renegotiate the small print. I used the main entrance this time, and there was no lamplight in his back office, no video cameras demanding a performance, just Claude in his pinstripe suit, asking me to sign more paperwork.
I didn’t even think to ask about money. The only question out of my mouth was whether I’d be assigned to Mr Brown again.
Mr Brown will get first refusal, Claude told me. Standard practice.
I’d nodded. Smiled. Tried to keep my cool, even though my knees were knocking under the desk.
Three grand an evening, that’s what Claude offered, and I’d stared mute, trying to gather my dropped jaw from the floor.
The money was insane – dwarfing my monthly cleaning salary in just one evening, so much for a poker face – the overwhelm was written all over me.
“Yes. Thank you!” My words tumbled out before Claude could rethink his offer.
“I’ll be in touch with Mr Brown. Please keep your weekends clear, he prefers a Saturday evening.”
And so I waited.
I scrubbed his kitchen until my fingers were sore. Pressed his clothes to perfection and hung them so neatly in his dressing room.
I took Brutus on an extra-long walk and gave him an extra fish treat.
I replenished the orchids before I left for the weekend.
And then I went home to Joe and Dean.
Alexander
“I’ve had a lot of interest,” Claude tells me with greedy eyes. The man is like a pig in shit, leaning back in his chair with a grin on his face as he tells me he’s contemplating another auction for Amy’s next appearance.
“Fuck the fucking auction,” I snap. The very fact I’m in his fucking saleroom at close to midnight on a Friday evening – dressed in fucking denim in my haste to get this shit negotiated – tells him everything he needs to know.
T
he slimy cunt has me over a barrel, and we both know it.
He offers me a whisky from his desk drawer. I wave it away. “Exclusivity is going to cost.”
My stare is ice-cold, practiced and pointed from years in court. “Don’t dick me about, Claude. I’m open to negotiation.”
“Twenty grand,” he tells me. “Twenty grand a session, exclusivity assured for a six-month initial term.”
I laugh out loud. “Twenty fucking grand a session? I could hire Elena ten times over.”
“And Elena is average stock,” he tells me. “We both know it.”
“That’s not quite what you said when you presented her.”
He shrugs. “Elena is Elena, Candice is Candice. Amy is…”
“No longer a fucking virgin,” I finish.
“In demand,” he tells me. “I’ve had five enquiries already this week.”
I’d normally call the cunt’s bluff, but not this time. This time I’m worried the prick is serious.
“Ten grand,” I tell him, because I’d lose all self-respect by accepting his first offer.
“Fifteen,” he says. “And that’s generous. An extra twenty-percent cash tip on the night, compulsory.”
If looks could kill he’d be dead already. “Twenty fucking percent? It was a five percent compulsory cash tip last time.”
“It is what it is.” His eyes are so fucking smug. “If you don’t like it…”
I should walk. The number one rule of negotiation, never be afraid to walk away, never accept the weaker position.
But I don’t. I don’t fucking walk.
“And how much does she make from this? Amy?”
He laughs as though the question is absurd. “Seventy percent as standard. One hundred percent of her cash tip, of course.”
“Of course.”
I contemplate the prospect of signing away the best part of twenty grand to sweet little Amy every weekend, contemplate how likely she is to stay a six-month course. But it’s pointless. My heart is already pounding in my temples, frantic beneath the surface of my poker face.
“Fine,” I tell him. “Delaney’s. Weekly. Right through until breakfast, at my pleasure.”
He holds out a hand. “I’ll set it up.”
It makes me cringe to shake it. “Six-month term, Claude. Don’t fuck me about.”
He nods. “It’s done.”
Melissa
I can hardly breathe when the email pings.
Dean calls up the message and clears his throat.
“Well?” I quiz. I try to read his face, but he’s still scanning the screen.
He smiles at me. “It’s good. Really fucking good.”
My heart thumps as I leap from my seat and join him on the sofa. I grab the handset from him, my eyes hungry for detail.
Six month exclusivity. Weekly schedule. Saturdays from eight at Delaney’s Spa Resort.
Small print about referring to the original sale paperwork, more small print about accepting absolute exclusivity as a condition of sale.
And then finally, the piece of information I’ve been waiting for.
Your client is Ted Brown.
A click box to confirm the agreement.
I click without hesitation.
Dean stares at me. “You really want to sign up to this shit for six months?”
“You’re kidding, right? I’d sign up for sixty years.”
He shakes his head. “I’m being serious, Lissa. Who knows what crap can happen in six months?”
My belly flutters at the thought.
A lot.
A lot can happen in six months.
I’m counting on it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Alexander
I spend my entire working life facing people down without so much as breaking a sweat. I never lose a stare-off, haven’t done in all my years in the courtroom.
I don’t do nervous. I’ve never done nervous.
But tonight, as I check the knot of my tie is positioned just fucking so, I’m definitely feeling a shiver of trepidation.
I don’t know why this one night is even registering on my radar. It should be nothing more than a dirty little fuckfest, no different to any other time I’ve reached in my pocket and paid generously for the experience I want.
But her lucky stone is in my trouser pocket. Her pretty eyes are in my head.
The promise of a second round on her tight little cunt has my dick standing to attention before I’ve even fastened up my cufflinks.
I feel the ridiculous urge to buy her something. A beautiful bouquet of orchids like the ones downstairs. Belgian chocolates maybe.
But cliché gifts seem cheap and unoriginal, and a girl like Amy is anything but cheap and unoriginal. I have a half a million shaped dent in my bank account to prove it.
I take a bundle of notes from my safe and slip them into my jacket pocket, Claude’s ridiculous compulsory tip sorted.
There’s a niggle in my gut as I say goodbye to Brutus, and that niggle won’t let me cross the threshold.
I already know what I’m going for as I head upstairs. I input the code to my cabinet and my eyes sweep immediately to the second shelf down. A polished fire opal, its colours so glorious in the light.
This stone transfixed me, captured my eye at an auction in Dubai almost a decade ago.
I had to have it, at any cost. I paid well over the fucking odds for it, but I didn’t care. I felt nothing but relief as that gavel came down.
It’s a fitting gift.
I wrap it in a burgundy silk handkerchief, slipping it into my pocket along with the cash.
The niggle in my gut is gone when I face my front door for the second time.
But not the nerves.
The nerves are still right fucking there.
Melissa
I had to buy a dress today. I chose a pretty red number that fits tight at the bust and flares over my hips. Dean approved in the store this morning, and even Joe clapped. A definite win.
And so was the red lipstick to match.
I picked up the shoes and handbag at a discount store on the way back home, and they may have been bought on a budget, but I feel just fine as I head on through Delaney’s reception with a smile on my face.
Round two.
I’m really going in for round two.
I’ve had a smile on my face all day, and I’m happy. Lighter than I’ve felt since… just since.
It feels so strange to feel this light inside.
I count down the minutes in my assigned room on the first floor, my eyes twinkling through my last second mirror check, and then I’m up and away, heart pumping as I make the ascent to the top floor.
Mr Brown in suite seven tonight – Claude’s confirmation email told me so.
I count down the doors. Ten, nine, eight.
Seven.
Door number seven is in an alcove on its own.
It swings open as soon as I knock, and I’m not looking at the floor today. My eyes meet his in a heartbeat, my smile bright as he stands aside to let me in.
“Amy,” he says.
Black suit, white shirt, black tie. A ghost of stubble.
“Hi,” I say, and the flutters in my tummy are too much. I take a breath.
“You look considerably more at ease this evening,” he says, and there’s a smile there, just a hint. I can’t stop staring as he crosses the room. “Champagne?”
He pulls the bottle from an ice bucket before I’ve answered, pouring me a glass even as I’m nodding.
“Please.”
I notice the case on the bedside table. I notice how his scent lingers in the air between us. I notice the way he’s looking at me, as though he’s a cat about to pounce.
It’s familiar here, the layout of this suite is similar to the one previous. Virtually identical.
I drop my handbag on the dresser.
He already has a tumbler of water. “Cheers,” he says, and I raise my champagne.
“
What are we toasting?”
“A long and mutually beneficial working relationship,” he tells me.
Long.
“To us,” I say simply, and his jaw tightens. He closes the distance to clink my glass, and stays there, his body so close to mine.
The scent of him makes me heady, and so do the bubbles on my tongue.
I want to kiss him, but I don’t know how.
I want to slip my hands inside his jacket and hold him close.
I want to feel the hardness of him against my belly.
But I stand still. Waiting. Wanting.
“I’m assured you’ve accepted a six-month exclusivity term,” he says. His voice is super professional. Guarded.
“Yes.”
“I trust you read the small print?”
I attempt to recall the bits I noted, but my mind is fuzzy. Excitement and nerves aren’t the greatest recipe for flawless recall. I tell him so with a smile, and hope that excuses my ignorance.
“Excitement?” He seems taken aback, even though his gaze is steady and his jaw is firm. It’s just something in his eyes, something I can’t put my finger on.
My cheeks are burning, and I don’t know what to say. I don’t have a smart quip to hand, or some sexy one-liner that makes me sound like a sex goddess. I don’t have anything to offer him but the honest truth, which is such a joke in itself given the route I’ve taken to get into his bed in the first place.
My eyes are on his, my throat dry as I cough up my answer.
I hope he can’t see my pink cheeks under my foundation. “I, um… I wanted to see you again.”
No. That’s not the truth. Not anywhere near.
I love you. I’ve always loved you. I can’t stop thinking about you.
I’m Melissa Martin, the girl who bought you a cupcake. The girl who ironed the shirt you’re wearing. The girl you bummed a cigarette to outside my school gates.
He reads people for a living, and I know it. I can feel how he’s reading me right now.
His eyes are dark and fierce, the steel of his jaw just as intimidating as it was in the meeting room weeks ago.
My confidence deflates, my breath unsteady as I dip my head. I’m back to staring at his feet, the mirror shine of his brogues so stark against the cream carpet.
