The Client: A Playing Dirty Novel

by Pamela DuMond

  The sensation built. Like riding a roller coaster and teetering on the high part right before you knew you were going to fall.

  ‘Fuck me, Joe.’ I’d beg him, gripping his shoulders, pulling him even tighter against me. ‘Fuck me, now.’

  In my fantasy he did, pushing inside me. I could almost feel his hard thickness filling me. Deep. Then deeper. And I fell off that cliff, plummeting down the vertical drop, my senses shattering into a thousand shards like a crystal glass smashing onto a marble floor.

  I leaned my head back against the lip of the porcelain tub and arched my back as sugar-laced waves rolled through me. I shuddered. My first orgasm with Hot Waiter Joe on the brain was smoking, even though he wasn’t even in the room. The release was sweet, but minutes later I only wanted him more.

  I waited until the bath grew cool. I sighed, pulled myself out of the tub, toweled off, and threw on a fuzzy robe. I padded into the kitchen and spotted Benedict licking Caesar dressing from shreds of lettuce in my salad bowl. “You’re a weirdo,” I picked up my phone, clicking on a text from Violet.

  Violet: Need to talk.

  I texted back.

  Charlotte: Cocktails?

  Violet: Better idea.

  “How is running in 15 degree weather on the path around Lake Michigan better than cocktails,” I asked.

  “Endorphins,” Violet said. “Nature’s high.”

  “Vodka,” I said. “Potatoes’ high.”

  The skies above the concrete running path in the Miracle Mile were gray and cloudy as we ran. The air was crisp but heavy. Light flakes wafted from the skies.

  Violet had messengered a few samples of her signature exercise apparel that Friday to the Agency a few hours ago. Now I was dressed head to toe in AccardiWear. The leggings were black, comfortably snug, and triple-weave. The long-sleeved T had a sturdy built in bra that supported my girls. The jacket bore her trademark design. I looked the part of a runner. If only my body could figure that out.

  I stopped, pausing to catch my breath. “Talk to me.”

  Violet jogged in place a few feet away. “Don’t take this the wrong way. All the guys you picked were hot. The lawyer’s brilliant. The hockey player is sweet, and my good god, who wouldn’t want to spank that fabulous ass?”

  “Everybody wants to spank that fabulous ass!” We high fived.

  “The app inventor is wicked brainy,” she said. “But…”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “No chemistry. With any of them.”

  “Not even the hockey player?”

  “I suspect after the spanking’s over, I wouldn’t call him the next day. Come on,” she said, gearing up to run again. “Let’s hit it. I need my daily endorphin fix.”

  “I’m not as hard core as you, Violet. Please don’t kill me,” I said, as we resumed jogging.

  “I leave that to my relatives. Hah! I see that look of horror on your face. I’m just kidding!”

  “Sadly, no one would really care except for my mother who would hunt you down and revenge kill you,” I huffed alongside her. “And then everyone would end up in the slammer and it would just be a huge fucking mess.”

  “I hate when that happens,” she said. “Please add ‘No murdering’ to my contract. No Catholics and no murdering.”

  I scribbled in the air. “Done. I’ll find you better matches. But maybe my picker was off? I need more clues. More insight as to what makes Violet Accardi tick. What floats your boat? Money? Exotic vacations?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Perhaps you need a sensitive soul? A poet or a musician.”

  “I like tall, dark and handsome. Wicked funny. Likes to play games—but the good kind—not evil mind games.”

  “Been there, done that,” I said.

  “I like a man who’s a bit of a wordsmith. Clever as shit. He not only makes me laugh, he’s also smoking hot in bed. Problem is, a lot of these types are writers or actors. And I promised myself—no more writers or actors.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Male artistic types can be self-absorbed. Stuck in their own little worlds. Look in the mirror too much and like Narcissus, fall into the pool of self-absorption, and drown. And then I’d be widowed and my parents would start nagging me all over again.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. Date one and you’ll find out. Prying them out of their brain cave is a workout, and not the fun kind. But if I could meet someone with those qualities without the baggage, I’d give that guy a test drive. If he held my interest—spanking or no spanking—I might even call him back the next day.”

  “Not sure I know any wickedly sexy funny writers or actors,” I lied, as memories of Hot Waiter invaded my brain cells. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  We finished our jog around the lake and ended up, as luck would have it, two blocks from the Delacroix. I stared up at boutique hotel in all its wedding cake splendor. Steam wafted from a few vents on the roof, making it look moody as hell. And I wasn’t sure which I needed more: to stay away from Hot Waiter Joe—or to run into him tits first again.

  Chapter Eight

  Joe

  Fucking Charlotte—as well as fucking Charlotte—was on my brain.

  I texted John Biltenhouse on Monday until my thumbs bled. I always suspected he was a wanker. It was confirmed when he never got back to me. I Googled the shit out of the name ‘Charlotte,’ big tits, and weddings. With the exception of the new porn sites that had popped up since the last time I was bored, my search was surprisingly unproductive. But I was a stubborn man.

  It was 10:30 p.m. and suddenly I needed blood flow. I shrugged on my coat, strode to the Delacroix and hit the gym. I lifted weights then ran on the treadmill. When I stepped into the elevator at the same time I’d run into Charlotte a few nights before, I waited expectantly.

  But there was no pouty-lipped girl, green slime oozing down her face humming a Christmas carol. I returned to my condo, took a hot shower, and cooled off the old-fashioned way—by Matt Baiter-ing.

  Her name was Charlotte, but who the hell was she? When I met her at the Biltenhouse wedding I assumed she was a friend of the bride. I’d crossed paths with John at social events and charity gatherings. He was a nice enough guy, if a bit of a dork. I’d run into him in the lobby of the Delacroix a few weeks prior. He’d told me he was getting married Saturday, invites were already out, but he’d add me to the guest list. Just stop by, share some decent scotch with some old friends, and celebrate his good fortune.

  I was in the process of doing just that when Charlotte bumped into me with her magnificent boobs, her pretty face, and her earnest desire to make everything right. Delicious, hot, delectable, Charlotte.

  Each press of the napkin to her scotch-soaked gown filled my mind with filthy thoughts of what her firm flesh would feel like beneath the fabric. I imagined getting lost under that soaked skirt, my hands skimming up the curves of her thighs, my lips following close behind them. Kissing. Nibbling. Licking. Devouring.

  Her breath would catch, her cheeks flush, she’d bite her lower lip in the way she did that was so fucking sexy.

  “Do you like this?” I’d ask.

  “Yes. More, please,” she’d say, lifting her dress up higher over her hips, granting me access to Wonderland.

  I’d part her legs, reach inside her panties, and find her already wet, dripping wet for me. My mouth would find its way to her sex, my tongue dipping into her heat, tasting her pussy, thanking the gods for her sweetness. She’d say my name, repeat it over and over like a prayer, and beg me to fuck her.

  And then I’d give my head a virtual shake, drag myself back to reality, and stare up into her earnest face as she discussed who owed whom what kind of compensation even though I already knew the only payment I wanted: tugging her silk lace thong panties down her thighs, commanding her to kick them off, and taking her right there in that wedding reception on table #10.

  By Tuesday, it was time to stalk her
on social media. Ten minutes of scrolling on Instagram led me to a photo of her at the Biltenhouse wedding reception. John kissed the bride and, score, Charlotte was in the picture’s background, leaning against the wall with that same ‘Holy crap I’m here,’ look on her face.

  Why that expression? Did she feel out of place?

  On Wednesday, I worked at Marte’s penthouse, managing her investment portfolio, and then took her out for fish and chips to The Brit, an English pub she liked on Riverwalk. We sat across from each other at a dark shellacked pine table next to the window. I literally looked down on her. She resembled a white-haired munchkin. In her eyes, I probably looked like a giant. “I updated a few of your mutual funds. Not a big deal.”

  “That’s nice.” She sipped hot tea and nibbled on a chip. “How are you sleeping?”

  “Like I always sleep, Grandma. In a bed.”

  “I assumed that. I mean how well are you sleeping? Eight hours a night?”

  “Sometimes,” I said, no longer hungry. I pushed my plate to the side.

  “Interrupted or uninterrupted?”

  I flagged down a waiter. “Grandma, would you like anything else?”

  “Transparency,” she said.

  “Too personal.” I handed my credit card to the waiter.

  “Too personal my pancake ass,” she said. “You used to run around the penthouse naked when you were three.”

  “Yes, well, that was twenty-five years ago.”

  “Are you dating anyone new? You’re not getting any younger.”

  The waiter dropped off our tab and I signed the bill. “I didn’t know I had an expiration date.”

  “Sadly, I do.” She finished her drink. “Take me home Joseph. I’m tired. I’m thirty plus fifty-three.” She stood up, holding onto the table with one hand for security.

  “A youngster.” I lifted her coat from the back of her chair and helped her shrug it on, one arthritic shoulder at a time. She was slowing down. And I didn’t even want to think about the day she wouldn’t be around anymore.

  On Thursday, I jogged three flights down the stairs from my condo to the Delacroix Library to receive a delivery of framed antique maps and oversee their installation. Biltenhouse still hadn’t returned my text, so I called his work while I waited for the professionals to hang the new acquisitions. “Look,” I pleaded with his secretary. “I need to contact a guest on the wedding invite list. I already know her first name. Can’t recall her last.”

  “I’m not authorized to give out that information, sir. But I can transfer you to his voicemail. Mr. Biltenhouse instructed me to advise personal callers that he wants to remember the three weeks following his wedding as his honeymoon—not the moon of checking messages.”

  I ground my teeth. “He thinks he’s funny, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I sighed. “Connect me. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You’ve reached…”

  I waited for the beep. “Joe Delacroix, here. Come up for air and I’ll make it worth your while at the next charity gig. I need the last name of the pretty blond at your wedding. First name’s Charlotte. Mid-twenties. I think she’s a friend of your new wife… Linda, Kelly, Minka, Lesley—you know her name. No, it can’t wait for whatever you’re mooning over these days. Give me the last name of the pretty blond girl, Biltenhouse. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  On Friday, I was back at the library for a scheduled tour with St. Patrick’s Elementary School 3rd grade class. It was only the slightest bit uncomfortable when I realized that I’d screwed their teacher, Miss Megan McMalley, against the same stacks in aisle five where I now stood with a crop of fresh-faced eight-year-olds.

  “What do we say to Mr. Delacroix?” Megan prompted her class.

  “Thank you, Mr. Delacroix.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She leaned in and whispered, “It’s been a while. Why don’t I come back tonight?”

  “Bummer, I’ve got plans,” I lied.

  I walked back upstairs to my condo, poured myself a decent single malt scotch, settled back in my favorite chair, and gazed out at the Christmas lights up and down Michigan Avenue. Snow fell, dusting the city, and I wondered where Charlotte was and what she was doing. My gaze was drawn to a woman on the running path next to Lake Shore Drive. I blinked and pulled myself out of the chair, moving toward the window. She was wearing an orange beanie and talking with a woman. It was too far away to be sure, but she sure as shit looked like Charlotte. The intercom buzzed. I walked to it and pressed the audio button. “What?”

  “We’re going out to Double D Burgers and Brew,” a man’s voice said. “Stop being such an asshole hermit and join us.”

  “Okay.” I opened the door and stared down at my cousin. I was taller than Daniel by a few inches, but he’d been known to kick my ass when we were younger.

  “Really?” He blinked.

  “Yeah. You caught me on one of those days.” I grabbed my coat from the pegged wall rack and shrugged it on.

  “We are so blessed,” he said.

  “Shut up, asshole.”

  “I thought you were the asshole?”

  “Every family’s allowed two.”

  Chapter Nine

  Charlotte

  18 months ago

  A few months ago I’d scored a job as an assistant at Mad City Wedding Planners in Maple Bluff, Wisconsin. I helped brides and their families decide on venues, color schemes, dates, and pricing. The shop was a small storefront on State Street that had been whitewashed, track lighting installed, murals painted on the walls, and photos of happy, pretty, beaming couples were everywhere.

  Which was how I met Ryan Kessler. He was on his way to Madison Planners, asked Siri for directions, and hit the wrong address on his phone. He ended up wandering into our shop.

  “Can I help you?” I asked the cute, muscular, blonde guy who eyed the explosion of prettiness with confusion.

  “Madison Planners? I’m supposed to meet Brad about pricing for a bowling league gig.”

  “Nope,” I said. “You’re at Mad City Wedding Planners. Common mistake. As far as I’m concerned, those Madison Planners look shifty. They probably keep all the marriage-minded people that stumble into their shop. We counter their thieving ways by talking folks into doing football-themed nuptials. You’ve never been to a wedding until it’s mixed with a Green Bay Packer’s tailgate party.”

  He chuckled, checked me out, and smiled in a charming, boyish way. We went on our first date the next night.

  Ryan was smart, thoughtful, and funny. His family owned several local manufacturing facilities, commercial real estate, and an auto dealership. They had roots in the town going back a few generations.

  Two weeks passed and at the end of June I moved out of mom’s house in Oconomowoc to be closer to work. I was twenty-three and I’d only moved back in with her six months ago when she’d had a rough patch. Mom watched as I loaded the car, stuffing boxes and three suitcases into the back seat. “You don’t need to leave, you know. I have plenty of room for you here.”

  I jammed a plastic bag of stuffed animals into the trunk and pushed on the door three times until it latched. “No, you don’t,” I said, catching my breath. “Callie’s nineteen. She’s been gunning for my room since she was thirteen. You’ve got a serious boyfriend now.”

  “I’ll always have room for you.” Mom walked around the car toward me with open arms. “Come here, my baby girl. You’re not supposed to get all big and grown up on me.”

  I moved the few steps into her arms and she hugged me tight. I was scared to leave her again. I was fourteen when dad walked out. I babysat Callie a lot and stuck by Mom during the many trips to the doctor’s office until they finally diagnosed her with Lyme disease. I held Mom’s hand every time a boyfriend walked out, and when marriage #2 ended. I didn’t trust she could take care of herself, but it was time for the next step in my life. “I’m only moving forty minutes away. I
t’s not like I’m going to Alaska.”

  “Maple Bluff might as well be Alaska. Don’t move in with that boyfriend too quickly. Stay with those girls you found on Craigslist who needed a roommate.”

  I saluted her. “Will do.”

  A month passed and the girls who needed a roommate also needed to stop doing drugs and inviting strange men home after late nights at the bar. One night I woke up in the middle of the night and saw a strange drunk guy stumbling toward my bed. I ran out of the room and called Ryan in a panic. I moved in with him the next day as a ‘temporary’ solution to my problem.

  I’d been living with Ryan at his house in the woods close to Lake Mendota for almost two months now. It was a smaller residence for the neighborhood but still larger than any of the places I grew up in. It was Cape Cod-ish, had three bedrooms, a full basement with a pool table and a flat screen on the wall, and a bar in the corner. The living room had beamed ceilings, a fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the back yard, which was the crown jewel of the place—a patch of green that abruptly transitioned into an acre of Wisconsin woods. There was a deck with a grill, and an array of wood stumps at the far end of the yard were chipped and pocked with holes.

  When I’d first seen it I’d asked Ryan if he had a woodpecker problem.

  “Target practice,” he’d said, grilling salmon fillets on the barbecue. “My friends come over and shoot.”

  “Oh,” I’d said, nodding sagely.

  “You want me to teach you?”

  “Not for me. Just not my thing.”

  “Me either. Another glass of wine?”

  We didn’t talk about me finding a new place to live. We talked about what side of the bedroom closet was mine.

  Ryan and I had been dating for three months. Late in the day on a muggy Saturday in August, I peered into the wall mirror in the living room and fussed with my long hair, twisting it into a loose updo with some decorative clips.