The Client: A Playing Dirty Novel

by Pamela DuMond

  Joe’s face crumpled right there in front of me. He held a hand to his head for a second, as if his head hurt just thinking about it. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

  I felt lighter, relieved, having said those words out loud to Joe. I reached for his hand, took it in mine, and squeezed it. “Yeah, I am too.”

  But Joe pulled away from me. His eyes darkened and his lips tensed. “Then why isn’t he in jail right now? Why isn’t he serving time?”

  “I didn’t call the cops. His friend begged me not to call the police. He said Ryan had gotten drunk and made a mistake.”

  “You let it go? He aimed a gun at you and you just let it go?” A taxi pulled over and Joe walked toward it.

  I followed him, desperate to keep up with him. “No. I didn’t just let it go. I realized it was abuse. It was a pattern.”

  “You think?” Joe opened the cab door and stepped inside.

  “Yes. I packed my things and got out that night. I knew I couldn’t stay anywhere near him. I quit my job the next day. I moved to a different city. A different state. Why are you so mad at me?”

  “Because Charlotte, Ryan Kessler belongs in jail. Ryan Kessler shot my girlfriend. And you not only dated him, you let him get away with violence a second time. You think you’re not giving Ryan Kessler a second chance—but you already did.” He slammed the door shut and the cab peeled away from the curb.

  I burst into tears. I was in a hell of my own making, and I knew in my very broken heart that nothing I could say or do would ever fix this.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Joe

  I got home and chartered a private jet to Aspen. The next morning I packed a suitcase for myself and three for Marte. I popped her on board and we flew to the pristine mountain ski resort for Christmas. I nursed a scotch on the flight there and had about three plus hours to think about everything that had gone down.

  Ryan Kessler was Charlotte’s ex-boyfriend. Ryan Kessler was also the monster that had killed my Zoey, and gotten a slap on the wrist sentenced to minimum jail sentence and then probation.

  There were strict laws as to how deer hunting season played out. The dates you could hunt. Doe vs. Buck. Gun vs. Bow and Arrow. But Ryan Kessler and his buddy didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of that. They got wasted while they watched a game, egged each other on, and headed out to the marsh to shoot something. Anything. Plenty of animals in the marsh. Turkeys, skunks, rabbits.

  They commandeered a stand built by a legitimate hunter who owned the property and picked off a few squirrels and a raccoon. But they were hoping for a deer. Much more fun to shoot something big when you’ve got a sizeable amount of steam to blow off. The problem was, it wasn’t yet deer hunting season and they didn’t have licenses. The bigger problem was that they were drunk and entitled.

  That late afternoon on Green Marsh trail, Ryan Kessler saw movement and thought he’d lucked out and spotted a deer. He lifted his gun, aimed, and shot Zoey in the chest. His family had the money to hire the best lawyers to negotiate a plea deal for their scum son. His buddy, who was now in jail serving time for manslaughter, followed up with the shot that killed her.

  Post-mortem determined the first bullet had punctured her lung. The second penetrated her heart. And this was how my happily-ever-after died. Not after thirty years of benign neglect, but collapsed in the weeds, assassinated with a bullet to the heart. It disappeared in a ragged breath with a broken promise and last words clinging to cold blue lips.

  Contrary to the turbulence inside me, the flight from Chicago to Aspen went smoothly and we touched down ahead of time. Daniel sent a town car to pick us up at the Pitkin County airport and drive us to his place in town. The village was picturesque, covered in snow with cute trendy shops, and the right mixture of singles, families, and holiday cheer. Daniel was right. Aspen was the perfect place to go for the Christmas holidays.

  I got Marte squared away at the townhouse and spent the rest of the afternoon skiing. I worked my way from the moderate blue runs to the black diamond slopes, attempting to clear the cobwebs in my brain and trying to wrench the knife out of my heart. After four hours, I skied back to the residence and shook off the snow.

  I knocked on Grandma’s bedroom door but she was napping. I found my room, crashed for a few hours, but couldn’t sleep. I flipped through cable channels, switched to my iPad and scrolled Netflix. There were too many Christmas movies. Jimmy Stewart was busy in Bedford Falls reviewing his wonderful life, Hugh Grant was falling for his young secretary, and Bill Murray was getting scrooged. What the fuck was I doing?

  Daniel had invited a few friends and his new girlfriend over for a catered turkey holiday dinner with all the fixings. Twelve of us gathered around the table and enjoyed the spread. We took a break before dessert and hung out in the living room. The windows looked out onto the mountain, the dark punctuated by LED lights for night time skiing. A fire crackled in the fireplace. It was gorgeous.

  I was suffocating. I felt like I was breaking out in big, red, scratchy hives after donning a stifling wool sweater. Good God, when could I get the hell out of here? I wondered what Charlotte was doing. I glanced at Marte sipping a cup of hot chocolate. Her feet were up on an ottoman, a comfy throw draped over her legs. “How are you?” I asked.

  “Better than you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Have you looked in the mirror recently?”.

  “No. Why? Do I have spinach in my teeth?”

  “Worse. You look like you ate bad nachos. The ones you get at the convenience store late at night when you’re drunkity-drunk.”

  “I’m not drunkity-drunk, Grandma.”

  “I beg to differ. Everything was going just swimmingly. I hired you a matchmaker. You were smiling again. Humming Christmas carols under your breath. Then out of nowhere you went and hired a plane, stuffed me on it, and the left the only other person who really mattered to you behind. What kind of Christmas present is that?”

  “Crap. I left your Christmas presents back in Chicago.”

  “That’s not what I meant. What do you want for Christmas, Joe?”

  I thought about it. The people around me were pretty, the fire was warm, the skiing awesome—but all I could think of was Charlotte with her pouty lips.

  Charlotte with the determined thrust of her chin.

  Charlotte’s big warm heart.

  Charlotte laughing at the dog park.

  And Charlotte calling out my name, over and over, like a prayer when she orgasmed on top of my desk.

  “I want a second chance, Grandma. I want Charlotte.”

  “I sampled the apple pie when I was in the kitchen and it sucks. It’s from a frozen food company that’s trying to knock off Marie Callender’s but it isn’t even in the same ballpark. If I were you I’d skip dessert, stop dicking around, and go get Charlotte. Unlike the pie — she’s the real deal.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Charlotte

  It was Christmas Eve, work was over until next Monday, and I’d made the decision to ride out the holiday here. I didn’t want to know that Joe was enjoying the holiday with Violet, or Barbara, because in the end it didn’t really matter. He’d made it abundantly clear the other night outside the White Glove party that he’d never be enjoying a holiday with me.

  I went to afternoon mass at Holy Name Cathedral, strolled around the neighborhood, then took a detour and found myself outside the beautiful Delacroix Hotel. I stared up at it, all twinkly and gorgeous. I walked ten blocks and visited my favorite Chicago outdoor attraction, Lakeshore Bark Park. I sat on a bench outside the park, watched the pups play, and thought about everything that had just gone down.

  I didn’t know Joe had lost his girlfriend in such a tragic accident. I had no idea Ryan was part of that. But somehow, now, it all made sense. Both our stories were part and parcel of the cycle of abuse. They just played out in different ways. My heart ached for what Joe had been through.

  I’d survived
seeing Ryan the first time since that horrible night in the church parking lot. He was tired of waiting, and through my social media feeds and common sense, tracked me down. He called White Glove pretending to be a business associate and scammed the party’s address from the temp assistant manning the phones.

  He wanted me to give him a second chance but I told him nothing would change my mind. It didn’t matter that he didn’t drink anymore. I didn’t care how long he’d been in the program. I was “done” a year ago when he pointed a gun to my head. Nothing would change that.

  I learned a couple of tough life lessons dating Ryan. Abuse starts off insidiously. He demeaned me, put me down. The cuts felt small but they multiplied, pooled together, and the wounds deepened. He gaslit and slut shamed me—making me question everything I did, every interaction with men, everything I wore. How could I make him happy? How could I keep him happy? I walked on fucking eggshells every day, my feet getting lighter and lighter as time passed. Then one night he pointed a gun in my face. What would it be next? A bullet in my head?

  Part of going through a horrific life lesson was remembering that once you got some distance, you might see a piece of good that came out of it. Luckily for me, I wasn’t married to the guy, I didn’t have children. It was so much easier for me to leave my abuser than someone who had been in it longer, had deeper ties, was more invested.

  I learned that I didn’t have to stay. I could and would re-invent myself. After I found the courage to leave I moved to Chicago. I went to groups that helped women recover from emotional as well as physical abuse. It took time. It took reflection. I probably learned the pattern when I was a kid, which is why it played out later the way it did.

  This didn’t mean my life would be perfect, or that I wouldn’t hit bumps in the road. Oh, yes, there would be plenty of bumps to smack into, fly through the air, and hit the ground knees first. But after the impacts, I could make the decision to pick myself up and carry on.

  I think the best part of getting out and getting on was realizing in the very depths of my bones that ultimately no one would rescue me if I didn’t rescue myself first. By sticking up for myself, God, the fates, Karma, allowed me to bump into the sinfully delicious Hot Waiter, Joe Delacroix, on that magical night at the beautiful Biltenhouse wedding. But now, I’d lost Joe.

  I closed my eyes as the snow swirled in little flakes around me and I could practically smell his signature scent of cedar soap. When someone started playing “All I Want for Christmas is You” on their phone, I turned and saw him standing in front of me.

  He was wearing a pea coat and holding his iPhone toward me.

  “Marco.”

  “Polo,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  “Setting the mood.”

  “For?”

  “Asking you something important.”

  “Are you going to declare your love for me, Hot Waiter?”

  “No.”

  “Bummer.”

  “I need to apologize first,” he said.

  My heart beat faster. “You don’t need to apologize. You were right.”

  “The thing is Charlotte, we were both right.”

  “We were?”

  He nodded. “I was too caught up to see it. You got out. You handled the trauma as best you could: with energy and movement. I handled mine with fear, depression, and getting stuck.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m so sorry, Joe. I went there too.”

  “I thought I was broken. And I might have been for a while. But I’m not anymore.”

  “Maybe you were bent, not broken.” I stared at his full lips, his beautiful, kind, soft hazel eyes. My Joe was a keeper. Not to be shared. Certainly not to be matched to anyone but me.

  “I’m in love with you, Cupcake. I don’t know how this will work out. I don’t know how we’ll be in thirty years. I don’t even know if you still want me. But if I don’t have the balls to step up to the plate and find out, then I wouldn’t even be worthy of meeting you. The gods have given me a second chance at love, and I’m taking it. You’re the one, Charlotte. You’re the match for me. What do you think?”

  “I think yes.” I said, wiping tears away. “I think it’s about time.”

  He sat down next to me on the park bench, and took my hand in his. “All I really want for Christmas, Charlotte, is you.”

  And he kissed me.

  Epilogue

  Joe

  One year later

  I always thought I’d get married at the Delacroix, but when the time actually came, I realized I didn’t want to get married at the hotel. I craved something simpler, which was fine by Charlotte.

  And so now, here we were, in the atrium of the Delacroix Library on a Saturday afternoon surrounded by a hundred wedding guests attired in cocktail finery. Daniel was my best man. Charlotte’s sister Callie did the honors for her.

  Marte sat in the front row with my parents and her entourage: Luisa Bananas, Beverly, and an assortment of hotel employees. Grandma was dressed in a red silk gown adorned with red elbow-length gloves, and a diamond brooch with flowers in her white, coiffed hair. I don’t think I’d ever seen her so radiant.

  The priest droned, “We are gathered here today—”

  I lifted my hand, respectfully cut him off, and turned toward Marte. “Are you happy, now?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Don’t forget the ring.”

  “I won’t forget the ring, Grandma.”

  Charlotte giggled under her breath and the crowd covered laughter with their hands.

  I smiled at Charlotte, and nodded my head to the priest to continue.

  Good God, I was a lucky man to be marrying her.

  I said, ‘I take you’, ‘I promise’, ‘in sickness and in health’, and ‘as long as we both shall live’ to Charlotte and she promised those vows as well.

  I slid Grandma’s second diamond ring, canary yellow, onto Charlotte’s finger. Grandpa gave her the three carat canary diamond when he screwed up, and she took him back. This ring signified a second chance at love and commitment. Now I stared down into her sparkling eyes. “I love you, Cupcake. Thanks for the second chance.”

  “I love you too Hot Waiter. Ditto.”

  “Kiss the bride!” Marte said.

  I smiled at her, then turned my attention to my bride, tenderly taking her face between my hands.

  The attendees burst into a round of applause.

  “Cheers!”

  “Mazel tov!”

  “Move it, tall guy,” a female voice said from somewhere in the crowd.

  I glanced around for a second, blinked, then looked up and offered up a thank you prayer to my first love.

  I am, Zoey. I am.

  I kissed Charlotte on her pouty lips and seized my second chance at love. My second chance at life.

  THE END

  THE MATCHMAKER

  A Playing Dirty Novel

  Aiden Black thought he’d left his past behind when he abandoned the church. He re-directed his desire to help others by forming White Glove Matchmaking Agency. Aiden’s put his own needs on hold for a very. Long. Time.

  Violet Accardi’s family is desperate to marry her off. Her mom wants grand babies. Her dad wants her mom to be happy. Her uncle, the mobster, promised her hand in marriage to the son of a rival mafia family.

  But Violet only has eyes for Aiden Black. And Aiden wants to worship at a different altar…

  Things are about to get complicated…

  © Pamela DuMond

  Publishing Winter 2017/2018.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Michael James Canales at MJCImageworks for the book cover and to Kelly Hartog for editing. Thanks Regina Wamba from MaeIDesign for her amazing photography and my gorgeous cover photo. Thanks to Next Step PR and Kiki Chatfield for doing such a terrific job with PR.

  Thanks Caitlyn O’Leary, Maggie Marr, Sylvie Fox, Cindy Sample, Carolyn Haines, Jenn LeBlanc, Samantha Beck, and “Pamela’s Princesses” for being such awesome cheerlead
ers.

  Thanks to my readers and supporters Jeanie Whitmire Jackson, JoAnn Paules, Candi Kelly, Carrie Hartney, D.C., Cheryl Cavitt Carlson, Carole Sauer, Joan Brady, Joe Wilson, Kristin Warren, Monica Mason, Melissa Black Ford, Sadie Gilliam, Dave Thome, and Rita Kempley, to name a few.

  A huge thanks to all you readers.

  You rock!

  Xo,

  Pamela DuMond

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