by Linnea May
“Rowan,” my father cuts me off, lifting his hand in an appeasing manner. “God bless Dwight and his loyalty to the company and me. I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm, and I’m kind of glad to hear that he’s giving you such a hard time, fighting for what he believes is right.”
He pauses, catching his breath. My mother is right; he needs rest. His illness has drained him, literally sucking the life from him, yet the person he once was remains, fighting to the surface when needed. Like right now. But it takes all the strength he has left even if it’s just a mundane task such as speaking.
“But I trust your judgment on this, son,” he adds. “Dwight told me about this dispute a few days ago, saying that you lack the schooling and the experience to fight him on such a big decision just because you’re my rightful heir.”
He sighs, a somber shadow casting over his pale face. “I can see where he’s coming from, and I get it. But I’ve also seen the numbers. I saw the contract he wants us to sign, and as much as I’d love for Mentor to become a name on our list of clients, I’m not so sure myself if we should go along with them under these circumstances.”
I perk up as his words lift a heavy weight off my chest, fueling me with hope despite all the sinister prospect that has been surrounding my father and his fortune for months now.
“You agree with me?” I ask, meeting his warm smile with an elated gaze.
“As I said, I trust your judgment on this,” he repeats. “You have learned a lot this past year, showing that you have the best intentions and the right mind for our company. Don’t dismiss Dwight just yet, but don’t feel obligated to make your decision based on loyalty and an old man’s dream.”
I reach for his hand, shocked at how frail and skinny he has become. But he still finds the strength to squeeze back as our fingers entwine.
“Dwight also mentioned you have a girlfriend now?” I hear my mother asking from the side. Her question is met with a chuckle from my father and an irritated sigh on my part.
“Dwight needs to learn to keep his mouth shut,” I reply, evading my mother’s curious gaze.
“So it’s true?” my father probes, displaying a mischievous smirk that makes him look like the man who raised me. A younger man, healthy, strong, and always with a joke at hand.
“I’ve met someone, yes,” I admit, seeing my mother jump with glee from the corner of my eye. “Her name is Melina.”
“Where did you meet her? What does she do? What’s she like?” My mother leans in, moving her chair closer to mine for further inquiry. “Why didn’t you tell us about her before? How long has this been going on?”
“Trudy.” My father tries to calm her, raising his hand in that patriarchal manner that grants him respect at his firm as much as at home. It never fails to put my mother in place even after all these years. But her excited eyes are still beaming at me, quietly begging for me to answer her questions.
I have given my parents more grief than joy over the years, especially during my adolescent and young adult years. They may have been borderline oppressive with their wishes for me and my future, but they did everything out of love for their only child. I failed to see that when I was younger, but it’s all clear to me now. They deserve better than what I’ve been giving them for so long.
I haven’t made them smile like this in years.
It feels fucking great.
My mother perks up with curious joy when I begin speaking. Leaving out the exact details of how Melina and I met, I still share enough for my parents to have a moment of happiness together.
Something we should have done so much more often.
29
Melina
The blindfold is still lying on the couch, completely disregarded where I left it after our play session. We’ve played in the living room today, something that came into being spontaneously when we sat down to have a drink. Rowan bought a new gin, and I suggested we’d do some blind tasting, but he refused to be the one to wear the blindfold even then.
“You’re the expert,” he said. “In both drink and sightless pleasure. Just see it as a chance to show off your expertise.”
His main goal was to see whether I could actually tell the difference among the Nolet’s Reserve, a standard Blue Sapphire, and a regular Monkey 47 gin. I told him it would be child’s play to me, claiming I’d be able to distinguish all three.
Indeed, it was easy to tell the difference between the Nolet’s Reserve and both cheaper options, but my boasting got me in trouble when I couldn’t distinguish between the Blue Sapphire and the Monkey 47 gin. He tasted the gin on my lips, undressing me in the process, and before I knew it, he’d bent me over the backrest of the sofa and took me from behind while the dark fabric obscured my vision.
I feel bad about being so negligent with the blindfold, seeing as it was a present from him. It’s a beautiful mask in dark blue velvet, shielding my eyes in a soft hug when I wear it. He gave it to me in a celebratory fashion, presenting it to me as we sat down, his dark eyes beaming as he awaited my reaction.
I walk over to the sofa, wearing nothing but a light robe that he gave me. He’s standing next to the wet bar, preparing a non-alcoholic drink for us.
“You like it,” he comments as I pick up the blindfold, my eyes resting on it as I caress the soft fabric. It’s more of a statement than a question, but I nod nonetheless.
“Very much,” I reply. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”
“I get as much use out of it as you do,” he says. “It’s a present to both of us.”
I smile as I turn around to him, catching his boyish smirk. For the past week, we’ve seen each other almost every day, either at his place or at the club. He never comes by when I’m working, but we have attended as guests again. Despite having his marvelous home to play at, we both still cherish the unique atmosphere of the blue room, our underwater escape. The blue dark and the extreme quiet due to the soundproof walls of the room cannot be easily replicated, though Rowan did mention that he was considering turning one of his unused bedrooms upstairs into our very own blue room.
The fact he’s saying things like that after such a short time warms my heart. He’s serious about me; he really likes me. Somehow, that is still hard to grasp for me, especially since he’s still so shrouded in mystery.
He told me that his dad was hospitalized a few days ago but diverted from the subject ever since. I know it’s hard for him to talk about it, and there’s more behind it than just a son about to lose his father. He’s under an immense amount of stress, and I realize that he regards me as his haven, a retreat from it all to rest and come down from the things that keep him so rattled and stressed.
But there’s something daunting about it; something that scares me. As if there’s an impending clash ahead, something that will cause him to break. And I won’t be able to do anything about it because I can’t prepare for something I’m unaware of.
I shake my head, trying to cast the discouraging thoughts away. I’m most likely overreacting, imagining things that aren’t there.
I saunter over to the bar, accepting a juice cocktail from him with freshly squeezed orange juice and a splash of grenadine settling at the bottom of the glass. It looks like a Tequila Sunrise, only lacking the spirit and thus tasting so much sweeter.
We clink glasses, and just as we take a sip, his phone beeps and vibrates. Again. I don’t think I’ve ever spent a day with him without having the phone call for his attention every half hour. His bad hearing actually comes as a blessing when we’re playing because he never seems to hear his phone even though it’s been calling for him more than once.
This time he notices, casting me an apologetic glance as he produces it from his slacks. He’s no longer able to have conversations on the phone, so all his communication takes place via text.
His eyebrows furrow as he reads the message that just popped up, his expression hardening as he reads along.
“Bad news?” I ask, knowing that he’ll probably ju
st give me a vague reply.
He shakes his head, hissing something to himself that I don’t understand.
“Everything okay?” I probe, beginning to worry that it might be about his father.
Rowan doesn’t meet my eyes when he finally looks up, his gaze scanning the room instead as he brings the glass up to his lips for another sip.
“I have to go,” he announces. “I’m sorry. This can’t wait.”
I nod. “I have to get ready for my shift anyway.”
“Do you need a ride?”
I shake my head, hesitant to take advantage of his generosity after he’s already doing so much for me. I know it’s nothing to him because he’s swimming in money, but he has been spoiling me ever since we started dating—inviting me to fancy meals, letting me stay at his home, driving me everywhere I need to go, either driving me himself or arranging for a cab or his driver to take me home or to the club. I’m grateful for all he’s doing, but it also makes me feel weirdly small and dependent.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him like I always do.
And just like always, he doesn’t accept it and orders a cab.
“Because it’s safer,” he says by way of an excuse. “I want you to be safe.”
30
Melina
It’s a calm night, a typical Wednesday with only a handful of regular customers. We always have less staff in the evening, fewer girls, but even the ones who are around don’t always have a client to hang on to.
Sandy is usually one of those who always finds a way to keep busy. She’s one of the more engaging devils who work here, and I know the madam loves her for that. But tonight, she’s been hanging out at the bar with me for the most part, her gaze lazily scanning the room occasionally as she sips on her drink.
“Slim pickings tonight, huh?” I say, leaning on the bar top close to her.
She twirls around on her high chair; her painted lips wrapped around a straw that she holds up with exceptionally long nails with a pink manicure.
“You can say that again,” she says, putting her glass down on the counter, the glass meeting the top with a heavy bang. “I hate Wednesdays. I’m bored out of my mind.”
I cock my head to the side. “You’re being paid the same, though, aren’t you?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, so?”
“Nothing. I just thought it’d be more relaxing,” I utter. “You know, making money like this, sitting at a bar, having a drink, not having to ...”
She catches my gaze, raising an eyebrow at me.
“I actually like my job,” she reminds me. “Yeah, sure, there are some jerks who are a pain in the ass—quite literal, sometimes—but those are rare in here. These are gentlemen, and some of them are really nice.”
I nod along. “Yes, sure, I wasn’t trying to imply anything.”
“Besides, the sex can be quite fucking awesome with some of them,” she adds, winking at me. “You should know what I’m talking about.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I jolt up, straightening my back and clearing my throat as I try to evade her probing gaze. Sandy laughs at my obvious embarrassment.
“Gosh, aren’t you cute,” she remarks. “Look at you, all blushing like a sweet little schoolgirl. You know you could make a fortune here if you were to change your position.”
I give her a little chuckle, shaking my head.
“Thanks, I’m good,” I say. “I like my job, too, you know.”
She waves me off.
“Anyway, how are things going with Mr. Handsome?” she asks, her long, fake lashes fluttering when she beams at me. “You guys still hooking up? Been a while since I saw you two in here.”
Another flush creeps across my cheeks as I look down, unable to meet her prying eyes.
“Yeah, we ... we’re kinda dating now,” I stutter, realizing this is the first time I’ve ever phrased it like this out loud. The words came to me naturally when it was all in my head, thinking about him, about us, but saying it out loud is so different. It feels like a declaration, an admission I’m not quite sure he’d agree to.
Did he tell anyone about me? Would he introduce me as his girlfriend? It’s only been a couple of weeks. Are we already at that point?
Sandy cheers me shamelessly, pounding on the bar top.
“You go, girl!” she rejoices. “We should drink to that!”
I throw her an apologetic smile. “I really shouldn’t—”
“Oh, come on!” she cuts me off. “Bartenders can share a drink with their customers. Everyone knows that!”
“You’re watching too much TV,” I say as I reach beneath the counter to fetch two shot glasses.
Sandy nods in agreement when I fill them with bison grass vodka, the only vodka that I can tolerate to drink without anything mixed in it. We clink glasses and throw it back in one shot. The hot liquor burns down my throat, reviving my spirits just as I needed. It’s getting late, and my shift will end in less than two hours, but tonight, it’s dragging, not only because there are so few people around.
I spent last night at Rowan’s place, and we didn’t get much sleep. It was late when I got there, but it was easy for him to keep me up once I saw him. Looking like a freaking god when he opened the door for me, he was shirtless, wearing nothing but a towel as he’d just finished taking a shower. He was impossible to resist.
But right now, I wish I’d at least taken a nap this afternoon before coming here instead of being worn out by another round after our impromptu gin blind tasting.
“Speaking of the devil,” Sandy says, surprising me as her words pull me out of my thoughts.
She’s pointing at the entrance, a mischievous smirk on her face when she turns to me. “Your lover is here.”
I knit my eyebrows together, narrowing my eyes as I follow her gesture. She’s right. Rowan just stepped through the curtain, wearing a dark suit with a matching tie, but looking somewhat rough in spite of that. His tie is slightly loosened, and his hair is ruffled and a lot messier than he usually wears it, especially when he shows up here.
He spots me right away, approaching the bar in wide but unsteady steps.
“What’s wrong with him?” Sandy gives voice to my silent question.
I ignore her and walk over to the other end of the bar to meet him.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out, reproach lacing my words, but not because of the mere fact he’s here. It’s his demeanor that worries me.
Rowan looks drunk.
“Are you okay?”
He slumps into one of the high chairs, supporting himself on his elbows as he meets my inquisitive eyes. He smiles at me, but his smile is crooked and off, lacking the lightheartedness he’s trying to convey.
“I’m fine,” he says, slurring a little. “Just missing my girl.”
He clears his throat, trying to maintain composure as he leans over the bar, reaching for my arm and pulling me closer.
“I need you,” he hisses, his dark eyes narrowing as he fixates me with need. “Now. I need to fuck you.”
I try to break free from his touch, looking at him with an incredulous stare.
“Rowan, you’re drunk,” I observe. “How did they even let you in here?”
He shrugs, his grip tightening around my arm as his face scrunches.
“I need you,” he repeats. “Melina, I need you.”
I shuffle back, my mouth falling open as I try to comprehend what’s going on with him. I’ve never seen him like this.
“Please let me go,” I say, placing my hand on his grip around my arm. “You’re hurting me.”
My words have an instant impact on him. He jolts up, releasing me immediately.
“I’m sorry,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose as he lowers his gaze. “Fuck.”
“Rowan, what—”
“Oh, there he is!” a male voice interrupts me, coming from a man I hadn’t noticed before. I turn to the figure closing in on Rowan, a man significantly older than him, maybe in his la
te forties, wearing thick glasses and a beige suit jacket stretching around his round belly, sporting more than one spare tire. I’m sure I’ve seen him here before; a customer who shows up occasionally but not often enough to be considered a regular. He’s followed by an exhausted looking devil, still fixing her hair from their previous session upstairs. He pats Rowan on the shoulder with such vigor that it looks almost painful while the girl takes a seat in one of the chairs.
“Can I have a Coke?”
Her pleading eyes meet mine, and I nod, getting her order ready while still watching Rowan and the unlikeable character who leans in close to him.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, tonight,” he barks at Rowan, his hand tensing on his shoulder as if he was trying to keep him from running. “Here to see your girlfriend?”
My chest tightens, and I hurry to get that damn Coke ready for the girl while shooting angry glares in the man’s direction. Rowan’s face hardens, his eyes narrowing as he reaches for the man’s hand on his shoulder and pushes it away with a violent shove. I place the drink in front of the girl, accompanied by a hasty smile, before I move over to the men.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask, trying to catch the guy’s attention. I don’t like the way he’s acting toward Rowan, and I don’t like Rowan’s current state at all. Something tells me that there’s a connection between the two.
The man’s gray eyes fixate me, putting some distance between himself and Rowan as he studies me from head to toe.
“So that’s her,” he comments, looking at me but talking as if I wasn’t there. “Nice one, Rowan. She’s a pretty thing.”
Rowan perks up, his dark gaze flickering with fury as he turns to the man. “Leave her alone.”
I swallow hard, trying to get rid of the knot closing my throat as the tension becomes palpable for everyone around us.
