The roads were blissfully clear, the scenery whizzing past me in a blur as Abram, my Russian driver, navigated London like a seasoned professional. I didn’t care one bit about the two thousand pounds I was going to have to pay; I was just grateful he was driving like a maniac. I directed him to my street and saw Aedan’s Lexus parked outside my home. The car was running, and the parking lights were on.
“Give me five,” I said as I jumped from the vehicle before it had come to a complete stop.
Racing towards the Lexus, I didn’t notice Casey come at me from the side. One minute I was running for Wiska, her blonde hair clearly evident in the back window of the Lexus, and the next minute I was being slammed up against the brick wall.
“I warned you,” Casey growled, and I barely recognized the raging man. He looked pissed, he sounded pissed, and it was clearly evident I was the reason for it. “I told you if you hurt her, I’d destroy you.” I went to speak, and Casey shoved an angry, shaking finger in my face. “Don’t, don’t speak, don’t breathe, and definitely don’t look at her. She’s nothing but a memory, one I hope haunts you until your dying day. Stay away, Emerson,” he spat, shoving me hard against the wall while he climbed into the backseat.
I was dumbfounded, completely shocked by Casey’s anger and utterly bewildered by Wiska’s dismissal of me. I had no idea what I had done to warrant their behavior, and my mind spun with disbelief. I watched the car drive off, and with it, they took my heart.
“You paying that two thousand cash or card, Mister?” Abram called out, and I barely heard him over the thunder that beat in my ears.
What had I done? And worse yet, what had I lost?
*
Time had little meaning when you were chemically inconvenienced by your best friend Pappy Van Winkle. The bottle of whiskey stared at me from my coffee table, almost daring me not to drink it. I shrugged and reached for it. I’d already drunk half; it would be a crime not to finish it.
My apartment was dark, the blinds were drawn, and all the lights were out except for the lamp in the corner. It had been lit when I walked into the place two weeks ago, right after Wiska drove off into the night like a scorned lover, and I hadn’t bothered to turn it off since. I hadn’t moved anything. My bed was still a rumpled mess from when I’d last made love to her. I’d been sleeping on the couch, unable to stand the scent of her that clung to my sheets.
I’d stumbled out for food once and alcohol a few more times. Floyd had very carefully navigated my drunken ass back to my apartment door yesterday when I decided to drink my Pappy on the cab ride home.
I hadn’t bothered to call Aedan; he wasn’t answering my calls, anyway. No one was; not Wiska, not Casey, not Lionel, not Decker, not even fucking Andi. Ridiculous thing was, I had no idea why. So why bother, right? Why not drown my misery in a bottle of fucking whiskey and enjoy the peaceful numbness it gifted me with. Anger then began to brew.
This was the pattern I had been living for two weeks. Dejected self-loathing and misery lasted until about the halfway mark of the Pappy bottle, then anger set in. If I was going to be in misery, I deserved to know why, at the very fucking least. I took another long drink from the bottle. If the past two weeks were anything to go by, I’d reach the bottom and pass out, sleep twelve hours, wake up, vomit, eat, then start drinking all over again. Fucking perfect.
I glanced at the closed blinds and immediately hated them. Wiska wanted them closed because of her fear of heights. Well, she wasn’t here anymore, so I could open the fucking things.
I stood up and swayed. Using the back of the sofa to find my balance, I staggered over to the window and pulled the blinds back so fast I was surprised they didn’t tear from their tracking. My forehead hit the glass window with a heavy thump, and I admired the view from my balcony. I snorted. You couldn’t really call it a balcony, it was more like a ledge for pigeons to shit on.
When I turned, my foot caught the rug and Pappy Van Winkle made sure I tumbled right onto my drunken ass. I allowed my body to slump to the floor and hoped the world would stop spinning now that I was lying down. It didn’t.
I recalled the first day Wiska had spent in London, in this very apartment, flat out on her ass just like this, minus the Pappy. I’d been watching her dance around the living room for a good five minutes before she fell over in an ungraceful heap. It had taken every memory of my mom and grandma to convince my hard-on to back the fuck off as I watched her. She had been so beautiful. I’d been mesmerized by the sight of her, like a fucking fairy moving around the room with such youthful energy. I shook my head in an effort to dislodge the memory. The memories hurt and the thought of my future hurt more.
I was supposed to be moving in two days; the movers were arriving tomorrow to start packing. I had no idea what I was going to do. I had an office ready for me in New York, but no girlfriend, no home, and apparently, no friends. I had originally planned to rent an apartment somewhere close to Wiska, but I had no idea where she lived, and at the moment, I think she would shoot me on sight, for god knows what reason.
“Idiot,” I slurred. “She’s a porn star. Probably was just using you for your fine ass body.”
I’d googled her, and god how I wished I could erase the images from my mind. That fucker Google had so many pictures of my woman, and the videos, fuck, they’d made me puke. I could appreciate it was top grade HD porn, but seeing her with another man, and woman, fired an anger in me that was a little scary. Then I’d sat down with Pappy, poured my heart out to him while he poured his whiskey out to me, and I’d found that numb place I loved so much.
A gentle vibrating noise caught my attention, and I found my cell phone laying on the floor beside the sofa. I rolled towards it and checked the screen.
“I’ll be fucked.”
I swiped the screen, and it opened on the third attempt. I lifted the device to my ear and opened my mouth to speak.
“You motherfucking, dumb as shit prick,” was spat in the earpiece by one familiar and currently disliked voice.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Emerson is currently not here right now, and he’s not taking messages, so fuck you.” I tried not to slur. I truly did.
“You dumb shit, you’re hanging with Pappy, aren’t you?” Decker sighed.
“Nope,” I managed.
“Fuck me, Bradley, what the hell did you go and do this for?”
“Hang with Pappy?” I garbled.
“Andi’s been with Wiska. She told her what you did.”
“She did? Fucking awesome, so enlighten me.”
“You were fucking her for your boss. YOU’RE WORKING FOR WILLIE FUCKING BIANCO?” Decker screamed into the phone.
“Ummm, nope, and as of late last night, when I told him to fuck off, probably nope on that count, too.”
“So, you weren’t fucking Wiska in an effort to lure her to Brutal Babes? And you got fired from the fucking mob? Is that even possible? Will you wake up beside a decapitated horse head?”
“I wasn’t fucking Wiska. We were making love!” I snapped. “That sounded gay, didn’t it?” I then said sulkily.
“No, bro, Casey would never use the term ‘making love’. You’re in love with her?” He sounded incredulous.
“Was,” I murmured. “She fucked off and left me, so I’m trying hard not to be. I think I’ve gone from E to V, or maybe I’m stuck somewhere in the middle.”
Decker sighed, again. “Bro, I have no idea what you are talking about. I can’t believe you work for the mob, and you never told me. What do you do for them, anyway?”
“Financial advisor.”
“You launder their money?”
“Fuck no,” I said defensively and tried to sit up; however, it seemed my apartment was presently at a forty five degree angle, and I slid right back down. “The money is already laundered when I get it.”
Decker laughed. “You cock. I’m gonna beat some sense into you when I see you next. I’m looking for flights right now.”
“Sweet,
I’ll wave as I pass you by on my trip to the US.”
“You’re coming home?”
“Yup, I had plans to spend the rest of my life with this sweet little porn star, with a rack . . . shit, that rack is the stuff of dreams, and that ass . . . I cock slapped that fine ass.”
“Hold up, you cock-slapped her? For real?” Decker chuckled.
“Uh huh.” The memory immediately made me antsy. I tried to stand up again and failed. Vlad tried to stand up for the memory, too, but apparently, he was also drunk.
“So, she has a hot body. I’m sure London is full of women with great racks and tight asses.”
I practically growled at Decker’s arrogant, blasé impression of Wiska. It offended my heart and ears to hear him discredit the woman so easily.
“She’s not just a piece of ass. She’s smart; she’s funny; she’s kinda crazy; and I want her back. I want the woman that dances on a pole like a stripper queen, the one whose laugh sounds like fucking bells or some shit, the one who lights up a room as soon as she enters it back. I want my fucking pussycat back.” It was a well delivered tirade considering how slurred the words came out.
“Then, dude, you need to put Pappy down and get your head straight. When did you get a cat?”
“’Bout nine weeks ago.” I sulked.
“Okay, sober the fuck up, pull your head out of your ass, and get home so you can sort this shit out and grow old with a woman rather than your hand.”
“I like my hand,” I murmured. As I studied it, I realized there were now two attached to that arm.
“Yeah, but I bet your hand doesn’t make your heart hammer like you’ve run a marathon at simply the sight of it. See you in a few days, bro.” He hung up, and I let the phone fall to the rug at my side.
“Don’t listen to him. We make a great couple,” I said to my hand . . . s.
Somewhere in the foggy recesses of my drunken addled mind, I recalled Floyd’s words as he had helped my pathetic ass into my apartment yesterday. I had told him everything in the elevator; we had taken several trips up and down before I had the entire story out in a manner that Floyd was able to understand. He had patiently listened with the occasional ahhhhh and sympathetic nod of agreement.
He asked me if I regretted the time I spent with Miss James. I stopped in my tracks and realized there wasn’t a single day that I regretted, except possibly the few weeks early on when I had tried desperately to avoid her like an ass. Then he asked me if I would regret not fighting for her. At the time, I had rambled on about being a lover not a fighter, but the shock from Decker’s conversation, and the fact I wasn’t quite past the half way mark with Pappy, had me thinking differently.
Maybe I needed to be a fighter to be a lover. Maybe the two went hand in hand. My eyes landed on the sticky note stuck haphazardly to the side of the couch. On the note was a picture of a heart, and written inside it:
Well fuck that, the feisty little woman was going to hear me out, and she was damn well giving me her heart back. It belonged to me—I worked hard to woo that heart. This messy fiasco had gone on long enough. I was going home to claim my pussycat.
I tried to stand up again, and fell back down. I sighed and closed my eyes. I’d get going right after I slept a little, and probably puked a little, too.
CHAPTER 26
Wiska
Being depressed sucked. I’d been holed up in my apartment for almost three weeks now, and if it wasn't for the fact I needed money to pay rent and bills, I’d have never left the sweet, one bedroom residence. I loved my home. The décor was old and simple; the living room and adjoining kitchen and dining area comprised of warm, honey colored hardwood floors. In the living room, a bright red, fluffy rug spread out before a relatively new, plush grey love seat that sat in front of a small flat screen TV. A red arm chair had been crammed into the small area to give an extra seat. Floor to ceiling windows made up one wall in the living area that looked down upon a tolerable second floor drop to the street below. The kitchen area was tiny, but I preferred to think of it as quaint. In the bedroom, there was barely enough room to move around my queen size bed, which was pushed against one wall with a tall wooden armoire sitting against the wall at its foot. I loved my bed; it was like a big, white, fluffy cloud, covered in way too many comfy pillows of varying sizes and colors. Above my bed was a massive painting of a woman dancing on a pole, inverted and in a split; she was spectacular.
No matter how comfortable my apartment was though, it didn’t bring any solace to my aching heart. Thankfully, Andi dragged my sorry, weepy excuse of an ass into The Best Bar in Manhattan—that’s not my personal opinion, that’s actually the name—and with puffy red eyes, wearing nothing but old sweats, I was hired. The hours were crappy, it was a long forty minute bus ride from my apartment, and the pay was appallingly average. The staff seemed friendly, and the owner, Sal, was a whole stack of cray cray, he but made the job startlingly enjoyable. He had the voice of a tenor and broke out into songs that radically conflicted with the pop beats coming from the DJ or band.
I had to admit, I didn’t actually hate working there. I had only been working for Kink Harder seven months, but in that time, my pay had increased quickly and astronomically. The money had been a huge plus to working in adult film, but if I was honest with myself, having sex in front of a room full of people was not exactly my idea of fun. I was occasionally recognized at The Best Bar, and on a few occasions, they had asked for a photo. Sal came to my rescue, forbidding pictures of his staff while they were on the clock; it worked a charm. For the most part, I kept my head down, worked hard, and kept to myself, and my constant sullen expression seemed to keep most people from trying to engage in conversation. The Best Bar peaked on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and the place would be pumping. I was so busy I barely had time to wipe the sweat from my brow let alone think about my tragic love life.
Choices . . . choices, choices, choices. It seemed I sucked at making choices; I always made the wrong one. I thought I had it in the bag this time, but my own pathetic damn luck came back to bitch slap me in spectacular fashion.
Hearing Bradley’s conversation with those hideous men didn’t just break my heart, the damn thing had been ripped from my rib cage and stomped on. I felt empty. I wished my chest cavity felt hollow, but it didn’t—it was full of pain.
However, seeds of doubt and a small sprinkling of hope had been planted when Andi confessed Decker had spoken to Bradley, and he seemed to suggest there had been some sort of misunderstanding. I know what I had heard, though. My ears worked just fine. The words Bradley had spoken were said with callous disregard for me. I’d never heard Bradley speak to anyone with such a low, dangerous voice. Heck, he worked for the goddamn mafia, of course there was a side to him I’d never seen, an angry side, a dangerous side. And yet, it felt like I was swallowing a bitter lie trying to convince myself that Bradley was anything but the sweet, albeit sometimes moody, exciting, passionate, romantic man I’d met in London. I rolled over on the couch, my back to the TV playing MTV’s Hits of the 00’s.
My friends were right in telling me the craziness that surrounded Kasper’s betrayal had died down. Currently, a little known, wannabe, white boy gangster had found his way to the front cover of every smutty and trashy gossip magazine. Dozie Boy was the flavor of the month, and yes, that’s his name, so gangster, isn’t it? He’d found himself in a rather amorous position in an elevator with a well-known female celebrity who was happily married to a man thirty years Dozie’s senior. Having been put through the paparazzi ringer myself, I felt a pang of sympathy for the pair, then I remembered the blurry image of her on her knees in front of Dozie in a public elevator, and thought they were the world’s biggest pair of dumbasses for doing something so private in public. Then again, maybe Dozie didn’t know she was married, and the cheating ho needed to hook up with Kasper. They could represent Team Adulterer.
I’d been home almost three weeks, and I hadn’t seen or heard hide nor tail of Kaspe
r Karish. Kasper, Willie Bianco’s nephew! How was I supposed to know that? HE DIDN’T HAVE THE BIANCO NAME! Apparently, Kasper was the product of another marriage between his mother and Mr. Karish. Mrs. Karish had left her husband for Willie Bianco’s brother, Tony. From what Ryder was able to attain, Willie barely tolerated Kasper’s behavior and only did so out of love for his brother. It hadn’t stopped him from persuading Kasper to date me in an attempt to lure me over to Brutal Babes, though. Bradley’s boss was an asshole!
To top it all off, now I was sick. I had the flu, and it was like adding another miserable layer on top of the already existing gloomy, pathetic misery that had buried me. My head throbbed like a bitch, my nose was stuffed up, sore, and red, my eyes watered, and my limbs were weak. As I lay on my couch with a tissue stuffed up one leaky nostril, I allowed a tear to slip free. I pretended it was simply an excess build-up of fluid in my eye, but when it trickled down the side of my face, it was accompanied by a familiar pang of regret and sorrow. It was hard to believe I had tears left. As Justin Timberlake’s “Cry Me A River” wafted from the TV, I let out a humorless chuckle. It was more like cry me an entire freaking ocean of woe. When the realization it was Justin Timberlake singing, Justin Freaking Timberlake, former NSYNC band member, I began wailing like an inconsolable banshee. Bradley had been an NSYNC fan. Damn him and damn his bad taste in music!
Surely this was my rock bottom: snotty, stuffy, and balling my eyes out to JT. Any lower and I’d drown. As soon as the song finished and “Who Let The Dogs Out” began barking, I crawled from the couch and stumbled my way to the bathroom. Peeling the sweaty, baggy, pity pajamas from my body, I tossed them in the laundry hamper and climbed under the shower head. The water was about one hundred degrees too hot, but I still shivered. I sagged there for the longest time, my head resting against the tiled wall, as the water sluiced over my body until it became lukewarm, then sub-arctic freezing. Wrapped in a giant fluffy towel, I simply stood there and allowed the fabric to soak up the water. I was too tired to bother drying myself.
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