by Nikki Chase
Mom closes the door behind her and follows me inside. “Another business trip?”
“No.” I spot Dad sprawled out on the recliner in front of the TV. “Hey, Dad. You’re taking the doctor’s advice to rest up seriously, I see.” I take a seat on one of the couches and place the wine bottles on the coffee table.
“Oh, don’t even get me started,” Mom says as she enters the spacious living room. “He tried to trim the grass yesterday. I had to threaten him, saying I’d sell the lawn mower if he’d as much as touch it. I don't think there's anyone else in the world who gets that excited thinking about getting to fix stuff around the house again after recovering from a serious illness.”
Dad grins at me. “You know what it’s like. Staying still is making me antsy. I feel like a sick person.”
“You are a sick person,” Mom admonishes him.
“Yeah, but I don’t have to feel sick, do I?” Dad counters.
“Try it and see how sick you feel after five minutes outside. You heard what the doctor said. You need a lot of rest.”
“Don’t look at me,” I say when Dad glances at me for support. “I’m not going to go against the doctors and Mom, too. I love you, Dad, but as Meatloaf would say… I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.”
“Look at what Heath got us,” Mom says as she offers Dad the bottle.
Like Mom did, Dad puts on his reading glasses and checks out the label. Except he recognizes the name of the vineyard.
“I didn’t know they imported their stuff,” he says with a frown, his eyes fixated on the label as if he can’t quite believe he’s holding what he’s holding. “I’ve been looking for this wine everywhere.”
“I know. Mom told me you were planning to visit the winery.” I stop myself from saying “after you retire,” because Dad hasn’t been working for a few days, and I know he’s bummed out about that. He doesn’t say it, but he’s probably worried he won’t ever get well enough to to go back to work.
We all know Dad’s probably dying. Sure, there’s the drug trial, but it’s unlikely to work.
Like a fourth person in the room, Death sits close by as we chat. He’s listening, waiting for the right time to strike. Strangely, it makes our gathering feel less private, knowing at any time we might need to invite a horde of paramedics into our living room.
Still, we don’t talk about it—the very real probability of Dad dying.
Maybe we’re afraid to tempt fate if we talk about it. Or maybe we know there’s nothing we can do about it and we’d rather try to enjoy what little time we have.
“Where did you get this wine from?” Dad says, still inspecting the bottle like he’s a detective and there’s a clue on it that he needs to solve a murder. I can almost see the hunting cap on his head and the smoking pipe hanging between his lips.
“From the South of France,” I say.
My parents can’t go there themselves because of Dad’s illness, but at least they can enjoy the wine.
“Another business trip?” he asks.
“Yeah, Dad. I had business in that sleepy rural town. The biggest grocery store in town was considering an IPO,” I answer sarcastically with a big grin.
“Smart-ass,” Dad says, chuckling. He coughs, and Mom rubs his back with a look of concern on her face. when he settles down, he says, “Thanks for the wine, but you didn’t have to do that.”
A few years ago, Dad would’ve started lecturing me on the value of money whenever I spent in a way that he saw as “reckless.” These days, he’s mellowed out. I wonder if he simply knows I won’t listen anyway, or if he’s just getting old.
“Ready for lunch?” I ask.
It takes a while to get everyone seated in the car, even with the wheelchair I got for Dad. But soon we arrive at their favorite neighborhood restaurant, an Italian joint we’ve been frequenting for as long as I can remember. As usual, Mom orders the spaghetti carbonara, while Dad asks for the pepperoni pizza. I’m getting the best fucking chicken linguini in the whole world; I swear not even Rome has better pasta.
The food is good, the wine is even better than my parents expected, and by all accounts, it's as pleasant as a lunch can be, when one of us is dying.
And then the paparazzi appear.
As we walk out of the restaurant, a swarm of reporters crowd us, shoving microphones in our faces.
“Mom, take Dad to the car,” I say as I let go of the push handles. I lift my hand up to get the reporters’ attention and let them gather around me. “My dad is sick, so I’d appreciate it if you guys could leave my parents out of it. I don’t have much time because they’re waiting for me, but I can answer a couple of questions before I go. Quick ones.”
“Have you heard about the price of the Petro stock shooting up?” asks one reporter.
Shit. That’s bad news. I have a big short in that stock, and I’d lose a fortune if the price keeps going up.
But that can wait until I get back to the office. There’s not much I can do from here anyway.
“We are aware, of course, and we’re already coming up with strategies to face that.” It’s not a complete lie. I’m sure the people at the office have got it covered. I only hire the cream of the crop. That’s why my business is so successful.
“Heath, we’ve noticed a woman walking into a downtown hotel with you. Who is she?” a female reporter asks. Judging by her question, she’s probably from a gossip tabloid.
They always seem to have a photographer or two following me around, and even more when something happens with my investments because they know I’m going to appear in a lot of mainstream media and they want to capture some of that interest, too.
A tabloid is not the kind of publication I usually pay attention to. Under normal circumstances, I’d ignore this woman. I don’t care what people think about me as a person. All that matters is they see me as a competent, successful investor whom they can trust with their wealth.
But this is different.
I was supposed to keep things with Kat under wraps. My plan was to tell my parents about the baby after Kat leaves, without giving them much information beyond the fact that the baby's mine.
I don’t want them trying to find Kat and coaxing her to have a relationship with the kid. No, I know better than to get entangled with a woman now, especially when it comes to sharing something with one—like money, a private jet, or a baby.
So I don’t want anything to be traced back to Kat at all. Letting her forge a relationship with the kid means creating a vulnerable spot that she can use as a weapon.
She seems nice now, but who knows what time will do to her? In ten years, or twenty-five years, she could become desperate or plain greedy. And then what’s going to stop her from blackmailing me?
Nothing. That’s what.
So Kat absolutely has to disappear when the baby doesn’t need her anymore. When that happens, I won't have any need for her either. And ideally, neither the baby or I will ever hear from her again.
The pang of reluctance in my chest surprises me. But I’m not straying from my original plan. I know what happens when I put my hopes in a woman, and I’m not going to repeat that mistake again.
“She’s just someone who works for me,” I answer the reporter. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my parents are waiting for me. Thank you.”
Kat
“Are you at the subway station yet?” Even over the phone, Heath’s voice carries the same gravitas as it usually does. This is a man who knows what he wants and always gets it.
“Yes.” I keep my voice small as I speak into the microphone built into my earphones. I’m worried the other commuters are going to hear me.
Luckily, it’s past the morning rush hour. I’m joined by a bunch of tourists, college students, and old people on the platform. A three-man band is playing an upbeat song on their wind instruments.
I usually like to watch people whenever there’s music playing in public places. I like to see everybody syncing up to t
he rhythm as they walk past. But right now, I can't focus on anything except the voice in my ears.
“Good,” Heath says with wickedness dripping from this one innocuous word.
I gasp as the little toy inside me starts to vibrate. It’s a low buzz, slow and quiet, but it sends a jolt through my entire body.
I know Heath is holding the controller right now and listening to my every breath, and the thought drives me crazy with arousal. Wetness leaks out of me and pools in my panties.
When I got to the office this morning, Heath told me to go back home because he has a ton of work today.
I was just about to protest when he pulled me close, gave me a hot kiss, and slipped his hand into my panties. By the time I felt something cold and plastic being pushed into my pussy, I was already panting and grabbing onto his hard biceps.
The toy is long and cylindrical, and it’s lodged inside me, kept in place by my panties. The part of the toy that sticks out of me lies flat against my lips and stimulates my clit.
A strong wind blows through the tunnel, and I shudder as I realize the train’s coming. I’m not cold. I’m just worried I’m going to come, too.
“That sounds like the train,” Heath says on the phone.
“It is.” I bite my lower lip to stifle a moan.
Considering all the weird stuff that happens every day in subway stations and trains all over the city, a woman wearing a vibrator and coming while surrounded by commuters wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. But I would rather raise none.
Yet I’m doing this. It’s not even a part of our agreement that I have to follow all his sexual demands. But this is not about the agreement anymore.
There’s just something about Heath. I can’t explain it, but he gets me so hot and bothered that I’d do anything for a release.
It’s the way he looks at me. The way he talks to me.
“Get on the train,” Heath commands.
“I need to wait for the next one to get home,” I say, my voice shaking with concentration.
Just talking is a struggle because if I’m not careful I’m going to sound breathy and raspy, and it would become too obvious to the people around me that something strange is happening with me. I’d turn more heads than Sally when she met Harry and faked an orgasm over their meal at that diner.
“I said get on this train,” Heath repeats. “I told you to go home, but I didn’t say when, did I?”
“No,” I admit.
“And the agreement also says that your hours are nine to five until you get pregnant and move in with me.”
A part of me wants to tell him the agreement doesn’t say anything about sexual acts that won’t result in pregnancy. But another part of me doesn't care; it's throbbing and dripping with arousal, willing to do anything as long as Heath dangles a sexy payoff at the finish line.
So I get on the train.
I walk slowly. My legs feel weak, and I know at any time Heath could turn up the intensity of the vibrations and make this even harder for me.
I pick one of the empty orange seats lining the sides of the subway car. When my ass lands on the hard, plastic surface, it pushes the vibrator deeper inside me. I look down to hide my face as my breathing gets heavier.
“Okay. I’m sitting down,” I say, panting into the phone. I know he’s listening. He can probably tell by my voice that I’m already close.
“Good,” Heath says. “Are you wet?”
“Yes.”
“I wish I could be there to watch you. I’d sit right across from you and just watch you squirm in your seat. And if it weren’t for these fucking meetings, I’d take you somewhere quiet so I can do even more. I bet you're completely drenched right now.”
My core clenches around the toy inside me as I imagine Heath spearing into me. I can’t wait.
“I still remember how you writhed for me last week, kitten. Just thinking about how sweet you tasted and how wet you must be right now…” Heath lets out a sexy groan that makes me want to grind myself against my seat.
But I’m an adult with self-control, and I don’t want to draw attention to myself. So I listen with frustration to Heath’s dirty words, tensing all my muscles so I won’t make strange movements in my state of extreme arousal.
“I hope there’s a something for you to hold on to, kitten,” Heath says, “because this is going to be one bumpy ride.”
I cast my glance around me. If I move three seats to the right, there’s a pole I can grab. But I’d be sitting right next to the door, through which people walk in and out of the train.
So I keep my gaze down and grab the edge of my seat with both hands. My knuckles turn white as the vibrations in my pussy grows and grows until a shudder rips through me.
“Did you just come?” Heath asks. No doubt he notices a change in my breathing.
“Yes.”
“Good girl.”
I sigh with relief as the vibrations dissipate. As I come down from my climax, heat washes over my body, probably as much from the orgasm as from the embarrassment.
“That was unbelievably hot. You’ve made me hard as stone, kitten. I can’t wait for tomorrow,” Heath says before he ends the call.
I have to get off at the next station and make a long detour to finally reach home. Along the way, I keep expecting the vibrator to suddenly start moving again, but it turns out Heath is pretty busy with his meetings.
I wonder when he’s going to finally fuck me.
Technically, if we just keep doing this forever and never actually make a baby, there’s no end date to this arrangement.
Or is there? I can’t remember exactly how things are worded in our contract.
I guess this is why I’m not a lawyer. Overly convoluted language turns me off. I much prefer the simple prose of romance novels, the kind that doesn’t get in the way of the story-telling.
As soon as I open the door to my apartment, I dash into the bathroom. I pull out the vibrator, which is coated with my slick juices, and clean myself up.
When I’m done, I head to the living room and plop down on our cheap Ikea sofa. It’s just long enough to accommodate my 5’6” height. I lie down and stretch.
It’s noon. It’s going to be another six hours until Jane gets home. Even though I’m home early compared to my normal work day, I’m exhausted.
I guess my next challenge to myself is: don’t move from this sofa until Jane gets home. Yes, that’s realistic, achievable, and measurable. All signs of a good goal.
I reach my hand out onto the coffee table and grab a random magazine from Jane’s usual pile.
Hmm… Celebs Magazine. Not a bad pick for a lazy read, I guess…
Oh, are Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie getting back together? No way!
I impatiently flip open the magazine, looking for the cover story. But before I can find it, I see something that makes my blood run cold.
What the hell…?
Is that… Heath?
And is that… me?
No way…
Jane would’ve told me… right?
Jane buys a ton of magazines, and sometimes she just leaves them piling up on the coffee table for days until she finally reads them all, in one go. So it’s possible she hasn’t seen it yet.
But that’s not what’s important here.
There’s no mistaking Heath’s broad, solid body underneath that designer business suit, or his steely blue eyes, or his wicked, arrogant smirk.
And he’s a regular in the media, so I’m not surprised to see his pictures here, except I think I recognize the woman beside him, too. And I think there's a chance she could possibly be… me.
Jane says pencil skirts make my ass look good. Now that I’m finally looking at pictures of myself from behind, I have to thank her for making me buy a bunch of them when I got this office job.
I recognize the white lace one that I wore when we went to France. I recognize my pink blouse, too. And my blonde hair in a simple, practical bun.
This
photo was taken at the airport, when we were about to board our flight. Heath’s arm wraps possessively around my waist, his strong hand looking large on my narrow waist. Beside Heath’s imposing frame, I look small and delicate.
I skim through the article. It contains quotes from “a close friend of the couple” and “an onlooker.” Just an all-round excellent piece of journalism.
My heart races as I keep reading, expecting to read my name whenever I move down to the next line of words. The article also mentions a “reported sighting” at a local hotel, although there are no pictures of that—thank God. And there’s no mention of my name at all.
I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief when I reach the last paragraph, where I read a sentence that jumps out of the page and stabs me in the heart.
“She’s just someone who works for me.” That’s what Heath said about me.
Yep. It says “Heath” right there. Not a “trusted source.”
He said that. I’m just someone who works for him.
I mean, he's not wrong. Heath has every right to say that. I do work for him.
What confuses me is… Why would it hurt to know that’s what he thinks about me?
This was just supposed to be about an exchange. Baby for money. Okay, so the “baby” part hasn’t happened yet, but we’re getting to it.
My point is, this should not hurt my feelings. Because Heath and I were never about feelings—just sex. Oh, and the baby, too.
But maybe it’s not such a strange reaction… I mean, if Jane were to suddenly say that I’m just someone she lives with, I’d be hurt too. But that doesn’t mean I’m in love with her, right? It’s just that we’re a little more than that, and it hurts when that’s not acknowledged.
It’s not like Heath can acknowledge the actual nature of our relationship in public, though. Neither one of us needs that kind of attention. It would only hurt both our reputations.
I can't stop thinking about that sentence from Heath’s own mouth. “She’s just someone who works for me.” It keeps repeating again and again in my head. My mind even re-imagines it in Heath’s voice, so vividly it feels like I was there when he said it.
