Trophy: Part One

by SE Chardou

  “I have to appear like I’m in mourning, don’t I?” My face looked down to the perfect Persian carpet I stood on as he crowded me, and his hands touched my face delicately.

  “Yes, I know, but you could’ve at least called me and put me out of my misery. I thought you were truly depressed. I tried to stay away—I swear it—but you know I can’t live without you.”

  Ugh, that clingy tone of voice and those words!

  Always declarations of love we both knew he couldn’t act on but half the time Cam lived in his own world. Now that my husband was dead, we couldn’t be together any more than when he was alive. He knew that and thankfully, so did I.

  He had a beautiful Stepford wife—Mormon raised of course—and two beautiful children. He only pretended he needed me as a way of controlling me, and then there was the money. Countless riches he would receive once I started wiring money into his bank account. He was the main reason Richard was dead. He’d been his primary care physician after all, and referred to my late husband by me.

  I physically backed away from him by a few inches but it wasn’t enough to stop his hovering. “Cam, I have to get out of here. I’m going stir crazy and isn’t Mackenzie missing you? She’s a good woman—a bit dim but that’s served its purpose over the years for both of us. It wouldn’t do either one of us any good if she started to suspect something was going on between the two of us.”

  He kissed my neck softly and breathed in my scent. “I can’t live without you, Aly, you know that. These past few weeks have been absolute torture. You don’t hate me or is it something else? Do you not need me anymore now that you’ve accomplished what you set out to do?”

  I stared into his eyes and there was a hardness there that hadn’t arisen before. Shit. The last thing I needed was for Cam to turn against me. The problem with the kind of delicate operation I’d carried out to exact my revenge was more than one person had been involved.

  Cam didn’t feel bad about what he’d done but he would turn on me if he felt I no longer loved him.

  Of course I adored him—like a younger sister loved her older brother—but I wasn’t nor had I ever been in love with him. He was always a means to an end. He was going to sleep with me anyway whether I was a willing victim or not so I began to enjoy it, if only to take away the sting of not having a choice in the matter.

  My hands touched his face and I was careful not to kiss him with my rouge-stained lips. There were other ways to show how much he meant to me. I leaned against him, my head turned to the side as one hand caressed his head while the other undid his zipper.

  My hands were still somewhat moist from the scented lotion I used before he’d been brought into the sanctity of my suite, and it found his dick easily. His cock, only semi-hard, grew to its full length and girth in my hand as I rubbed him slowly and methodically.

  “Sweetie, how can you think I would ever use you? You’re the only one who has been here for me and understood why I had to do this. I couldn’t have done it without you and you know how much I love you.”

  Cam grabbed my hair and pulled my head back as he kissed my collarbone, and his hands grabbed my breasts through the thin fabric. “Show me.”

  My hand worked faster over his erection although not too eagerly. I wanted him to enjoy himself instead of thinking perhaps I was only trying to get rid of him, if only for a few precious hours and one night.

  Now that he’d come back, he’d be around again and again. No doubt I would have to endure a whole afternoon with him after he and the wifey spent quality time at the temple worshipping their God. The invisible white-bearded man in the sky they believed in simply didn’t exist for me. Not that I wasn’t spiritual and didn’t believe in retribution. I knew I would pay for my sins but the vengeance outweighed the cost I’d eventually have to suffer.

  “Fuck, your palm is like silk, milking me to heaven and back. I love you so much, Aly.”

  Keep telling yourself that, Cam, whatever helps you sleep at night.

  I gripped his cock and squeezed between my gentle handling until he couldn’t take it anymore and he came, his semen coating my hand as his lips clung to my neck.

  He pulled away and grabbed a few Kleenex from the magazine table while I walked back into my bedroom and cleaned my hands with a couple of Huggies baby wipes before disposing them in the trash. I wanted to feel disgusted by what I’d just done but I wanted him gone even more.

  By the time I reappeared, he’d straightened his suit and looked distinguished again.

  “Now, brother dearest, may I go out tonight and enjoy myself or will it look too . . . uncouth?” I mocked him now only because I knew I could get away with it.

  “Your life is yours to choose, Alyssa. That is between you and your God to work out. It’s not for me to judge especially since you’ve never been a true believer in the one and true God of our faith.” He avoided eye contact as if we’d done nothing other than have a casual conversation this whole time.

  “The one true God? I grew up Catholic for God’s sake until—”

  “Yes, I know,” Cam interrupted. “If I’m not mistaken, suicide is a mortal sin in your church too. Do you honestly believe you will ever see your father in heaven?”

  I shook my head sadly. “Does it matter? My mother didn’t deserve to die.”

  His arm came out of nowhere as he grabbed me by the neck and squeezed ever so gently. “Your mother was a whore who was willing to sell her body to the highest bidder, Alyssa. She would have done anything for fame. I went along with your plan because I can do a lot of good from the money that has come from a sinner but not because I believed in your revenge scheme. As far as I’m concerned, Richard did nothing wrong.”

  It took everything in me not to break down and sob. “Well, in that case, please don’t worry. I always keep my promises and you will start receiving the money transfers to your account next week. It’s when I will begin to have access to the vast amount of my . . . newly inherited wealth, according to the attorneys representing the Estate.”

  “That’s nice,” he replied before he kissed my lips and let go of my neck. “Let’s just establish one thing right here and now. This little arrangement between us doesn’t stop. The weekend isn’t a good time but I will call you next week with appointments that are convenient to me. After all, I have a spouse to think about—you can longer claim the same. Is that understood?”

  “I wouldn’t assume anything different.” I picked up my handbag and tucked it underneath my right arm. “Shall I show you out as to not arouse suspicion?”

  Cam laughed in my face. “Darling, I’m above suspicion—I don’t need your help. If anything, I would worry about myself if I were you. You’re much too pretty and too . . . calculating to be a true grieving widow. You wouldn’t want people to start . . . gossiping about you?”

  I felt my face grow warm as he left and closed the door behind himself.

  Ugh, how could such an innocent love have started to turn to hate so easily?

  I was my parents’ daughter after all. If my father could do what he did to my mother then surely I wasn’t above doing the same. The only problem was it would be much harder to explain Cam’s death than Richard’s, and for the time being, he had me stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  I had nowhere to turn for the time being.

  However, if and when I got my way, everything would change. I refused for any man to control me, and that included Cam too.

  By the time I arrived to Fantasy, the place was packed wall to wall with writhing young bodies and the music played loud enough to drown out any form of conversation.

  While most of the revelers had to wait in line, as the late Mrs. Richard Conlon, the bodyguards waved me through and I was guided to the VIP lounge.

  “Mrs. Conlon, as the manager of Fantasy, please let me extend my condolences for your late husband. Please accept a bottle of champagne on the house,” an attractive gentleman told me as I sat down in one of the plush velvet lounge chairs
.

  “Please, that’s not necessary Mister . . .”

  “Brooks. James Brooks. And it’s not from me, it’s from the owner, Mr. Petersson. He’s decided to put in a rare appearance tonight. Usually he stays mostly in Vegas but he’s flown in for the weekend.”

  I looked past James Brooks to a gorgeous man who sat in a particularly dim corner of the VIP lounge. I couldn’t get a good look but I knew he was fair-haired, had light eyes and appeared to be clean-shaven. He glanced right at me as a bevy of gorgeous women sat around him, vying for his attention but as our gaze locked on one another, a heat traveled from my face straight to that spot between my legs. It wasn’t panty wetting, thank the Lord, but if he wasn’t a sight to behold then I was either dead or well on my way to losing my touch.

  Brooks popped open the bottle of Cristal and poured me a generous helping in a fluted glass before he handed it to me, bowed slightly, and walked away without another word.

  I held my glass up to Dorian Peterson in salute before I drained my glass and stood, leaving my handbag on the plush lounge chair. In the VIP section, guests had allotted seats and the security was so tight, I could go downstairs to dance without fear that any of my personal effects would be molested.

  That’s exactly what I did as I walked down the stairs and blurred in with the crowd as a popular remix of an oldie but goodie, “Summertime Sadness,” began to blast from the speakers.

  Lana del Rey and I could be great bosom buddies. I had a feeling we had more in common than not. Only problem was although both my parents had been in the entertainment industry, I couldn’t carry a tune to save my life. My mother’s smoky, whiskey-tinged voice—the perfect mixture of Shirley Bassey and a young Tina Turner—did not get passed down to me. Instead, I got the perfect combination of her and my father’s looks—French Creole and Irish blood was a lethal mixture, and all their tendencies to excess were passed down to me.

  I loved, loathed, fought, and defended with a fierce loyalty that no one could break. Too bad I didn’t have any positive feelings for the men in my life. My only female friend—and former lover—Grace, and I, were usually inseparable but even she was giving me time to get over my “grief.” She knew it was as phony as a four-dollar bill but that’s what made us such perfect friends. We knew each other inside and out.

  The music swept me away and as “Summertime Sadness” blended into Kaskade’s “Move for Me,” the champagne had taken on its desired effect and I was having the time of my life. I didn’t need a dance partner to cut loose on the dance floor. My own vanity and need to be seen as the strong, independent woman I was ruled every part of my life. I would never be anyone’s victim—not even Campbell’s—but the problem was getting rid of him out of my life for good, and I hadn’t discovered the key to making that happen yet.

  I didn’t want to kill him but I would if I had to do so.

  That was the problem with murder.

  Once you did it once, it became easier and easier to do.

  I refused to become my father in that regard but the genetics were there, and if he could murder the woman he loved then what did that say about the homicidal tendencies lurking inside of me?

  The thought entered and exited my mind as a pair of strong hands caressed my waist, and I whipped around to see I was dancing with the one and only Dorian Petersson. What the hell did he think he was playing at? I wasn’t the type of woman who would coo, and say all the right things.

  Those days were long gone but I couldn’t say I wasn’t pleased he’d decided to acknowledge my presence. In fact, I was downright giddy because up close, those sea-blue eyes were as entrancing as any ocean in the Caribbean. His hair was the color of ripe wheat; although blonds weren’t really my type, there was something dangerous, and yet, extremely addictive about him. He didn’t have a feature on his drop-dead gorgeous face that seemed effeminate about him despite his fair looks. The suntan, his strong male facial characteristics and height of at least six foot, four inches made us the perfect dance partners.

  I wanted to chastise him for making the assumption it would be so easy to dance with me but there was something about his lean athletic body that innately told me he was much stronger than he initially seemed. It just didn’t make a damn bit of sense to win a battle, and lose the overall war.

  Lust, love, and sex were always a battlefield. It wasn’t a philosophy I could switch off in my brain no matter how hard I tried. Maybe it was my damaged childhood but to me, two potential sexual partners were always in a state of battle. It was just a matter of who would win, and at the end of the night, I sure as hell wouldn’t be the loser.

  I could play the victim—the damsel in distress—but the fact remained I was a viper in sheep’s clothing. I always looked for a way to wound my sexual partners mortally. It was no fun if they didn’t innately fear me even if they did love me. Without the risk, the chase held no reward for me at all. It was all too easy and safe.

  I didn’t do either.

  I couldn’t.

  Women like me weren’t built that way.

  I gyrated my hips, and moved in tandem with him to the song. It was hypnotic for the both of us, and I loved every minute of our seduction.

  I could literally feel him melting in the palm of my hands. He was a musician for God’s sake—probably the sensitive, emo arty type who couldn’t hurt a fly. He had the look of a predator but he wasn’t truly one, and that made the smile on my face grow whether I realized it or not.

  Dorian turned me around, and I continued to bump and grind against him as the current song blended into David Guetta’s “Dangerous.” He had no idea he should have been afraid of me because I was the predator tonight—certainly not him. The chemistry between us was absolutely beyond anything I could describe; all I could think about was if he was as good at lovemaking as he was at dancing, his sexual skills must have been phenomenal.

  He wrapped his arms around my waist as he whispered in my ear, “Are you usually this forward, Alyssa?”

  My heart thumped in my chest as I tried to play down my surprise—both at him knowing my name, and his guttural South African accent.

  For the first time that night, I had a feeling I’d misjudged Dorian Petersson, and the mistake would cost me dearly.

  Dorian was a natural born manipulator.

  He’d always been an expert at fooling people his whole life. However, when he spoke, women usually took a step back, and men often did a double-take.

  It made no matter he was American-bred—born in the City of the Angels to be exactly—or that his parents were both Yanks (although to be fair, they were both naturalized citizens). The fact that he’d spent his childhood and young adult years at South African boarding schools had shaped his life in more ways than one.

  It was a pre-requisite he learned Afrikaans at his boarding school, and he’d never spent enough time in the States to ever have an American accent. He couldn’t even fake one despite carrying three passports—the second belonged to a Nordic country in the EU, and the third belonging to South Africa.

  The whole point of approaching Alyssa was to throw her off her game. He could tell she thought she was a master but she would never be as exceptional as him.

  They could fight, fuck or destroy one another but he would never surrender to a woman, let alone her. He’d never been in love, and he never planned for it to happen to him ever.

  People like him couldn’t love. Not when they’d never known what it was like to be loved.

  The best of everything in the world couldn’t ever replace the feelings only two humans felt when there was a real connection. Sex was good¸ and the electricity between them was off the charts but lust would never turn to love.

  Dorian had to admit he would have lots of fun with this one, and perhaps she would last more than a month—the longest he’d ever tied himself down with a casual lover.

  Although he had the reputation of being quite the manwhore, he was quite the opposite. He didn’t have the time to w
ork as much as he did and bed as many women as TMZ claimed. Hell, a meeting over coffee with an attractive female musician talking about nothing more interesting than a possible remix became his latest lover. According to the website, he went through women like Kleenex.

  In reality, he was actually very picky; he was a natural germaphobe that didn’t trust many women. Most of his limited partners got his dick and nothing else; he did not believe in oral sex in most cases, and he always wore a condom. He had too much on the line for accidental STDs or unexpected pregnancies.

  Dorian’s life was carefully planned; every moment he’d lived had led up to the moment he shared these precious minutes with Alyssa. Everything was going according to plan until she made the small slip up.

  He knew there was a part of her that was afraid of him, even if her own vanity failed to acknowledge it. She still thought she was in control when in fact, she wasn’t in control of anything but the luscious body he held against his own.

  This was simply a small setback, and nothing that would prevent him from taking her home that night but he did have to reassure her. The moment the song changed into a more trip-hop number, he guided her carefully back to the VIP area.

  His bodyguards knew what he wanted when he’d left the hanger-ons in his section. They were cleared out by the time he walked her to his area. Her bottle of Cristal champagne awaited her, chilled on ice, along with her small designer bag. He sat her down on the lounge sofa as if she were fragile as glass before he sat beside her, closing in on what little personal space she had.

  Dorian couldn’t deny the photographs he had did nothing for her as opposed to being side-by-side with her in the flesh. Alyssa was a beautiful woman with olive skin, the most gorgeous hazel eyes he’d ever laid eyes upon, sculpted cheekbones while the rest of her face was classically beautiful including her perfect lips and generous mouth. She was a walking pin-up, and she knew it, from her handspun waist to the breadth of her hips, and long shapely legs despite her short stature. She couldn’t have been more than five foot, four inches but everything about her was perfect.