by SE Chardou
It was then he realized all the colossal mistakes he’d made in his quest for fucking her into submission.
He hadn’t worn a condom.
Though he wasn’t worried about sexually transmitted diseases, he certainly didn’t want to be anyone’s baby daddy in the near future—or ever to be precise. He didn’t even want children.
What kind of birth control did she use, and would she tell him the truth?
He knew the old man had been trying to get her pregnant and had succeeded only for her to have a devastating miscarriage in her second trimester. That was over a year ago but did that mean she still didn’t use anything to prevent pregnancy?
It was too late now, and there was no use worrying about something he couldn’t change. Instead, he collapsed onto his back next to her.
Dorian watched her body as she lay still except for the faint movement of her breathing. What the hell was going through her mind at that moment? Did he really want to know?
In truth, he’d rather avoid clichéd, one-night-stand après-sex conversation.
She’d grown as cold as him, making no effort to move closer to him or even look at him. Her dark hair was a fan that covered her face and the drying layers of semen still left on her silky skin.
She turned fully to her side, away from him and scrunched into a ball, the base of her spine pronounced though she remained silent.
Dorian felt the slow, icy cold shell that protected his heart thaw if only just a bit. He wouldn’t pretend to make conversation but in that moment, it was pure instinct that allowed him to move closer to her before he wrapped a strong arm around her waist and pulled her toward him until they were skin against skin.
He didn’t care his own semen was drying against his body now too but he did feel something for this beautiful, damaged creature he planned to ruin even further than she’d ever imagine.
That night was just the beginning, and the insane part was she wasn’t even aware of it.
It’d been several weeks since I’d done something as reckless as indulge in a one-night-stand with a guy who I only knew somewhat casually—if one counted the fact I listened to his music—and the shame still hadn’t dissipated.
I didn’t expect to hear back from him and it was the main reason why I’d called Grace to pick me up in the wee hours of that Sunday morning. She did it without a thought but I knew she’d eventually have questions I would be forced to answer.
My period of mourning officially ended the day we’d decided to meet for lunch at Calienté, a fusion Caribbean restaurant that served traditional dishes from Cuba, Puerto Rico and beyond. It was upscale, hip, and one of the most popular restaurants for both the young elite socialite crowd and aging baby-boomer Hollywood royalty who refused to accept they were no longer the toast of the town except in name recognition only.
I dressed to the nines even though I wore a pair of black jeans that molded to my body and a silk sleeveless blouse the color of sangria red. To accentuate my dark jeans, I wore a pair of sky-high Yves Saint Laurent heels and carried an overpriced, silver Hermès Kelly handbag.
Being the widow of one of the most respected producers did have its advantages monetarily after all. Although I’d always had great taste, and an eye for a bargain, slowly my Kate Spade and Michael Kors handbags were shelved for Louis Vuitton and Hermès. My upper mid-priced clothes were given to consignment shops and suddenly everything I wore was Chanel, Christian Louboutin or some other French designer with Armani and Versace sprinkled in for good measure.
The person who I’d become to attract Richard was replaced by the person my husband wanted me to be; refined, untouchable and elite. I drew the line on my handbags and still pulled out my favorites now that I was no longer beholden to any man. Unfortunately, the Hermès complimented my outfit and I wasn’t about to put personal integrity above good fashion.
Grace, as usual, had arrived and sat at our favorite table. Her Bluetooth firmly in her ear, she obviously was speaking to someone from one of the bands she represented.
We’d met through my husband “officially” but I knew who she was long before then. My father wasn’t exactly always on the path of the straight and narrow. Growing up in Nevada, I knew all the nefarious types of characters including Mafia figures, gangsters and many of the members of the Motorcycle Club that had guarded our town of Birch Tree.
Grace Cox was the younger sister of Desmond “Dizzy” Cox, President of the Lucifer’s Saints MC. Although she tried her best to distance herself from her brother and her family, we both knew how hard it was to separate a blood bond—and no one could escape their demons just by leaving home.
Her daughter attended USC and most of the bands she represented resided in L.A. and Las Vegas. She’d finally taken the plunge and left Northern Nevada, dividing her time between her palatial home in Summerlin and her lovely home in Hancock Park.
The moment she spotted me as I walked toward her, she wrapped her call up and switched her phone into airplane mode.
“Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” I teased her as I sat down across from her and smiled at the woman who was easily almost a decade and a half my senior but I adored her never the less.
“Not really. Our lunch should only last a couple of hours. Believe me, I deserve some ‘me’ time after dealing with all the self-centered assholes I have to manage.” She waved over the waiter and we quickly ordered drinks.
I opted for a Cosmopolitan while she had her usual—an extra dry dirty martini with three olives.
I attempted to ignore her comment while I people-watched. It didn’t take long for a pair of unmistakable blue eyes to make contact with mine. He smiled at me before his eyes wandered back to his lunch date, an attractive young pop star. With her long brown hair fused with an abundance of blond streaks, olive skin, a perfect pocket-sized body, which complimented her pixie features yet belied the shit attitude everyone in the entertainment business knew she was legendary for having.
“Speaking of self-centered assholes . . .”
I looked back at Grace and tried to hide my shame but there was no use; my face and neck burned with embarrassment.
“Would you be talking about Dorian Petersson or Ella Jade?” I wondered innocuously.
“I manage Dorian Petersson, and thank God I do because he doesn’t need any more scandals for TMZ to feast upon. You, my dear, are the grieving widow of Richard Conlon—must I advise you to stay away from Dorian?” Grace clammed up the moment the waiter dropped off our drinks along with the lunch menus.
I sipped from my Cosmopolitan before I cleared my voice. “No, you don’t because there won’t be any more improprieties between us. So, if you weren’t referring to Dorian, are we speaking badly about the multi-platinum artist, Ella Jade?”
“Ella Jade my ass—that bitch’s real name is Lucia Jordiano and she grew up in Manhattan with a stock broker father and a socialite mother. Perfect, Italian family my ass—everyone knows her parents bought her career like so many of the pop stars in the limelight right now. She’s doing a song for Dorian’s new album, and he, in turn, is co-producing a couple of songs on her latest project. Then again, she always schedules appointments involving an old flame she desperately wants back.”
This time, I almost choked on my drink. “How could I forget Ella and Dorian were an item?”
“Were being the operative word, my dear. He caught her in bed with Carter Bradford—also known as R. Ford, the respectable hot hip-hop star everyone wants to collaborate with. Hell, he even did an EP mashup with Winter’s Regret a la Jay-Z and Linkin Park. The public loved it, and he’s officially in love with Talia Viaro despite her being engaged to one of the most dangerous men in the world. I had to personally warn Carter against flirting with Talia in public. He’s now dating that English blonde who had her first number one hit in the States with ‘Shake Him Off.’”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Anyway, Dorian and Ella blamed the breakup on conflicting tour schedules and not being able to spend eno
ugh quality time together since her home base is still the Big Apple and the vacation home she has in Boca Raton. However, he didn’t quite tell her that in person. That was the story we came up with after the fact when he tweeted they were no longer together to his millions of followers—and hers as well. Don’t you just love the music business?”
“Not really.” I looked down at my drink. “I got more than a lifetime of it when Richard and I were together. The business is so cut-throat, they make the movie industry look positively clean cut in comparison.”
“Ha!” Grace laughed out loud. “Don’t get it twisted, honey. The movie industry is just as bad—they hide their sins better is the only difference. Reputation is everything to a movie star but you can be a bad boy—or girl—in the music industry and still make millions of dollars a year. Not everyone can be as tarnish free as that former country-pop turned pop star blonde every young girl loves or wants to be.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Now I realize why we haven’t seen much of each other over the last few weeks. It’s been so refreshing not to hear about the music industry twenty-four-seven now that Richard is dead. I admire your tenacity but rest assured, I’ve learned my lesson. I had one embarrassing night that will probably haunt me for the rest of my life but I refuse to be another trophy for anyone in the industry—music, movie or otherwise.”
“You say that now.” Grace finally picked up her menu and studied it as she asked, “So, how was he? He’s rumored to be a freak between the sheets but no woman has ever complained.”
I picked up my menu to hide my crimson-colored face between the pages. “It was absolutely amazing . . . though I should have been smart enough to realize you getting the goods on what happened between me and Dorian is the only reason you asked me out to lunch.”
“Not true!” Grace glanced over her menu with wide crystal blue eyes. “I have been concerned about you. You’re vulnerable, and I know for a fact it won’t be long before that phony, money-grubbing brother of yours will be all over you like a cheap suit. I just want you to know that if you ever feel . . . overwhelmed then I’m here for you. Finding out the details of your night with Dorian is a just a bonus.”
“Mmm,” I began as I watched the waiter approach our table. “A bonus, huh?”
“Yes.” She nodded her head, the perfect shoulder-length dark bob she wore only moving ever so slightly. “Just a bonus.”
I smiled before I indicated the waiter who’d arrived just in time at our table.
Both Grace and I opted for the Caribbean crab and scallop seafood salad with a coconut infused Caesar salad dressing. We both watched our weight scrupulously; in this town as well as Vegas, being rich and slender wasn’t just a requirement, it might as well have been a prerequisite for earning any respect amongst your fellow wealthy Angelenos at all.
We indulged in small talk, mostly about the music biz while sipping on our second alcoholic beverages shortly before the waiter arrived with our food.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Grace looked at me seriously and said, “Okay, tell me about ‘that night.’”
I did everything in my power to prevent myself from rolling my eyes. “Oh my God, Grace—you’re a lesbian, and yet, you really want the goods about my night with your client? Why?”
“Actually, I’m bisexual for your information. I didn’t get pregnant with my daughter through Immaculate Conception you know. It’s just so much easier being with a woman—romantically speaking—for me. Less hassle, and I get to run the show. We all know how most men feel about a strong woman, especially alpha males.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still in love with Kevin Jackson?”
Grace looked away and dug into her salad with a fork, filling her mouth with food so she deliberately wouldn’t have to answer the question.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” I stabbed my fork in my own salad and stuffed my mouth with the delicious taste of fresh crab and scallops on crisp romaine lettuce and a variety of vegetables that complimented the coconut Caesar salad dressing.
It was at that point I glanced toward Dorian again. He stared directly back at me as he winked slyly. His actions weren’t lost on his lunch date, who turned toward me, her brown eyes heated before she smirked in triumph.
I was only thirty but to a twenty-one year old with the world at her feet and more money in the bank than she knew what to do with, I might as well have been a dinosaur. There was no way Dorian could be attracted to me, especially since he was only twenty-eight, and I was older than him. The travesty!
It was so pathetic how I could read her shallow thoughts as clearly as if they were my own. I’d been her age once and remembered how I felt about older women. The only difference was I never forgot they were my competition, and were at an advantage because they had life experience—something I’d seriously lacked at that age despite the tragedies I’d endured.
“What were we talking about?” Grace glanced at me, her cheeks slightly flushed as I turned to face her again.
“You. Kevin. Being in love,” I reminded in a soft voice.
“So what if I am still in love with him? He’s moved on, and I made the conscious decision not to. When a man hurts you as badly as Kevin hurt me psychologically and emotionally, I vowed I’d never let it happen again. Tell that to my heart though because it’s obviously not as smart as my brain.”
“I understand more than you know.” I wasn’t exactly sure if that was the absolute truth but it sounded good.
After all, I was falling hard for a man who should have been in my distant rear view mirror after one night of fantastic sex yet I couldn’t manage to let go.
That bothered me most of all.
After a satisfying lunch and one too many dirty martinis, I made it home in one piece. Stanley, the butler, answered the double doors as soon as I pulled up in my Range Rover. Our on-site personal valet would park my vehicle in the ten-car garage my deceased husband had on the property while I was free to go about my life as I pleased.
I’d lived this lifestyle for years, and yet I still couldn’t get used to such wasted extravagance. All made from the hard-earned money my husband had accrued over the years backstabbing and clawing his way to the top. Not that it’d been a steep climb.
Although I knew very little about his background, I did know his name was a fabrication and his family wasn’t originally from Ireland. They hailed from lands further abroad but his parents were now deceased and there was no one around to tell me the real story.
My whole life seemed to be one huge deception based upon the half-truths and stories people wanted me to know instead of what truly happened. I’d accepted it a long time ago but it was still disconcerting. As someone who’d always desired the truth and nothing but, I wasn’t trying too hard to find it.
I walked past the foyer and noticed the black and white roses sitting on the large oak table next to an expensive Degas ballerina. The vase was just as expensive and extravagant as the flowers but they were new and hadn’t been there when I left for my lunch date.
“What’s this?” I asked out loud.
“They were delivered about a half an hour ago, Madame,” Stanley said in a regal manner. “These aren’t the only ones. There were a total of five vases delivered. I have put one in the formal living room, another in the formal dining room, and the last two in your bedroom. Of course, Matilda took care of your bedroom . . . I would never enter your suite without permission, Madame.”
I glanced at him as if he’d personally betrayed me. “Was there a card?”
He stared back at me with watery gray eyes. “Yes, Madame. Matilda left it in your suite.”
I dismissed him with a wave of my hand and quickly walked to my suite.
Matilda was my personal maid who kept my suite pristine and knew all of my dirty secrets—from when it was my time of the month to how often I should stop by the doctor for my follow up birth control visits.
After Richard and I tried to have a child and I miscar
ried, I felt like it was partly my fault. I’d had an IUD inserted though I failed to tell my husband and we kept trying though I knew there would never be a child.
“If you cared so much about your legacy then why didn’t you have children when you were younger?” I often yelled at him when we fought about the very subject while he was alive. “Why in God’s name is it so important for you to have children now? You know the risks involved with a man of your age conceiving a child—why would you want to put an innocent life through all of that? You’re too old!”
“Well, if you really stopped to think about my reasoning, you’d know I am also thinking of you, buttercup,” he’d replied in that deep voice of his with its slight accent I was never able to trace. It sounded almost Dutch or German though he had an Irish last name.
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean you’re almost thirty, and the viability of your eggs will start to deteriorate faster than my sperm. I assumed you would want a healthy child—or was I wrong?”
Richard had always known how to wound me where it hurt the most. Between my scarred childhood and an unhealthy relationship with my brother, I wasn’t sure I even wanted kids. Perhaps that’s why I hadn’t been devastated when we lost our child and I had no wish to go through the experience again.
I was so deep in thought, I failed to realize I was not alone in my suite.
“What’s this?”
I turned around so fast, I almost lost my footing but righted myself in time. Campbell glared at me with those impenetrable green eyes that seemed to bore right through my skull.
“What are you doing here and why didn’t you make an appointment?” I walked over and snatched the card from his hand before I reached the plush loveseat and sat down. “I really don’t have time for your games today, Cam. It’s been a hectic few weeks.”
