Departed (Unbearably Gifted Book 1)

by Samantha Romero

  Anyway, back to the unearthly vision. She was standing on the platform in the train station, waiting. She looked curious but cold, and she seemed so naïve yet hardened by life. She was quite enigmatic, and I liked that; she was different. I think someone like that could keep me satisfied for some time—maybe even for life?

  I watched her—despite Sophia being all over me. I couldn’t not look at this woman, even had I tried. She was exquisite. Sophia thought she was the one turning me on.

  She’s even more stupid than I thought.

  He set the pen aside, screwed the letter up into a ball, and tossed it into the fireplace. He sat watching it intently, his eyes reflecting the flames as the paper disappeared into the atmosphere and what he hoped would be some sort of heaven above.

  “Come back to bed – I need you,” Sophia whined, her vivid green eyes watching him fixedly from the bedroom door. “Look at me, David.” She stomped her foot into the plush, navy carpet.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” David pursed his lips in frustration. He watched the last of his confession-filled letter disintegrate into ash and then returned to the bedroom, never bothering to meet her eyes.

  8

  Estelle

  Several days later, I saw him again—with her.

  She is truly beautiful. Her alabaster skin is almost porcelain-like; her red hair flows down her back like the hot lava of an exploding volcano. I find her almost as intriguing as he is. Gosh, maybe now I’m turning bi?

  I laughed to myself at that thought, imagining the look on my Great Aunt Mavis’ shriveled-up face if I proudly announced I was dating some sexy china doll. Great Aunt Mavis had always been a stick in the mud—proper to the point of making the Queen of England seem like a barrel of fun monkeys. So, to imagine announcing such “shocking” news to her narrow little mind practically guaranteed a red-faced fit, with the added bonus of the biscuit she was enjoying slipping straight out of her arthritic hands and sinking to the bottom of her Earl Gray Tea with an almighty plop! Brilliant, Estelle—you should tell her anyway just for shits and giggles!

  The porcelain doll was all over him again—almost transfixed in his presence. She clearly did not care how crowded the train was or if anyone else saw her. She kissed his neck passionately, pushing her fingers through his long, slender hands as she lifted them to her lips and began licking and sucking them like she hadn’t eaten for days. I half-expected her to take a bite out of him; she looked almost ravenous.

  He never responded to her—all he did was stare at me. Not smiling, not frowning, not doing anything but looking through me. It was like he had no interest in her whatsoever. Was he blind? She was stunning! Was she stupid? Why act like that when you’re being treated like you don’t exist?

  Maybe she liked it? Maybe he was that good. So good that she enjoyed, wanted, craved to be treated that way. It was like she was in trouble—forever in the naughty corner for whatever she had done wrong. His icicle stares were sure making me want a piece of his un-caring persona—right between my suddenly burning thighs.

  Everything about him—his coldness, his mystery, the beautiful, crazy-obsessed woman—every tiny thing about him, I wanted, no needed, to know. I could feel an unhealthy obsession for the brooding stranger building in my mind as the days ticked by, and it freaked me out, yet I had no desire to curb it. He was delicious, and oh how I wanted to be the one crushing his beautiful lips, pressed up against the wall of the packed carriage, pleading for his attention.

  My mind snapped back to reality when a withered hand grabbed my breast, tugging at my lace-covered nipple.

  “I paid you cash, Estelle, and I expect at least one dance from you. One slow, dirty dance before I fuck your brains out.”

  I slapped his hand away and looked down at the disgusting old man I was straddling in one of the back rooms of the club.

  “This is just a lap dance, Mr. Walker. I dance for you, around you, and on top of you, but there is no touching allowed—or fucking. If you want that service, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”

  “But Mick said that you would happily let me touch you and those glorious titties of yours.”

  “Well, he lied. That is not part of my contract.”

  Angry, he continued ogling me. “Well, young girl, your dancing isn’t up to your normal standard. I wouldn’t want to have to complain to your boss about your behavior.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t give a flying fuck about his opinions. “You’ve never had a problem in the past, Mr. Walker.”

  “You’ve never been lippy in the past. Keep dancing for me, girl, nice and slow. I may not be able to touch you today, but I’ll be touching myself, and you’ll be standing it.”

  I un-straddled him, stepping up and onto the rickety stage, complete with dirty-dancing pole. Slowly I began to rotate my pelvis as I ran my hands over my breasts and trailed my fingers down my stomach.

  He smiled, looking up at me from the chair. “Now that’s more like it, Estelle. Show me those tits of yours. Give me a little smile as you jiggle them for me.”

  I unhooked my pale pink lace bra and threw it his face.

  “Yess…” he sneered, rubbing his crotch. “Now you know what to do.”

  I swung my body around the pole seductively, sliding up and down against it. Then, I took a step back and flung my legs into the air and above my head, crossing them on either side of the pole and gripping it firmly between my thighs. I let go with my hands and hung completely upside down like a skinned, curvaceous bat. The men always loved this move and even more so when I arched my back against the steel and began fondling my breasts, which were well oiled and sparkly. Mr. Walker was no different and he groaned, unzipping his trousers to jerk off.

  “Now, take off your knickers, and let me smell them while you play with yourself.”

  I wasn’t drunk enough for this. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world. This sort of shit was really going to mess me up, and I didn’t think it was worth it. I was already messed up enough as it was, which was probably why I took the stupid job in the first place.

  Enraged, I un-curled my body from the pole and just about ripped my knickers in the hurry to remove them. Stepping off the stage, I shoved them over his mouth, smitten with the idea of stuffing them down his throat and choking the bastard, but opting just to yell at him. A murder rap wouldn’t have been worth it.

  “Lick my panties, you dirty boy!” I screamed in his ear as I jiggled my breasts in his face. “If you don’t, you’re going to get a good, hard spanking!”

  Turns out, Mr. Walker was into rough love and came within seconds. Cleaning up the last of his mess with his handkerchief, he stood up, fastening his trousers. “Being an angry, demanding slut suits you, Estelle. I’d sure like to fuck you one of these days. You know it would be worth your while.”

  I frowned, still annoyed that I hadn’t followed my instinct to choke him. “I highly doubt that, Mr. Walker.”

  Clutching my panties in his hand, he smirked as he doted over the lace. “Can I take these with me?”

  I shuddered in disgust. “Well… I don’t want them back.”

  He pushed them deep into his pocket and smiled, exposing yellow-stained teeth and infected gums. Laughing, he threw me an extra twenty-pound note, smacking my bare buttocks on the way out the door as I bent over to pick up the money.

  “She’s a moody little minx tonight!” he yelled across to Mick as he walked out the door. “Wouldn’t even let me fuck her.”

  Mick’s familiar dry laugh echoed down the long, empty hallway. “Damn. Really? I can’t apologize enough for her behavior, Mr. Walker. Trust me when I say I’m working on her. I’m pretty sure she’ll cave eventually… after all, if that’s what the client wants, that’s what the client should get.”

  “You let me know, Mick, ‘cause I’m married to an old broad, and I’ve got a shitload of frustration I’d sure like to expel into such a young, beautiful woman.”

  Mick sniggered, “She’d fix that.”


  “I know,” he laughed. “Let me buy you a drink, to thank you in advance.”

  Their conversation infuriated me even more. The way they talked made me feel like a whore—like it was only a matter of time until I caved and bloody Mick would get a cut of it—the majority of the cash, even, for setting up our “romance.”

  When I had worn pale pink tutus and danced on the stage as a little girl, everything was so beautiful, innocent, and magical. I could never have imagined that I would be exposed to these pigs on a regular basis. How could my life have turned out this way? So horrible, cheap… pointless.

  Where is the bloody road sign in life that says if you take this turn, it’s gonna be a dead end, and whether you like it or not, you’re sure to find yourself up to your neck in quicksand, sinking faster than you thought possible?

  Where is the fucking sign?

  I’d heard people say that being a janitor would be far worse than taking a job as a stripper. Unless they’ve worked in the adult industry, no one can make that sort of call. Because behind closed doors, the reality wasn’t nearly as glamorous as it appeared—not even close. There was a reason we were paid well, but at the end of the day, it was never enough to take away the guilt of what we were putting ourselves through. At least as a janitor, you were cleaning things up, making them organized and better than before. But in my industry, I was making the world a dirtier place—seedy, lusty, and disgusting.

  I ought to hang my head in shame. I wasn’t part of the solution; I was part of the problem, and it wasn’t pretty—it was ugly as all hell.

  9

  My day shift dragged on far later than it was supposed to.

  For some reason there was a late rush on lap dance requests. Christ knows why. After all, it was only Monday, so why on earth, after spending a wholesome weekend with your family, would you want to rush down to a backstreet club to have some half-naked woman sit on you and whisper naughty nothings into your ear? I guess their thinking was “why the hell not?” Anyway, because of the rush on Aisle 69 (“grinding nudes in stilettos—price check please”), I was late to the station, and consequently, late to see the perfect stranger I couldn’t get out of my mind.

  I pushed through the swarms of people, quickly running down the escalator, almost in a state of panic. I frantically searched for my fantasy and his redhead. Sadly, they were nowhere to be seen.

  Dropping my shoulders in disappointment, I sat down on a nearby bench, shaking my head in disbelief at my crazed behavior and wondering why I even cared to see a guy I knew nothing about.

  My obsession for Mr. Unknown had become rather concerning, and I had seen such people with my sudden tendencies on the news. They were referred to as stalkers; they were caught, locked up, and fed a concoction of pills to dull the effects of their burning desires.

  Awesome. I’m a stalking stripper. How has my life possibly come to this? I used to be pretty normal—or at least, I thought I was.

  Then just as the final chime buzzed and the train doors were closing, I saw him enter the carriage at the far end of the platform—only this time, he was alone, and the carriage he entered was basically empty. Was it a sign? At this crazy hour of the day, the carriages were almost always never empty. You were pretty much guaranteed to be pushed up against some old codger who “accidentally” felt you up as the train suddenly lurched around a bend. Was this moment the perfect opportunity for us to meet properly for the first time?

  My eyes locked with his as he leaned up against the metal wall, staring through me behind the glass window. He had that same distant, haunted look that had obsessed me, but this time, there was no needy fox in front of him, just air.

  I smiled and gave a little wave, almost giddy that I was seeing him alone for the first time. I stood up from the bench and walked towards the train doors, putting my hand on the cool steel, desperately wanting to be closer to him.

  Unfortunately, the train started moving, and I gasped in sudden fright, knowing I was about to get swept away with the force of the train. I took a large, clumsy step backwards and instantly fell to the ground in a leggy, embarrassing heap.

  I presumed he saw the whole cringe-worthy event unfold, but by the time I managed to scramble to my feet, he had been whisked into the distance.

  A man rushed to my side, sweetly helping me to pick up the things that had spilt from my handbag when I tumbled to the ground.

  “Damn, lady, are you okay? You can’t go putting your hand on a moving train like that! You could have easily got pulled under.”

  I blinked, still in shock by my utter stupidity. “Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. I don’t know what I was thinking. My mind was elsewhere.”

  He smiled, glancing down at my breasts as he chuckled. “Shit, I know who you are now. I thought you looked familiar; I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Can I buy you a drink or perhaps an early dinner, Estelle? I know a quiet little place close by; we could be there in minutes.”

  I frowned at him, suddenly recognizing him as one of the worn faces that often stared up at me when I was upside down, half-naked on the pole. “I’m sorry, I don’t date clients.”

  He laughed, throwing his head back in amusement. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweet cheeks; you’re not the sort of girl I’d ever date. But I’d sure like to do you over the back of my sofa.”

  I slapped his pocked face as hard as I could. “Fuck you! I’m not a whore.”

  He stepped back, rubbing his face in stupefaction. “Jesus. You’re nuts! Have you forgotten to take your medication, miss hooker?”

  I clutched at my coat, crossing my arms over my breasts. “Watch your mouth! I’m a fucking dancer, not a hooker! There’s a difference, you know.”

  He smirked. “Oh really? So that’s what you’re all calling yourselves these days, is it? I think you need a reality check.”

  “You’re the one who needs the reality check!” I screamed, flicking my hair behind my shoulder as I turned and stomped away from the man who, only seconds before, had been nice enough to come to my aid.

  “I’ll give you one hundred quid right now if you blow me in the toilets,” he yelled across the platform.

  Heads turned in shock.

  “Go fuck yourself!” I screamed in fury as I stepped onto my train.

  Instantly I felt the glare of disapproving mothers as they embraced their children’s innocent, quizzical faces in the safety of their comforting arms. It was far too early in the evening for such a scene to be unfolding—I knew that. With a gentle smile I tried to explain. “It’s okay—I’m a dancer,” I quietly whispered, my throat now dry with panic.

  They shook their heads, trying desperately to avoid all eye contact with the tarty woman who stood before them, mortified. With sudden invisible interest, they turned to look out the window to the platform, avoiding the shame that stood meters away from them.

  A tear rolled down my face and landed on my enhanced cleavage. “I’m a dancer,” I whispered again, taking a seat at the back of the carriage in shame. As we pulled out, the disgusting man stood on the platform and fake-humped the air, laughing at me. My horrified cherry lips formed an “oh” as the train sped away from the crowded platform, leaving him behind.

  10

  Fuck, get out of my head, you monster!

  I awoke from yet another nightmare, screaming at the top of my lungs, and sticking to my grey cotton sheets in a pool of cold sweat.

  Disturbed by my sudden flailing of arms and legs, Merlin let out a grouchy meow as he paused to stretch before jumping off the end of the bed and curling up for a more restful sleep on the floor. A total over-reaction on his part, I thought. Damn cat.

  I had dreamed that my father was there again, standing in my bedroom doorway. Waiting, watching me sleep after another whore had left for the night. He stepped forward and sat down on the edge of my bed, stroking my hair. “No one needs to know about this, Estelle. You may even enjoy it if you just relax.”

  It had only been a year since we had b
uried Mom, and I had seen more women come and go from our home than a McDonald’s drive-thru. He couldn’t pay them fast enough, and they couldn’t leave soon enough.

  He didn’t seem to have a type, or maybe he just enjoyed the variation of holes. There were blondes, brunettes, and redheads; long hair, short hair, curly, and straight. Some women were thin as rakes, others curvier than Mae West. From Swiss to English and then Asian—as long as he could fill it, the manufacturer’s label wasn’t important.

  I remember covering my ears each time the bedsprings started up again. He didn’t even bother changing the sheets from the last one. I always hoped for the woman’s sake he used protection; he had probably slept with more people than she had.

  My father made my skin crawl. Whatever was below pond scum is exactly what he was. The first time he took any interest in me was when I was thirteen years old. There wasn’t a lock on the bathroom door, and I was taking a shower after another long afternoon at the dance studio. All of a sudden, all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and at the time, I didn’t understand why. I looked around the bathroom noticing that the door was slightly open by a few inches. Silently he stood behind it, his eye to the wooden frame, watching me soap up, his hands deep in his pockets.