Blended (Redemption #1)

by Sasha Brümmer

  He gets up and pulls his board out of the sand and clamps it underneath his arm before offering me his hand.

  I scowl at him before I concede and lace my fingers with his as we walk up to the boardwalk and to the black-tinted SUV that Jacobs has been driving us around in since we landed in Australia. He climbs out of the vehicle just as we arrive at it and he takes the board from Wade to secure it. Wade ushers me into the BMW and closes the door once he gets in, enveloping us in the air-conditioned interior.

  It didn’t take too long to get back to the hotel, but Wade seemed to be on edge once he opened the door to the suite. He withdrew from me and went into his CEO-asshole mode. I think that it might have to do with his acquisitions of the few properties I heard him mention to Jacobs on the ride back, but I’m unsure.

  When he left, I was seated on the deck overlooking the Sydney Harbor, eating a breakfast of fresh fruit, croissants, and coffee. I watched him through the sliding glass doors as he put on his suit jacket and armed himself with his essentials before buttoning up and walking to the suite door. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye, or hell, even glance back at me.

  At times, I feel like I know him, and then at others, I feel like I’m sharing a suite with a complete stranger. This is one of those moments. I get up and head inside to get ready for the day by showering and getting dressed in a simple black tent dress. It’s large, comfortable, and flowy. Perfect for this kind of warm weather.

  I should have brought my yoga mat with me, seeing as I’ll be alone for the majority of the time here or with Isla. I exhale loudly once I’ve dried my hair and masked my face in makeup. I decide to call Lo while I wait on Isla to get up, since it’s just past nine here and she’s probably still asleep. I lie down on the bed and dial Lo’s number, but it sends me straight to voicemail. Oh right . . . the time difference.

  I throw my head back against the pillow and pull my legs up, feeling incredibly alone in this moment. This feeling of dread and loneliness is one of the emotions that I have been protecting myself from over the years, and I’ve walked into it willingly with Waylon Brass.

  After checking and replying to a few emails, I decide to take a chance on my new job and log onto the system with my username and passcode that Low-Sound provided for me earlier this week. I roll onto my stomach as the line beeps in my ear, informing me that someone is calling in. I hit one to accept the call. “Hello?”

  “Now don’t you sound like you have a dirty cunt.”

  Oh. I thought I was harsh with my words, but I suppose he’s paying by the minute.

  “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Does it matter?” I retort, wanting to have control over this phone call. I know that if it gets out of hand that all I have to do is press nine, and his number will be blocked from my user ID.

  “It’s whatever you want, sweetheart.”

  I envision that it’s Wade on the other end of the line, and the bedroom scenario evolves in my mind.

  “Tell me what you want. Are you stroking yourself?”

  I turn onto my back when he answers me with a guttural groan.

  “I want you to concentrate on every wanton word that I’m going to say to you because I want you to fantasize that it’s my mouth running over your cock right now. Can you do that?” I ask him with confidence in my voice. I’m not wet. Not in the slightest, and it surprises me. I’m usually able to get wet if a man says my name with want in his voice, but I have no desire toward this anonymous stranger.

  As the call continues I try my damnedest to get into it with him, but I’m finding it a lot harder than it really should be. He proceeds to tell me how badly he wants to fuck me and that he needs me to humiliate him in public by beating him.

  I go along with his fantasy and start yelling at him before he grunts again, and I start moaning along with him. I continue to tell him how good he feels, and how big his cock is, and when I tell him that I’m about to come, he lets out an ooaf into the phone as he yells out that he’s coming on my face.

  He hangs up on me before I’m able to get another word in, saving himself a few dollars. I check the time and grin to myself: thirteen minutes and a wallet full of cash. Simple.

  I decide to stay online for the next fifteen minutes in which I manage to squeeze in two more phone calls, one being a couple and the other a college-aged boy who I’m sure is using his father’s bank account for this call.

  I’m being shown into a large conference room when my phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. I pull it out and slide my finger over the screen, revealing a message from Isla: I swear to God that I didn’t know you two were fucking, or I wouldn’t have let myself in.

  I scowl at her message. What the fuck is she talking about? What?

  Jesus, get off of the phone while you’re buried inside of her. I was just apologizing, in case you heard me at the bedroom door.

  Hadley.

  I realize now that I didn’t take the time to say goodbye to her before I left and guilt swims through my veins but anger shortly replaces it when I read over Isla’s messages again.

  Isla, I’m about to walk into a meeting. I left the hotel over an hour ago.

  I’m seated at the head of the conference table when her message comes through: Then how . . . oh my God. Wade, I’m so sorry.

  I get up from my seat and pace the length of the room. I’m the first one in here, so I take the minute to call her. She answers on the first ring.

  “Wade?”

  “I cannot speak long. What the fuck is happening?”

  “Well, I let myself into your suite with the keycard that you gave me. I couldn’t find Hadley, so I went to the bedroom, but as I was about to knock, I heard her moaning and telling you just how good it—” she cuts herself off.

  “I’m across the city, Isla. Who the fuck is with her?”

  “I don’t know. I left assuming that it was you.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “I texted you just as I left your suite.”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  She gasps. “Wade, you can’t just walk away from this meeting.”

  “I’ll postpone it,” I tell her as the first gentleman walks into the room. “Be outside of my suite in thirty minutes.”

  “All right,” she tells me, and we hang up.

  I send Jacobs a text message, telling him to bring the car around front immediately. Once I hit send, I slide my phone back into my jacket pocket before I walk up to one of the owners of the properties and excuse myself due to a personal emergency.

  He agrees to postpone the meeting for an hour and a half. I ensure him that I will return as soon as possible and thank him again for making time to come in on a Saturday morning.

  With that, I step out of the conference room just as another four men approach. I greet them and walk out of the office building and to where Jacobs is waiting.

  The thirty minutes that it takes for me to get back to the hotel has me ready to fucking explode. I know that I haven’t given her what she needs—and I won’t—but I’ll be fucking damned if she’s fucking another man in my bed.

  I won’t stand for this shit, and I refuse to subject myself to this negative side of the illness again. I walk up to the suite door with rage flowing through my veins. Isla is waiting there for me.

  “Brass, I’m so sorry.”

  I cut her off. “Did you see him leave?”

  “No, I left and went back to my suite until about three minutes ago.”

  I let this woman in, and I was willing to break her of an illness that hindered me for the majority of my life. This journey with her has just come to an end. I don’t see the reasoning behind keeping her as mine when she cannot dedicate herself to me.

  I open the suite door and stride in with purpose until I come to the closed bedroom door. Isla isn’t far behind me, but I hold my hand out to halt her as I push the door open.

  I take in the room, looking for Rye, but my eye catches the sheets on
the bed that are now rustled and unkept. Unlike how it was before I left.

  Hadley walks out of the en suite bathroom and jumps when she sees me. “Holy shit! You scared me, Whiskey.”

  “Where is he?” I demand as I take in her flushed complexion.

  “What?”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself, Hadley.”

  She raises her brow and frowns. “Wade, what are you talking about?”

  I take a step toward her, and she involuntarily takes a step back, retreating from my tangible wrath.

  “Where the fuck is he, Hadley?”

  “Where is who?” she yells back at me.

  “The asshole that you were fucking. Don’t be a fucking dumb blonde when it suits you best.”

  She gasps and her hand flies up to her heart, covering it, shielding it from me and my words. “I’ve been alone all morning. Why would you think—”

  “Because I heard you when I came to see if you were ready to go explore Sydney with me,” Isla interjects from the threshold of the door.

  “Isla. Leave,” I tell her without turning around to face her. My eyes bore into Hadley’s, and she seems lost.

  “I—no—you . . .” she stutters and takes a step toward me. “You shouldn’t be here, Wade. What about your meeting?”

  “Is he in the bathroom?” I ask her in a cold voice before I blow past her and into the bathroom. I slam doors open and closed until I’m satisfied that there is nobody in here but the two of us as she watches.

  Ire builds and consumes every space inside of me without a thought of consequences. I grab hold of her hips, and she blanches. “Wade! Please. I didn’t—”

  “You brought some motherfucker into my bed.” I watch her full eyes drain, and she squares her shoulders as if I’ve smacked her.

  “If you let me get a fucking word in edgewise, Wade, I could explain.” With each word, she raises her voice toward me, and it’s pushing me to physical violence.

  “I thought that the lines were drawn. That they were straight, and you understood where I stood with you.” The combination of anger and hurt boils over, and I turn away from her with my hands pulling at the back of my hair.

  “Wade . . . please. Just listen.”

  “There’s nothing that you can say, Hadley. Give me ten minutes and pack your shit. I’ll check you into a different room where you’ll be able to swallow as many cocks as you please.”

  With a weak smile, I turn to see her ashen face before I spin back around and walk out of the suite. Isla catches my arm as I turn into the hallway. “Brass, I’m sorry. I know that she truly meant something to you even if I’ve given you shit about her.”

  I glance down at her, but I have to look over her head again as my eyes begin to sting, and the floor seems to crack beneath my feet. I’ve never experienced this aching hollowness and earth-defying gravity before.

  I nod and step around her on my way to get Hadley a new room and make my way back to the office block where the most important conference of Mothers of Brass—Sydney will be held.

  I thought that I lost all of my fight before he left, but as soon as the suite door shut, I found it once again. Then why am I struggling to breathe? My hand still rests against my heart, internally begging for that shield to come back, to protect me from him.

  I feel . . . fragmented. Wounded.

  Each and every vulnerability that I kept safe and coded in my heart has grown roots, and I can’t force the emotions to retreat back to their safe place.

  Where did he go? Why didn’t he let me explain?

  I feel as if I’m fading in this room. I tell myself to retreat into my mind’s prison and leave. The sweetness and pure spark that set my heart on fire has turned into the burning flames of hell. I force my body to take in a deep breath. The suite smells of him, though, and it burns the interior of my lungs before I grab my phone and search for the next flight out of this country. Away from him and his negative assumptions about me.

  Once I find a flight that leaves in four hours, I run across the room, searching through my purse for my wallet and then my credit card. I input all of my details before booking my overpriced ticket, and I slip my feet into my new Coach flip-flops. I toss everything of mine that I am able to get my hands on into my suitcase. Once I believe that I have everything, I sit down on it and zip it up. I pull it up to stand on its wheels, and my eyes catch the Burberry shopping bag with my purchases from Wade stowed away inside. I don’t want anything to do with his fancy-ass bank account, his heart, or his cock.

  Lies.

  I know that lying to myself will only put me at a disadvantage, but who am I kidding? I’m a woman who loathes the thought of love and relationships. I live for sex. I live for penetrating orgasms and bruised vaginal walls. But with Wade I think that I was different. He forced me to see past my sexual needs and to possibly find what has been hidden inside, what I have deprived myself of for my entire life. I connected with him on a level that was raw and beautiful, and there were moments so incredibly real that I was able to see the world in vibrant colors. Now, though, I realize that it was all a lie. I interlocked myself with him for nothing. I’ll recoil to protect the pieces that now make up my shattered soul.

  I refuse to let him break me in this way. He’s slowly made me become the person that I never wanted to be. Bitterness rises like bile at the thought of never seeing him again, but I cast it aside.

  I don’t want this. I’ve never wanted this. This is not who I am. I subjected myself to a lifestyle that I knew would never work for me. I can feel myself withdrawing by the second because I can’t feel much of the pain anymore as the depression, addiction, and anxiety supplies me with relief.

  Within an hour and a half, I’ve made it through the Sydney airport security as I walk unseeing to the terminal and then to the correct gate. I take a seat, not paying attention to anyone or anything around me. I know that my bloodshot eyes and smeared makeup must be drawing a lot of unwanted attention, but if I’m honest, I don’t give a shit. Yes, I’m wearing my fucked-up emotions on my sleeve, and no I can’t control them because I don’t know how to. I want to yell at everyone. I have never been so emotionally messed up in my life. It’s all because of him—his screwed-up way of breaking me and his way of dismissing me from his life. His way of calling me a whore.

  “Fuck you, Waylon Brass,” I say as I rummage through my purse for my anxiety medication.

  I’ll find that sanctuary that I masked myself in for most of my life again, and I don’t plan on ever coming back from it. The boarding process begins, and I wait until everyone goes through before they announce the final boarding call for Los Angeles. Only then do I stand and hand the woman my boarding pass. She scans it, and I walk past her without a word. I repeat the notion as I walk onto the plane, finding my seat toward the back of the aircraft. Somehow, I’ve gotten a row of seats to myself. As soon as I take my seat, the tears start to flow again. I dig my phone out of my purse before I have to push it under the seat in front of me and type out a text. He needs to know that whatever the fuck we were is no more. Whether he says it or I do. I stare at the screen for a long while before I hit send and stuff my phone into my purse before stowing it.

  I gave you my word. I never went back on it. Goodbye, Whiskey.

  I’ve gotten sick on the flight a total of three times in the first four hours of the fourteen-hour journey to LAX where I’ll have to connect to Chicago. I’ve been contemplating staying in Los Angeles and starting over there, but I can’t simply disappear on Lola.

  The flight attendant comes by with a drink cart again and asks me if I’d like something to drink. I refuse her again, but this time she insists that I drink something because she’s worried that I’ll get dehydrated from being sick so much. I loathe being cared for. I let it go when Wade was mine, but now it needs to stop. I cannot stand letting someone see my weaknesses so easily.

  I honestly couldn’t give a fuck that I could be dehydrated, though. Maybe the physical reacti
on to it will put a stop to my emotional state. I ask her for a ginger ale in hopes of her leaving me alone. After I drink the soda, I shut my eyes in an attempt to keep the rest of the world at bay.

  I’m woken suddenly by the plane jerking as it lands at LAX. I take in a deep calming breath and exhale loudly. It takes a while before I’m able to get off of this metal death trap and get the slightest bit of fresh air when I walk out onto the jetway. The cooler air doesn’t settle my mind, body, or soul. It just reminds me of the ache that blankets me. Of my morning with Wade in the sand.

  I need alcohol and sex. Maybe I’ll get lucky on my next flight and get seated next to some sex god who won’t be able to keep his hands off of a cheap thrill.

  By the time, I find my next gate to Chicago they are calling my name, and I want to punch the fucker who keeps saying Rye.

  Note to self: change your last name.

  Once I’m seated next to an older man who looks hornier than hell, I pull out my phone and text Lo: Hi, doll, I’m on my way to Chicago. I’ll be there in a few hours. I just didn’t want to catch you and Owen naked on the couch.

  I hit send and then type out a text to Holden: I need you.

  I plug in my headphones and hit play on the first song that pops up. As much as I’ve fought the urge to check my phone for a message from him, I lose at this moment.

  I’m more surprised when I realize that I don’t have one from him, but rather I have a few from Isla. I scroll up and read the first one that she sent me: Listen, I don’t know where the fuck you went, but Wade is a mess.

  Then a second one: You’re a bitch, you know that? Prepare yourself for that fucking roofie that I told you about.

  Those two came approximately two hours after my flight took off. Then, her next one says that it came in four hours ago: Wade was just involved in a boating accident. I wasn’t with him. He was with a few men from the meeting he was in. They have airlifted him to St. Vincent’s Hospital in Sydney. This happened about an hour ago. Where the fuck are you, you selfish bitch?