The Club: Ethan

by Jenna Elliot

  I glance at past quotes. I look up a fender price for the Rolls. I find a part in stock and ask the parts people to put the fender on hold. Then, I venture into the lion’s den.

  The brothers are working in the paint booth, spraying, so I have to pace for a few minutes until one of them emerges. While I do, an idea gains speed in my head. If Ethan has a whole bunch of work lined up when he returns, work with deadlines, then he won’t have time to think about me, right?

  I can wrap up my former life and be on the way to my new one, the one where everywhere I turn won’t hold a memory of an exquisite orgasm. The one where I won’t have to worry about a tall, gorgeous sex fiend cruising by with his next conquest on his bike.

  Ethan won’t be happy. But we’re talking self-preservation here, and what’s the worst he can do, fire me? This isn’t a real job, anyway. He was the one who bullied me into helping out while he’s gone. Won’t he be sorry about that?

  And he can’t dump me because I’ve already broken his precious rule. I like the idea of keeping him busy so he won’t have time to go stalk his newest pet. If he has lots of jobs lined up, then he won’t have much time to visit the club where naked women with whips and butt plugs throw themselves at him.

  Of course, he can always choose not to do the work, but that’ll be his reputation taking a hit. And if the job is lucrative enough, the money should take the edge off his anger.

  My going-away present.

  I like it. Win-win all the way around. I also like this new, bolder me. So, I’m lying in wait when the stall door opens and a brother strolls out. Dirtier, the older of the two, I see after he removes the mask.

  “You need something?” he asks.

  “I need an idea of how long a fender replacement and paint job takes.”

  “Why?” He arches a brow, instantly sensing something’s up. “Boss did tell you not to give out that kind of information, right? I’m fairly sure he said he did.”

  “But we’re talking pricey late model Rolls. I hate to lose any hope of business because I won’t answer a few generic questions over the phone.”

  “You want me to talk to her?”

  What does he think I am—-incompetent? The answer to that question could be a very sobering yes. I can’t be sure he didn’t overhear me shrieking out numbers to every smack on my ass. The thought sends heat flaring into my cheeks, and provokes every shred of my wounded pride.

  “Thank you, no.” I say politely. “Please just give me a time frame for a fender. I had her send photos if you want to take a look.”

  He nods at that, and if he did hear me begging Ethan to give me permission to cum, then maybe, just maybe, I can elevate myself above the ranks of Ethan’s random pets with my common sense and business acumen. I do actually have firsthand knowledge of the sanding and oiling, thank you very much.

  He follows me into the office, where I spin around the computer monitor and slideshow the photos.

  He gives a low whistle when he sees the Rolls. “No shit. That is one sweet ride. Right up the boss’s alley.”

  “I found the part. It’s in stock, and I got a price. How long do you think a job like this will take?”

  He tears his gaze away from the display and nods. I’m rising in his estimation already.

  “Piece of cake. The time’s all in the prep work.”

  Don’t I know that? “How long?”

  “Two days to prep. Another day to dry.”

  Tuesday. Perfect.

  “You’re not going to tell her that,” he says. “You say the car will be here up to ten days. That’s standard for body work. Boss likes to work them at his leisure, and he always gets them done sooner. The customers like when they think he’s making their job his priority.”

  “I like it. Smart business. What does something like this cost?”

  “You’re not going quote a price.”

  “I know. I know. Of course I won’t. Just interested in Ethan’s markup, since he’s such a smart businessman.”

  “Boss is smart,” Dirtier agrees. Then he reaches up onto the shelf beside the desk and grabs a catalogue. “Standard labor costs are in here. It goes by the hour. Boss can mark up to fifty percent for a job like this. No way to know, which is why we don’t quote prices. Depends on how much of a pain in the ass the job turns out to be. Custom paint jobs are another story entirely. He usually estimates the labor on those then quotes up front. That’s a little different because it’s personalized art. Just tell the lady that the boss will look at her photos as soon as he gets back and contact her with a quote. You got that?”

  I smile and nod. “I do.”

  Not.

  He leaves the office, and I rifle through the labor book to get an idea of what Ethan would charge per hour. Then I call back the woman, and give her a price estimate. One-hundred percent markup. That should cover it. I do tell her it’s only an estimate and could be higher. She doesn’t care—not when I promise it will be done before her husband returns.

  It’s a rush job, so I don’t feel as if I’m gouging her. I understand what’s at stake here, and it’s not money. After glancing at the schedule, I arrange for her to drop off the car by eight on Monday morning.

  She’s happy. I’m happy. Ethan and the brothers will be busy.

  In better spirits, I head out to the sandwich shop next door to grab lunch. I bring back something for everyone. I take the money out of the petty cash, Ethan left in case something came up. Something did—my appetite.

  Between the filing, the phones, and arranging to have the Rolls fender delivered on Monday morning, the hours fly past.

  It’s almost quitting time when a distinguished gentlemen driving a Porsche pulls into the parking lot. A woman young enough to be his granddaughter hangs on his arm as he approaches the front desk. “I heard that Ethan’s work is top notch.”

  “He’s the best.” I hand him a binder filled with photos of jobs that Ethan has done. His art is so impressive. The man has magic in his hands.

  Mr. Potential Customer flips through the book while the woman at his side, oohs and ahhs. She wears Versace. And I happen to know her alligator bag costs more than my Jeep because one of the partners in my mother’s firm has one.

  So, I lay it on thick, oozing charm, determined to make this sale. “Ethan is a master painter.”

  The girl is impressed. “Then he has to paint my car, too.”

  “Whatever you want, Sugar Plum,” the old guy says with an indulgent smile.

  I’m certainly in no position to judge what this man is willing to pay for his piece of ass, so I plaster a smile on my face, too, and radiate patience as they flip through page after page of photos.

  “Look at this.” The girl’s huge diamond winks as she points to a page. “His and her custom paint jobs. What a neat idea.”

  This particular job is one of Ethan’s gaudier. Bright gold flecks of paint, outlined with bold blue and red flames. “I absolutely love this. What do you think?”

  “It’s your birthday gift, Honey Boo.” He pats her hand lovingly. “Whatever you like.”

  That’s exactly what she was hoping for. She meets my gaze. “We’d like to order two of these. We’ll need to pick them up on Thursday. Friday’s my birthday.”

  I blink, but otherwise manage to keep the surprise from my face. I have no clue how long something like this job will take. Especially times two.

  “Ethan is out of the country until late tomorrow night,” I explain. “I can have him call you first thing—”

  “My birthday is Friday,” she informs me as if I’ve forgotten. The she flutters her lashes at her sugar daddy. “I want this done for my birthday, so we can show off my gift at the regatta.”

  “Anything for you, Honey Boo,” he tells her. He faces me with a magnanimous expression. “Whatever it takes, young lady.”

  Well, this should be easy enough. They have a need, and I need to figure out how to supply. “Give me a moment, please. Let me see what I can do.”
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br />   I head back to my handy-dandy file cabinet. I pull out the invoice on the paint job this couple wants. I see how long Ethan logged for labor hours and realize that this job is going to be trickier. To have these cars out by Thursday, the brothers will have to begin the prep work tomorrow, while Ethan is gone. Then he can start the paint job as soon as he gets into town, and still have time to deal with the Rolls.

  He’s going to kill me, but he’ll have to catch me first. I glance at the schedule again, just to be sure, then head back to the paint stalls. This time I catch Dirty, the younger of the brothers, and he’s attaching my fender.

  “You’re working on mine,” I say.

  He grins. “Almost done.”

  “When?”

  “Boss wanted you to drive it home tonight.”

  Thank God. At least I’ll have a getaway car. But I do feel a pang because I’m not exactly following Ethan’s instructions.

  “The schedule looks light tomorrow,” I ask. “That right?”

  He nods. “Why?”

  “Can you and your brother prep two cars so when Ethan returns they’re ready for paint?”

  He stares at me. “You’re not giving quotes, are you? Boss’ll freak.”

  No doubt there. So as long as my Jeep is ready to go . . . “Trust me on this, and let me worry about the boss. I’ve got to earn my keep and he’ll be happy we didn’t let these two drive away. Can you do the work?”

  He’s much easier than his brother. “Yeah. I can even do the undercoats.”

  I show him the binder with the photo of the paint job the couple wants. “How long will it take Ethan to finish something like this?”

  “Few hours maybe. After prep.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell Sugar Daddy and Sugar Plum to bring in both cars first thing tomorrow morning. Anything I need to order for this job?”

  He snorts and grins. “We’re stocked. Should be fine.”

  I return to the office. “We can do a rush job and finish for your birthday.” I quote an insanely-high price. Two-hundred and fifty percent markup. Sugar Daddy doesn’t even blink.

  I’m going to have to go to confession, though. This is price gouging. No question.

  Maybe Notre Dame if I go to Paris. Or at the Vatican if I fly into Rome.

  Despite the possibility of eternal damnation, I want to fist pump the air. I maintain my cool professionalism, even though I’m thrilling on the inside, and make arrangements for the cars to be dropped off in the morning. Two equally thrilled customers walk out the door. I’m a happy camper. Ethan will make a lot of money this week. And I’m having a blast.

  True, I didn’t follow his instructions, but honestly, he should be used to it by now. It’s part of my charm.

  And by the time he finishes all this work and comes up for air, I’ll be long gone.

  25

  Mia

  “GOT YOUR PASSPORT?” Emme asks.

  I nod, lock the apartment door behind us and leave the key under the mat for the landlord. “And my boarding pass.”

  “Then you’re all set.” She waits for me to confirm. Only she knows how brutal this last week has been for me.

  I nod and we head to the elevator even though I don’t feel all set. I’ve barely slept since wrapping up work at Ethan’s shop. I’ve packed up everything I own, dealt with estate people and movers. I boxed up the personal items I wanted to keep and stored them in the LeBlancs’ attic, which Emme assured me was the go-to place for absolutely everything seven kids can’t part with, but can’t make room for, either.

  I closed bank accounts and consolidated finances into one account in my own name that I can access overseas with minimal surcharges. I can use my sole credit card anywhere in Europe, and I’ll get reward points.

  I returned my Jeep. That one definitely tugged on my emotions. My parents had given it to me for my high school graduation. A consolation prize because they couldn’t be there. Regardless, it was the car I’d always wanted, and I loved it. I only hope whoever they sell her to loves her like I did.

  I considered leaving her in my parents’ driveway with the key under the mat, but decided that was my old MO. So, I put on my big-girl panties and showed up when I knew they’d be home.

  They surprised me. They didn’t try to talk me out of leaving. No threatening. No bullying. After a few digs about the stupidity of throwing away all the opportunities I’ve been afforded, my father told me to be safe. My mother hugged me and made me promise to stay in touch, so she knew I was alive.

  Maybe there’s some hope there, after all.

  But not with Ethan.

  After all my angst about booking him jobs, I never even got the satisfaction of a reaction, let alone a goodbye. No tantrum because I disobeyed orders. No thank you because I brought in so much business. No pat on the back for being such an efficient salesperson. No smack on the ass to make me pay for my disobedience.

  The way my pussy clenches at just the thought of his hand on my ass is the only thing convincing me I’m making the right choice to leave.

  To end this chapter.

  Nothing’s left. What I can’t carry, I’ve sold or given away. I’ve got a new attitude and a whole future ahead of me. One where I balance all the needs inside of me that need balancing, so I can feel alive and enjoy my life.

  Ethan was one extreme. My parents the other. Both shades of submission that keep me from being the strong, independent person I know I can be.

  I wave goodbye to the doorman for the last time, and thank him for keeping me safe. Then Emme and I stroll out to the circle drive, where her car is double parked.

  She stuffs my one suitcase into the back seat, and I heft my backpack beside it. Then I shut the door.

  The sound rings out in the steamy afternoon with eerie finality. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “You can still change your mind.” Emme stops halfway to the driver’s door and meets my gaze over the car. “You don’t have to go, Amelia. Move in with me for a while.”

  I feel such a pang of remorse right then that I can’t even answer. The enormity of what I’m doing wells up in me on a wave of panic. I’m not only leaving behind all the baggage of my life, but all the things I care about, too.

  Emme. Her family. My Jeep. Ethan . . .

  “No.” I shake my head in an effort to shed my own doubts. “This is best. I need a clean break.”

  She frowns, and I know she’s not convinced. She opens her mouth to reason with me, but a pickup truck pulls up beside us in the drive, so close she can’t even open her door.

  “What the hell?” she says, and leans in close to her car.

  For a moment, my pulse kicks up. But the minute the driver steps out, I know it isn’t Ethan.

  “Dirty?” I say, surprised.

  Emme stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind and silently mouths, “Dirty?”

  I smile in confirmation and circle the car. “What are you doing here?”

  He hands me a fat envelope. “Boss asked me to give you your pay.”

  “Oh, wow.” I take the envelope. It’s heavy. “That was really nice of you to make a special trip.”

  “No problem. I’m picking up parts on the way back.”

  I slit the flap open and stare at the stack of hundred dollar bills. “Dirty, you sure this is right? Your parts money isn’t in here, is it?”

  He just grins ear to ear. “Boss said to tell you that’s sales commission and a bonus. You earned it.”

  Takes a second for that to process. I don’t get a goodbye, or a note, but I do get a reaction. Unfortunately, I don’t find it all that satisfying.

  “So, he didn’t freak, after all.” I should have known that’s how the game works. He wouldn’t be the kind of “sir” women throw themselves at if he gets emotionally attached to his pets.

  “Oh, he freaked all right.” Dirty assures me. “Just be glad your Jeep was outta there, or you’d have wound up with more damage than you brought her in with.”

 
I can’t help smiling. Okay, that’s better. Any reaction is better than no reaction at all. A remnant from my past, I suppose. The girl can decide to make a clean break, but looks like old habits will die hard.

  “Did he get everything done on time?” I ask. Sugar Plum’s birthday wasn’t critical as far as I was concerned, but the husband’s return from Beijing, on the other hand . . .

  “Yup. Lady with the Rolls was so happy that she even tipped me and Dirtier.”

  I laugh. “Good. You both deserve it. Dirty, I have to ask, otherwise this will nag me forever.”

  “Shoot,” he says.

  I try to think of some non-offensive way to phrase my question. Best I can come up with is . . . “I assume Dirty is a nickname. What’s your real name?”

  Emme rolls her eyes, but Dirty looks amused. He reaches for my hand and brings it to his mouth for a sweet kiss.

  “Name’s Raymond, ma’am. Charmed to officially meet you.”

  “Merci beaucoup, Raymond,” I say, practicing my French to get in the mood. I’ll be landing in Paris before the sun comes up tomorrow. “The pleasure’s all mine. How did you and your brother get such unusual nicknames?”

  He lets my hand slide away gently. “Oh, you know what they say about rednecks.”

  I shake my head. No clue.

  “You can always tell one by how many cars he’s got laying around that don’t run. Me and Eugene . . . Well, boys will be boys. And he always has a few more than I do.”

  “Why’s that?” Emme asks.

  Raymond snorts. “Because he does sloppier work. Impatient is what he is. More cars. Sloppier work. He’s dirtier.”

  I laugh. “Makes sense to me.”

  “I don’t want to rush you,” Emme says, “but we’ve got to go or you’ll miss your flight.”

  “You going on vacation?” Raymond asks.

  I nod, stuffing the envelope in my pocket. In an instant, my reality shifts. Vacation? Well, I suppose I can call it that. An extended one. No Emme. No LeBlanc family. No smiling new friends like Raymond.

  No Ethan.