by LP Lovell
“I did.” He says, still ignoring me. Oh, my god. I’m going to stab him before this trip is over. I can feel it.
Eight hours later and we touch down in New York. A town car picks us up and takes us to the hotel right in the middle of the city, overlooking Times Square. Some people might think it’s a good view, but it’s more like having a fucking disco in your room while you’re trying to sleep. I’ve been to New York City far too many times to appreciate the light show.
True to his word, Landon has booked us separate rooms, although there is an adjoining door in the middle. I want to say something about that, but he did bring my suitcase all the way up here, so…
He checks his watch. “We have dinner with Lavare in an hour. I’ll come and get you.” And then he leaves. God, this is weird. I’ve never had to spend any time with Landon that didn’t involve either a business meeting or him naked and me with my legs spread. The plane ride was awkward for the first hour, so I just got to work, organising some figures that I’ve meant to do for a few days.
I open my suitcase, pulling out the dress bag and hanging it on the wardrobe door before I start stripping out of the soft cotton dress I travelled in. I leave a trail of clothes as I make my way to the bathroom. There’s a massive bath tub that I can’t resist, so I switch on the taps, pouring some sweet smelling bubble bath in the water. I step into the water, resting my head on my knees as I wait for the tub to fill. The scalding water rises, easing the stiffness in my muscles from sitting still on a plane for seven hours.
Half an hour later and I feel ready to face the shit show of Landon and me.
I dry and straighten my shoulder length hair and slip into the blood red dress that I brought specifically with this dinner in mind. Clients like Lavare are predictable, born of old money. They can’t just cut the shit and do business, oh no. They like to fanny around with niceties, a dinner the day before you have a business meeting because heaven forbid you should just get down to it. It’s the tactful side of the business that I’ve never been very good at.
I swipe some matching lipstick over my lips and check my reflection in the mirror one last time before I slip my heels on. Landon knocks on the door a few minutes later, and I grab my clutch bag before I swing the door open. His eyes pop wide as they drag over my body.
“You look…good.” He says, his eyebrows pulling together in a deep frown. I roll my eyes and push him out of the way, so I can close the door before making my way down the hallway.
We step inside the lift. I make every effort to ignore him when he moves close to my side. Inside Masque, he’s like my own personal salvation. He’s a breath of fresh air, something freeing and thrilling that I crave wholeheartedly, but outside of those four walls he’s a thorn in my side, a constant reminder that I’m not as strong as I think I am. After the whole wife debacle, I’m really starting to resent him, whilst hating myself for even caring enough to feel slighted. Big. Fucking. Thorn.
We take the car a few blocks over to a restaurant. I forget how long it takes to get anywhere in this city. You either sit in bumper to bumper traffic or you walk. And I don’t do walking because I don’t own a pair of flats.
The restaurant is one of those places that you probably have to wait for months to even get into. Landon gives Lavare’s name to the hostess and we’re shown to a table in the back. Lavare stands when we approach. “Landon, it’s been a long time my friend.” He says, the slightest hint of a French accent entwining with a heavier American accent.
“Lavare, this is Georgia Roberts, she’s the best broker I have besides Angus, but you know he doesn’t like to leave the island.” He says jokingly.
I know Lavare is the same age as Landon, late thirties, but Landon looks late twenties at a push. Lavare has whispers of grey appearing at his temples and fine lines marring his forehead. He’s a small man, and almost elegant in the way he presents himself. He takes my hand, touching his lips to the back of it. I try to keep the smile on my face, but it’s hard, it really is, until I notice the way that Landon’s lips have pressed into a firm line.
“Lovely to meet you.” I say with far too much sugar in my voice. God, I’m almost making myself feel sick.
We eat, we drink wine, we talk. I spend the entire time ignoring Landon and charming the pants off Lavare, exactly like he wanted me to. The more I talk to Lavare, the more flirtatious it becomes and the more Landon’s mood seems to decline.
After we’ve eaten the waitress approaches the table with a dessert menu in hand. “Would you like to see our dessert selection?” She asks with a polite smile.
“No.” Landon snaps. “Thank you. We uh, we should get going.” He offers Lavare as a way of explanation. They pay the bill, shake hands, whatever. Lavare again kisses my hand, his lips lingering just a little longer this time.
“I so look forward to working with you, Miss Roberts.”
“Likewise.” And then it’s done, and we’re leaving the restaurant. Landon says nothing as we walk to the car and the silence continues the entire way back to the hotel. I can feel the tension and anger radiating off him like a beacon, and if anything the silence is only making it worse, but I refuse to acknowledge him. He wanted me to come on this trip. He told me to work Lavare and that’s what I just did. Maybe next time he’ll think twice before using me.
As soon as the car pulls up at the curb, I throw the door open and get out, walking straight through the hotel lobby to the lift. I wait impatiently for it to arrive, tapping my toe against the marble floor as I do. Long seconds pass and still it doesn’t arrive.
“Damn it!” I growl, slamming my hand over the button again even though I know it won’t help.
I turn around, pacing one way and then the other until Landon steps in front of me, forcing me to come face to face with his broad chest. “Will you stop?”
I take a deep breath, inhaling the smell of his after shave like some creeper, and then I force myself to step back. I’m mad at him. He’s mad at me. It’s all a cluster fuck, and the last thing I need is to be lusting after him. The lift pings and the doors slide open. I step inside, and he follows.
Two businessy looking guys are already inside, and their eyes blatantly skate over my body, their tongues practically rolling out of their heads. One of them actually makes it to my face, where I make eye contact, staring him down with my best resting bitch face. A red flush creeps from under the collar of his shirt, making its way up his face until he’s scarlet. A satisfied smile fights its way onto my lips before I turn around, facing the doors. Landon leans against the side of the lift, a scowl permanently fixed on his face. He glares at the two guys, but apparently not satisfied with looking at them like a murderer, he grabs my arm and pulls me into his side. I don’t fight him because it’s fucking embarrassing, so instead I slip my hand inside his jacket and find his nipple, pinching it and twisting through his shirt. He flinches away from me, but he’s backed up against the wall with nowhere to go. He glares down at me, an uncomfortable look crossing his features. Good, I hope it fucking hurts. I glare right back at him.
The lift doors open a few floors up and the two guys get out. The second the doors close he turns, pinning me up against the wall he was just standing against.
“Don’t…” I kick out at him, catching him in the shin. “Fucking touch me.” I huff, shoving him away from me.
“A nipple cripple, really?” He asks, his face thunderous.
“You touched me!”
“Because that guy was practically fucking you with his eyes.” He snaps.
“So? I’d rather that than you touch me.”
“Really, kitten? Because I’ve touched you plenty.” He mocks.
“Gah! That doesn’t count here!” I scream.
“Do you have some sort of mental deficiency?” He asks.
“Go fuck yourself, Landon.”
The lift doors open and I storm out, walking as fast as my heels can carry me. He easily catches up to me just as I slide the key card into my
room door. I shove it open and go to slam it in his face, but he’s already barging through right behind me.
“Get out!” I shout at him.
He sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me. You just…”
“I what?” His expression is serious, completely focused on me.
“Please just go.” I beg, refusing to look at him anymore.
“No. You’re pissed. You’ve been pissed since Monday, even though you lied to my face and told me you were fine. So you tell me now what’s wrong, and I’m not leaving this room until you do.” I can’t tell him what’s wrong. I can’t tell him that it bothers me that he has a wife, that I’m annoyed that he failed to mention that, and yet I have no right to be mad about it. I can’t say that I’m pissed off that I haven’t seen or barely heard from him all week. I can’t tell him that I’m annoyed that he wasn’t there on Tuesday to fuck me. I can’t voice any of it, so I say nothing.
“You don’t know me, Landon. Don’t suppose to.”
He huffs a laugh and drags his hand over his stubble covered chin. “I don’t need to. An idiot could see your mood from a mile away.”
I clench my fists. “Are we in Masque right now?” I snap. His eyes tighten in response, but he doesn’t answer the obvious. “No, we’re not. Which means right here, right now, you are my boss. We are not friends. You don’t get to judge my mood, and you don’t get to be pissed about the fact that I was overly nice to a client that you purposefully used me to bait!” By the time I’m done, I’m shaking a little, my blood pressure spiking.
His turbulent eyes meet mine, and I can see the storm lingering just below the surface. “He was looking at you like he wanted to eat you.” He grates, his jaw tense. “You draw all these fucking lines, kitten, and you expect me just to fall within them.”
“Yes.” I say coldly. “I fucking do.” He turns away from me and makes me jump when he slams his hand against the door violently. “Those were the terms of the contract you laid out.” I say to his back in a desperate bid to stop whatever this is right now. But it feels so inevitable, like a runaway train hurtling along the tracks at full speed. Men like him, they set the stipulations, they don’t follow them.
He spins around, storming me until I’m pressed back against the window with his hand around my throat. His lips are so close to mine, his angry breaths blowing raggedly over my face. He’s this close to snapping. I can feel it, and I can see him fighting it. “Fuck the contract.” He spits. The words feel like a gunshot on a silent night, ripping through the air, leaving only the echo of my silent scream in its wake. The train officially just went careening off the tracks and exploded in a ball of fire. “For one night just fuck it.” His voice drops almost to a whisper. Something deep down inside me, buried in a place I didn’t even know existed surfaces, a sense of want, wanting of something foreign and unknown. I slam the lid on it, closing it down as quickly as it started. And then I’m angry. I’m angry at him for even suggesting it. I’m angry at him for putting me in this position, for upturning my perfectly mapped out life, and most of all I’m angry at myself for being so damn weak when it comes to him.
Instead of screaming though I feign a laugh. “Oh wow. What did you think would happen here, Landon? That you’d get me to New York and have me on my back in a hotel room for the entire weekend? Your dirty little bit on the side.” I hiss, pushing against the restraining hand on my throat until my lips brush against his. “Did you think I’d get on my knees and give you everything your wife won’t?” I lower my voice to a husky whisper.
He slams me back against the glass so roughly that my head ricochet’s off the window. “So that’s what has you so riled.” A satisfied smirk pulls at his lips, and I want to slap him and then slap myself for letting him get to me.
“I’m not your office whore, Landon, so I’m afraid I won’t be spreading my legs for you tonight.” I say, desperate to dig the knife in somewhere anywhere because he always seems to have the upper hand.
He brings his face close to mine, his gaze fixing on me. “I don’t need to fuck you, Georgia. I just don’t want you to look at me like I’m a fucking business transaction.” There’s just a hint of vulnerability in the way he says it, as vulnerable as a guy like Landon can be, and it pulls me up short. I want to feel indignant, but I can’t.
“How else am I supposed to look at you?” His eyes lock with mine and his grip on my throat slowly loosens.
“Just because you want clear lines doesn’t mean you have to hate me.” God, but I do, because it’s not hating him that led me here, giving a shit, feeling hurt and downright bloody pathetic.
“I think I do.” I admit, lowering my gaze. His hand moves from my throat to the back of my neck, his fingertips trailing over my skin.
“Stop overthinking it.” He says, his lips brushing over mine. “I like you, Georgia. I respect you, and yes, I want to fuck you, but I thought we were friends if nothing else.”
I close my eyes and my lips part, my body gravitating towards him. I drop my head forward, and he pulls me close, pressing his lips against my forehead. I clench my balled up fist against his chest.
“We’re not friends, Landon.” I whisper. “I know nothing about you. You know nothing about me. I didn’t even know you were married, and you know why? Because I’m the whore you fuck. Nothing more.”
He pushes a finger under my chin and forces me to look up at him. His expression is soft, his eyes full of concern. “You have no idea how fucking wrong you are.”
“Am I?” I ask, because if he really stops and thinks about it, he’ll see I’m right.
“Okay. Fine. Let’s just…hang out.” I pull back and frown at him. “As friends.” He clarifies. “No sex, no work, just this.” He gestures between us, and I frown. “Not everything has to be black and white.” And he’s right. A part of me secretly wants to know something more about Landon. Maybe I just don’t want to be his whore, or maybe I just hate the idea that he has a wife who knows everything about him while I know nothing. So I slowly nod, and he releases his grip on me, taking a concerted step back with a small smile on his face.
“What do you want to do?” He asks, backing up and taking a seat on the bed. “Do you want something to eat?” He asks.
“Uh, we just ate.”
He scoffs. “That was enough food to feed a three-year-old. How is it that the more money you pay for your food, the less you get?” And just like that, we fall into an easy dynamic. I let my guard down. I let myself appreciate Landon’s company, and that’s something I’ve never allowed myself to really do, not properly.
In every game, there is a game changer, a pivotal point that turns the tide of the game. I think this is it. This is the point where this could go two ways, but neither of them is a desirable outcome, and I don’t want to face that possibility, so I choose to ignore it. For right now. And I’ll deal with the rest when I get home.
Landon orders a tonne of food and puts a film on.
“So, you said I know nothing about you. Tell me.” He says, scooping a piece of cheesecake into his mouth. I’m sitting at the top of the bed, and Landon is lounging on the sofa, with the food.
I shrug. “There’s not a lot to tell. I grew up in London, went to University there and have spent every moment since working to get where I am.”
“Family? Friends?” He leans back into the sofa cushions, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. My eyes dip to the little V of skin at his chest.
“Quinn is my best friend. My parents are dead.” I don’t elaborate. It’s not like I was ever close to them. I spent my childhood being raised by Au Pairs. My mum got cancer when I was eighteen, and my dad died of a heart attack two years later. I hate talking about myself because it makes me realise how pitiful my life really sounds. Landon pointed it out to me the first time we really spoke…it’s lonely at the top, but these are the sacrifices I have willingly made.
�
��What about you?” I ask, trying to deflect his attention from me.
He puts his empty plate down on the coffee table and gets up, sitting at the end of the bed and laying down. “My dad’s kicking around somewhere; we talk sometimes, but he’s…” His lips pull into a crooked grin. “He’s busy getting married and divorced. He’s on wife number six.”
“Wow.”
He laughs. “Yeah. Stand-up guy. My mum died a few years back. I have a brother who is the polar opposite of me and is currently helping children in Africa or some shit.”
“And a wife.” I add.
He sighs, dragging a hand over his face as he fixes his gaze on the ceiling. “Yeah. I was like you; focused, determined…obsessed. I had no one, and I needed no one, and I was happy with that. When I met her, though, she made me feel like maybe I did need someone. She was strong, beautiful, had a solid modelling career, and I respected her, which is rare.”
“This is sounding familiar.” I mumble, pulling my knees up to my chest and leaning back against the headboard.
His lips twitch, and he turns his face towards me. He’s lead on his back, sprawled across the bottom of the bed. The TV is on playing quietly in the background, but neither of us is watching it. “Turns out I didn’t want her, and I certainly didn’t need her. It all went to shit within a year really, but I was away working all the time. I barely saw her, so we ticked along for three years. I prioritised my businesses over her, because that was and is my first love. I never loved her; I just married her because I thought I should.”
“Mid-life crisis?” I smirk.
“Something like that. Anyway, I served her papers last year, and she’s been out for blood ever since. Apparently she deserves half of every business I own.” He sighs. “Word of advice, don’t get married.”
I say nothing and instead, focus on the duvet beneath me, tracing circles on the material with my nail. Long moments of silence pass.
“Say something, Georgia.”
I shrug. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” I pull my knees up to my chest and lean back against the headboard. “It is what it is.”
