by Jade West
He could laugh at us all he wanted. We’d be the ones fucking laughing when the prick was long gone and we had fifty grand in our bank account.
If.
If we had fifty grand in our account.
But somehow I knew the sonofabitch was telling the truth. Somehow I knew he’d walk this path as far as we’d follow.
Somehow I knew he was asshole enough to push through with whatever shitty offer he slapped on the table.
And we’d take it.
Desperate.
Pathetic.
Broke and broken.
I didn’t watch him turn and head upstairs, but Grace did. She watched him all the way, fingers still so tight on my arm they’d likely leave bruises. I waited for her to speak, even as her eyes stared into the blank space he’d left behind.
“He’s bluffing, right?” she asked when she was sure he was gone. “I mean it’s fifty grand… that kind of money is crazy… it’s…”
Her words may have stuttered, but her tone was flat and solid. She didn’t believe he was bluffing any more than I did.
“And if he’s not?” I said, not missing the sharp breath she drew as the thought slammed in hard.
“And if he’s not, I guess we…” Her grip dropped away and she turned back to the bar. “I need another wine.”
So did I.
I needed a whole fucking cellar full.
Grace
Fifty thousand pounds.
Enough to pay every single creditor in our backlog and give us a few months’ breathing space. And with enough left over to add some additional hotel features, just to set us apart a little from the bargain basement opening down the road.
A hot tub. A better bar maybe. Complimentary bathrobes and slippers.
Just about anything to add to our online listings would be a plus.
Brett poured a fresh round of drinks with a face like death. I’d seen plenty of foul expressions on his face these past few months. A grimace every morning at the mailbox, a gritted jaw as he totted up the takings of a lacklustre Saturday night. The way he stared at the ceiling in the darkness and I’d pretend I didn’t notice.
I always noticed.
“We don’t have to…” I began, but he shook his head.
“You don’t have to, Grace. It’s your call. You tell me you don’t want to go near that seedy prick and I’ll have him out of this place before morning, money be fucked.”
I couldn’t hold back the grit of my own jaw as I reached for my wine. This was it. Exactly this. One of the real damn problems between us these days.
It wasn’t that his intentions weren’t good and well meaning, or that he was taking even a single liberty and trying to push me into some shitty thing I didn’t want to do.
It was the opposite. Always the opposite.
My call. Always my call. Hands off while I stewed over the decisions, and then the mistakes that followed.
Egyptian cotton bedding? Heavyweight curtains with blackout backing? Hand carved dining furniture?
Always my call.
This venue? Definitely this one? We’re really cut out to up-end from our jobs and move out here into the back of beyond?
Your call, Grace. Whatever you want.
I knew he resented me for it, late at night with a churning gut, just like mine. I knew he blamed me for overspending and dashing us headlong into this whole new start, swirling him along in the whirlpool of my enthusiasm.
And that was the worry right then and there, right at the heart of it. Not that I’d fuck some posh asshole from London and maybe he’d get a little rough and dirty. Not that I’d be nervous as all living shit and terrified of taking another man while the one I’d pledged my life to stood and watched every seedy second of it. Not even that the guy would fuck us over and leave us up shit creek, one dirty fuck cheaper and without any more of a financial cushion than the bones of our ass we were currently sitting on.
The real worry squirmed in my gut like maggots on roadkill.
My call.
My fuck-up.
My mistake to hold against me for all time to come.
My choice to whore myself out to a random hotel guest who flashed the cash.
“What are you thinking?” he asked me, and I realised I’d been swirling my drink by the stem, my teeth still gritted tight.
Maybe I should’ve told him the truth. Slapped my fears right out there on the bar top and granted them life. But I didn’t.
As per usual, I buried them for the sake of keeping the peace and making it through this crap without clawing at open wounds.
“I don’t know,” I lied. “I guess I’m wondering if he’ll keep to his word.”
Brett shrugged and took a long swig of red. “If he doesn’t, he doesn’t. We’re in the same boat we were an hour ago.”
“And if he does…”
Another shrug and I wanted to shake him. Shake him for a reaction, for an outburst, for his inner caveman to come out grunting and flailing and demanding that no other man would ever lay a filthy hand on me, hotel and money and our future be damned.
What I got instead was the gaze of a man who’d always wanted to do the best for me. A man who’d been there for me since I was still a slip of a girl with arms open wide.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he said again.
“And if I do?”
His eyes didn’t falter, not for a second. “And if you do, I’ll be right there. We’ll work it out, together. Work through it, together.”
“And afterwards? Nine hours is one thing, we’ve got a whole lifetime to cope with any jealousy shit.”
He raised his lip in a smirk. “You think I can’t cope with jealousy shit? Like I’m some kind of caveman warrior who’ll never recover from one shitty meaningless night?”
Part of me wished he really was a man that could shrug this off as nothing. The other part worried he’d surprise himself in the aftermath when the horse had long bolted.
My heart was pounding and my throat was dry, even after another gulp of wine. My head was reeling and spinning and trying to work out how this insanity was going to pan out for the pair of us.
My voice came out much softer than I wanted it to, quaking a little around the edges. “We need this, Brett. The money.”
Dreams I’d been terrified were withering away before our eyes jolted and gasped with a hint of life again. The beautiful building we’d longed to raise a family in. The promise of sunset on the waves. Everything.
I felt it all.
And I knew then I’d do anything to keep our dreams breathing, even for just a little bit longer.
Even if that anything was a tall, posh stranger as my husband looked on.
“Do you…” Brett began, and I had to hold his gaze to prompt him onward. “Do you… you know… like him?”
“Like him?”
His smile was nothing but thin bravado. “I mean, he’s a good-looking guy, right? It could be worse.”
My response was instant. “And I’m a married woman. There are plenty of good-looking guys out there. I don’t like any of them. I like you.”
Finally, my husband reached across the gulf of bar space and took my hand in his. I felt the strength in it. The solidarity in our shit pile as his fingers squeezed mine.
“Well, Mrs Foster, it’s fair to say I like you too.”
For the first time in months I saw the man I fell in love with. The warmth in his rich brown eyes, the roguish shadow on his jaw. The breadth of his shoulders, strong enough to carry a thousand fears.
And past those things to the beautiful imperfections I knew by heart.
The tiny ridge on his nose from a college football collision. The faint scar above his left brow from a biking accident after school.
The way one of his lower teeth stuck out just a fraction from the others, making him a little rough around the edges.
He was perfect.
Gorgeous.
Mine.
“It’s just on
e night,” I whispered. “What harm can one stupid little night do, hey?”
“And I’ll be right there,” he replied. “No matter what. All the way.”
And he would be. Quite literally.
I dismissed the tiny little quiver between my legs as down to the wine.
Chapter Four
Thomas
They didn’t recognise me. Not even a cock of an eyebrow or a simple stare as they tried to place my face.
It shouldn’t have surprised me. I barely recognised myself from the boy I was all those years ago.
I did, however, recognise them. My memory was true to the finest detail.
Grace’s high cheekbones and pixie smile. The sparkle in her eyes as she raised one of her fine arched eyebrows, even tight-lipped and suspicious as I made my presence felt at the bar. Her voice, sultry yet sweet, all at once. The gentle slope of her hips under the tight wrap of fabric as she leaned back on her stool.
Nothing had changed on that front. Not about her.
And not about him, either.
The arrogance in Brett’s shoulders was still standing strong these days, even if he wasn’t. His bullish attitude, the low aggressive grunts as he faced off opposition like he could punch the whole world to the floor without even breaking a sweat.
I remembered him on the sports field, heading up team after team. Winning. Always winning. Bellowing war cries as he held up the team trophy like it gave him a status of a god amongst mere sad mortals. Parading himself through the streets like he owned the whole place and everyone in it. Those who were even worth his acknowledgement.
But he didn’t own the world. Not now. The world was a lot bigger these days, and so was I.
My game was strong now. Strong and slick and well prepared.
They’d never see my true intentions coming. Neither of them. Not until it was far too late.
I smiled to myself as I walked straight past my door on the second floor. I took the back stairwell from the building, dropping down into the hotel’s rear courtyard and slipping around to the front while the waves crashed loud on the beach below. I could see why they’d been so taken with this spot, such a marvellous little slice of the wilderness. Tranquil, yet wild. Peaceful, yet rugged. Enough of a dream to see them cast upon the rocks of financial ruin. An exposed vein right there for the pricking.
I took a seat on one of the few picnic benches in the beer garden out front, careful not to trigger the motion-sensitive light on the main porch. It was the perfect vantage point to watch the aftermath of my filthy unexpected proposition.
I’d have put another wad of healthy money on the fact they’d need a wine or twenty for the shock to settle down, and so they had. By the time I got out front they’d resumed their stations on opposite sides of the bar, Grace’s foot tapping the air once she’d hoisted herself back up on her stool. Brett’s expression didn’t shift any, not at first. He looked like he’d happily snap my neck as soon as catch sight of me again.
It suited him. That kind of aggression always had.
It seemed funny now, in such close proximity to the guy after all this time. Funny how I’d always wanted to be that kind of man too, just as he was. Strong, brutish, rugged.
I’d been none of those things growing up. My aggression had always been more intellectual, more introverted. Harder to come by. My muscular form was sculpted through blood, sweat and the challenge of not ever being good enough, not through the easy win of blessed genetics.
I’d worked hard to present myself in just the right way, making the most of my limited assets and pushing them to their limits and beyond.
I was slim but toned, through a rigorous schedule at the gym. Groomed and well-kept with the benefit of tailored outfitting to make the most of my assets. My armour and arrogance were driven by money and mind, rather than muscle. Luckily, I had plenty of both.
I’d expected much more of a fight than the one I’d received on Brett and Grace’s sweet home turf. I’d expected a punch or two to the mouth before they stewed with needy bellies enough to truly consider my offer. It meant only one thing — the pressure was higher than I’d anticipated.
The price was a bargain in my book.
I’d have gone higher to make it happen. Much higher.
I pulled a cigar from my pocket, being careful to angle the flame of the lighter away from the window as I lit up. It was overly cautious. They were still fully engrossed in conversation as I took my first puff.
I didn’t need to hear their words. I could read their sentiments more than easily enough in their body language, tense but hopeful. Grace’s hand went to her hair and scratched idly at the nape of her neck, and I wondered how her soft skin would feel against my mouth as I slammed that gorgeous little cunt from behind.
Maybe that’s when I’d take a punch or ten to the mouth from the raging bull.
I’d take it gladly, just to see the rage in his eyes as I finally fucked the woman he’d claimed all those years ago.
I’d smirk like a sonofabitch when she wrapped her ringed wedding finger around my dick and worked me hard while her brute of a husband looked on.
I was both disgusted and excited at the thought, my dick hard in my pants as the waves kept on crashing behind me. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the pair of them, not even for a heartbeat as I toked on Cuban cigar excellence, enjoying every single moment of their muted discussion. Brett shrugged his shoulders, once, twice, and Grace pursed her pretty lips, choking back whatever words were on her tongue.
I loved how easy they were to read from this safe distance, without the distraction of language. They were a tight couple, certainly. In love, almost definitely, even up shit creek without a paddle.
Unbreakable. No.
They never were.
I’d fucked over twenty married women in the past three years. Twenty delicious bodies had writhed and squirmed and grunted under mine as their husbands watched on with jealous eyes.
Twenty grand had been the most I’d ever agreed to before this evening, to a couple in London who were about to be evicted from their friend’s pad in Canary Wharf. The cheapest I’d ever negotiated was… considerably lower.
I brushed my palm over the swell in my pants as Grace took a swig of wine and shifted in her seat. I wondered if her body was betraying her, even at this early stage. I wondered if the wine made it easier for her belly to flip and lurch at the flattery of fifty grand for one short night with her stark naked body.
I’d seen it over and over. The bloom of pride as they registered how much they were wanted by a stranger, even with a wedding band on their finger.
Sometimes it was about the money, sometimes it was about far less. One woman had been so taken with the prospect of a night in my bed that she’d followed me right out of the bar when her husband had threatened to beat the shit out of me. She’d laid her sweet little body on a platter for free, no payment necessary, for whatever I wanted, and I’d laughed. How I’d fucking laughed.
And then I’d refused, pure and simple. Thanks but no thanks, offer withdrawn.
Her pretty face had been a pretty picture, but not as much of a picture as her husband’s when he’d caught her up in the middle of her bargaining.
I heard they’d signed divorce papers less than three months later.
Brett closed the distance between him and his wife, and she took a deep breath before her tapping foot finally stilled. I held the cigar smoke in my mouth as they leant in close, wondering whether this would finally be the time a couple talked themselves down and threw me out of their lives unceremoniously.
But I doubted it.
They always agreed, festered in the aftermath and came calling for more.
Every morning after the event I’d left my business card behind, and every time I’d received the follow up call. Sometimes it took a week. Sometimes a month, or two, or three. But they’d always call me, always. All twenty women with shaky voices as they reminded me of their names and told me how much they
’d enjoyed the experience.
Brett took his wife’s hand across the bar top and it sparked a weird twitch in my gut. It passed in a beat, quickly, barely obvious, but I grabbed hold of its meaning before it sank out of trace.
It was hope. Something I rarely ever felt these past few years. Stupid, irrational hope that maybe this time they’d prove me wrong.
It was his smile as he stared into his beautiful wife’s eyes and leaned in closer still. The tenderness under the rage as they talked about my offer and what it would mean for them, their life, their future. It was in the way she clutched his fingers in hers, the desperation for his strength as she whispered whatever quiet reservations she was feeling into the space between them.
I was considering walking away into the night without even grabbing my suitcase when my phone vibrated in my inside pocket.
Even though it could have been any lonely woman pinging my number at this time on a Saturday evening, I knew who it would be.
I knew it before I’d even turned my back on my pair of latest conquests and thumbed my handset into life.
Don’t do it. Not this time.
The words cut me deep, even in the heart of nowhere with my ultimate challenge framed and snared, almost ready to go. My thumbs were like lumps of concrete, my cigar tight between my lips as I tried to form a response to the request on screen.
She’d sent another before I’d even finished typing.
Please, Tom. Hold onto hope. You’re nothing without it. Walk away.
It sealed the deal for me.
Tom.
Nobody called me Tom. It was Thomas. Thomas fucking Heath. Head of Heath fucking Global and early crypto-currency tycoon.
Mr Thomas Heath. Twenty-nine year old entrepreneur with every scrap of his shit together, living it up in central London, shaking business leaders’ hands across the whole fucking world.
And I was done with hope. Hope meant shit to me.
I deleted the words I’d typed out on screen and powered down, cursing under my breath that she was even trying to piss on my parade during a conquest this big.
