Best of 2017

by Alexa Riley

“She moved my laptop and she didn’t even look at the screen. Not even a glance. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find someone who cares so little for corporate snooping?”

  It’s a rhetorical question, but she goes to answer it anyway.

  “We value discretion, in our induction we vet our candidates for–”

  I wave her quiet. “My old cleaner is leaving us, yes? I got a memo, did I not?”

  “Your assistant… I sent it to…”

  “I see all my assistant’s correspondence, Janet.”

  “At the end of the month… Cindy’s moving away…”

  Like I give two fucks who Cindy is or what she’s doing.

  “That girl will be my new cleaner,” I tell her. “Make it so.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MELISSA

  WHEN WE’RE SUMMONED into Janet’s office at the end of our next shift I hope it’s only me who’s going down for my fuck-up, and not poor Sonnie too.

  The apology is already on my tongue since I’ve been rehearsing it all afternoon. I wonder if she’ll let me off with just a slap on the wrist. Show mercy over one stupid moment of carelessness.

  I don’t get the impression they give many second chances in this place, and I’m petrified, now more than ever, because I was so close to him, just him and me, and he spoke to me, smiled at me… just for one moment… but it’s a start… it’s–

  “Sit,” Janet snaps, and I sit. So does Sonnie. “You girls know why you’re in here, I’m sure.”

  Sonnie looks blank, shaking her head a little, and I feel so guilty. I should’ve said something earlier, at least she could’ve prepared for the shit storm.

  I blurt it out, just to get it over with. “I’m really, really sorry. It was a mistake. It was dark, the roster said the room was empty…”

  Sonnie’s eyes are so wide. I wish the ground would swallow me up.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I should’ve looked, should’ve checked, I was carrying things and I didn’t think…”

  Janet looks seriously unimpressed, her mouth so tight and mean. “I’d dismiss you for this,” she tells me. “Discretion is one of our highest priorities, Miss Martin, especially where Mr Henley is concerned.”

  I’m nodding, and Sonnie is staring right at me as the realisation dawns. “You walked in on Mr Henley?! This ain’t got nothing to do with me, Janet. Uh uh. No.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with Sonnie,” I reiterate. “She doesn’t even know about it.”

  Janet nods. “As I said, I’d dismiss you for this. Luckily for you, Mr Henley has other plans.”

  She shuffles a load of papers and taps them on the desk as I gawp. She pulls out what looks like a pass on a lanyard from her top drawer, and a set of keys from a box she has to unlock with a special code.

  “Other plans?” Sonnie prompts, and my heart is pounding.

  Janet shrugs at Sonnie. “I was going to promote you, Miss Webber, but the decision was made for me. Miss Martin is going to be taking over from Cindy Harris as Mr Henley’s personal cleaner.”

  “Me?!” I gasp. “But I–”

  “You,” Janet says. “Just as well you’re an exceptionally thorough polisher, Miss Martin, otherwise you’d be out on your ear.”

  “I don’t understand…” I start, and Janet rolls her eyes at me.

  “You impressed him. Lord knows why after you bulldozed in on him like an incompetent ass.”

  Sonnie hides her disappointment well. “Congratulations, honey,” she says.

  I hate myself for Sonnie, but I adore Alexander Henley right now, even more than I did before.

  “Thanks,” I say. “You should really have the position, you’re miles better than me,” I offer, and Sonnie nods. So does Janet.

  “Guess it was your lucky day.” Sonnie smiles and shrugs, and I feel even worse, because she’s so nice, and competent, unlike me.

  “You’ll be taking floor eighteen, Miss Webber,” Janet says.

  Thank God for small mercies. At least she’ll still get to sniff his seat. But I don’t think I’ll win any favours by pointing that out to her.

  Janet hands over the paperwork, the lanyard and the keys. I take them so gently. The Holy Grail. His actual house keys, the real thing.

  “Cindy will need to show you the ropes,” she says. “You’ll be shadowing her for the next few days, and then she’ll be moving on.”

  I thought we had weeks before Cindy left, but apparently Janet has other plans. Or maybe Mr Henley does.

  I stop right there. Mr Henley liked my polishing. That’s all. A lucky day, just like Sonnie said.

  We’re dismissed before I can say anything else, and I’m burning up, feeling quite sick as Sonnie and I make our way downstairs.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I thought she’d fire me. I had no idea.”

  “Ah well.” She shrugs. “Guess the best scrubber won in the end.”

  But they didn’t. She smiles anyway.

  “I expect a full report, by the way. I want to know everything, like what his sheets smell like, if his toilet has skids in it, if he uses a sock to jerk off. Everything.”

  I laugh. “Everything,” I repeat. “You know it.”

  She slaps my arm as we reach the exit. “I’m actually glad you won,” she tells me. “I’m pretty hot on the guy, but you… well… you’re a whole load more batshit than I am.”

  I laugh again. “You got that right.”

  “We did it together,” she says. “Remember that. We put our minds to it and we did it. You just keep on doing it.”

  In my mind’s eye, I see myself scrubbing his toilet. See myself sorting his dirty laundry. See myself using his toothbrush. See myself rolling naked on his bed. See myself…

  Sonnie grabs hold of my hands. “Girl, I have something for you.”

  She leans in really close, her mouth right to my ear. “Ask Cindy about Harley’s Tavern. You want your man, you gotta get in there. Whatever it takes. You got it? You ask Cindy, she’ll tell you, but don’t say it came from me, alright? Janet told her I was likely getting the job, she filled me in on a few things…” She winks. “Private things. Private Henley-related things.”

  She’s already on her way before I can ask any questions, so I blurt out the obvious one. “What’s Harley’s Tavern?!”

  She freezes, spins back to face me and flaps her arms around like I’m being a clumsy idiot all over again.

  “Jeez, girl, you gonna have to learn to button it if you want to keep this gig!”

  “Okay,” I say quietly, “tell me more. What private things?”

  She taps her nose, gives me a wink, “You’ll see.”

  HARLEY’S TAVERN is an old style pub north of the city. Dean looks it up on his phone for me while I make us a hot drink.

  “What’s so special about the place?” he asks. “Looks pretty regular to me.”

  “I have literally no idea, Sonnie said to ask Cindy.”

  “Henley’s old cleaner?”

  I nod.

  “Maybe he takes his chicks there before he offs them.” He laughs, but I don’t. He holds my new keys up to the light. “Looks like he’s got some helluva lot of security going on.”

  I stir my coffee, bouncing Joe on my hip as he sings wheels on the bus. “You’d hope so. I’m sure he’s got plenty worth stealing.”

  “And plenty of secrets worth hiding.” He smiles. “Well done, Lissa. You did it. I knew you would.”

  “I got lucky.”

  He shrugs. “Wasn’t luck that polished that table up. Wasn’t luck that got you promoted up there in the first place.”

  “Was luck that he cared enough not to fire my idiot ass.”

  The paperwork is still sitting on the worktop, detailing both my pay rise and the insanely intimidating non-disclosure agreement.

  Dean sifts through it. “This is pretty hardcore.”

  “He’s pretty hardcore.”

  “Dangerous, like I said. This stuff is like a milita
ry secrets act.”

  “He’s a lawyer.”

  “With a lot to hide from the sounds of it, I’m not talking client confidentiality either.”

  I pull a funny face at Joe and he laughs, and then he wants down to watch some clowns singing songs on the TV in the living room.

  “Maybe it’s all the dead bodies.” I smile. “Bodies, or snuff porn, or maybe a black magic temple in the cellar.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  So am I. I hope I’m going to find kinky sex toys and cock selfies rather than a couple of corpses, but Dean’s got me pretty psyched up about those online stories. Maybe I’m his next victim… hopefully not to bury me under his patio, but maybe he wants me in his house to humiliate me and turn me into his dirty little sex slave. The thought makes me grin and prickle at the same time, and Dean scowls at me.

  “You’re gonna get yourself into a whole world of trouble with him, Lissa, you know that, right?”

  I’m counting on it.

  ALEXANDER

  HARLEY’S TAVERN is a dingy little pub out past the M25 towards Harlow. A nothing place, that’s how it looks. That’s why Claude uses it more often than not as his venue of choice.

  I take the Mercedes down into the underground car park, and pull in next to his sparkling BMW. Harley’s Tavern looks like a dive to the casual observer, just another spit and sawdust local showing football on the big screen at the weekends.

  I wouldn’t be seen dead here under normal circumstances, but venture upstairs and it’s a whole different story.

  I’ve called this meeting. I haven’t seen Claude in months, not since he schmoozed it up at the same charity ball I was at last summer and shot me a few too many overfamiliar glances across the crowd. I generally prefer distance in our business communications, but my requirements are… changing.

  He meets me by the entrance to the rear hall, the same slick grin on his face he always wears for business. His handshake is firm and not at all clammy.

  “Alexander, it’s been a while. I’ve booked us the bridal suite.” He laughs and slaps my back.

  This kind of boys’ club camaraderie normally gets my hackles up, but I need Claude, so I let it lie. Every fucking time.

  Need. It’s a fucking disgusting word.

  He leads us upstairs and slides his card into the lock. Memories of Candice hammer my senses. Her pretty ass spread wide for me last week, her groans as I opened her up all the way. She stretched so willingly that girl.

  But she gave me nothing.

  Tense calves. A grimace. Moans that were borderline over-acting.

  She gave me fuck all.

  They’re always there for the money, and why wouldn’t they be? I’m no fucking idiot, but cash-hungry girls going through the motions are no longer enough.

  I want more than a couple of ticked boxes showing their hard limits. I want more than a little slut on her knees pretending she’s loving everything I’m loving.

  I want real.

  And that’s what I tell Claude in no uncertain terms.

  He offers me a whisky and I wave it aside as usual. He pours himself a healthy measure and takes a seat on the leather chaise longue. I pace, back and forth by the four poster, sifting through memories of all the times I’ve been in this room, all the women I’ve paid to tie to its posts and fuck until I’m sated and they’re considerably better off financially.

  “The girls like it,” he tells me. “Candice, well, she asks for you, often. I think she’s got a real thing for you.”

  “Because I tip,” I snap. “You know it and I know it.”

  He shakes his head. “She’s a dirty girl, believe me. She was a star in the test run. She wants it one hundred percent. She wants you one hundred percent.”

  “I’ve no doubt she gets her thrills, Claude, but she’s not really exposed. She doesn’t let go. She isn’t…”

  His eyes glint like the black obsidian in my collection at home. “Isn’t what, Henley? Isn’t scared? Is that what you want? A girl who’s scared of you? Some little slip of a thing who’ll make you feel like your balls are made of fucking steel?” He takes a sip of whisky. “Is that what you’re after? Power? Real power? I’m sure I can deliver, just tell me how far you want to go.”

  I shoot him a glare. “I’m not a total fucking psychopath.”

  I hate that he knows me. I hate that he knows what I like. Most of all, I hate the way he judges me without even realising he’s fucking judging me.

  He shrugs. “None of my business what gets you off, Henley. You just tell me what you want, I’ll find it.” He sighs. “Why the sudden dissatisfaction? You liked Candice last week, Elena, too. And Kimberly. You told me you liked Kimberly. You gave her two grand in tips last month, she told me.”

  I did like Kimberly. Did.

  “I’m tired of Kimberly,” I tell him. “Kimberly uses the first chance she gets to take it doggy style and get the kinky shit over with. Kimberly gets off that way, that’s her priority. I gave her two grand in tips last month because she pushed her limits. That’s all. She bolted like a smacked fucking horse afterwards.”

  He laughs. “Sure. She’s not hardcore enough. So you want fresh meat. I got it.” He grabs some papers from his briefcase. “For your perusal, off the books. First choice.”

  “Like every single thing you do isn’t off the books.” I take them from him, sit myself on the bed to have a look.

  Girls. Five of them. Early twenties, pretty, spread pussies, perfectly filthy smiles. Keen.

  Perfect.

  All of them perfect.

  An array of checked boxes under their pictures. Limits, so many limits.

  I drop the pile at my side. “None of them.”

  “That little Lulabelle is a real treat. She’ll be right up your alley, I promise. I can do you a deal. I’ll call her in this weekend, on the house, try before you buy.”

  But I don’t want Lulabelle, with her pouty lips and her perfectly perky tits. She looks like she’d be a squealer. She’d probably break glass.

  “What’s wrong with Lulabelle?” Claude asks again. “She’s perfect.”

  Exactly. I don’t say that. I don’t want to share any more of my kinks with Claude than absolutely necessary. The slimy cunt already knows enough to turn my stomach.

  “I said none of them.”

  Claude looks nonplussed. “Sure, well, your father showed interest. I guess I’ll pass her on to him.”

  My finger jabs through the air before I can stop it. “Don’t mention my fucking father, Claude. You know the fucking rules.”

  He holds his hands up. “Just saying. I’ll pass them on, if you’re sure.”

  “And you also just said this selection was just for me, off the books.”

  He shrugs. “Me and your old man go back a long way, as you well know.”

  It makes me cringe, the whole fucking lot of it. Pandering to this seedy little back-alley business for safety, because my own tried and tested methods of scoring hook-ups landed me in the jaws of Ronald fucking Robertson and his fucking shit stain of a newspaper.

  I grit my jaw. Breathe slowly. Calmly.

  “Find me what I’m looking for, Claude. Send the others to whoever you want, I have no interest.”

  “You get first refusal, you know that…”

  I laugh, because it’s like a black comedy, this whole sordid affair. I’m watching my own train wreck unfold, tumbling down my own perverted rabbit hole. “First refusal in an open auction. Sure I do.”

  “You know what I mean, Henley. First refusal over some of my other clients…”

  Clients.

  He means my disgusting excuse of a father and his vile little network of associates. The man who bailed me out with company cash and insisted I use his more secure outlets for my needs.

  The one condition: we never cross purchases.

  Quite frankly I have no fucking interest in touching any woman my father has been within a five-mile radius of. I’d rather hack my dic
k off with a rusty knife.

  I’d rather not be in a five-mile radius of him either for that matter, but I have no such joy keeping the old cunt out of my boardroom.

  I wish I didn’t know what the grim old bastard gets up to at all, but the memory is emblazoned in my psyche for all time. The wonders of teenage curiosity. I wish I could bleach the knowledge from my brain. Believe me, I’ve tried. My therapists made these pricey little sexcapades look like small change.

  “Get me what I’m looking for, Claude. Something real. Someone with no ticks in the boxes. Someone who’ll fucking fit.”

  He laughs. “Sounds to me like you want a girlfriend, Henley, not a hooker. That isn’t my game.”

  The idea of a girlfriend is laughable. My heart shrivelled up and died a long time ago.

  He stands and holds out his hand. “Leave it with me.”

  I shake it without smiling, then offer him back his paperwork. He doesn’t take it.

  “Think on them, I have other copies.”

  I’m sure he fucking does. “I don’t need to think on them.”

  “Humour me, then.” His grin is bright and professional, as though he’s trying to sell me a fucking timeshare.

  I fold the papers and slip them into my inside pocket, to humour the sonofabitch.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he says.

  I don’t say goodbye on my way out.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ALEXANDER

  LIFE WASN’T ALWAYS like this for me.

  A sugar-coated veneer of normality once held the power to keep my darker impulses at bay.

  Once.

  Getting married was easy, I just had to pretend to be everything I wasn’t.

  Getting divorced was easier, I just had to stop pretending.

  I never wanted Claire. I wanted her sister.

  We met at a fundraiser for the Para-Olympics. Claire’s sister is a double-amputee swimmer, and one of the most vivacious people I’ve ever met.

  She was in an accident. One of those wrong place at the wrong time affairs that dealt her a shitty hand.

  She lost both her legs below the knee, chewed up under a Transit van travelling far too fast on a blind bend. People grimace when she tells the story. Give it all the oohs and aahs and you poor, poor soul. But she didn’t want any of that. Didn’t need their sympathy. Just as the pressure in the earth forms mere rock into the most glorious crystals, her accident transformed her into something incredible, someone who came back stronger and all the more beautiful for her adversity.