Profit & Lace: A Dark MMF Romance
Page 83
Forty-two.
That’s how many times Henry's made me cum. If I have to be honest, I never thought that working as a phone sex operator would mean I would be having regular orgasms. In fact, I think most people would agree with me when I say that I was pretty convinced I would have to up my faking game. I mean, it was already pretty good—remember, my last job was at a strip club, but still, over the phone people can tell when you’re not into something based on your voice. But every time he calls, my heart starts to beat faster. I pick up and hear his confident, commanding voice asking me what I’m wearing. Then he tells me what he wants me to do to that will please him. In that moment, I exist for his pleasure. To service him. He owns me. After he’s done with me, my mind stays in a fog of lust and confusion for several hours afterward. I can still go about my day, but it’s as if I’m sleepwalking. Because the day feels empty without the large presence of Henry in my heart.
Five.
That’s how many times I’ve tried to tell Arsen that I love another person in addition to him. But I can't do it. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I haven't even told Arsen that I love him, so we’re a long ways away from me telling him I love two people. And I can’t honestly say I love him when my soul aches for someone else as well. I know I’m going to have to choose one day. Never mind how crazy it sounds that I’m giving myself to someone I haven’t ever seen. Whose only interaction with me has been through his voice over a phone sex line. I can tell that King Henry—Client 5, feels the same way about me, from the snippets that he tells me of his family or of him growing up. The sighs I hear when we talk. Even the silences are things that I pay attention to. With Arsen, his very presence is stimulation enough. And I have so much more with him. I can see him. I can touch him. Taste him. The impact he has on me is spread out over so many senses. Henry's impact is just based on what I can hear.
One.
That’s how many other people know about my dilemma. Remember Yasmine? From Scorcher's? Figures that she should be the one I go to with all my troubles. But believe it or not, ever since I left, she and I have been getting close. We meet up for coffee or go to yoga together now on a regular basis. I’m happy to spend time with her because she understands the problems I’m facing.
“I think you need to tell Arsen what’s going on,” Yasmine advises me one afternoon after yoga. I had come to yoga after an appointment with Client 5 where I literally shook and convulsed as my fingers on my clit brought me to a mind-numbing orgasm. “You can’t keep going on like this. You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”
“I know,” I agree with her. “But it’s already been so long I don't know how I get out of the hole I’m already in.”
“The longer you stay silent, the deeper that hole gets to climb out from though, babe,” Yasmine says and I know she’s right.
The only problem isn’t sitting with Arsen or Henry. It’s sitting with me.
Twelve.
That’s how many hours ago I texted Arsen, telling him that I needed to see him. He seemed okay and we made plans to meet at the Central Park Boathouse.
I got there before him and ordered a dirty martini from the bar in the Main Lounge, looking at the Lake in Central Park as it surrounded the veranda of the Boathouse outside.
I’m sitting here now, as I see Arsen approach. He must have entered the park from the 81st Street entrance to the Park. I can hear a piano from the far corner of the Lounge and I wonder if this will be the last time that we have together at the Boathouse.
Arsen comes up to me and comes over to kiss me but I shy away. He takes a step back and looks at me with concern.
“What's going on?” Arsen asks, and I wonder if he can imagine what I’m about to tell him.
My Dad always says to rip a band-aid off as quickly as you can instead of prolonging the misery. And if I’m going to do this, I might as well get it over with. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I look at Arsen.
“I love you,” I say to him, and look at his eyes.
To say that there is surprise going through them is an understatement. What he doesn't understand is why I look so sick.
“Well, Ash, I lo…” I don’t let Arsen finish because I don't want him to say something that he’s going to have to take away so I interrupt him.
“But I also think I’m falling in love with someone else,” I say. I pause to give him a moment.
“Oh,” Arsen says after a moment. “Well, fuck.”
Despite myself I allow a brief smile. It wouldn’t be Arsen without an F-bomb.
“Who is it?” Arsen asks. “Anyone I know?”
I close my eyes and sigh to myself. This is the hard part.
“I don’t think so,” I say to him. “It’s going to sound silly Arsen, but it’s someone I work with.”
“But you work as a phone-“ Arsen starts but then lowers his voice. “As a phone sex operator. You don't work with anyone except for the people that call you.”
I look at him, hoping he understands. After a moment of matching my gaze, it dawns on him. “Oh,” he says. “You’re falling for a person that’s calling you?”
I nod. A single tear starts to form in my right eye.
“I’ve been talking to him for some time now and he’s single too,” I say, rushing the words out. “He lives in New York City also and he’s in real estate.”
Arsen looks at me like I just slapped him with a glove. His eyes are stricken. I can't imagine what he must be going through right now. How betrayed he must be feeling. I take a sip of my drink.
“Does he go by the name of King Henry?” Arsen asks.
What the fuck?
I don't think neither of us notice as my martini glass drops to the floor.
Arsen
“Does he go by the name King Henry?” I ask with a smirk and Ashley freezes in time. It’s like her muscles seize up, and not the good kind of seizing like when I make her cum. This is the bad kind, as if she's having a fucking stroke.
The martini glass falls to the ground, the olives from her drink rolling toward my shoe. I’m vaguely aware of the elderly couple next to us at the bar turning to look at us.
“Oh my God,” Ashley whispers. Whisper is a strong fucking word actually. It’s more like she croaks it out, like her mouth has just gone dry. Her skin is starting to look pale and I can see her eyes widen and narrow, as if she’s trying to figure something out.
“You…you’re…” but she stops and doesn’t finish.
I nod my head at her, hoping it’ll calm her down. “King Henry,” I say to her trying to smile but wondering if I’m fucking smirking instead. “Thought it was an appropriate name, don’t you…”
I don’t get a chance to respond because her hand reaches out at the speed of fucking light and slaps my cheek. I wince. I wasn’t fucking expecting that; that’s for sure.
I taste a tiny trickle of blood on my lip and I can tell that the immediate people around us are all staring now. The people beyond them are pretending they don't know what's going on but trying to look anyways. Fuck ‘em all, anyways.
“You fucking bastard,” Ashley says. Her voice is cold, low, and gravelly.
I’m about to say something but she doesn't even fucking care anymore because she just turns around and walks away, clutching her purse.
I look at the bartender who comes by to serve drinks and I look at the olive that rolled close to my shoe.
I don’t know what the fuck has gotten into me, but I bend over and grab the olive and the glass and hand it to the bartender. He nods to me.
Fuck it. This is fucking insane. I need to go after her.
I race out of the Boathouse and scan the surrounding area looking for Ashley.
She’s not hard to miss. Cute girl, shoulder length blonde hair, curvy body, fantastic ass. Dressed to kill in a black casual dress with a pair of black heels that are making it difficult for her to storm off across the up and down sidewalk of Central Park.
I run toward her.
“Stay away from me, you fucking asshole!” Ashley shouts and stops walking. But instead of turning toward me, I see her pause and take off her heels. She’s going to want to walk fast and she’s getting ready.
But by then I’ve caught up to her.
Hey, give me some credit here, okay? I may drink and fuck all night long, but I have a body made of steel. Genes that are fucking blessed. I used to play football in high school and college and I still got the moves. Of course I could keep up with Ashley. But there’s a fine fucking line between having her say no and it being cute and then forcing my presence on her. And I never, ever, ever, fucking do that.
“Just let me explain,” I say to her, trying to buy some time.
“There’s nothing to explain, Arsen,” she says, still not looking back at me. “This whole thing was a big fucking joke to you. You’re a sick, perverted creep.”
“No I’m not, Ashley,” I reply as I match her stride. She’s walking toward the gates to the park on 72nd and 5th. Fuck, she’s going to hop into a cab or a bus from there and I won't be able to do a goddamn thing about it. I can’t force her to stay. “Just let me explain. I love you.”
Well that fucking gets her to stop all right.
And why wouldn't it? I’ve never, ever, said it to another girl before. I’ve never felt it for another girl. I’ve never even contemplated anything remotely close to it with another woman. The very thought of falling in love with someone three months ago would have me getting on a fucking plane and getting as far away from her as possible.
But now? Now, I’m standing there like a fucking kid, watching Ashley turn around and stare at me.
“I love you, Ashley Lane,” I tell her, not sure why I’m so fucking nervous all of a sudden.
Ashley smiles for a moment, and that’s when I know I’m fucked.
“You love me?” she asks and takes a step forward on the balls of her feet. “That’s why for basically the entire time you knew me, you pretended to be someone else?”
“I didn’t pretend to be someone else!” I yell, but she answers right back and I can see the fire in her eyes.
“You pretended to be someone on the phone that wasn't the same you in real life, Arsen!” Ashley yells. “Sure when you were with me you were Arsen Hawke. But then how many times did I hurry out of your apartment to go to work? How many times did you ask me what I did when you knew the answer?”
“I never lied to you about anything…” I begin but she cuts me off and for a moment I think she’s going to slap me again.
“You didn’t lie to me?” Ashley asks with a note of incredulity in her voice. “Arsen I fell in love with you on the phone and you know how much it was tearing me up every time you and I were together to think how I could be falling in love with you at the same fucking time?”
For once, I’m silent. Her fucking words have silenced me.
“You want to know what it’s like to go through what I did for the last month?” she asks me. “You want to know what I feel like standing here in front of you after the things you had me do on the phone?”
Fuck. In all of this, I forgot how crazy we had gotten.
“You had me call you King! You told me not to…touch myself on the phone. You did things with me that were private and so intimate for me and it was a big fucking joke for you!” Ashley yells as her face turns red. “You must have gotten quite a laugh, huh?”
“I never thought about it as a joke,” I say slowly and she looks at me. “I only called your line because you wouldn't see me. Because you wanted to stay away after our first night.”
“You know what?” Ashley asks me, but I can tell it's fucking rhetorical. “I should have listened to myself that day. I shouldn’t have texted you back. I should have just gotten myself off and not thought of you at all. I wouldn’t feel so deceived and humiliated right now.”
I take a step close to her. “Don’t feel humiliated, babe…” I begin but she looks at me and I see her face contort.
“Stay the fuck away from me, you fucking creep!” she yells. “You lied to me! You had a million chances to tell me. You had to wait until I told you I loved you to spit it back at me. To laugh in my face. Well, Arsen Hawke, or King Henry, from now on, you’re just Client 5 to me, okay. Some fucking loser who has to pay per the minute to get off.”
She turns away and walks toward 5th Avenue. The sun’s going down and it’s reflecting off the condos and co-ops lining the street across the Park.
“Ashley…” I call out, wondering if I should keep going after her. But she answers the question for me.
“Stay the fuck away, Arsen, or I’m screaming rape,” she says. She pauses for a minute and I think she’s going to turn around. As long as I can keep her talking.
“By the way, just in case you were wondering,” she says, still with her back turned to me. “I quit. I’d rather starve than work for you one more day.”
I watch her walk to the sidewalk and I swear to you it feels like someone just shot a hole at the bottom of my heart. I’ve never ever felt like this before. But you want to know what the worst part it?
It’s the feeling that I get because I know I fucking deserve this. That all my shit has come back to fucking haunt me. That it made me a cocky, arrogant, and selfish asshole that didn't realize there was anything wrong with what I did. And it hurt the one person in the world I wanted to hold and fucking protect. The one person in the world I love.
I watch as Ashley crosses the street and jumps into a cab. I don’t know if I’m imagining her looking at me as the cab drives away. The windows to the cab are rolled up so it’s hard to tell, but within a few seconds the cab is gone and it doesn’t fucking matter anymore.
I walk to the sidewalk, where Ashley had passed by just a few moments ago. People walk by me, into the park, out of the park, going uptown, going downtown, all caught up in their lives. I see girls walking dogs, a hot dog vendor packing up for the evening, a kid crossing the street with a kite. Everyone going about their business, in their own little worlds, not realizing that mine has just been blown to hell.
New York fucking City. The loneliest big city in the world.
Serves me right.
Ashley
I bite into the honey almond croissant, wiping a few flaky pastry bits from my lips. I watch as Yasmine sips her medium roast coffee. She ordered a chocolate croissant, which is an indulgence for her, and instead of biting into it, she's eyeing it suspiciously. She's one of those women who refuses to eat anything with sugar and butter 99% of the time in fear her ass will start ballooning out, but come on, we're both having brunch at Balthazar—one of those places where it's as if you've been transported to Montmartre at the turn of the century, yet it's still 2016, and it's still SoHo. In other words, you don't skip the pastries at this place. Besides, Yasmine had the body of a Victoria's Secret Angel from a young age, and she still maintains it. One pastry isn't going to do her in.
"You're lucky you weren't at the club last night," she says. "Some guy tried to pick me up like a bowling ball right on the stage. I lost my shit—like, really lost it, Ash."
"What happened?" I ask, my eyes going wide. And then I do a double take. “And what were you even doing on stage? You’re a house mom!”
Yasmine laughs.
“Just because I’m 35 doesn’t mean that I can’t dance from time to time, baby,” she says with an arched eyebrow. “Besides it makes me feel sexy.”
Oh wow. Now this is just what I need to get my mind off of missing Arsen.
“Feel sexy, Yasmine?” I ask, and lean in. “Who is he? Don’t tell me it’s one of the bouncers again!”
Again, Yasmine laughs and takes a sip of her champagne.
“Hardly,” she says. “And I can’t tel
l you. Call it attorney-client confidentiality.”
“So, he’s a lawyer?” I ask. She just smiles at me and stays silent. After a moment, I move on. “So what happened to the guy who tried to pick you up literally?”
"I hit him. Repeatedly. And then the bouncers showed up and asked me what the hell was going on. I had to recount the whole thing to them, and they asked me if I hit him open palmed—like a slap—or close fisted. Do I look like I'd slap someone?"
I watch as she balls her fist in reenactment. She has a point. Despite her small size, she's got a hard exterior. Cross her or her dancers, and she’ll come after you with the power of a MAC truck.
"No, you're right. I could picture you close fisting that asshole."
"It's like letting a dog piss in the middle of your living room, you know? Sure, I could've let the bouncer take care of him, but then he'd never learn. He'd do it again to some other girl, in some other club, and the cycle would never end."
"I guess you've got a point."
"I swear I need to get out of that place. The money's good, except on Mondays. Can you believe I danced for a solid 45 minutes and only made $25 on Monday? If that were a Friday night, I'd have made $500. My family keeps asking me when I'm going to get a real job—they know what I do, but they pretend like they don't. It's always awkward."
I nod my head in agreement. I can understand where she's coming from. I couldn't even tell my family about it. They still think I'm serving coffee somewhere while I try finding a place to put my Art History degree from Yale to use. But let's be real—serving coffee won't pay NYC rents.