His Redheaded Sl*t

by Vivian Ward

  “These,” I said, waving my hand in front of all the different rooms, “are for those who like privacy.”

  A look of understanding and recognition registered on Tyler’s face. He knew exactly what we were standing in; he just didn’t know much about it.

  Looking forward, I continued walking straight ahead of us. “And this,” I stopped in a much larger room than the private rooms, “is what I like to call the viewing room.”

  Tyler let this sink in for a moment as we peered into quite an enormous room that was completely empty.

  “Wait,” he said. “Is this what I think it is?” His face lit up like Christmas morning. “Do we have our very own voyeur room?”

  “Not only that,” I grinned and tapped on the glass. “But this is a two-way mirror so the people in the other room can never see who—or how many people—may be watching them. They can let their fantasies run wild.”

  If they want a hundred spectators, they’ve got it. If they’re new and hope only a single person is watching, they can imagine that, too. If they’re seasoned like Tyler and me and hope that fifteen men have their cocks out jerking it to every movement they make, let them think that’s exactly who’s watching.

  “This is genius!” Tyler said to me. “What’s the name of it going to be?”

  Smiling, I replied, “Club Kaswell.”

  Four years later, and I still think the club is the best thing that I’ve ever come up with. The only problem is finding someone to manage the club since my current manager is out on maternity leave and will be for quite some time.

  Normal protocol is typically two to three months, but at Club Kaswell, I put them on paid leave as soon as they begin to show. I could never put one of my pregnant employees at risk if things should get out of hand, and you never know who might be sexually attracted to pregnant women and try to proposition them to satisfy their own urges.

  Through the frosted glass of my window, I can see a carriage ride taking place along the riverfront and I can’t help but think of the upcoming Valentine’s dinner that we’re treating our members to. It’s one of the very select holidays that we celebrate in Club Kaswell and it’s the only day of the year that we go balls to the wall decked out, all in the name of love. Aside from New Year’s Eve, it’s no surprise that it’s one of the biggest days of the year.

  With Angela out for the next six to seven months, Tyler and I have been handling things on our own while trying to come up with someone to take her place. It’s not an easy task because we need someone with a keen eye to take care of inventory, someone who can dish out orders to get things done, and someone who the men will find aesthetically pleasing since this ideal candidate will be here close full-time and dealing with the customers on a regular basis.

  It’s a shame Angela got knocked up, but I can certainly understand how and why. She’s a tall, slender redheaded dominatrix with tits that would make any man drop to his knees. Well, any man except for me. I always have to be in control—in and out of the bedroom—and would never allow a woman to have that much power over me. Aside from her flawless pale skin and bright green eyes, she has a smooth southern drawl that she developed from her hometown of Mississippi.

  With just under two weeks to go, we have to start planning for Valentine’s Day. Tyler is handling the food and liquor order while I take care of decorations and accommodations. I cheated by calling Angela to see what we’d need for the event. It’s something that Tyler would never think to do in a million years, but I like taking the easy way out.

  I’d never have thought it’d be difficult to order table cloths, flowers, and balloons, but it is when you don’t know what you’re doing. Luckily, I got Angela to agree to make gift bags with sweets for each of the members. There’s no way I’d do it right and her OCD wouldn’t allow me to try.

  A slight knock at the door startles me from watching the horse trotting out of existence. “Mr. Kaswell?”

  “Yes, Nancy,” I say to my secretary as she makes her way into my office.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you, but I’ve gotten all of the files for the week finished. Would you like me to go ahead and file them or would you like them on your desk?”

  She has an armful of manilla envelopes and it looks like she may drop them any second, so I take them from her. “Are all of the inspections complete?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir,” she says, not willing to hand them over.

  “Let’s set some of these down,” I insist, looking at my watch. “You can file them on Monday. I didn’t realize it was already five after.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I was so wrapped up in trying to finish entering them all in the computer that I lost track of time.”

  “Well, let’s get out of here,” I say to her, setting the files on my desk.

  “Are you sure?” she asks again.

  “I’m sure. Come, let’s go. I have someplace I need to go,” I say, pulling my coat onto my shoulder. “And I don’t want to be late.”

  “Oh,” she says, scurrying out of my office. “Yes, sir. Have a good weekend, Mr. Kaswell.”

  “You too, Nancy,” I say to her as we take the elevator down to the lobby.

  The last thing I want to do is tell her that I’m heading to a floral shop because then she’ll ask if I’m dating someone. That’s one thing that Colton Kaswell doesn’t do and I’m not about to play twenty questions about who the flowers are for.

  2

  Working in a floral shop isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, but I don’t mind spending time with my best friend while I make a few bucks. Her family owns the place and because of Valentine’s Day, they need some extra help. Even though I’m busy working on my journalism internship as my day job, I couldn’t say no when she asked if I could cover evenings with her for the next couple of weeks. We’ve been inseparable since seventh grade and my first job was working for her parents.

  “That’ll be $38.55,” I say to the man across the counter as I ring up his order of long-stemmed red roses. Roses are a classic around here this time of year. You can tell a lot about a man from the way he orders flowers.

  Most men who are completely clueless waltz in here, pretending to know what to buy and they all go for the same thing: roses. I know it’s traditional for a husband to give his wife roses for Valentine’s Day, but it doesn’t have to be if you know what your woman likes.

  Take Mr. Lehman, for example. He and his wife have been married for almost 25 years. That man has been in here every year to order his wife daisies with baby’s breaths because those are her favorite. You’d never catch Mr. Lehman ordering her anything but those flowers because he knows his other half so well. I’ve met her a few times and she’d be insulted if he showed up with a bouquet of roses for her. She’d think he forgot what she liked.

  There’s also Mr. Harding who comes here for his wife’s birthday, their anniversary, and other special holidays. This man impresses us each time he visits the shop. His wife has quite a green thumb and plants are her life, so he rarely orders her flowers. Instead, he purchases various types of plants that his wife doesn’t have. We’ve not figured out how he knows what she does or doesn’t have because we all know where they live, and their yard is very exotic to say the least. My point is, that man pays attention and knows his wife inside and out.

  “Almost forty bucks for flowers?” he complains, removing his credit card from his wallet. “Man, I’m in the wrong business. Did you charge me for that card?” He points at the small rectangular card with a tiny, ‘I love you,’ scribbled on it above his signature.

  “No, sir, those come free with every order,” I reply. I hate when Valentine’s Day approaches. The floral shop gets so busy and it brings all of the crazies out in full force. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t wear a tinfoil hat when I come to deal with some of these people.

  I can’t wait until I finish my internship and I get my big break. I’ll finally be able to pursue my dream of being a journalist and report on some of the big
gest stories. Hopefully, everyone will know my name sooner rather than later. Writing has always been my passion. I’d say it was my first love. Actually, it’s my only love because I’ve never really had a boyfriend.

  I mean, sure, I’ve dated a few boys here and there but it’s never been anything serious. When my nose wasn’t buried in books, it was buried in my journal that I carried around and wrote in every day.

  Oh, what I wouldn’t do to write for one of the biggest media conglomerates out there! There’s nothing better than a juicy story spilling secrets, exposing cover-ups, or being the first to deliver big news. I’d love to be the one who could crack a story wide open and draw major attention to those headlines.

  Except there’s one problem: I hate being in the spotlight. I’ve never really felt comfortable in my own skin because I’ve always thought that I’m a bit on the awkward side. I’m not weird, or socially awkward or anything like that. I’ve always been able to make plenty of friends once I get used to people but when I’m around others, I feel pressure to act or look a certain way. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt that others look at me through a microscope and think that they can see all of my flaws and imperfections.

  Of course, I know this isn’t true but I can’t help but feel that way. Maybe that’s why I’ve always written so much. I think I feel more comfortable writing rather than talking. All of my words are carefully edited before I share them, which prevents others from seeing my errors and mistakes.

  I’d say that I’ve been practicing journalism since I was about nine-years-old. I still remember my first story. I’d heard rumors one of the third grade teachers, Mrs. H, who had been known to cuss and then later bribe the kids with Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pops as hush candy.

  Naturally, I began interviewing students and asking them questions about Mrs. H’s temper, how she behaved and whether or not there were any truth to the rumors. Some kids firmly nodded, sure that she’d bribed them with the chocolate-centered suckers. Others shrugged their shoulders, unsure as to what went on in their classroom. I never understood those kids. Either she bribed you or she didn’t, what could be so confusing about that? In my professional third grade opinion, those kids were mostly the dumb boys who never paid attention to anything anyway.

  Then one day, my teacher called in sick and we had Mrs. H because the principal decided to combine classes for the day. All day, I’d waited for the slip of the tongue or a foul-mouthed word to escape her lips and sure enough, it happened!

  We were watching movies that day since there were far too many of us to handle in an ordinary classroom setting. A couple of boys started arguing, then they started shoving one another, and before the fight could be broken up, one of them threw a punch that knocked a little girl’s glasses off her face and onto the floor. Of course, I have a photographic memory so I was—and still am—able to recount every tiny detail, and then Mrs. H said, “Damn it, boys!”

  A loud gasp immediately silenced the room as our two classes condemned her for cursing, especially since we were in a Catholic school. While she busied herself to get the next movie in and tried to regain order over the classroom, I pulled out my Lisa Frank notepad that was decorated in bright and colorful stickers to begin writing up my story.

  All afternoon, I crafted my masterpiece, detailing the events of the day that had transpired and what led to the naughty slip of the tongue. Just as I began to edit my story, she pulled out two bags of the infamous Tootsie Pops that had been branded as bribe suckers.

  When she got to me, I shook my head and declined her bribery. “Are you sure, Allison?” she asked me. I’ve always hated being called Allison; it sounds too formal, so I prefer Ally.

  Nodding, I said, “I’m sure.” She eyed me suspiciously as she made her way around the classroom, but let it go.

  At the end of the day, I’d finally completed my story. I was going to take my notebook to read it aloud to my teddy bears to get their expert opinion about it, but that’s not what happened.

  The class bully snatched my Lisa Frank notebook out of my hands and began reciting it to a small group of kids. Mortified that he was reading my work, I tried to get it back from him but he dangled the notebook over my head as he towered over me. Frustrated and angry, I punched him right in his stupid gut.

  Mrs. H saw the commotion and dragged both of us to the principal’s office. It was my first—and last—trip to his office, and I was terrified. At that age, I only knew of troublemakers being sent to his office and thought I’d be in so much trouble when I got home. I thought my parents would surely kill me if they knew I punched a kid and had been sent to see the principal.

  Sitting up straight and only answering with, “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir,” I tried my best to ease my punishment, hoping he’d go easy on me as a first-time offender. My stomach was in knots and my hands were so sweaty as I sat in front of his desk. The bully—Tommy Mitchell—said that I’d started the whole thing and that I’d punched him for no reason.

  The last thing I wanted to do was bring up my Lisa Frank notebook—it had very private information in it—but I had to if I was going to defend myself. By that evening, the principal, the teacher, and my parents had all read what I’d written. To my surprise, I didn’t get in any trouble and was let go with a slap on the wrist for punching Tommy Mitchell in the stomach. When I finally got to my room, my stuffed animals were very entertained by the story and thought I did a wonderful job, so I continued writing.

  In high school, I helped work on the school newspaper and since then, writing has just become part of who I am. It’s like writing is ingrained in me, so I decided to major in it. But until I make it big—or at least finish my internship—I’m content working with beautiful flowers and hearing the usual gossip that comes along with working beside Kristin and her family.

  After I finish waiting on my customer, I begin wiping down the counter when Kristin appears from the walk-in cooler.

  “Only 10 more days until Valentine’s. Are you ready?” She asks, popping up the drinking sprout on her giant water bottle. Kristin always has a constant supply of ice water.

  “Ugh, don’t remind me that it’s still ten days away. Were you able to get everything finished in the cooler or do you need some help?” I ask her, tossing my rag back into the bucket of bleach water.

  “Nah, I’ve got it all finished. When my brother gets back from his delivery, I’ll have him take out the trash and then it should be time to close up.”

  Getting out of the flower shop on time will be a nice change. We’ve been so busy lately that we’ve been stuck working late into the evening, despite the ‘Closed’ sign hanging on the door.

  Grabbing the broom, I begin sweeping the floor until a gust of cold wind comes whipping through the air, disrupting my pile of dirt and wilted leaves that I’d collected. Thinking it’s Kristin’s brother, James, coming back from a floral delivery, I open my mouth to protest but the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on steps inside the shop.

  Shaking the bitter February frost off of him as he warms up inside the building, he looks like a dream come true. Tall, dark, handsome, and professional.

  Stomping the snow off of his dress shoes, he catches me staring with my mouth gaping wide open. I immediately close it, embarrassed and can feel my face warming up despite the fact that the air around me is still cold from the door shutting.

  “Hello,” he says.

  His seductive, husky voice makes me want to melt. It’s so deep and sexy. “Hi,” I respond.

  As he takes in my appearance, I suddenly feel exposed like he can read my every thought and quickly look away so that he won’t know every little detail I’m thinking. Taking off his designer gloves, he tucks them away inside of his black coat pockets.

  “Can you help me?” he asks, smiling at me.

  I swear he knows that I think he’s hot as hell and is talking to me just to get a rise out of me. Kristin clears her throat in an exaggerated manner which is when I realize tha
t I need to answer him.

  “Y-yes, of course. What can I help you with?”

  “I’m hoping you can give me some advice. I need to order some centerpieces for the tables in my lounge on Valentine’s Day. What do you recommend?”

  Advice. Centerpieces.

  I nod because those are the only two words that I heard come out of his mouth. Resting the broom against the outside of the cooler, I walk behind the counter. “Sure, let me show you some of the options that we have.” Grabbing the tablet from under the countertop, I pull up the page with our centerpieces and hand it to him.

  He seems a little annoyed that I just handed him a tablet when he could’ve easily looked it up on the internet, but I’m glad he came in. While Mr. Gorgeous is scrolling through our website, Kristin nudges my leg with hers and smiles at me. My eyes pop out of my head as I shake my head no and mouth the words, “Stop it,” to her.

  “Okay, I’ve seen them,” he hands the tablet back to me. “Now, tell me what to order.”

  His tone is friendly, but I can tell that he’s not joking. He’s all business and very serious. My guess is that he’s never ordered flowers before. Judging by his expensive shoes and Armani suit, I’d say that he probably has someone who does those things for him. It makes me wonder why she’s not doing it and he is. Maybe he’s a jerk and she quit? Or what if he fired her?

  “It depends on the type of statement you’re trying to make,” I explain to him. “If you want something elegant and beautiful, I’d suggest one of our handmade arrangements. On the other hand, if you’d like something simple and cheap, we have some that come already thrown together.”

  As soon as the words ‘simple and cheap’ and ‘already thrown together’ come out of my mouth, I immediately regret them. Nothing about this man looks simple or cheap, and it was a dumb thing to say. Of course, he wants something fancy and expensive. Kristin kicks me under the counter, reminding me how stupid I can be sometimes.

  “No, I think I’d like to go with something handmade,” he says. “But I’m not sure what I need.” I shrug and the two of us begin to have a face-off as I wait for him to tell me what he needs and he waits for me to recommend what he needs. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he speaks again. “How about you meet me at my lounge and help me pick something suitable? I can show you the Valentine’s theme and we can go from there.”