Ruby Ink (Clairmont Series Novel Book 1)

by L. J. Wilson

  “Yes… anything.”

  “Excellent… that’s excellent, Ness.” He withdrew from her, grabbing a plush hand towel. “Because to answer your question from earlier, your presence here isn’t without risk. My darling bride isn’t on her way,” he said, tossing the towel onto floor. “She’s already here.”

  One Year Earlier

  There was money on the dresser and a lost look in her eyes—murky hazel irises and encroaching bloodshot edges. Underneath was a yellowish bruise, a fading reminder of on-the-job risks. A man met her gaze in the mirror. His eyes weren’t lost. Just the opposite, the client was more together than any she recalled—of course, that wasn’t saying much. Men, drugs, and sleazy hotel rooms. It wasn’t like you kept a scrapbook in her trade. Men were meant to be a way out. She would finish art school. Leave the city. But it was tough to save while feeding a habit—a vicious circle, or so the girl had learned.

  This trick was high-end. He could score better than a hooker with a habit in a shabby room on Bower Street. A glance at his hands screamed professional manicure. She nearly laughed out loud. She’d once had a roommate who took a cosmetology course—nails were her specialty. Although, in the end, the roommate had ended up in a dumpster behind the cosmetology school. And this man, he wasn’t close-your-eyes ugly. He made the girl think of Gone With the Wind’s Rhett Butler—smaller ears. Dashing, that was the word. Her nana loved that movie.

  The girl arched a brow and veered off memory lane. It was a stupid wrong turn with any john. At least she’d scraped what little was left of her junk into a drawer. She’d wised up to that after getting fucked and robbed and beaten her first week on the job. Soon as she had an extra buck, she was going to get a lock for the drawer. Maybe a gun. Better yet, a different life.

  “It’s your hour,” the girl said, unzipping her boots and kicking one off.

  “Wait.” The john held up a hand. “That’s not why I’m here.”

  Her radar went up as she calmly continued to remove the other boot. If she needed to run, she needed even footing. “You gonna fuckin’ arrest me? You go talk to po-po Krebbs. That’s my corner in exchange for two freebies a month. You fuckin’ ask him—wife’s a cold bitch.”

  The man loosened his tie. He needed this to go smoothly, and the surroundings had ruffled him in an unlikely way. He had memories of his own attached to a place like this. “I’m not with law enforcement,” he told her.

  “Then what?” she said. “Oh, do you like to do the undressing? You need a warm-up, like this is a relationship or something?”

  “I’m not here to employ you. I’m here to help you.”

  “Help me?”

  “Yes. I know you want out of this life.”

  “Yeah. Thanks but I got representation. Silas Brikk, he owns this building. In exchange for a percent, I get the room and we’re cool. So fuck off, suit,” she said, moving toward the door.

  “Wrong again. I’m not a pimp.” Her suggestion rattled him all the more. He’d never sink to such depths. In fact, the man had found a less gritty and far more profitable way to earn a living. There was no need to dirty one’s hands—not unless you had a damn good reason.

  “Brikk’s no handler either. At least that’s what he’ll tell you. And so what? You’re like a fucking fairy godmother?” she said, her eyes drifting down his expensive suit.

  “I see no need to label either of us. But I do know you’re in trouble. I’d like to help.” He assumed there would be an advantage in surprise. He also assumed she’d jump at the chance. There was incalculable desperation in the life that surrounded her.

  With her hand on the doorknob, the girl’s body twisted around. “You’d like to help. Look, I ain’t interested in religious cults. Other than that, it would only make you the kind of sick bastard who trolls working girls, looking for something fresh to chain to your basement pipes. Thanks. But I’ll stick with Brikk. And if he finds out your messin’ with his… occupants, he won’t be too happy.”

  He suspected she’d be stubborn. Brikk had warned him. He could see it. Stubbornness applied in the wrong manner could land someone in a place like this. “Silas Brikk doesn’t concern me.”

  “Brave fucker, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve no idea.” The room grated on him, almost a duplicate of the dingy Hamburg flat he’d grown up in—a place where his mother scrubbed the floors and fucked the landlord for rent. “Actually,” he said, refocusing, “I’m wondering how brave you are?” From his jacket pocket, he produced an envelope and tossed it onto the bed. “There’s a plane ticket to California, all the paperwork needed for admittance to one of the best rehab facilities in the country—$1,000 in cash.”

  She was having a hard time deciding between religious zealot and nut, but crossed the room and looked inside the envelope. It was exactly what he said. “What the…” A look, slightly less lost, flicked to him. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I told you. Someone who wants to help. Now,” he said, gripping her arm, “you can take what I’m offering, an all-expense paid chance at a new life. Or you can use the money, cash in the ticket, and shoot it all up your arm.” He observed the track marks that dotted her sallow skin. “Your way, I’d say you’re dead within a year. I’ve seen the results of your demons,” he said, recalling his father. The room and the girl, they evoked memories of a drunk who beat him regularly. The empty bottles aimed at his head. It had been a quiet odd morning when the son found his father doing neither, staring still and open-eyed at the peeling ceiling.

  The girl didn’t know what say. The man wasn’t without a point, several in fact. She thought of the glorious week of nirvana that kind of cash would buy. She did the fast math, thinking how many cocks she wouldn’t have to fuck. It sounded sweet compared to the pain and DTs and forever battle she’d face if she took him up on it—whoever the hell he was.

  At the same time, the man thought, “Take it, you fool…” Had someone offered, if he didn’t have to claw his way out… Perhaps the desire to win at all cost might have had a limit.

  The girl’s bleary gaze stretched across the room. In a corner chair sat an old Teddy bear—a small piece of her life before her life was this. Every day the bear seemed to shrink smaller into the corner. Fingering the cash, her brow knotted. “What do you want in return? I’m not that stupid—and pardon me for saying, but you don’t look all that charitable.”

  A low breath seeped out. He hadn’t planned on being questioned. “If and when you’re clean and sober, we’ll talk about what I want. Believe me, you’re the smallest part of any investment.”

  “Okay,” she said, shrugging a skeletal shoulder. “I’ll do it.”

  The response matched her background—a bright girl who made impulsive choices. Savvy enough to grab a lifeline when it was offered. “Excellent,” he said, looking at his Rolex. “I’m glad we were able to come to agreement.”

  “What do I have to lose?” The girl looked at the stuffed bear. If she wasn’t half jacked, she’d swear it was smiling. “And, um, right now, you don’t want anything in return?”

  “I did come a long way.” He reached again to his jacket pocket. A small plastic bag filled with cocaine emerged. “The day just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it? I assume your treatment doesn’t officially start until you touch down in California.” He produced another crisp hundred-dollar bill, like it was Monopoly money. Ten minutes later, they’d both indulged enough to smooth any edges.

  She brushed a trembling hand across her nose. She got that he needed to be high to do this, fuck a prostitute. She wondered if he ever had. “I do most anything,” she said, laying out the ground rules, of which there were none.

  He undid his belt and unzipped his pants. “We’ll keep it basic.” He twisted a watch that she thought he could trade for the deed to the building. “You can start by dropping to your knees like I’m an altar. And being as I just saved your life, show your appreciation.” His stiff cock sprang into her line of vision. She
went to work, giving him what he’d asked for. Most cocks, literally… anatomically, didn’t last all that long. The prospect of a sure thing had that effect. But his stamina didn’t fit the norm—or maybe the nose candy had him stuck in neutral. She’d seen that. After a solid fifteen minutes, the girl wondered if he’d OD’ed on Viagra. Her jaw ached. For as much as he professed concern, that thought seemed to have vanished. Instead, his hands burrowed hard into her skull, forcing her mouth harder and deeper.

  For a few minutes, he was an ordinary john, calling her the kind of names that men like to use—whore, cunt, bitch. What did it matter? She often thought about putting them in a book—the handyman’s vernacular for getting blown. Yet, he didn’t reach the kind of earth-shattering climax that men gratefully crashed into.

  “Oh, fuck it,” he muttered, yanking her to her feet. He rolled on a condom and steered her to a wall. She wore a faux leather skirt, and he shimmied it up over her ass, ripping off a G-string. “If you don’t mind, I prefer not to fuck you on your sheets. God only knows what’s lurking on them.”

  It wasn’t an unlikely scene, but there was something different in the way he went about his business. Her hands braced hard against cracked plaster, his violent thrusts saying he didn’t give a shit about her. Typical behavior—just not for a guy who’d claimed to have shown up offering salvation.

  He finally came, grunting, backing off as soon as she’d served her purpose. He shouldn’t have made that mistake—instead of sexual pleasure, his mind had been awash with more past. Visions of his mother performing the same deeds, acts he witnessed in horrified glimpses, peering out from the closet where she insisted he wait. He cleared his throat and the memory. That life was over, long gone—as was his mother. Never having removed his suit jacket, the man tucked his dress shirt back into his trousers and checked his watch. He reiterated his plan for the girl to get clean, like it was small talk after a board meeting. Then he left.

  She darted for the envelope, making sure she hadn’t hallucinated the money and new life part. Looking at the outside, she realized something. The guy wanted more than her sobriety. Tina—that was her street name. The name Officer Krebbs knew her by, the one she always gave so johns might have something to shout besides “bitch”—though they rarely did. Written on the outside of the envelope was her real name—Tandy.

  “Waitstaff duty, seriously?” Honor said. She and Aaron stood at the entrance of Abstract Enchantment’s dining room, surveying the hustle of finishing touches. “I can’t believe Stefan asked you to do that.”

  “Why? Were you under the impression he thought it was below me?”

  “Not above you or below you,” she said, weighing her words, “just not what you do.”

  “Well, for the big taste testing, it is.” He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal, especially if you need the help.”

  “That’s just it,” Honor said, glancing up at him. “I’m not sure I do. Between Chloe and what staff I have, I thought I was in good shape. If anything, I was wondering if Troy would help. Stefan asking you that, it makes me wonder if it’s a lack of faith in me.”

  “I’m sure he’s just being extra cautious. All of corporate is descending on him… and you,” he said, which was more to Aaron’s point.

  “I suppose.” Honor craned her neck, watching the ongoing shuffle of dining tables. “Not too close,” she said to the work crew. She turned back to Aaron. “I thought that after Stefan called me to his office, and we went ahead and signed the con—”

  “Hey, Aaron, that you?”

  Aaron turned toward the streetwise voice.

  Honor moved away, deeper into the dining room. “No, now you’ve got them too far apart,” she said. “And don’t put tables for six so close to the tables for two.”

  “Yeah, it is you! Damn, I didn’t know you was out!”

  “Louie T.” Aaron shook the slim hand that was offered to him. “Yeah—can you believe it?”

  “Actually, I can’t,” Louie T said, looking him over. “I thought you were doing deuce decades, plus five, minimum.”

  “Me too,” said Aaron. “Good behavior, overcrowding. That was the dope on my expedited parole.”

  “No shit? Never heard of that kind of time gettin’ cut. Especially on attempted murder.”

  Aaron cleared his throat, the crime always sticking. “Yeah, well, you know Biddeford. For as many rules as they got, more of them end up broken.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” he said. “Anyways, you and me, we lost track after I moved to the country club.” It was inmate lingo for Medway, a minimum-security prison and the usual progression for parolees.

  “Guess we did.” Aaron had thought about that, how odd it was that he’d never done a day at Medway, going straight from hardcore Biddeford to his own bed.

  “Ah, same shit, basically,” Louie said, which sounded like an explanation. “One less gun tower, same barbed wire.” He laughed. “So you’re workin’ here? Paint crew or ditch diggin’?”

  “Uh, neither,” Aaron said. “I’m working with Tully Weeks, helping to get the place up and running. Then I’m… Well, I’m supposed to take over as assistant manager.”

  “No shit?” Louie T said again. “How’d you score that gig?”

  “Long story. My sister had a connection and… Just a strange stroke of luck for a guy from our side of the tracks.”

  “Damn, Aaron, you weren’t no street punk—ever. I know that kind, different stink.”

  “Well, the DA, the judge. To them it stunk pretty bad.”

  “Hey, uh, being as I run into you… I wanted… Well, I wanted to thank you. I woulda written you a note, but I runned outta personal stationery.”

  “Is that right?” Aaron said, smiling. Louie T, he’d always managed to keep his sense of humor. “Thank me for what?”

  “For lookin’ out for cons like me. I mean, nobody expects that kind of help from a guy doin’ time for your crime.”

  “Don’t know what you mean,” Aaron said, looking down at Louie, whose slight build had made him a Biddeford favorite target.

  “Yeah, Aaron, you do. You can let your badass image go out here. There’s at least a hundred guys up at Biddeford who owe you their balls and then some. Cons who woulda been fair game in that place—becomin’ somebody’s missus or gettin’ beat in some unhappy way. You took your shots at Biddeford. But it was always some fucker who deserved it.”

  He shrugged. “Like everybody else, Louie, maybe you just saw it the way you needed to.” Aaron’s glance scanned their surroundings—an old prison habit. He flexed his weaker right fist, a fact that had caused him to perfect a searing southpaw in Biddeford. “But if it helped you out… we’re cool. No thanks necessary.”

  “Helped me out?” Louie T said, incredulous. “Just so you know, aside from me, you left a list of cons up at Biddeford who owe you. They ain’t what I’d call ‘good people—’ could be why they’re doin’ time. But guys like that, they don’t forget, and they know when they owe somebody.”

  “Nobody owes me anything, Louie. I did worse crimes than most. I just got lucky in the end.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya. Besides, return favors is tough seein’ as most of those guys are gonna have a Biddeford return address for the next half century, but still—”

  “Louie,” Aaron said, gripping his southpaw around his shoulder. “Let it go. I’m trying to.”

  “Okay, I hear ya, Aaron. We won’t talk anymore past, crimes, or debt.”

  “Good. Now, what is it they have you working on?”

  Before Louie could answer, Honor was back by his side. She frantically waved her cell phone at him. “That was Stefan. He wants lunch for two in one of the private dining rooms.” Honor’s worried gaze moved to the Japanese-inspired screens that hid four private dining suites. They weren’t on the schedule to be finished until after the corporate taste testing. “Nothing’s arrived for those dining rooms. Not a stick of furniture. I wasn’t prepared to serve lunch. I’m focused on
tomorrow’s menu.” She looked like she might cry.

  “Okay, don’t panic,” Aaron said. “Louie, out on the back deck there are wicker tables and chairs. Grab one set and take it into that first dining room.” He looked at Honor. “Will that work?”

  “Uh, yes… I think so,” she said, her fingers running through her silky hair. “But it’ll still be kind of barren. Those dining rooms were the last on the decorator’s list. And never mind that, what the hell am I going to serve for lunch?”

  “Honor,” he said, “you can do this. Just go to the kitchen, whip up something fantastic, romantic for two. Let me worry about the room.”

  “Why? Is décor suddenly your specialty?”

  “Not mine.” Aaron grabbed a walkie-talkie from his hip. “Shauna, Aaron. Can you do me a favor?”

  Static buzzed. “Sure. What’s up?”

  “All that designer crap that arrived for the carriage house last week, there was frilly, giant throw pillows, wall art… stuff like that, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Can you bring some it over to fill out one of the private dining rooms?”

  For a moment there was no static, no reply. “Uh… I think so. The, um, carriage house… Stefan was using it earlier. But I think he’s… done. So yes, I suppose.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled at Honor. “Looks like your décor is all set. Just worry about the lunch.”

  She sighed, touching Aaron’s arm. “Thank you. I realize that was irrational. I’ll be fine now.” Shaking her head, Honor went on her way to the kitchen.

  Aaron turned toward the windows that bordered the deck where he’d sent Louie T and followed. To his surprise, Louie had sense enough to enlist help, a few workers transporting one table for two and chairs inside. “I got this, boss,” Louie said, passing by Aaron.

  “Thanks,” Aaron said, unsure how much he liked having a living, breathing Biddeford reminder on the payroll. But hell, even Louie T deserved a second chance. The men disappeared, leaving Aaron alone on the wide deck. He’d avoided this spot in recent weeks. He drew closer to the deck’s edge. A wedge swelled in his throat, and his arms pressed hard into the rail as he allowed himself to look toward the lake. The view was partially eclipsed, high reeds showing only a glimpse of the beach. The idea of Stefan marrying there, on that beach… Aaron sucked in a shaky breath. It wasn’t his beach… or their beach anymore. He needed to get that through his head. Just as he looked away, Aaron saw a flash of movement—a dark-haired figure moving in between the reeds. His hands, even the damaged one, gripped tight to the rail. He blinked hard. It was his mind playing tricks. It had to be. There was a woman, far enough in the distance that his brain saw whatever it wanted. And it wanted to see Ruby.