Coming Undone (Club Voyeur Book 1)

by Kohl, Holland

  “Just my fucking luck,” I whispered under my breath. Blake sat outside the interview room, wearing a black suit and his best toupee, or maybe that was his real hair. I could never tell.

  Three chairs lined the wall of the waiting area. One chair stood empty, one buckled under the weight of Blake’s fat ass, and the other held his enormous briefcase.

  I rolled my eyes and paced the corridor. Of course he would take up two seats. I would rather stand than sit next to him and his wandering hands anyway.

  Blake eyed me up and down with a sneer on his face as I approached the waiting area. “Trying to appeal to the little brain I see.”

  “I could say the same about you. Your pants are so tight I can see your camel toe.”

  “That was low, even for you.” Blake feigned mock disgust, but the smirk on his face gave everything away. He enjoyed sparing with me just as much as I enjoyed a hot bath.

  “Not as low as sleeping with Gina and switching my hotel reservations,” I snapped.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He looked genuinely surprised, but I didn’t buy it. “You are crazier than I thought. And just a minute ago I was going to ask if you wanted to bury the hatchet.”

  I could think of at least three good places to bury the hatchet. Instead of letting Blake bait me into doing something regrettable, I decided to be the adult in the situation. “Blake, I think it’s best if we don’t talk. We’re both vying for the same job. Instead of trading insults with me, wouldn’t you rather sit quietly and prepare for the interview?”

  “Fine. I’ll leave you alone.” Blake sat back in his chair and pulled out a crossword. It was probably the only thing we had in common. I loved crosswords and wished I had one right now to calm my nerves.

  I paced back and forth trying to get out my excess energy. My overly rehearsed answers for the top ten most commonly used interview questions ricocheted around my brain in a jumble of fragments. I needed to pull it together and clear my mind. Because at this point, continued practice didn’t make perfect, it made insane.

  “Ahem.” Blake interrupted my flow.

  I snapped my head in his direction and looked down at him through narrowed eyes. A look of disgust crept onto my face.

  Blake sat up straighter and fixed the sleeves of his jacket. “I shouldn’t be offering to help you, given our history and all, but I’m feeling generous today. The person who interviewed before me said that he didn’t have enough copies of his resume. Mr. Sauvage wanted five copies to pass around at a meeting later today. If you don’t have extra copies, there’s a copy machine in the room across the hall.”

  I studied Blake’s face looking for any signs of deception. He looked innocent enough, for him, and more importantly I couldn’t fathom what he could possibly gain by advising me to make extra copies of my resume. I never thought I would I say the words to Blake, but they left my lips with ease. “Thank you.”

  I opened the door across the hall and sure enough an ancient copy machine sat against the back wall. I opened my briefcase and extracted my resume. After taking care to line the paper up properly on the glass, I typed in the number of copies I needed and pressed the large green button. Before the last copy left the machine, I heard a metallic clicking noise behind me. Swiveling on my heels, I turned and surveyed the room. Everything looked intact. Still, it bothered me that I had no idea where the sound came from. Not wanting to linger, I grabbed my copies from the tray. My heels made little clicking sounds as I sprinted for the door.

  Breathing heavier, I turned the doorknob. It didn’t budge. I tried turning it again. Fuck! Still stuck. I wiggled it back and forth to no avail. Son of a bitch! I turned sideways and rammed my shoulder into the door, just like they did in the movies. The door didn’t open or even budge for that matter, but my shoulder hurt like hell. Mother fucker! I should have known better than to take advice from Blake. How could he stoop so fucking low? If I missed the interview because of Blake, I would kill him. But first, I would rip his nuts off.

  I tried my cell phone. Marlowe could rescue me in two minutes if she hurried. I held my phone to my ear waiting for it ring, but it didn’t. No fucking signal! With my phone held high, I walked slowly around the room trying to pick up a bar. After trying every corner and zigzagging about, I shoved the phone in my purse and went back to the door.

  Maybe if I made enough noise someone would hear me when they walked down the hallway. With two clenched fists, I pounded on the door and screamed at the top of my lungs. “Help me, I’m locked in here. Somebody please help me!”

  My hands ached and my throat burned, but I persisted. If I stopped, it would be giving up. Sweat poured down my forehead into my eyes. I didn’t bother looking in a mirror, but I was sure my mascara had run and the rest of my makeup probably hung on my face like a drugstore Halloween mask. Smudges of dirt laced the sleeves of my once impeccable white blouse. I was a fucking mess.

  On the verge of a whopper of a panic attack, I gave one final battle cry and pummeled the door as hard as I could. With each blow, I saw my dreams of Paris slip away into a pool of black ink. “I’m ruined. Ruined.” I sobbed uncontrollably, hitting my head against the door and sliding slowly to a sitting position on the floor.

  “Hello.”

  Was I hearing things?

  “Hello. Are you trapped in there?” A muffled voice sounded through the door.

  “Yes. Yes please get me out of here!” Adrenaline filled my body, mobilizing me and giving me the energy I needed. Teetering from foot to foot, I started flattening wrinkles. This wasn’t over yet.

  ***

  How to make a terrible first impression by Eva Stone. First, arrive fifteen minutes late to an interview mumbling about being trapped in a closet. Second, have sweat dripping from your face, so much so, that the interviewer offers you his monogrammed towel. Third, use the towel to vigorously clean up, only to notice that you’ve permanently soiled it with mascara stains.

  With the theatrics of my arrival behind me, but not forgotten, one doesn’t ever forget such moments in life, I settled into my chair and tried to clear my mind from one recurring thought: There’s no way you’ll get the job now.

  Opening my chest with the infinitesimal arch of my back and tucking my chin slightly to project some semblance of power, I focused on Mr. Sauvage, who kindly poured me a glass of water. I wanted to explain the reason behind my appearance, but I had already done enough damage with my entrance. Men like Mr. Sauvage did not like to have their time wasted and they certainly did not want to hear excuses.

  “Miss Stone.” Mr. Sauvage’s voice was a tightly braided whip that licked at my exposed wounds. “Shall we begin? I have another interview after you.”

  He could have spared me the reminder. I knew there was a lot of competition for the position and my odds of getting it plummeted the second I trusted Blake. Still, I wouldn’t go down without a fight. I nodded my head and took a gulp of water.

  “I have read your resume Miss. Stone.” Mr. Sauvage looked down his patrician nose at a piece of paper that I presumed was my resume and then looked back at me. I fought the urge to flinch under his glare. “It is quite impressive,” he continued, “But everyone we invited to interview for the job has an impressive resume. I want to know why you think you are the most qualified for the job? I don’t want to hear about how much you love working for Kohler-Phillips or how much you like Paris. No bullshit Miss Stone. What can you bring to the table?” He made a steeple with his fingers and leaned back in his chair.

  I took another sip of water and mentally deleted all of my prepared answers. He wanted raw, not rehearsed. Speaking from the cuff, I began. “Well, if you’ve read my resume you know that I have a degree in organizational psychology from NYU. I think my background in psychology sets me apart from other realtors by making me more perceptive to my clients’ needs. Every time I am with my clients, I observe them and pick up on subtle cues that tell me which home will be the right fit. I then use this inform
ation to make the sell.”

  Mr. Sauvage leaned forward in his chair, letting me know I had at least piqued his interest.

  “Instead of showing a client four or five homes before I know what they want. I can usually make a sale after only one or two showings.” I crossed my arms confidently, “I’m that good.”

  Mr. Sauvage grinned and leaned back in his chair. Was he buying it? Or did he think I was a joke? I couldn’t tell. I studied his features and waited for his response. A wide angular jaw and goatee gave his face a ruggedly handsome appeal. If I saw him on the street, I would definitely look twice. In his current state, I found him quite intimidating.

  Mr. Sauvage’s deep voice earned my full attention. “Very interesting Miss Stone. Despite your appearance, you are very good at selling yourself. Let us see if you are really as good at selling real estate as you claim. I have a little test for you. I want you to read me and tell me what type of condo you would sell me.”

  “In Paris or New York?” I asked, excited by the challenge.

  “To be fair to you, New York.” His haughty chuckle did nothing to deter me. I was going to nail this challenge.

  I looked around the room for clues about Mr. Sauvage’s personal life. If this were his private office, the task would be much easier. His desk was not just neat and tidy, but organized to the OCD power. Everything had a compartment and a home. How the hell does one stack paper clips? His chair was sleek black leather with a chrome base. His suit screamed money, but instead of being stuffy, he infused youth and a bit of whimsy into his appearance with a modern black wool John Varvatos tie and revolver cuff links. His shoes, black Italian leather wingtips, matched the sophistication of his suit. I wanted to see the inside his briefcase, but didn’t dare ask.

  I cleared my throat and tried to sound authoritative. “Mr. Sauvage, you mix modern and classic elements and seem to favor neat and clean lines. If I were selling you a condo in New York City, I would show you the penthouse in the Tribeca Munitions building. It has — ”

  He cut me off with a raised finger. “I am quite familiar with the building. I am actually considering making a purchase there. Thank you Miss Stone. You are very perceptive indeed. Now, let us continue with the interview.”

  Mr. Sauvage stood and walked behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders and squeezed gently. I wanted to slink away from his touch, but held steady. This was high stakes. I needed to see where he was going with this before making a scene.

  “Miss Stone, if you get this job, you will be working closely with me for very long hours. I need to know if we are,” he cleared his throat, “compatible.”

  Cold chills raced up and down my spine. I remained frozen, unable to move a limb, holding my breath. I heard a quiet sound that I imagined was the teeth of his zipper coming apart. I could handle the innuendo, but unzipping his pants crossed the line. Jumping out of my chair, I whipped around and faced him head on. Mr. Sauvage, if you think I am going to get this job by lying on my back, you have another thing coming.”

  He didn’t appear shocked or angry. An amused smile graced his lips, followed by the slow steady clapping of his hands. “Bravo Miss Stone, you passed another test.”

  I stared at him dumbfounded. My eyes darted to his pants, which appeared to be zipped up. Was he really testing my moral integrity or just covering his ass to avoid a lawsuit? Either way, his tactics were questionable at best.

  Walking back around the desk, he sat back down in his leather chair. “Thank you Miss Stone. I will let you know if you get the job by the end of Friday.” He motioned for me to leave with a dismissive wave of his hand and then pulled out another resume and started reading it.

  Raged rippled underneath my calm veneer. I wanted to rip that resume out of his hand and shove it down his throat. Instead, I grabbed my bag and stomped out of the room. Paris was dead. My chance to start over in a new place far away from the man who broke my heart - ruined.

  Chapter 5

  My borrowed fuck-me pumps kept slipping, threatening to send me sprawling onto the floor in a heap of embarrassment. It was par for the course given that I was buried in four feet of foam gyrating to electronic dance music with a drunk infused grin plastered across my face. This was not how I envisioned my night, but nothing had gone as planned on this trip, so why start now?

  Marlowe and I ditched the conference hotel and started my pity party off right at the Club Voyeur lobby bar. In typical Club Voyeur style, almost every surface was Lucite, glass, or mirrored. After four shots and every passerby asking us if we were going to the foam party tonight, it didn’t take much convincing on Marlowe’s part to get me into the basement of a sex club.

  With frenetically paced music and flashing lights, oh yeah and cannons that shot foam everywhere, I was at my first scantily clad rave. The foam reminded me of whipped topping. The men with their shirts off were the cherries on top. I didn’t care if the men were probably all perverted voyeurs who liked to watch, I wanted to be seen. After being totally debased by Mr. Sauvage, I needed to feel like somebody.

  The interview had diminished me to ant status. Before, I held promise. Inertia pushed me toward my career goals. The sky was the limit, and all of the other clichés you find on posters in your high school guidance counselor’s office. Mr. Sauvage crushed everything. My dreams were scum under his polished rich-boy shoes. I had nothing left but to listen to my bestie and ask myself: What would Marlowe do? WWMD was the new YOLO.

  Sopping wet, my peach silk dress clung to every curve leaving nothing to the imagination. The alcohol had me so buzzed, I didn’t even care that I was sans bra and my headlights were on. The bartender poured a shot of his “special” tequila in my mouth and I followed it with some salt and a wedge of lime. I closed my eyes and let my body sway with the music.

  Songs blurred into new ones but the beat remained constant, thrumming through my veins, controlling my movements. I danced in a state of pure bliss until my buzz started to wane. My eyes snapped open, but everything around me held a dreamlike quality. I scanned the crowd and found a familiar face.

  In the center of writhing bodies, Max stood unmoving, staring at me. His perfectly sculpted abs glistened with a sheen of foam, water, or sweat - I couldn’t tell, nor did I care. I wanted to lick my way down his chest and see what he was hiding under his white Calvin Klein briefs that glowed seductively in the black light.

  What’s gotten into you?

  The fleeting thought was chased out of my brain by my raging libido carrying a pitchfork. My eyes drank in Max’s body like a fine wine, lingering on every hard cut, before finally meeting his face and then his eyes. His grin was all teeth, predatory, hungry. The fire in his eyes was more telling than any love letter. Although I was quite sure love was the last thing on his mind.

  I waved him over and enjoyed watching the movement of his hard body as he snaked his way through the crowd. Max’s friendly face was exactly what I needed right now. Marlowe had left my side almost immediately after we arrived and was somewhere in the crush with Will and Aaron. I hoped Max was in the mood to dance, because I could go all night.

  Crave You by Flight Facilities blasted over the sound system. With my arms in the air swaying to the beat of the music, I closed my eyes and threw my head back. An intoxicating and familiar scent encapsulated me, but I couldn’t place it. Hands grabbed my waist, bringing me back down from my temporary high. Max greeted me with a hearty peck on the cheek and a lingering hug.

  He leaned in close, his breath hot on my ear sending shivers down my spine. “You look smoking hot.”

  I grinned. That was the point. Marlowe did my makeup and picked out my clothes. I rocked smoky eyes and dewy lips. My dress landed mid-thigh and the heels showed off my toned legs. “Thank you,” I mouthed and rubbed my hands down his rippling abs. Hooking my fingers in his belt loops, I pulled him closer and spoke into his ear. “I really like your ensemble.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you like it.” He gave me a wicked grin and off
ered me his hand. “Let’s go dance.”

  I took his hand, which dwarfed mine, and wondered if other parts of his body were proportionately as large. Max led us onto an open area of the dance floor. Lost in the music, the moment, and his eyes, I didn’t have a care in the world. I rubbed my hands up Max’s chest and down his back as we danced. I didn’t know why I kept touching him, I usually wasn’t so touchy, especially with someone I barely knew, but he drew me in with his magnetism.

  Max’s hands found my waist, pulling me close. “I’m glad I ran into you tonight.” He yelled over the music.

  “Me too,” I yelled back and burst into a fit of giggles. Suddenly everything seemed hilarious. Giggling, I picked up some foam and blew it in the air. The foam sparkled in the multicolored lights as it floated down onto a sea of bodies like snow.

  I love foam. Foam is so pretty.

  I picked up more foam and put it on Max’s chest forming a white fluffy bra. “This is so much fun, but what is all the foam for?” I yelled.

  With a naughty smile, Max pulled me even closer. I felt his bulge grow hard on my thigh. My eyes widened and I involuntarily licked my lips. He ground his hips into me, sending little jolts of pleasure between my legs. “What happens in the foam stays in the foam,” he yelled.

  “You are so hot. You are like hunky farm boy hot,” I babbled.

  “And you’re gorgeous.” His hands slid under my dress and cupped my ass.

  Horny as hell, I looked around and saw several couples doing more than just grinding and dancing. Next to us, a muscular middle-aged man’s arm moved like a piston in short back and forth movements as he fingered the girl he danced with. A blonde surfer-boy type kissed the same girl’s neck and tweaked her nipples. I pointed at the threesome. “I want to do that!”

  “That could certainly be arranged.” Max’s grin darkened along with his eyes. “Why don’t we get to know each other a little before we add a third?”