Strum Me

by Allison, Ketley

  Strum Me

  Ketley Allison

  Copyright © Mitchell Tobias Publishing, 2020

  Cover Design © 2019 Mayhem Cover Creations

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Visit Ketley Allison’s official website at www.ketleyallison.com for the latest news, book details, and other information.

  Sign up for Ketley’s newsletter to receive a FREE full-length book by her!

  Contents

  1. McKenna

  2. Mason

  3. McKenna

  4. Mason

  5. McKenna

  6. McKenna

  7. Mason

  8. McKenna

  9. Mason

  10. McKenna

  11. Mason

  12. McKenna

  13. Mason

  14. McKenna

  15. Mason

  16. McKenna

  17. McKenna

  18. Mason

  19. McKenna

  20. Mason

  21. McKenna

  22. Mason

  23. Mason

  24. McKenna

  25. McKenna

  26. McKenna

  27. McKenna

  28. Mason

  29. Mason

  30. McKenna

  31. McKenna

  32. Mason

  33. McKenna

  34. Mason

  35. McKenna

  36. McKenna

  Also by Ketley Allison

  About the Author

  1

  McKenna

  “Turns out, Amy’s mom is a porn star.”

  The woman whispers it to her friend as they sit across from me at the exclusive dinner table in the middle of the restaurant.

  “More bread, sweetheart?”

  I cut my attention to my date as he offers me a basket of bread rolls. I take one, chewing idly.

  “Never could resist the carbs, could you, darling?” my date—Charles, is it?—asks.

  He leans over to whisper into my ear. “Just make sure some of that fat hits your ass. I like my women juicy.”

  I smile through the dry crumbs in my mouth. He makes a doting clucking sound, then dabs the corners of my lips with his napkin that he’s dipped in his water glass. I let him.

  His salt and pepper hair—more salty than peppery—is slicked back from his rugged, pock-marked face. The paunches in his jaw match his rotund belly, masked by a specialty tailored suit that costs more than my bi-annual rent.

  “How did you come to know she was a porn star?” the woman’s friend asks as she reaches for her wine. “Don’t tell me it came up during school pick-up.”

  The woman—I think her name is Judy, she’s Charles’s neighbor—tsk-tsks. “It was Susan’s husband that found out. He swears he ‘accidentally’ fell upon a website advertising this mother’s … skills, but we all know the truth. He watches porn non-stop at night because Susan’s not adventurous enough in bed, or maybe he’s just bored being a stay-at-home dad. Then he stumbles upon his daughter’s best friend’s mother’s breasts, and probably decides to jack off to them before informing the parents of the entire class.”

  “Despicable,” her friend replies.

  I’ve forgotten her name, but both of them are bottle-blonde, heavily Botoxed, and doused in expensive perfume where each woman’s scent is at war for my nose’s attention.

  “Who?” Judy titters. “Susan’s cardboard sex life or her husband’s dark net trysts?”

  Her friend giggles into her wine glass.

  “Ladies,” Charles says, resting against his chair and slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Should we get down to it, or what?”

  “Of course, Charles,” Judy says, angling away from her friend and, at last, resting her gaze on mine. “But I’m not quite sure why you brought your date to a co-op meeting in a restaurant. Aren’t you bored, darling?”

  “Not at all,” I say as I lift my gin martini, and I mean it. I only allow myself one drink while on dates, and this one has become necessary. “Tell me, does Amy’s mom have her own website, or did this guy find her on one of those free streaming sites?”

  Charles coughs into his bourbon while Judy startles. He says, “Jane. Honey. Let’s not get into the details.”

  “I’m only curious,” I say to Charles with my best simpering tone.

  Judy’s friend shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “You weren’t supposed to have heard that.”

  I offer an apologetic smile. “These young ears of mine. They tend to get piqued when forbidden sex is mentioned.”

  Judy nearly chokes on her red wine.

  “Jane,” Charles warns.

  “Oh, dear,” I say to him under my breath. Meanwhile, my hand finds Charles’s thigh and begins a slow rub, up … up … up. “Have I gone too far?”

  Charles’s hips move enough to spoon his shaft into my palm. It’s small, thick, and rigid through the fabric of his pants. No one else at the table has noticed.

  He clears his throat. “Let’s move to the first topic of our agenda, shall we? I’m sure we all have places we’d rather be than discussing this year’s budget for the condo.”

  “I don’t know,” Judy’s friend says with a smile. “Attending New York’s premiere steakhouse and offering unlimited bottles of wine to your neighbors does have its perks, Charles.”

  “Yes, well.” Charles opens his binder of notes with a frown.

  Meanwhile, I’ve slipped into his pants and I’m giving him the chub-rub of his life. His cheeks redden with the exertion of keeping his groans contained. “My aim is to have this done before you’ve hit your third bottle, Karen.”

  Properly chastised, Judy’s friend Karen quiets down. The rest of the table, previously absorbed in their own conversations, move their attention to Charles as he makes his announcements for the new year.

  As he talks through his bullet-points, his voice remains steady, his shoulders relaxed, and his fingers easy as they turn pages. But his dick is hot and pulsing, along with his cheeks, and he dabs at his forehead with his napkin as he continues with his speech.

  “Furthermore, the special assessment will have—will have to—be, uh—oh, fuck—”

  Charles’s hands grip the edge of the table, causing plates and glasses to lightly clatter.

  I smile serenely as I remove my hand and settle it onto my lap, where I give it a nondescript wipe with my napkin under the table.

  Judy is aghast. “Charles!”

  “You all right, man?” someone asks, the only other male at the table.

  “The bourbon,” Charles says once he rights himself. “My mouth is much too dry to be making such long speeches. Tony, please take the lead on the next item of our agenda while I wet my palette.”

  “Excuse me,” I say to the table as I rise. “While I go to the ladies’ room.”

  No one gives me a second glance, certainly not the ladies across from me, but that’s how I prefer it. I’m nothing but a ghost attending this function, forgettable to everyone except my client. Even my name is nothing special, Jane Landers, a deliberate ruse that’s completely at odds with my occupation. Jane Landers should be an accountant, a tax auditor, or perhaps even an attorney. Certainly not an escort. It’s exactly the moniker that my clientele love, because when it comes to introductions at social
gatherings, who would ever suspect Miss Jane Landers of handcuffing them to shower rods and spanking them until they come all over their Calcutta marble bathroom tiles?

  I straighten the hem of my modest, yet tight and curve-hugging black dress, and amble over to the restrooms with the full knowledge that the only other male at the table—Tony—is eyeing my ass the entire way, despite his wife jabbing him with her elbow to quit it.

  So far, it’s been a successful night, probably topped off with one last go-around at Charles’s penthouse apartment before I can get home and finish my written deadline by midnight.

  It’s thoughts of my writing—the perfect story I’m crafting—that whittle into my mind as I trek through the crowded restaurant to the restrooms on the other side, and I really should be batting them away. I refuse to let my true self sift into my fake persona, as it can become too diluted and confusing and often results in mistakes. I’ve seen too many girls in my occupation fall victim to feelings that should never come into play while transforming into a client’s fantasy woman.

  But this story idea of mine. It could turn into a book. It could change my career, and I’m finally feeling like I can start working toward a job I’m proud of—

  Oh my God.

  I duck behind a broad man’s back, hoping I didn’t just see who I thought I saw.

  It couldn’t be.

  Shaking my head, I peer over the man’s shoulder to get a second look.

  Razor blue eyes lock onto mine.

  My jaw clenches of its own accord, nearly fracturing my molars, but I cannot let him make the connection. Not here. Not in the middle of a job that’s about to pay me thousands.

  “McKenna!”

  Shit.

  I beeline away from my safe man-barrier and sprint as best I can, taking the same route I intended and hoping my talent in heels will put enough space between me and … oh, God … me and him.

  “McKenna! Wait the hell up!”

  When I’m passing the crowded circular bar in the middle of the restaurant, I latch onto the first young-ish appearing woman I see.

  “Holy shit, did you see who’s here?” I exclaim.

  Her eyes widen as I grab her arm, but she’s in a Hard Rock t-shirt, jeans and running shoes. Totally a tourist, and 100% what I need right now.

  “No! Who?” she asks, elbowing her friend beside her.

  “Frickin’ Mason Payne!” I say in a stage-whisper and point. “Right over there!”

  True to form, Mason cuts through the crowd like shaving wire, his face a storm of emotions as he catches my eye across the room.

  “OMIGOSH!” the woman shrieks. “Mason Payne from Nocturne Court is here! You guys! Look!”

  Oh, thank Jesus. The woman has a cohort of other women with her, like a tourist bus of mid-Western ladies-who-drink, and every single one of them bops up and down and waves as Mason, with his devilishly coiffed hair, sculpted arms, and a jaw that cuts through glass as easily as it does hearts, pauses mid-stride, suddenly wary.

  The women move forward like a tidal wave and drown him in screams. He has no choice but to smile and take selfies and accept kisses and ass-grabs as I duck, cover and roll into a detour and head back to my table.

  Charles glances up and around me as I appear beside him, a deep frown in place. “Do people have no decency in public places, anymore? Good lord, the sounds those women are making.”

  “Charles, darling,” I say while placing my hand on his arm. “I’m feeling a little under the weather. Do you mind if we leave early?” I bend and whisper into his ear. “I can make a few sounds that will drive you wild.”

  I refuse to look behind me. I’m not about to lose this transaction because of an unwelcome blast from the past. Like I said: thousands of dollars.

  “But Charles,” Judy says. “We haven’t even gotten to the appetizers yet.”

  “Yes, but we’ve broken into the wine,” Charles says as he stands abruptly, placing a meaty hand around my waist. “And I’ve said what I needed. Send me the revised minutes as soon as you have them.”

  Nodding uncertainly, Judy doesn’t argue further and nor does anyone else. More to the point, Charles doesn’t give them time. He’s too busy skirting me around patrons to the front entrance, his anticipatory grunts heavy and wet against my bare shoulder as we maneuver out of the restaurant.

  “Here we are, my darling Jane,” he says as a car pulls up to the curb. The valet opens the passenger side of the Astin Martin as Charles folds into the driver’s seat. “Thank you from saving me from the sheer number of vapid ladies in that room.”

  “It’s interesting, you know,” I say as I settle into the cool, buttery leather passenger seat.

  “What is?”

  “Their talk of porn. I wonder if they’ve ever experienced it themselves?”

  Charles laughs as he motors into traffic. “You mean, watched a video with their spouse and tried to replicate it? I don’t think so.”

  I slide a finger down his cheek. “One doesn’t need to be a porn star to possess the required talents.”

  Charles growls low in his throat and playfully tries to bite my finger. “Show me, Jane.”

  I lean back against my seat, my focus sliding to the side mirror in time to see Mason bursting through the front doors of the steakhouse and into the street, his muscular form highlighted by city traffic lights as he watches me speed away.

  From him.

  “I will, Charles,” I say, and fold my hand over his on the gearshift.

  I don’t pay attention to the rubble that makes up my heart. The permanent destruction that Mason Payne caused. “Tonight, I’m all yours.”

  2

  Mason

  High School

  Senior Year

  I sag against the seat on the city bus, clutching the torn, creased pages of my notebook with the goal of not having sheets of loose paper shooting across the dirty, down-trodden floor and losing weeks worth of music.

  My right eye throbs, bulbous and swollen. I rub it, thinking I’m already down at least twenty pages of work when my dad stormed into my room, looking for a bong and instead finding his son’s “fartsy faggot notes” under his mattress and tearing them up right in front of my face.

  Said face then crashed into the bedroom, fists flailing, teeth snarling, but Dad crushed my teenaged bones with one solid, meaty punch.

  When I came to, I was on my stained bedroom floor, Dad was long gone, but he left me the thoughtful gift of one fully functioning eyeball.

  The bus rattles through the streets as I stare vacantly out the window, my thumb fanning the dog-eared pages of my notebook. I’ve messed with them enough that the creases are soft and the paper is almost back to the pulp it was made out of.

  The driver yanks the bus to the righthand curb, picking up additional passengers. I usually don’t pay attention, since we’re now in an area often termed “affluent,” a neighborhood I don’t want and will never be a part of. I’m talking perfectly manicured gardens maintained by guys from my side of town, cleaned penthouse apartments done by workhorses who are my neighbors, and nannies and pet-sitters who are more familiar with proper care than their nip-tucked, Botoxed, and spin-classed bosses’ asses.

  Yet, none of us stay beyond our allocated hours to enjoy the fruits of our labor.

  Chewing the side of my cheek, I watch the small cluster of over-privileged fucks board the dented, greased-up, motor-coughing clunker because they can’t stand a little drizzle of rain with their six-dollar lattes in the mornings.

  A small, curly, reddish-brown head peeks through the huddled mass. My jaw pauses.

  She’s the third to climb up the vehicle’s stairs, swiping her MetroCard with practiced ease, because for some reason, she takes this eyesore every goddamned day. I’m fairly certain it’s because she wants to be environmentally conscious, to the extent you can be when your father is a finance genius and your mother a top attorney at a white-shoe firm.

  It’s kinda like shopping for an
d buying organic foods, using green cleaning products, and purchasing only certified cruelty-free cosmetics and soaps. Oh, and the six-dollar latte in her hand made with compostable material.

  You know, those Earth-saving things that cost a shit-ton of money.

  I accidentally lock eyes with her as she’s coming down the aisle, one shoulder laden down with a heavy bag full of a laptop and textbooks. Her eyes are moss-green and tipped up at the edges, cat-like and watchful before her eyelids shutter and she looks away.

  Can’t be caught staring at the dirty boy from across the tracks, now can we?

  Sadly, for the both of us, the only seat available is next to mine. Everyone who boarded before her managed to avoid the beat-up hooligan whose ripped, hand-me-down clothes smell like weed even though he never smokes or ingests it. I leave that stupid shit up to my father and younger brother, but unfortunately, that smell is fucking porous and has sunk into every inch of our floorboards and fabrics.

  She freezes with her hand clenched around the top rail for balance. I can tell she’s debating, her cultured manners wondering if it’d be rude to pass by so obviously and stand the rest of the way. As if I’d be insulted.

  I decide to make it easy for her. “Move it along, Tubs.”

  She winces. I crack my jaw and resume staring out the window. The girl’s not fat. She’s got curves in all the right places, including those gorgeous tits that have blossomed recently. But, every girl is insecure about their weight, at least the ones I hear moaning about their muffin tops at their lockers, so I know the jeer will hit its mark and she’ll avoid me like the rest of them always do.