“So?”
“Huh?” I’ve gapped out again.
She mouths the sex and then says, “Is it good?”
I think about last night. About coming in from work at three in the morning and waking him up with a blow job and the two-hour fuck marathon that then took place. Bancroft thoroughly enjoys testing out my flexibility. We’ve had sex in places and positions I’d never thought possible. And that mouth—sweet lord. “The best.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Really? What’s he like?”
“Intense.” I lean in to whisper, “He has a very dirty mouth and excellent stamina. He can go for hours.”
Amie bites her lip and looks a little wistful. “Aren’t you sore?”
“Only in the best way possible.” I’m pretty sure I’m ruined for any other man. I’ll have this unreasonable bar to hold all other men to. Bancroft Mills and his dirty mouth, and amazingly large penis are my new minimum standard.
“Is he . . .” she trails off and does a few eyebrow raises.
I raise my own in question.
“Adequately endowed?”
“More than,” I reply.
“More than?” She touches the necklace she’s wearing. It’s a gold chain with diamonds. Amie doesn’t like yellow gold, she prefers white. I’m assuming the necklace was a gift from her thoughtful, clueless fiancé.
“So much more.”
She swallows her mouthful of lettuce and leans in close. “How much more?”
I have no idea why Amie is so interested in the size of Bancroft’s penis. “Are you asking me for approximate dimensions?”
She nods once. I look around the table for things that might be comparable. There’s nothing. “Wider than a toilet paper roll and about yay long.” I hold my hands apart and then widen the gap a bit until I get it just right.
“Wow,” Amie breathes. “Wasn’t that . . . uncomfortable?”
“He’s incredibly adept at foreplay.”
Her cheeks flush pink and she looks down at her salad, pushing the dry leaves around.
“It’s never too late to trade in your current model for one with more girth, or length, or both.” I spear a fry and bite the end off.
Amie snorts and brings her hand to her mouth, eyes darting around, embarrassed the sound came out of her, maybe. I miss the version of my friend who cared less about what people think. We should’ve gone to a non-posh restaurant so we wouldn’t be forced to have this conversation in embarrassed whispers. I wish I cared less, too.
It’s half past two in the afternoon by the time I get home—or back to Bancroft’s condo. I’m nervous now. I’ve been enjoying the sex bubble we’ve been living in, but Amie has a point, we have to talk, and I have to make a plan to move out. I sincerely hope I haven’t read things wrong and that this is about more than sex. I think it is. Our conversations up until now have me hoping it is.
The condo is the same as when I left it, which means Bancroft still isn’t home. I should probably wash the sheets after last night’s sexcapades. I stop at Francesca’s cage first. She’s been fed recently, by the look of things. Maybe Bancroft did it before he left for his emergency meeting.
“Hi, pretty girl.” I nuzzle her head and carry her down the hall.
When I get to Bancroft’s room I notice the bed isn’t quite how I left it. It’s still unmade, but there are a few items of clothing littering the mattress, namely the components that make up a suit. And his closet door is open.
My stomach does a little flip and I return to the kitchen, rummaging through my purse until I find my phone. I missed a call from him about twenty minutes ago. There’s a voice mail.
“Hey. Hi, Ruby. Uh . . . look, I’m at the airport. I have to go back to London, there’s an issue I need to take care of. I don’t really know when I’m going to be back, but we need to talk and it probably isn’t a phone conversation . . .”
There’s a brief pause and a sigh.
“We need to make some adjustments with our arrangement. This has all happened a bit faster than I expected. I think maybe . . . Fuck. I’ll try to call when I’m in London.”
My stomach feels like it’s trying to jump out of my throat. This doesn’t sound good. I sit down at the island and note the envelope propped up against the bananas. I blush at the memory of what I did with one yesterday afternoon in a bid to distract Bancroft when he was busy with a phone call. It resulted in me being bent over the island, spanked, and then fucked.
The envelope has my name on it in his messy scrawl. I open it and find a wad of cash. Sliding the bills out I count it, twice. Jesus. He’s left me five thousand dollars. I try to rationally analyze the exorbitant amount of money, but based on the message it sounds a lot like he’s intending to pay me for sex.
I’m still holding Francesca. She’s squirming to get out of my arms. I give her a couple of pets and set her on the floor.
Maybe I’m reading into things. Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe he’s just being preemptive in case he’s gone longer than he anticipates.
As I pass Bancroft’s retro answering machine I note the flashing red number one. There’s a message. I hit play.
“Hi, Banny, it’s Brittany! I just heard from Mimi and I couldn’t get through on your cell so I thought I’d try this number instead. I’m so sorry you had to go away on business this week. Such a disappointment when you just got back. I really hope you’ll be back in time for dinner this weekend. But don’t worry if you’re not. We can always reschedule our date. Mimi said you’re just as excited as I am about being able to spend time together again. I can’t wait to pick up where we left off last time. Call me when you can!”
I stare at the machine. Hit rewind and then hit play again, listening to the message a second time. Then I listen to the voice mail from Bancroft.
There’s really no guessing anymore. I can’t believe he’s been screwing me all over his condo all week, telling me my pussy is his, while he’s been planning a date with another woman. Brittany of all people.
I listen to the message again, looking for some sign that this isn’t what I think it is. Has he been playing me this entire time? I remember our conversation about Brittany back when I moved in here, how he said she wasn’t that bad. Did he have sex with her that night after he kissed me? Has he been talking to her the way he’s been talking to me while he’s been away? It sure as hell seems like it, based on her enthusiasm. And what the hell does she mean picking up where they left off?
Fucking asshole.
Talking to me about trust and honesty and here he is, screwing me and he’ll probably be screwing Brittany this weekend.
There really is no question now, I need to find a new place to live. The sooner the better.
Chapter 20: New Digs
RUBY
Everything happens for a reason. I hate that saying, even if it’s true most of the time. It’s something people say to you when crap luck slaps you in the face. It’s not their crap luck, so it’s easy to throw out a useless, annoying saying in an attempt to make a person feel better. Here’s the truth: Telling someone everything happens for a reason doesn’t actually make them feel less crappy. In fact, it usually makes them feel worse.
Which is why I’m so glad I have a best friend like Amie. As soon as I stop crying—it takes a good twenty minutes to get myself under control. I might be pissed off, but I’m not angry enough that this doesn’t hurt—a lot—I call her and tell her what happened.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Amie rarely swears these days. Her anger makes me feel so much better.
“I need a new apartment. Like tomorrow.”
“Do you want to stay here until you do? I know there isn’t much space, but is it better than staying there? Why don’t you pack your things and we’ll get you out tomorrow.”
“What about Armstrong?”
“What about him?”
“What are you going to tell him? He’s going to ask why I’m staying with you.”
“He won
’t know. He never comes here. My mattress isn’t soft enough and I don’t have much space. I’ll probably be at his place twice next week—I can even try for more, but he’s got this thing about having his space. At least you won’t have to sleep on the couch or an air mattress those nights. Do you want me to come get you tonight?”
“No. That’s not necessary. He’s not even in the country. And he won’t be back tonight, or at least for a couple of days, so there’s no point. I need to pack, anyway.”
“Okay. I have to work in the morning. Do you need me to take time off so I can help you?”
“I have a shift tomorrow night, but I have the day free. I can see about getting an Uber van or something.”
She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Oh! What about Bancroft’s truck? Are the keys there?”
“You’re a genius. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. I bet I can get the people who work in this building to cart all my stuff down to the truck, too.”
“I’m sure you can, and you should.”
I’m so angry I don’t even think twice about using Bancroft’s truck without his permission.
I spend the rest of the afternoon packing. Mostly it’s me throwing stuff into suitcases and then crying when I can’t get them closed. I’m so stupid. I made this into something it wasn’t. I was convinced there was more between us, but obviously I was wrong. I still have to go to work, which sucks. It doesn’t matter how long I lie with cucumber slices over my eyes, they’re still red and puffy.
I guess Bancroft has turned out to be another Last-Name-First asshole. I should know better than to equate sex with feelings. I sleep like crap, and get up after just a few hours of fitful sleep. No matter, I need to get out of this place. I find Bancroft’s truck keys and I call the front desk guy to bring a trolley or something up so I can move my boxes out.
Ms. Blackwood comes out to see what all the noise is about. Precious is tucked under her arms. She snarls at me. It’s everything I can do not to snarl back.
“Oh, Renee, are you moving?” She looks past me, into the condo. I take a step back and close the door halfway since Francesca’s cage is in the living room.
I don’t correct her. She gets my name wrong every time, although she always manages to get the first letter right.
“I am. It was so nice living across the hall from you!” I say with fake enthusiasm, holding out my hand.
She accepts the handshake, although she appears a little uncertain about the contact, which is perfect. Once she disappears into her condo I flip her the bird.
It takes fifteen minutes for Stan—the front desk guy—to load all my boxes onto the trolley. While he takes them down and transfers them to the truck I check on Francesca. Except she’s not in her cage. I have a moment of panic, or several moments, as I search the condo for her. I find her tucked into Bancroft’s pillow.
I cry tears of relief that I didn’t manage to lose her. Of all the things I’m going to miss about living in Bancroft’s condo, apart from Bancroft, I’ll miss his ferret. Francesca, not the one in his pants. I cry while playing with her in his sheets. I know I’ll see her again before Bancroft returns—but I’m emotional and I’m going to miss her.
After he returns there’s no guarantee I’m ever going to see Franny again. It’s also sort of symbolic of losing Bane—who I never really had in the first place. I change Tiny’s water and feed her a cricket even though I did it two days ago. I’m a puffy-eyed mess by the time I’m ready to claim Bancroft’s truck.
Stan looks a little uneasy as I try to navigate the truck while still sniffling. Thankfully it has a backup camera with one of those beeper things that tells me when I’m getting too close to other objects. That seems to happen a lot in this beast. I manage to get out of the underground parking without hitting anything.
Driving a truck in the streets of New York is insane. I have no idea how Bancroft manages this thing. It’s huge. And the lanes are narrow. The nice thing about it is that if I want to change lanes and no one is letting me go I can just edge my way in and they really don’t have a choice but to let it happen. It helps that I don’t really care if the truck ends up with a ding.
I have a key to Amie’s apartment, so it’s not a big deal getting in once I arrive at her place. Carting all my stuff up to the twelfth floor is a bit of a pain in my ass since it takes five trips, plus my luggage. I line my pitiful pile of boxes against the only available wall. Once I’m done, I park the truck in the underground garage, luckily Amie’s building has one as well, and get a pass for it. I use my sex money from Bane to pay for that. I’m not driving it back today. I’ll do it tomorrow morning. I can’t imagine Bancroft will be back by then.
By the time I’m done I’m sweaty and hungry. I check Amie’s fridge for food. I’m sorely disappointed. Her food selection is minimal. There’s lettuce, and some fruit, but I’m used to living with a former rugby player who loves his carbs and meat. Plus I’m working a very active job these days. I need the calories to maintain the booty I’m currently rocking.
Amie lives on the fringe of the theater district, much like Bancroft, so her apartment isn’t all that far away. It’s a fabulous area, and this apartment costs a mint. But she makes great money where she works, so it’s affordable for her. Unless I manage to snag a prime role in a Broadway production, there’s no damn way I’ll ever be able to afford something like this. And doesn’t that just piss me off all over again.
I grab my purse and head to the street. It’s early afternoon, and I’m starving. I think I might actually be hangry at this point. I check my phone as I’m walking down the street. I have messages from Amie, but nothing from Bancroft. He must be in London by now. That I haven’t heard from him is another kick in the vagina.
I need comfort food. Something greasy and unhealthy. I continue down the street, determined to find something that doesn’t require me to sit down. I just want food and then I want to go back to Amie’s apartment, shower, and maybe catch a nap before I have to head to work.
As I’m passing one of the small, eclectic theaters on the side streets, I notice a poster for open auditions plastered to the door. It’s for today. I check the time. And right now.
Now here is one of those instances in which the “everything happens for a reason” adage is actually reasonable and welcome. I abandon the quest for food. It’s an audition for a play I’ve never heard of. Not that it matters. As long as I can read the script and learn the lines in the time they give me, it’s worth a shot. I don’t have any food in my stomach, so it’s not like I’m going to vomit all over the director. The worst that can happen is not getting a callback.
I enter the theater. It’s gorgeous inside, and high ceilings and ornately carved pillars lead my eye to a folding table. Behind it sits a woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses and bloodred lipstick.
I put on my brightest, friendliest smile. “There are open auditions here today?”
Her eyes widen when she sees me. “There are,” she says with some hesitation.
I look down at my outfit. I’m a bit of a mess. My shirt is smudged with dirt and my jeans have holes in them. I’m far from put together. Oh well, I’m here now. “Okay. Great. I’d like to audition then.”
She gives me a patronizing smile and slides a form over. “Fill this out, please.”
I scribble my way through the basic paperwork and pass it back, exchanging it for a script. “They’ll call you in shortly. You’re the last audition before they break for the afternoon.”
“Thank you.” Well, that’s fortunate. I follow her directions to the theater, scanning the script.
The scene they’ve chosen is one with high emotion. The female lead is angry, frustrated, and explosive. I’m feeling all of these things. If nothing else, auditioning for this role will be cathartic.
I cry real tears during my audition. Ones born of true frustration, for my own predicament, for the role I want. I may take it a touch too far into melodrama, but it’s definitely therapeu
tic.
I leave the theater feeling less angry and really damn hungry. I find a pizza place and scarf down two slices. Then I return to my new, temporary home, shower, and get ready for work.
Tomorrow I need to find an apartment. I won’t put Amie out like this for longer than I have to. More than anything, I just want to be able to manage life on my own, without having to rely on anyone else for support—at least the financial kind. While this situation sucks, at least my current job will afford me money for rent and the basics. I don’t need or want luxury if it comes with this kind of emotional price tag.
Work feels different tonight. I keep expecting to see Bancroft standing at the back of the club, looking angry. But he’s not, because he’s in another country. As angry as I am, I’m also sad. He’d become a friend. Someone who didn’t judge me and accepted me for who I was.
In the morning I’m disappointed all over again by the lack of communication from him. I guess that tells me clearly where we stand.
I drive his truck back to his condo and allow the valet to park it. I’m surprised I’ve managed to return it with no damage, apart from the latte I spilled in the center console. I didn’t try very hard to clean it up. I hope by the time he gets back it smells like sour milk in there. It’s vindictive, but I’m not feeling all that nice on account of his hypocrisy.
I spend an hour playing with Francesca and make sure Tiny is okay—she won’t require feeding until the weekend and I’m assuming Bancroft will be home by then. I hope so. Coming back here just hurts. Leaving Francesca is its own kind of painful.
I rub her belly as she rolls around on the floor. “I’m going to miss you so much.”
She curls around my hand and nips at my fingers, then she climbs into my lap, sticking her head under my shirt. Stretching up on her hind legs her head pops out of the neck of my top, between my boobs. I laugh, and then start to cry.
She butts my chin with her nose and rubs her little face on my neck. I cuddle with her, letting my ridiculous tears fall until she gets squirmy and tries to wriggle out of my hold. I never expected to become so attached to her, or Tiny, or Bancroft.
The Shacking Up Series Page 27
