Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel

by Erin St. Charles

  The worst part of this post-coital aftermath? I'm satisfied, but I have that hum of arousal that says I could easily go again. Maybe this time on the low-slung sofa that hangs out in the reception area. Perhaps I could be on top this time, bouncing up and down on Lincoln's porn-star caliber dick. The moment this idea flits through my brain, my pussy swells and my nipples harden. No man has ever produced such a response. I'm not happy about it.

  "This was a mistake," I say briskly. "My fault, really, since I didn't put up much resistance."

  His smug face transforms into an unhappy one. No, not just unhappy. Hurt. He also looks me up and down, and I'm suddenly conscious of my topless state.

  "Where's that tee?" I ask.

  "You mean, where's my favorite Texas A&M shirt which I'm going to let you wear?" he asks.

  I wave dismissively. "Whatever."

  He produces the shirt from somewhere behind him—the desk maybe? He tosses it at me, and I catch it.

  "Why was this a mistake?" He leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms over his chest. His voice is tight. He is peeved with me.

  I blink at him. I pull the t-shirt over my head carefully, so as not to muss my hair. I'm a tall woman, and the shirt comes to mid-thigh on me.

  "It was a mistake for the same reason it was a mistake for me to get involved with Howard Becker," I say. "It's not professional."

  "You're comparing me to Howard Becker," he states.

  My lips twitch. "I'm comparing the situations," I say. I go to pass him, in order to enter the office, and he just stands there.

  "Excuse me," I say.

  "I'm going to ignore the fact that you're comparing me to that douchebag," he says, looking at me pointedly.

  "I think you should ignore the entire situation," I say, thinking of my earlier resolution to pretend all the sticky, annoying personal situations I have had crop up lately don’t matter. "You should ignore the fact that we fooled around. You should ignore Howard Becker. You should simply move on the way I have suggested we do. And anyway, I have good news about a potential investor."

  Lincoln blinks at this information. "What about a potential investor?"

  Pleased Lincoln has allowed himself to be distracted, I launch into a short spiel about my business school classmate who might possibly be interested in investing in Lincoln's expansion.

  As I sit at my temporary desk, I explain that we can have a preliminary meeting with her via conference call immediately. If it looks as if there might be a fit, we can then meet in person. Lincoln purses his lips thoughtfully.

  "Fine," he says. "That takes care of that, but we still need to talk about the two of us."

  He rakes his hand through his hair and cocks an eyebrow.

  I feel a little panicked that he still wants to talk about this nonexistent "us." Thinking fast, I whip out my phone and dial Tamara Knowles. We exchange pleasantries while I ignore Lincoln's eyes boring into me. Since it's now almost lunchtime and Tamara has no meetings scheduled, I encourage Lincoln to give her the broad outlines of his expansion plans. After a few minutes of chatting, Tamara indicates she's heard enough and suggests a time we can meet. We agree to meet for drinks Friday evening.

  With that sorted, we hang up.

  Lincoln opens his mouth to say something, and I hold up a staying hand. Bringing Lincoln a potential investor to keep his expansion on track goes far beyond the gopher duties for which I've been hired. I don't have the slightest bit of remorse when I wave a dismissive hand briskly and lie to him.

  "Anyway," I say. "I just stopped by to set up this meeting, so I think I'll be on my way."

  Lincoln's jaw drops open, his eyes harsh and angry. "You're serious."

  I don't answer, simply allowing the fact that I'm packing up my things to leave speak for itself. I make a beeline for the tiny bathroom where my branded polo shirt is draped over the edge of the sink. I wrap it in a clean trashcan liner and tuck it into my tote.

  Even though I've only been here for half an hour, I pack my belongings and ready myself for a quick retreat. When I stride toward the office door, he catches me by the arm, holding me still with one of his giant man-hands.

  "This isn't over," he hisses between clenched teeth.

  I shrug off his arm and head for the door, making sure to close it behind me.

  Chapter Twenty-One: Lincoln

  I thought seducing the willing Samantha in my office on Tuesday would make it clear that regardless of her stated objections to our personal relationship, she wants me as much as I want her. She did not at any time protest my attentions. Not the way I fucked her brains out. Not the ass slapping, the filthy talk, or anything else.

  To the contrary, judging by her screams and grunts, she loved every second of our coupling. Which is why I was so confused when she set up an impromptu investor meeting, then drinks with the same investor, and then proceeded to sashay out of my office as if screwing in one moment and setting up business meetings the next was run of the mill. No woman as hot-blooded as Samantha could remain as unmoved as I have seen her. The whole thing is frankly baffling.

  Samantha is so, so mysterious.

  I have been irritable since Samantha walked out of my office on Tuesday.

  On Wednesday, Brad bests me during our weekly basketball game, leading to a round of obnoxious gloating and his open speculation about how things are going with Samantha.

  However, instead of speaking of Samantha with the respect she deserves, he refers to her as "that hot piece of tail."

  As in, "How's it going with Samantha, that hot piece of tail who works for you?"

  You know that idiom "seeing red?" That's exactly what happens when Brad speaks of Samantha in such a disrespectful manner. A red mist of anger drops over my eyes like a veil, and before I realize what I am doing, I pitch the ball right at my best friend's head. He must have sensed it coming because he catches it just as it nails him in the forehead. The catch lessens the impact of the hit, but I note with satisfaction a red spot around his eye that will surely turn into a nice shiner later.

  "Hey!" Brad yells, looking unhappy. “I was going to tell you what my guy found out about her.”

  "Things are going fine with Samantha," I deadpan. "Thanks for asking."

  Oddly enough, he doesn't bring her up again.

  At the smoothie bar, I casually ask Brad what “his guy” found out about Samantha. I know I shouldn’t ask, but I want to know.

  “She was involved with some guy at her last place of work, some PR agency,” he says, gulping down a tumbler of green, frothy juice. “Apparently, she dropped the ball on a client project and was also banging the fiancé of one of the partner’s niece. They canned her, and she can’t get a job at another agency anywhere in town. Guess that’s why she’s doing what she’s doing now.”

  He ends this report with a careless shrug. But I’m not buying the story.

  Samantha drop the ball on a client commitment? That doesn’t sound like Smack, who is scrupulously attentive to detail in my experience.

  We part ways, and I turn this information about Samantha around in my mind. Later that afternoon, Marcia is at my office, blue eyes shining bright and calculating from a face with skin as unnaturally smooth as the surface of a hard-boiled egg. Under this preternaturally even complexion are muscles artificially arrested with Botox. Despite the fact that I've told her I'm looking for investment from other sources, she sweeps into my office while I'm busy glowering at my laptop screen, combing the "Dear Ida" site for either a response to my letter to the woman, or another letter from "Sam in Texas."

  "Marcia, did we have a meeting scheduled?" I ask, knowing good and well we have no appointment. I pick up my phone and make a show of consulting it for the time, the implication being I have someplace to be.

  Marcia ignores me.

  "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by to see if you might have reconsidered my offer?" She attempts a smile with poor results. One lower eyelid twitches.

  I
stand, walk around my desk, and take her lightly by the elbow.

  "Marcia, I believe I've made myself clear," I say, wondering how the hell she even got in. "Let me see you out."

  I guide her briskly through the nearly empty dining room while most of my staff, going about the duties, keep their eyes discreetly cast away from the near frog march I use to toss Marcia out of my establishment. Afterwards, I take my head hostess aside to let her know Marcia Pittman is banned from the premises.

  Ordinarily, I'd have Sheila in my reception area as my gatekeeper, dispensing withering looks to unwanted visitors. But with my regular assistant laid up for the foreseeable future, and with my semi-assistant/personal concierge avoiding me, I have no one to protect my time.

  Marcia is an irritant. Not the woman I wanted to see coming through my door, that’s for sure. Marcia is laying a trap for me. I don’t want to be trapped. Well, I don’t want to be trapped by her. There is a brown skinned lovely who I might like to trap me. My mind snags on this realization. I want Samantha to take the time to dig a hole in the forest floor, cover it with a net and leaves, then lay in wait for me. And then...what? I picture the net gathering me like a drawstring bag and I’m the groceries, then I dangle from a springy tree branch.

  As I watch Marcia Pittman's retreating bony ass, I reflect on how nothing seems to be going my way these days. The expansion, the difficulty in obtaining investors...Samantha Mack.

  Frowning, shoulders slumped, I debate going back to my office to stare sightlessly at my laptop or going the hell home for the evening. As I stand there like the protagonist of a Robert Frost poem, my pocket buzzes.

  Aubrey Cooper, reads the display.

  It's my mother, who never texts like a civilized person, but demands I communicate voice-to-voice like it's 1995.

  "Mother," I say, heading back to my office, my indecision forgotten.

  Aubrey is from Tyler, and her East Texas accent is a slouchy drawl with "Is" that sound like "ahs." She still insists on asking for a "Coke" whenever she wants a soft drink and considers unsweet tea an abomination before the Lord. Like any good Southern mama, she prides herself in having raised a mama's boy, one who dutifully appears on her doorstep once a week, prepared to wait on her hand and foot for an evening of dinner and conversation. My father passed away almost two years ago, along with my brother, and now I'm an only child. For months after my dad's passing, I was Aubrey's emotional lifeline as she processed her grief.

  With everything going on at Cooper's lately, I haven't visited my mother in weeks. She takes this opportunity to remind me of this fact.

  "Lincoln, boy, I expect you for dinner this evening," she says, not sparing a breath on conversational preamble.

  "Mama, I'll be there at seven," I say, preempting any chastisement she may have been planning to visit upon me.

  We hang up.

  Several hours later, I sit across the kitchen table from my mother. We have finished a dinner of brisket, garden salad, and wild rice. We are dishing up her famous peach cobbler. Three-fourths of this meal are tried and true favorites, foods I have enjoyed since I was a small child. I wonder why she is buttering me up.

  My mother is an attractive woman in her early 60s. I have her eyes and hair, though, my dirty blond is natural, while she maintains her ash blonde locks via regular appointments with her hairdresser.

  "Son, tell me about this girl you have working for you while Sheila is out with hip surgery," my mother says.

  I blink at her. Apparently, I have spies on my payroll who report to her regularly about the goings-on at work.

  "What about her?" I ask with a frown.

  "Why haven't you brought her around to meet me?"

  I purse my lips thoughtfully. Complaining about her intrusion into my love life is useless.

  "We aren't dating," I say, telling a version of the truth. I do not want to tell my mother that Samantha is unmoved by my awesome bedroom skills, my money, and my willingness to breach the social distance to nurse her through a bad cold. Samantha does not want a relationship with me.

  My mother gives me a sharp, cunning look, and I feel as I did as a small child caught doing something I shouldn't be. Like horsing around on the monkey bars, maybe. It only takes one pointed look to have me spilling my guts as quickly as I might dismount some playground equipment and getting my ass home.

  I mean, I don't tell her about all the fornication, the sounds Samantha makes when she comes, the way her exceptional pussy tastes, how she lets me spank her, or how beautiful that perfect heart-shaped ass looks with my hands gripping her hips, one hand on each ass cheek. I don't tell her these lascivious thoughts, but I do think them, and my mother somehow guesses what's on my mind.

  "Get your mind out of the gutter," Aubrey Cooper chides with disgust. She gets up, pokes her head in the freezer, and returns to the table with a half-gallon of vanilla Blue Bell ice cream.

  I re-arrange my apparently wolfish expression and launch into a soliloquy on Samantha's entrepreneurial spirit, her beauty, her wit, and her ambition. I go on foolishly on the subject of how capable she is.

  "Does she know how you feel about her?" Mother asks.

  "Yes," I say confidently. "She knows how much I respect her."

  My mother rolls her eyes.

  "You more than respect her," she says. "It sounds more like you lo—"

  I wave my hand furiously, cutting her off. My mother is getting waaaayahead of herself.

  "Don't read too much into this," I say. "I just met her a few weeks ago."

  "Your father and I met and married within two weeks," my mother points out, spooning the highly addictive peach cobbler into her mouth. "The moment we met, we fell in love. We were inseparable."

  My mother's face gleams with the memory. When my father was alive, my mother used to look at him with that sappy, warm expression.

  My parents met at a church retreat near my mother's hometown of Tyler. She was a townie who lived in a trailer park with her alcoholic mother and worked the summer camp where my father was a youth counselor. They met and ran away together on a long trip to a quickie wedding in Nevada. My father refused to get an annulment. It was a terrible scandal, a terribly romantic scandal.

  This is the story my mother plans to tell her grandchildren someday, if only I would get with the program and start producing said grandchildren. When my father and brother passed, the campaign for grandchildren intensified.

  I think on my situation with Samantha in a new light. But my parents' situation has nothing to do with mine...does it?

  Samantha and I are not inseparable...except when she isn't around, I want her to be around. And I didn't fall in love with her the moment we met...except I did give her a wad of cash without really knowing her from Adam. I nearly gave my best friend a concussion when he wasn't appropriately respectful of her. I nursed her to health, let her boss me around in my affairs, and I'm sort of...a little obsessed with her.

  I frown as I process all of this. My dessert sits on the table in front of me, vanilla ice cream melting into a puddle on top of the peach cobbler.

  Meanwhile, my mother has somehow finished her dessert without me noticing. She gets up, takes the empty dish to the sink, and turns on the water, rinsing the dish before placing it in the dishwasher. She turns to look at me, a hand on her hip.

  "Did you think I would care that she's a black girl?" my mother asks pointedly.

  I blink at her. "Of course not!" I am outraged. Then I wonder how much my mother knows about Samantha. Is she Google stalking her?

  My mother gives me another one of her "get off the monkey bars" looks that tells me she believes I need to get real.

  Despite her patrician good looks, Aubrey Cooper, nee Martinez, comes from a long line of snappish Mexican-American women and was raised in a trailer. She is not a snob in any way, shape, or form.

  "Then bring her over!" my mother insists.

  Our eyes meet and clash silently.

  I let out a sigh. "It's n
ot like that." I run a hand through my hair.

  My mother looks at me with a skeptical pout. "When you finally get it together, bring her by."

  She gives me a sweet smile. She is not fooling anyone.

  She packs up a generous portion of the cobbler, gives it to me, hugs me, then unceremoniously shoves me out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Samantha

  It is Friday night, and I am at the bar with Tamara Knowles, noshing on appetizers and drinking red wine. We decided to get together an hour before Lincoln is set to arrive for our meeting. It has been a while since we spent any time together, and we decided to make time to catch up. Tamara is one of these super women who have fabulous careers and also manages to have a fulfilling private life. I attended her wedding several years ago to a real estate investor, and as if that wasn't enough, she's my age and already has two children. She is Mexican-American with a gorgeous golden brown skin tone and sharp whiskey-colored eyes. She has a way about her that seems perpetually shrewd and observant. She has her jet-black hair pulled back in an enormous chignon at the nape of her neck, highlighting the widow's peak that dips dramatically on her high forehead.

  We both wear our conservative corporate plumage, nearly identical dark suits. It's been a while since I put on a suit, and I feel so dressed up that putting on my regular clothes is going to feel like I'm wearing pajamas. This is my best suit, a Prada skirt and blazer I purchased a few years ago to wear to client meetings.

  As we gobble up sliders and chips and guacamole, we scroll through photos of her adorable children doing adorable family-oriented things like going to the zoo, having brunch after church, the whole nine yards. Even her four-year-old boy, who inherited his mother's widow's peak so much so that his photo puts me in mind of Eddie Munster, is cute and happy looking. If she wasn't such a sweet, generous person, I might resent her dark good looks and handsome husband. But Tamara is nice, and I'm happy for her. I have no photos to show her, sadly, a testament to my single-tude.

  After the obligatory oohhhing and aahhhing over the photos, Tamara is clearly ready to get into the nitty-gritty of our meeting.