Claiming Her At the Bar

by Cassandra Dee

  She huffs and gives me a perplexed look.

  “Well, yes Henry is okay, but that’s the thing,” she says. “He’s just okay. Not good. He misses me. If he doesn’t see me, he gets yowly and cranky, and I feel bad for Mrs. Patterson having to put up with that.”

  Man, this girl is too nice. It’s just an old tomcat, so who cares? But my girl’s soft heart makes me love her more, and I press a kiss to her forehead.

  “Gem, we’ll figure this out alright? Maybe not at this very second, but we will. You will get to see Henry again, and all your old friends. I’ll make sure they give you your job back at the Silver Star, if that’s what you want. I heard it re-opened after the shoot-out,” I say wryly.

  She smiles again, looking a little defeated.

  “Okay, but soon, alright? It’s amazing being here with you, Pete,” she says, coming up on her knees and circling her arms around my broad shoulders, “but this isn’t real life. We’re living in a hazy pink cloud, and at some point, we have to get back to Earth.”

  “But does that hazy pink cloud include sex?” I growl against the pouty lips. “Because if it does, then I’m happy to stay here forever.”

  She giggles again, the temporary sadness in her eyes disappearing like mist on a sunny day.

  “You know what I mean, Pete,” she purrs. “And yes, it definitely does.”

  With that, I sweep the curvy girl into my arms and plunder her mouth ravenously. Gemma moans beneath me, her legs already parting and welcoming me into that sweet vee. Her breath is so soft and fragrant that I could die right now from the pleasure. But my girl deserves better than some temporary purgatory because I’ve fallen in love … and plan on telling her my feelings.

  Chapter 13

  Gemma

  Stealthily, I make my way to the elevator.

  “Miss Gemma, is there something I can help you with?” calls Mary from the front desk. Oh shit. Just my luck. It’s 3 a.m. and I’m trying to sneak out of the club. I figured I’d be apprehended by a security guard or some military commando that they hire to keep watch over this place, but instead, I’ve been made by a middle-aged woman.

  “Um, hey,” I stammer, biting my lip. I’ve seen Mary weekly ever since landing at the Billionaires Club, and we’ve become friendly of sorts. Not friends because she’s careful around me. She knows that I’m the kept woman of Mr. Carmichael, so she’s attentive and caring, but not overly so. “Um, just getting my hair done,” I fib lightly.

  Mary stares at me.

  “At 3 a.m.?” she asks skeptically, glancing a clock on the wall. “Why?”

  “Well, you know Mr. Carmichael gets up really early to go to the gym, and I hate looking like a messed-up rat so early in the morning. It’s embarrassing,” I whisper, as if confiding a secret. “He means so much to me, and I hate that the first thing he sees when opening his eyes is me looking like a hag.”

  Mary shakes her head.

  “Well Miss Gemma, if I do say so myself, you would never look like a hag,” she says. “But I understand the desire to look beautiful. After all, our billionaires are everything to us, aren’t they? And you are so lucky to have snagged one of the best ones at the club.”

  I nod weakly, even as my finger goes for the elevator button again.

  “Um yeah,” I say. “Mr. Carmichael is everything to me.”

  Mary grins again. “Then go ahead and go up,” she says. “All beauty services are open twenty four hours especially because of circumstances like this. We are here to satisfy and please, and I’m so happy that you’ve taken to your role at the Club.”

  I smile weakly at the middle-aged again as the doors slide closed, before shaking my head once she can’t see. “Satisfy and please?” Where is she getting this? It sounds like Mary’s drunk the Kool-Aid, and there’s no going back. But I get what she’s saying. After all, the Billionaires Club is the hand that feeds us, and there’s no need to bite that hand. I just want to get out and see Henry. He means everything to me because I have no family.

  So yeah, all this skulking and sneaking around is to see my old tomcat once again. It’s lame, I know. Who does stupid shit like this? But the thing is, Mr. Carmichael and I had “the talk” a month ago about where our relationship is, and where it’s going, and I still don’t have any answers. He makes love to me non-stop, morning, noon, and night, and that makes me happy. But he’s never said anything about “love” or “permanence” or even “girlfriend.” It’s more along the lines of, “Why do you want to go back up? Isn’t every need tended to here?” Or even worse: “Do you really want to work at that greasy spoon the Silver Star? The one that paid you nothing?”

  Of course I don’t want to go back, but I can’t just float around forever here. Maybe I don’t have a great education or work experience, but I still want to make something of myself. And I’m definitely not doing that while being Mr. Carmichael’s sex slave. There, I said it. I’m basically his personal geisha girl, smiling when the door opens in the evening, and making love with him non-stop all hours of the day or night.

  The problem is that I’m conflicted because I love being his personal geisha girl. I love making sure my man has hot food when he comes home from work, and giving him a shoulder massage as he eats. I love dressing up in saucy lingerie just for him, and then having him take it off piece by piece. I love the debates we get into, and the conversation that’s so natural between us. But it doesn’t get me anywhere professionally, and I can’t hang my hat on a man who won’t even acknowledge me to the real world. So I’m not sure what I’m going to do just yet, but right now, I’m going to see my cat. It’s just a baby step, but surely, more progress will follow.

  I hold my breath as the elevator ascends, and to my amazement, we’re not stopped. The door slides open, and I step out into the Nevada desert. Taking a deep breath, I look around. The night sky is starry and beautiful, the vastness of the space so immense that I’m awed. The Club has dozens of entry and exit points all over Las Vegas, and this one is just a few miles from my apartment. Guess that digital map-reader thing from Hubert really did come in handy. I’m glad I made friends with the shy guy.

  But now I’m on my own. I can’t pull Hubert or Mary or any other number of staff workers from the Club into my temporary escape. So I pull my thin jacket close around my shoulders, and begin to walk. The glow of my tiny city beckons in the distance, and I know I’ll be there soon enough.

  After about twenty minutes, I reach the city’s edge. The hamlet is nothing much really. Just some strip malls housing places like the Silver Star, but I’m glad to be home. Resuming my pace, I start walking again, still breathing deep of the chilly night sky.

  Finally, I’m home. Funny that I’d call this ramshackle apartment building home after so long. But that’s what it is. It’s humble, it’s falling apart, and it’s nothing to look at – but it’s mine. The front door creaks loudly as I open it, and I grimace. Damn. Don’t want to wake anyone.

  Quietly, I take the stairs up to my apartment on the third floor. Yep, the fifth step on the second floor still squeaks, and the bannister’s worn and shiny with age. I run my fingers along the railing, savoring the knots and rolls in the wood. It’s nice to have some imperfection once in a while, especially because everything at the Billionaires Club is so perfect all the time.

  Slowly, I unlock my door and push it open.

  “Henry?” is my quiet voice. “Henry, you here?”

  There’s no sound, so I flick on the light and squint against the sudden glare. The florescence is killing me, but my shabby kitchen slash living room is oddly familiar and comforting. There’s the linoleum breakfast table, with the rickety chair I sit in while eating cereal. There’s my orange-green couch from the used goods store that they offered me for free if I took it off their hands. Yep, there’s still one cushion exploding at the seams, and a bit of foam peeks out. I’m about to walk over and try to push the stuffing back in when suddenly there’s a yowl and a twenty pound ball of fur shoots in
to my arms.

  “Henry,” I laugh. “Hey, it’s me, it’s me! I missed you too. Calm down, Hen.”

  The cat ignores me and licks my face with his rough tongue. Uck. That doesn’t feel too good as cat tongues can be kind of sandpapery. But I endure it as I cuddle the striped furball closer.

  “I missed you, Henry, that’s why I’m back. I know it’s been months since I was here, but don’t worry, I didn’t forget about you. You’ve been top of my list, I swear,” are my playful words.

  Suddenly, Henry stiffens and starts hissing in my arms. He’s glaring at something over my shoulder, and without even turning around, I know who it is. It’s him. Mr. Carmichael … and he’s here for me.

  Chapter 14

  Peter

  Is Gemma fucking insane? What was she thinking, stealing out of the club at 3 a.m.? Who does that?

  Well, I guess someone who’s been under virtual house arrest for the past couple months. Even if she was living in the lap of luxury, I can understand why you’d want to get out and breathe in some fresh air, maybe get some sun.

  But that’s the thing. It’s 4 a.m. now. There’s no sun because the desert is pitch black except for the stars high above. There are no warm rays to bask in, and no happy glow for a deep tan. So what is she thinking?

  But I get it. I knew that something was going to happen, it was just a question of what and when. After all, Gemma is sassy and resourceful, and there was no way she was going to be my personal lady in waiting for the rest of her life.

  So I let her go. I knew the moment the girl left our bed, although my snores kept going. I watched from the corner of my eye as she hurriedly slipped on some sweats and sneakers, and stood by the master bed, looking down at me. And I breathed in her sweet scent as she bent down and brushed her lips against my cheek, whispering, “I love you, Peter.”

  I almost bolted up right then, my plans be damned. Gemma loves me? My heart pounded so loud and hard that I was sure it was going to give everything away. But if she loves me, why the hell would she leave?

  Sure, I haven’t had a chance to tell her about my feelings yet, but give me time. I’m a forty year old guy who’s never experienced these feelings before, so the words don’t come so easy. I’ve been mulling it over in my mind over and over again, and to be honest, I think I’m finally ready. I just hadn’t gotten to saying it quite yet when Gemma decided to make her escape.

  Now, look where we are. We glare at each other under the harsh light of the kitchen overhead.

  “What is wrong with you?” she demands, clutching a raggedy tomcat close to her ample chest. “Why are you here? What, have you been following me or something?”

  I snort. The truth is yes, I have, but I avoid her question.

  “Why did you try to escape?” I grunt, my blue eyes seizing her brown ones. Usually, they’re the color of melted caramel, but right now, they’re shooting sparks and flashing light.

  “Escape?” she parrots, gripping the cat closer. “What makes you think I was doing that?”

  I snort.

  “Because you took off at 3 a.m. Only prisoners do prison breaks during the dead of the night, sweetheart,” I say in a dry voice. “You know, you could have told me. I could have given you a ride, if that’s what you wanted.”

  Suddenly, realization storms Gemma like a wave. The blood drains from her face and her mouth falls open.

  “You knew the entire time, didn’t you?” she demands. “That I was making my getaway?”

  I smirk a bit, leaning my big body against the kitchen countertop. A snap sounds and I jerk away, looking down with horror. Man, this place is really sad. The countertop’s made of an aged plastic of some sort, and the light tap with my hip caused a giant crack to appear right at the corner.

  “You’re breaking my house!” Gemma screeches. “What in the world? You knew, didn’t you?”

  I don’t even try to avoid the question this time, holding up both my hands in a pacifying gesture.

  “I knew,” I confirm. “I knew you were taking off, and I wanted to know why. Why would you leave me? Don’t you have everything you need? You can take correspondence courses if you want to go to college. You can keep your apartment. You don’t have to have a job! Isn’t that what all women dream about?”

  Gemma’s so angry now that her cheeks go bright red, and I resist the urge to lean forwards and kiss her. That would not be appreciated right now.

  “So as I was sneaking out of your suite, walking down the hall, bumping into Mary …” her voice trails off.

  “Yep, I knew,” I say cheerily. “Sweetheart, no one leaves the compound without us knowing. We have cameras everywhere, and former Israeli defense forces on staff, tracking all comers and goers.”

  “Well, why did you let me go then?” she interrupts, glaring at me. Damn, this girl is even more beautiful when she’s angry, and again, I have to fight back the urge to kiss that delectably pouty mouth. But this is the time to tell the truth, and I need Gemma to know what I’ve been feeling lately.

  “I wanted to see if you hated me so much that you’d actually try and escape,” I say in a low voice. “Because I wouldn’t be able to take it if you did, Gem. I love you, sweetheart, and this whole thing has broken my heart.”

  She stares at me dumbstruck. At that moment, that raggedy cat Henry decides to wriggle away from Gemma, and he lands in a thump on the floor before disappearing like a flash. Damn, even old felines are fast.

  “I’m sorry?” comes her hoarse voice. “What did you say?”

  I take one small, limp hand in my own, her pale flesh disappearing between my bronzed fingers.

  “I love you, Gemma Kane,” are my simple words. “It’s killing me that you won’t stay with me. It’s killing me that you hate life at the club so much that you’d risk life and limb to come back here,” I say, gesturing to the apartment around us. “It’s not that your place is shabby or anything. I’m just saying that it breaks my heart that you’d sneak out like an escapee, rather than telling me to my face that we’re done.”

  She stares at me again, her hand still lifeless between my own. Her mouth opens, but no words come out. I press forward.

  “I love you,” are my hoarse words as my heart beats painfully in my chest. “But I understand. You need your freedom, and my love isn’t enough. Besides, doesn’t the old saying say, “If you love something, then let it go?” I love you, Gem,” I say, bringing her hand up to my mouth and pressing a kiss against her pulse. “But I’ll let you go if that’s what you want.”

  She begins to sputter and then a bizarre, choked cry comes from her throat.

  “But Peter - ” she manages between some weird-sounding coughs. Alarmed, I give her a good thump or two on the back.

  “You okay, sweetheart?” are my concerned words. “Oh shit. I hope you’re not dying or anything. Oh shit. Do I need to call 9-1-1?”

  She shakes her head, holding a finger up even as the coughing begins to subside. There are tears in her eyes, and I want to kill myself for making her cry. Oh shit. I’m such a fucking bastard.

  But then a choked laugh interrupts my panic, and I realize that she’s not crying. She’s half-laughing, half-crying, and that’s the source of these weird choking sounds.

  “What is it?” I say. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Peter,” she manages between wheezy gasps. “I love you too. I only came back for my cat. I wanted to say hello to Henry, and make sure he’s okay. You know, he only recovered from cat cancer last year, and I had to be sure he was healthy and happy. I was never going to leave you permanently.”

  I stare at my beautiful girl with my mouth hanging open. Gemma risked life and limb for a cat? This whole thing had nothing to do with me? She smiles sweetly then, while slinging her arms around my neck.

  “Of course this has to do with you,” she says, reading my mind. “I love you Peter Carmichael, but there’s more to life than hot sex 24/7. There’s more to life than hanging out and getting my ha
ir done every day. I have a life, Peter, and I have to live it. I’m hoping with you,” she says, brushing her lips over mine.

  I breathe in deeply, letting my eyes close for a second. But then they snap open, and I take in the curvy brunette, letting my gaze run over every inch of her form.

  “You’ll have it,” I vow. “Whatever you want, sweetheart, I’ll make it happen. You want to live up here, in this apartment? We’ll make it happen. You want to go to college? That’s fine by me because I love you Gemma, and I can’t let you go. Wherever you go, I go too,” I vow fiercely, crushing that soft form to mine.

  She brushes her lips delicately over my earlobe, and the sensuality makes my body harden immediately. But then she leans back and shoots me that sassy smile I love so much.

  “Wherever we live, can I take Henry?” she asks sweetly. “You did say “whatever I want,” right?”

  I groan again before claiming her mouth with mine and ravenously plundering what belongs to me. Because I’ve realized what matters and what doesn’t. It doesn’t make sense to keep someone locked up in a hideout, even if it’s the most glamorous club ever. It pays to listen to what she wants, and to respond to what she says. And it doesn’t matter if I’m forty and this is all new to me. That’s just a lame excuse. My old habits of staying mum and letting the woman spin in circles almost did me in, and now, I know what I want. My woman, my heart, my desire are all here in Gemma Kane … and it’s time to claim my virgin for keeps.

  Epilogue

  Gemma

  I shake my bottom a little bit, making sure the ruffled hem of my skirt flies up, giving my man a glimpse of my gleaming pink parts.

  “Is this what you want, big boy?” I coo, throwing Peter a coy glance over one shoulder, wiggling my hips again. “You see something you like?”

  Judging from the giant, stiff rod in his pants, Mr. Carmichael more than likes what he sees. He loves what he sees.