by Xavier Neal
Their eyes pull away from each other and fall onto me.
Fuck. I guess I’m game as long as they are….What do I have to lose?
A man’s ego will always be the reason for his downfall.
Ugh. I hate how that is true in my professional and my personal life.
The valet driver pulls the gaudy, Dreamsiscle Orange, colored Mercedes Benz around to the front of the restaurant. I slip my favorite accessory out of my hand bag and approach the situation with confidence.
Weakness of any sort cannot be shown during my office hours. Weakness can clip off a zero from a commission check or in more dangerous instances get you killed.
Just as the valet attempts to hand the keys to the fair skinned man in the overpriced, navy suit, in exchange for his ticket, I intervene, relocating them into my possession. “I’ll take those, thank you.”
“What the f-”
“We both know this vehicle does not belong to you, Mr. Norton. And, before you waste your breath demanding I check the falsified papers in the glove compartment or commanding the adorable boy in his blue blazer calls security, I have a set of officers on standby for this very scenario.” After hitting the button on the key set that pops the trunk, I slowly stroll towards it. “This is a custom one of a kind SL Class Mercedes, which means it comes equipped with many one of a kind features that chop shops, like the one you bought it from, love to try to remove. While they love to disable the tracking, change the VIN number, and erase every little detail the vehicle ever belonged to someone else before a member of their crew stole it…” my smirk becomes pernicious, “they can’t. See, the problem with trying to push a hot custom car is the time frame. They barely have a large enough window to strip it of what they know will help cops identify the car before they get it out of their shop. That often means they lack the opportunity to erase tiny details like this one.” I point to the cursive name stitched into the corner interior of the trunk. “It says Aaron Stevens.”
Arthur Norton grows a very uncomfortable look, yet remains silent.
“Funny thing about fine print.” I slam the trunk shut. “It’ll get you every time.”
His open hands slowly begin to curl into fists.
With another snarky smirk, I give my wrist a quick flick and the retractable self-defense stick extends. “Just in case you are contemplating coming for me or debating how hard it would be to snatch my client’s keys from my hand, it’s only fair to you warn you I take sheer pleasure in bringing men to their knees in these boots as well as with this stick.”
Arthur offers his hands up in defeat.
Triumphantly, I strut to the open butterfly door on the driver’s side. Once I’ve settled my purse in the front passenger seat, I lock eyes with Arthur whose face seems to be steadily rubricating. “Word to the wise, Mr. Norton? Criminals often divulge extensive information if the price is high enough.”
His dark brown eyes narrow.
I wink at the young, flabbergasted valet. “You may wanna call him an Uber.…”
Climbing inside the vehicle, I waste no time buckling my seatbelt and taking off.
The crisp winter air stings my face as I abandon the downtown traffic for the open highway.
This is an upside to my job. Who wouldn’t want to drive an expensive car that vibrates with enough power to make a woman’s bedside toy jealous? Sure, the process of reclaiming it is often perilous and occasionally gets me shot at, but the reward is always worth the hassle. Besides, ever since Jason stopped acknowledging my existence I realize I crave the danger. It’s a great reminder that despite my husband’s lifeless nature I’m still alive. That my heart is still beating even if it is permanently damaged.
I arrive in front of Aaron’s tacky gold plated gate with a giant AS on it, only twenty minutes after repossessing his beloved car. Security immediately buzzes me through, and I pull the vehicle around to the front of his orange colored villa located on the outskirts of the city.
Aaron barely allows me to park the car before he comes rushing over. “My baby….”
A polite smile appears on my face. “She seems to be in good running condition.”
His brown eyes bulge in awe. “How did you….How did you find her?”
Offering the slender man the keys to his expensive ride, I shake my head. “I wouldn’t be good at my job if I revealed my secrets.”
Threatening to reveal them on the other hand is a completely different story. It’s amazing how quickly some people fold under the slightest amount of pressure applied to just the right area.
Aaron takes the keys and clutches them dramatically to his chest. “Where was she?”
“With a low level pill pusher who wanted something flashy to impress the ass he wasn’t pulling.”
Though I respect his decision to purchase a high end car for what was an incredible price to help alter that reality. Middle age makes people do crazy things. Arthur started selling his deceased wife’s pain pills. Aaron bought a house, a car, and model girlfriend all in the same color. Everyone copes differently. At the rate my life is deteriorating I’ll be lucky if I even make it another ten years.
“Name?”
I adjust the handbag dangling from my arm. “You know that’s not how this works, Mr. Stevens. I am not in the business of retribution.”
That’s the quickest way to make enemies not sources.
“I am in the business of collecting and returning, which I have done. You may send the rest of my payment to me by the end of the day, or I will be sending someone to collect her in the morning.” Slowly backing up, I add, “And I don’t mean the car, Mr. Stevens.”
His jaw cracks slightly open.
“It would be a shame to send Isabella back to Brazil.”
He develops a nervous expression and swiftly pulls out his phone.
I grow a victorious grin at the same time I turn around to finish my trek back to his gate.
Deporting his barely legal underwear model girlfriend isn’t something I want to do, but it is something I will. I don’t work in your typical industry where I can afford to have someone try to weasel out of payment. There’s no collection service agency to contact for the debts people would owe me. I have to make my own insurance, which often isn’t pretty and always just on this side of legal.
By the time I arrive back at the gate, Ronnie, my pencil thin and painfully pale assistant, is waiting for me beside my company’s black luxury SUV. Once security allows my exit, we exchange a nod and climb into the back seat of the vehicle together.
Storm, my security detail I contract through a privately owned security company ran by a former Marine, peers over his shoulder my direction. “Couldn’t wait for my assistance at the restaurant?”
His stern tone causes me to smile wider. “Had to strike before my opportunity was missed.”
He lowers his eyebrows.
“Storm, I’m fine. I had back up.”
“That baton I could break in half with a hard stare?” The dark look of disapproval deepens. “How many times have we been over this, Gwen? You have to let me do my job or you're basically just paying for a really expensive chauffeur.”
“Who looks dreamy in his black shirt,” Ronnie coos with a wiggle of his perfectly plucked eyebrows.
Storm rolls his light brown eyes, turns back around, and reverses out of the driveway.
It doesn’t matter that he’s absolutely right. It doesn’t matter that I believe my bark is more often than not terrifying enough to those who consider physical retaliation during my collections. Facts are facts. Men are typically less physically intimidated by women, which is why hiring Storm was more of a pre-caution than anything else. Over the past five years the list of people who have tried to have a physical altercation with me for collecting something they stole or bought stolen can be counted on one hand. The truth is most people flinch at the idea of having the police involved when it comes to returning an item they know they shouldn’t have. Words like prison really pack more
of a punch than people realize…especially when you throw in things like being fucked in the ass against their will. I honestly love both halves of my job, but the locating lost property side typically comes with a better price tag.
“The money has been transferred,” Ronnie announces joyfully.
After examining the displayed screen on his tablet to verify it is the correct amount, I instruct, “Send him his receipt and then update the status of his contract to complete.”
Ronnie begins tapping away while I retrieve my vibrating phone from my purse.
The text message launches my heart into my throat.
Hudson: Lunch?
One word. One word from him and my heart is pounding like he’s dropped down onto his knee for a proposal. What the hell is wrong with me? Why the hell did I ever think this would be a good idea?
I exit out of the text to write one to Jason. My husband. The only man who should get my pulse racing, yet he barely even looks at me.
Me: Hudson asked me to lunch.
Ronnie starts rambling about something he read in a trashy tabloid magazine during his down time at the office this morning, but I keep my attention planted on the screen, praying for outrage from the man who hasn’t said he loves me in almost a year.
Jason: Enjoy.
One word. That’s all I usually get from him nowadays. Occasionally two, but they serve the same purpose. They simply answer the question or confirm he received the message. Sadly, some days our bare minimum texts are the most he speaks to me.
I abandon my phone to dig in my purse for the chocolate reprieve buried at the bottom.
The moment the snack sized candy bar is in my possession, Ronnie tsks, “We’ve been over this. Good on the lips, terrible for the hips.”
If only he really knew how true that was. Since Jason and I have managed to become permanent residents of this loveless perdition where we eat, sleep, and exist in a state of pure misery, I entered a war against my pant size. It’s the constant rejection that keeps me in need of a steady sugar induced state. Chocolate never denies me a hug or flinches away from my kisses. It doesn’t avoid seeing me naked. It doesn’t foist me off to another man to avoid dealing with what’s dying between us…Or is it already completely dead?
“I don’t pay you to lecture me about my nutritional choices.” Biting the chocolate and coffee flavored treat in half, I question, “Did you get me a meeting with Helena? The Reynolds are growing impatient about this stupid vase.”
“Why do really wealthy people feel the need to pronounce it that way?” Storm complains from the front seat. “Why can’t you just say vase?”
“I do say vase. I was merely mocking them. I think they feel more important with the other pronunciation.”
When a small smile crosses his lips, I let one sneak onto mine.
Picking Storm from the employee lineup Gunz, the owner, presented me with was as easy as agreeing to spend the rest of my life with Jason. I saw Storm, and I just knew. I knew he would do everything possible to protect me without second guessing the decision. His brown eyes met mine and it felt like I finally had an older brother to watch out over me. A very attractive, light brown skinned older brother, built like a pro athlete with the charming smile of a pop star. Jason was not so secretly pissed when I hired him. He spent many nights those first couple of months swinging by the office unnecessarily, fucking me on my desk, and demanding I scream his name. That’s the Jason I miss. That’s the Jason I hoped doing something outrageous like inviting another man into our fucking lives would bring back. I was right. Well. Somewhat anyway. Definitely not in the way I was expecting. Being around Hudson yesterday resurrected more life in him than I’ve seen in the past year. It ignited the instinct to fight, though it was me he was fighting. It uncovered his buried desire to want someone to talk to, even if that person isn’t me. And most importantly it set free his forgotten happiness in the form of laughter, which only hurt to hear because it wasn’t me who helped cause it.
Why did my husband enjoy the company of a total stranger more than that of his own wife? Isn’t that fucked up? Don’t I deserve the right to be pissed off about that?
“You have a late lunch appointment with Helena scheduled for Thursday,” Ronnie informs, scaring away my sorrow filled train of thoughts. “And the new client appointment you had scheduled with Richard Nyland for today has been pushed to tomorrow. His poodle is ill.”
“Pushed back for the dog. That’s gotta be insulting,” Storm says as he pulls into the private parking garage.
“Maybe if it wasn’t an award winning one.”
“Like blue ribbon shit?”
“Like fifty grand in prize money per competition type of shit.”
“For a dog?!”
I giggle at his level of appall.
He parks the car at the same time Ronnie questions, “What do you want me to order for lunch, Gwen? Winter salads? Chowder? Perhaps sushi?”
Storm turns towards us. “Chinese.”
“Where do you store all those calories?” Ronnie questions in awe. “I look at an egg roll and my thighs balloon up.”
Hiring Ronnie was actually Jason’s idea. I was starting to drown in the increasing work load and like the Superman he always was, he wanted to save me. Wanted to help. He suggested I get an assistant, and Ronnie was the first to apply. He was fresh out of college, eager, and completely unfiltered. He said all the wrong things, in all the wrong ways, while wearing this blindingly bright ensemble. When I told Jason all about Ronnie, he insisted I hire him. Swore a man like that would always bring a smile to my environment and with a little grooming would be the professional cherry I needed. He was absolutely right.
“Actually, I’m gonna go out to lunch,” the words leave my mouth with a mixture of spite and sadness. “You two order whatever you want.”
Storm immediately asks, “Business?”
“Pleasure.”
Ronnie gasps in desperation for more information, but I shake my head denying it.
I promptly part from the two of them for my personal car. As soon as I’m inside of it, I pull out my phone to reply to Hudson before I change my mind.
Me: Where?
The second the text is sent regret kicks me in the gut. We shouldn’t be going to lunch romantically. We should meet so I can retract the agreement we all came to last night. So I can tell him face to face this was all a giant mistake. That he needs to forget about the two of us because what it is we’re proposing is ridiculous. It’s beyond ridiculous. It’s a recipe for disaster. Delicious…dirty…enticing….disaster.
Hudson: Aunt Toni’s on 3rd
Knowing it’s not far from my downtown office, I abandon the idea of driving, and reply.
Me: Now?
Hudson: I’m already waiting for you Gwenny.
His immediate response and choice of words hammers my heart harder inside my chest.
This is wrong. Everything about this situation is wrong. Hudson wasn’t supposed to be…irresistible. His profile had him pegged as flakey and in need of an easy lay. He was supposed to come over, get spooked at the idea of dating another man, and fucking flee. He wasn’t supposed to elicit various reactions out of Jason. He wasn’t supposed to be game for trying to date a couple. He damn sure wasn’t supposed to be the star of my fantasy in the shower this morning or my date for lunch. We have to end this. I have to end this. Adding trouble to my marriage is the last thing I need. And that’s exactly all Hudson Wheeler is. Tall, dark, and delectable trouble.
The walk to the corner café is thankfully quick. As much as I love these knee-high boots, walking long distances is not what they were built for.
Entering the restaurant, I’m immediately greeted by the hostess, yet her words are barely audible over the sound of my heart thumping harshly again.
His eyes are on me. I know they are. I can feel it. I can feel him.
Despite his distance, Hudson’s presence is no less powerful. It causes the air in my lungs to van
ish. My skin to tingle. My knees to wobble.