Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  Case in point: ‘You’re really going to watch while some random screws me seven ways from Sunday?’

  My heart literally skips a beat as the car pulls to a stop—I haven’t been watching where we were going. Surely, we can’t be there yet, wherever there is?

  Then the door opens from the outside.

  ‘Guess you’re about to find out.’

  ‘Welcome to the Copper Club,’ a deep voice intones.

  I stare up into the tan face of my one-person reception committee, contemplating the limited options I have.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse my wife,’ Dylan replies languidly, exiting the car himself. He walks around to the open door. ‘She’s a little shocked. Granted, it is an unusual anniversary gift, but she does enjoy being fucked.’ I glower up at him, despite the malicious glint in his eye. ‘By other men, especially.’

  Knees together—like my mother taught me—I swing them from the car, realising I still have the glass in my hand as Dylan takes it from me.

  ‘No more of this for you.’ His whisper is hot against my neck, his hand just as searing at the base of my bare spine.

  I step away from his touch. Continuing with the venomous looks, this time over my shoulder, I saunter towards the entrance of . . . I thought we were going to a club. Why? Probably too many kinky books read at my wee book club. Maybe I’d expected something dark, sleek, and a little foreboding. Not this.

  The house—because that’s what it is, just a house—looks like it could’ve been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. It’s all angles, glass, and exposed wood. The kind of house that could’ve been built anytime between the 1920’s and now. Modern, yet ageless. Ultra-modern yet not.

  Thirty minutes tops on the road so I figure we must be in Bel Air. 101 North. 405 South; I stopped paying attention after that. Yeah, Bel Air. It has to be.

  I really shouldn’t have drunk so much. I should’ve kept my wits.

  Although I seem to be sobering up quick.

  A stunning redhead in a tulip cut cocktail dress catches my attention at the threshold—doubly so as her eyes land on Dylan.

  ‘Welcome,’ she says, stalking towards me. Or rather towards him. I don’t turn to watch his reaction but rather, watch hers. I watch her appraise him. Recognise him. Shyly tilt her head. You’d think I’d be used to this—Dylan is the fantasy all the ladies want to turn to reality—but I’m not as her attentions create a knot in my throat. A knot I need to unravel quickly because what—or who—he does these days has nothing to do with me.

  Shouldn’t, anyway.

  ‘May I ask under which auspices you’re attending tonight?’ I realise she holds a small electronic tablet in her hand.

  ‘Copper for my wife and silver for myself.’ Dylan’s voice holds none of the usual charm reserved for being out in public. For his fans. Instead, he’s actually quite brusque. ‘And we have a cottage booked.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replies, all business now. From inside the tablet’s leather cover, she pulls out a length of silver ribbon, offering it to Dylan when he reaches past her outstretched hand to the tablet, snagging a copper length along with another of silver.

  ‘That’s all we need,’ he asserts, effectively dismissing her.

  ‘Cell phones must be checked on entry.’

  Dylan laughs softly, lifting my hand. ‘No need to fear the repercussion of a camera here, huh?’ Before I’ve a chance to retract it, he begins tying the copper ribbon around my wrist it in a bow.

  ‘Why do I need . . . ’ My words, meant for the redhead, trail off as Dylan stares at me from beneath those thick lashes. Lashes as black as his heart.

  ‘Copper ribbons are down for fucking. Silver signifies undecided.’ I shiver, hating myself for the way my body reacts to his trailing finger as he strokes from my wrist to my fingertip. Leaving my hand suspended in the air, he turns, his eyes suddenly raking over the woman standing silently nearby. ‘But open to the possibility.’

  He tucks his ribbon into the breast pocket of his button-down, smiling secretly as a blush colours her face from the neck up. For a woman working for a sex club—for a swingers network?—the blush seems easily brought. Or maybe it’s just a really good act. Half the population of L.A. seems to be taking acting classes. I suppose seeing the object of your desire jump from thirty feet high to six feet is a lot to get your head around. And in real life, Dylan’s so much more than he is on screen, and those moss green eyes seem to promise you things.

  Like the death of your self-respect.

  Tired of watching him make a show of himself for my benefit, I swallow a huff I can’t afford to make and begin descending a set of stairs, following the dull thud of dance music.

  At the bottom, one side of a set of double doors to a basement opens, a man, who looks like he could be working security, brushes my shoulder as he ascends the staircase. I watch as the heavy fire door closes, muffling the provocative thrum of bass. Trepidation and a sense of disbelief keep me in place as the music vibrates under the soles of my feet.

  I sense him before I feel him, his hand on my elbow, gripping tight.

  ‘You’ll stay close to me. This isn’t the kind of place—’

  I shrug him off, literally, adding disgust and betrayal to list of emotions I’m drowning in. ‘This isn’t a sex club. It’s a house in Bel Air,’ I hiss. ‘Is there going to be a bowl where house keys and spouses get traded?’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking provincial. It’s just a rented space. These events are exclusive events held every month—different places—hotels, resorts, multi-million-dollar rentals like this.’

  ‘And I suppose you’d know.’ As I say it, I could bite off the end of my tongue. I shouldn’t give him ammunition such as my disgust and shock.

  ‘Why, Edera.’ Amusement ripples over his face because those reactions aren’t the only emotions I’m inadvertently revealing. ‘Are you jealous?’’

  ‘Are you an arsehole?’

  Face burning, I raise my chin when his fingers catch it. ‘I’ve fucked plenty of assholes lately. And I have you to thank for that.’

  I pull away from him, turning and wrenching the entrance wide before storming into the cavernous and darkly lit space.

  The music pounds; starting at my feet, it works its way up my legs and ends in a thrum between my thighs. Maybe five or six couples are dancing. A bar is set against the far wall, and a bartender serves cocktails. The whole place, at first glance, could be any club in the world . . . until you notice the subtle flash of flesh under a strobe light, and the bodies pushed together in corners. A woman sandwiched between two dancing men. The music works its way to my centre, settling low, and though I hate to admit it, the presence of Dylan at my back is mostly responsible.

  Ignoring him—I’m sure he’s standing there purely to assess my flight risk—I keep my eyes fixed on a man sitting on a high stool at the bar. A man with a woman standing between his splayed legs. She looks familiar. Was she in a movie I watched last week with Nat? They’re not doing anything out of the ordinary; nothing overtly sexual, in any case, but there’s something about them. Something that makes it hard to tear away my gaze. The whole setting is too much—too sexual—but as she slides her hands through his hair, the intimacy calls out to me. Makes me long for the same.

  Deepens a certain flutter between my legs.

  ‘How many fingers does he have in her pussy, do you think?’

  My insides clench emptily at his words. In the split second it takes Dylan to pull away, the woman throws her head back, pleasure curled in the soft o of her mouth.

  ‘Two? Three?’ he asks again.

  Two and a thumb playing her clit. I turn my head, though not really to answer, and find his mouth within kissing distance. His darkened eyes dance back and forth between my own, seeking something undefined. They drift to my lips and linger. Travel over my neck and between the valley of my breasts. His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows, and I sway towards him.

  Stupid, stupid girl. />
  Chapter 14

  Ivy

  I sway millimetres closer when Dylan laughs. It’s a throaty hum of laughter, not at all bitter like I know it should sound.

  ‘Tempting, as always, cutz.’ His fingers trail the skin of my bared back, tantalising each of my vertebrae and igniting every nerve ending. It’s all I can do to stop myself from turning, forcing him to feed me his next sentiments from his tongue. ‘But you’re not here to fuck me tonight.’

  I swallow thickly, coming back to our reality. He’d called me cutz the first night we met because of my job. The day I left him, he called me it again but without affection. He referred to me cutting out his heart.

  ‘You remember the purpose of tonight? Your fucking me over? Our divorce? Your lies?’ His breath is warm and whisky-scented. Mixed with the smell of his cologne, it’s like a brush with the past. ‘Pay attention, Edera. We’re here to find you an easy fuck.’

  ‘What are the rules?’ I swallow thickly, my throat burning at his words. He’s not going to make me do this; I know he’s not.

  ‘A man,’ he replies, tapping his chin, ever the thespian. ‘A woman would be a step too far from your comfort zone, I think.’

  ‘Yeah because being penetrated while my husband looks on is much less frightening and way more fun.’ I almost stutter over my use of husband, the truth of the word holding too much hurt.

  ‘You’re not here to enjoy yourself. But who knows? Maybe you will. Maybe I will?’

  ‘I’m not watching you.’ He laughs then, like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard. As I turn my head from his amusement, I realise we’re being watched.

  ‘Him,’ I announce. ‘I’m doing him.’ What makes me say it, I don’t know, though my mouth seems pretty content to run. ‘He’s sort of cute.’

  Is he cute? I don’t appear to be processing. I only recognise his is the first gaze mine connects with. Maybe I’m just calling Dylan’s bluff?

  I make to move toward him when Dylan catches my arm.

  ‘That’s not how this works,’ he growls, his mirth having dissolved into distaste. I curl my fingers around his in an attempt to pry them from where they pinch. ‘You don’t get—’

  ‘Hey,’ a third voice drawls, interrupting. Sandy hair and a deep tan suggested he works outdoors most of the day. He’s good looking, in that ordinary way. Sort of safe. His gaze falls to where Dylan’s fingers curl around my arm. ‘Angry roleplay?’ He reaches to scratch the back of his neck, maybe realising belatedly that Dylan’s anger is anything but make-believe.

  ‘You got us,’ I respond. ‘He likes to pretend he’s against me playing a slut.’ My words are bright and over enthused. I’d be a rubbish actress. Meanwhile, Dylan’s mouth remains a grim line, and his fingers continue to pinch my upper arm.

  ‘I’m not into threesomes,’ Sandy-haired man says. ‘My kinks are pretty straight.’

  Straight kinks; a bit of an oxymoron. While I’m just a plain old moron. My jaw aches from smiling, so I know I must look a little like one. Jesus Christ—this conversation could’ve been lifted from our book club. If he tells me he’s a billionaire CEO, I’ll die. I look down at his shoes; leather Keds. So not CEO material. He looks more like a tech geek, especially as I catch a glimpse of his watch. Expensive and complicated.

  I attempt a smile, though it’s the short-lived kind. I fix it firmer on my face and tilt my head, my gaze solely for Dylan.

  ‘Straight kinks work. We’re not interested in, erm, that sort of stuff, and he’s just here to watch.’

  ‘What, no golden showers? No ass fucking,’ Dylan snarls—that’s what it sounded like, anyway. A snarl from the pit of his gut. And he looks seriously pissed. I unfurl my fingers from Dylan’s pinching ones, tearing my gaze from his.

  ‘Where are my manners?’ I hold out my hand. You still bring manners to a sex club, right? ‘I haven’t introduced myself. I’m—’

  ‘My wife.’ I’d always thought growls were something heated, but somehow, Dylan manages to lace his with ice. ‘That is all you need to know, and we sure as fuck don’t need to know your name.’

  ‘Cool, man,’ Sandy responds, his tone chilled but not at all cold. ‘I know you from someplace?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You look real familiar.’

  Of course he is—don’t you have a TV? Internet?

  ‘I have one of those faces,’ Dylan deadpans.

  ‘But you,’ Sandy says, turning fully to face me, ‘you’ve got a real pretty face. I’d remember if I’d seen it before.’

  If his tone was meant to be seductive, it falls a few miles short. And looking me up and down? That’s not helping. And not creepy at all. Just all the creepy. Doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Because this isn’t going anywhere real. Dylan wouldn’t. I know he’s just playing with me.

  I have to believe.

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ I think. More politeness when, out on the street, I’d have told him in no uncertain terms, where to stick his compliment.

  ‘What part of Ireland you from, good lookin’?’

  ‘She’s from the Scottish part,’ Dylan grates out. ‘So we’ve established I look familiar, and my wife has a pretty face—’

  ‘Know what’ll make your face even lovelier?’ he says, cutting across Dylan as though he wasn’t midsentence. ‘When I have my head between your legs, and you’re crying out my name.’

  Corn central. Someone pass me a sick bag. I giggle, probably still a little drunk.

  ‘This,’ Dylan sneers, looking the man up and down, his focus turning to me, anger and distaste radiating from him. ‘This is what you want?’

  ‘This is what you want,’ I snap, running from mildly amused to angry immediately. ‘Apparently, what I want doesn’t matter.’

  Searing. That’s what his returning glare is. I feel burned and blackened and hardened on the surface. Yet raw underneath.

  ‘Fine.’ That one arctic word brims with so many meanings, all of them a world away from fine. A world away from comfortable.

  I almost can’t bear the weight of his stare but refuse to turn away. For the life of me, I can’t guess what his gaze is trying to convey. Is it that he hates me? That he can’t wait to see me be fucked? Fucked over? Or maybe, and this is probably more likely, he’s waiting for me to back down. And if that’s the case, he’ll be waiting for a very, very long time.

  This isn’t going anywhere. He isn’t going to make me go through with this. He’ll baulk first.

  ‘Fine,’ I spit back, balancing my weight on one hip.

  ‘Let’s get it on.’

  ‘Literally.’

  Dylan turns on his heel and strides off in the direction of glass doors, leading to some sort of patio. Of course, I follow angrily behind. At the door, he swings back and calls out, though it takes me a second to realise this message isn’t only meant for me.

  ‘The cottages. Number six. I’ll be waiting.’

  He storms out.

  I follow the sound of his footsteps past a free-form pool with an actual grotto, complete with cascading waterfall. At least a dozen people are milling by the poolside; some of them in very little clothing, and some of them moments away from getting hot and heavy, it would appear.

  ‘It’s like the bloody Playboy mansion,’ I grumble to myself.

  I follow Dylan’s dark form through the gardens while trying to ignore the sound of Sandy’s softer footfall behind. I can’t believe he’s actually following; he must be pretty desperate for a shag to think anything good could come of taking his jeans off between two hotheads. But maybe dangerous sex is his kink.

  This isn’t going anywhere real—Dylan’s not going to make me do this.

  He won’t. I have to believe this.

  His strong back suddenly disappears within the dense garden of greenery; bromeliads, soft gingers, and ferns. Even though the grounds have a secret garden feel, the pathway is very distinct. Before long, I reach a row of small bungalows—half a dozen of them or so. The kind you’
d find at a resort hotel. At the structure farthest to the right, Dylan stands. The door to the bungalow is open, and he leans one shoulder against the frame. I can’t make out his expression; one side of his face cut by darkness, the other a dim light, but I suddenly find I need to remind my feet how to work.

  By the time I get to the doorway, Sandy’s behind me and Dylan has turned from the door.

  ‘Hey, baby. What’s the rush?’ His hand trails down my bare back, and I shiver. It’s the opposite reaction to what Dylan’s fingers brought forth.

  Out there, in the other room, with the music and dancing, the place heavy with the atmosphere of sex, I’d thought him unthreatening. Unthreatening in a place three miles out from my comfort zone. I remember thinking he had warm eyes, that he’d maybe be kind. That he’d understand when this fell apart because Dylan wasn’t truly going to make me do this, was he? I now think the opposite, and all I want to do is peel his fingers from my skin and douse myself in a vat of Lysol.

  ‘Are you here to talk or fuck,’ calls a voice from inside.

  ‘He doesn’t like that I called you baby.’

  Sandy’s whisper is meant to be conspiratorial, but I don’t want to conspire with him, let alone have sex with him. And truthfully, I don’t like that he called me baby, either. I say none of this as my eyes adjust to the light.

  Dylan stands at the far side of the room, his broad back to me as he switches on a lamp. As he turns, our gazes lock. He looks at me as though he’d prefer not to—as though he’d prefer to look at anything but me . . . yet has no choice.

  I hold his gaze. Letting him know I’m not going anywhere as I’m compelled to step over the threshold. I ignore the inadvertent dance of Sandy’s fingers down my spine as I move. On the sideboard next to a lamp stands a tray of glasses and a bottle of black labelled bourbon. Dylan pours two fingers in one, holding it out to me, and my feet don’t stop moving until the tips of my shoes are almost touching his.