Whore

by Elise Faber

  Whore

  Chauvinist Stories #3

  Elise Faber

  WHORE

  BY ELISE FABER

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  * * *

  WHORE

  Copyright © 2020 Elise Faber

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-58-6

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-57-9

  Cover Art by Jena Brignola

  Chauvinist Stories

  Bitch

  * * *

  Cougar

  * * *

  Whore

  * * *

  End Scene

  Contents

  Chauvinist Stories

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  End Scene

  Chauvinist Stories

  Chauvinist Series

  Also by Elise Faber

  About the Author

  One

  Eden

  I walked out of the hospital after visiting Artie and Pierce’s beautiful baby girl, my heart filled with so much joy for my friends.

  I owed the director-producer duo a huge debt of gratitude.

  They’d cast me in the surprise box office success, Carrot, a few years before, and because of that, I’d had my dream of crossing over from model to actress fulfilled. I’d been one of those model urban legends, a pretty girl seen on the street and approached, my career in modeling easy and fruitful. I hadn’t been taken in by a creepy old man with a casting couch nor had I been assaulted or belittled or had a diary filled with horror stories like so many of my contemporaries.

  I was lucky.

  I was empty.

  Because of everything that had happened before I’d been “discovered.”

  But my past had meant that I’d learned, become smarter.

  And though I’d eventually managed to escape, I was left a shell of a person because of it.

  Merely a doll to be dressed up and styled in someone else’s vision, a simple vessel to be filled with someone else’s ideas. I was to be looked at and not looked in—

  I snorted. It wasn’t like acting was so different. I continued to be judged by the way I looked. Magazines still frequently accused me of being pregnant after I’d had a big lunch, or linked me with any male I was seen exchanging a few words with.

  But I wasn’t empty any longer.

  I felt and lived and finally was me.

  So much self-contemplation for so early in the morning, but then again, seeing a precious little bundle of life brought so newly into this world would do that to a girl.

  I was absolutely thrilled for Artie and Pierce. They were the real deal and deserved every bit of their success—film or family version. Smiling to myself, I reached into my purse for my keys then promptly dropped them to the ground.

  Ugh.

  I bent—

  “I know that ass.”

  A gasp of outrage on my lips, I straightened and whipped around, ready to tell off the arrogant bastard who’d dared—

  Damon Garcia.

  Photographer extraordinaire and—

  He grinned.

  Man who still wanted to get into my pants.

  Now, I wasn’t a prude. I slept around enough to have been called a whore by more than one publication. It wasn’t like my activities between the sheets were more than most men in Hollywood, but because I was a woman, it was noticed and frowned upon.

  I just couldn’t bring myself to care.

  I practiced consensual, safe sex.

  If we both were attracted to each other and it was safe, then I didn’t hesitate to go for what I wanted.

  Maybe that made me a whore.

  Maybe I didn’t care what other people thought about me.

  But Damon?

  Damon, I didn’t sleep with.

  Damon, I didn’t fuck or kiss or touch.

  Because I knew if I allowed myself a taste, I would never have enough.

  I was frozen in place when he bent in front of me and picked up my keys, extending them toward me. That was when I made my first mistake. My fingers brushed his as I took them back. Heat exploded up my arm, my stomach went tingly, and my voice was breathy as I asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here now. Well, not the hospital—I’m visiting a friend—but here in town.” He smiled, and that paired with the news of him being in L.A. hit me hard upside the head. So hard, it knocked my common sense loose and allowed me to make my second mistake.

  Because I didn’t run after I’d said, “Oh, that’s great.”

  My third came when he asked, “Want to grab a drink tonight and catch up?”

  To which I said, “Yes,” instead of “Absolutely not.”

  My fourth?

  Well, my fourth came when I finally gave in to the draw that was Damon Garcia and woke up naked in my bed beside him.

  And then he wouldn’t leave.

  Two

  Eden

  Oh good God. What had I done?

  Damon was in my bed.

  Correction. A naked Damon was in my bed.

  I shifted carefully, slipping out of the circle of his arms and from beneath the covers, then padded quietly to the bathroom.

  Let it be noted that I was naked, too.

  Worse, it had been good. No, great. No, fucking incredible and the best I’d ever had.

  The. Best. Ever.

  I was so screwed.

  After slipping into my fluffy, oversized bathrobe, I turned to stare at myself in the mirror.

  “Eden Larson, you are a mess,” I muttered, leaning my hands next to the sink and critically eyeing my bright red hair and pale skin. I might as well be critical because Hollywood sure wasn’t going to be kind about the new wrinkles—marring my forehead—or the gray in my hair—a strip appearing just above my right ear—or my boobs—and how they’d begun to sag in recent years. I mean, look, I had a healthy appreciation for my body, and I knew I was supposed to love every inch and all of the lines and sags and wrinkles . . . but my job was predominantly based on my appearance on a giant screen or the cover of a magazine or how good I looked when I went out and was caught “unawares” by the paparazzi, and sometimes it was hard to keep perspective.

  Those Chunky Eden Has Let Herself Go headlines didn’t feel good, no matter how long I’d been in the press.

  Probably why I’d given into my attraction to Damon in the first place.

  The lovely gossip sheets yesterday speculating how far along I was.

  Sigh.

  Sometimes I hated this industry.

  And the rest of the time I smacked myself out of this funk because I was really lucky to be in my position, that I’d gone from an obscure girl on a street corner approached by a model scout to one of the top models in the industry. Then, thanks to Pierce and Artie, I’d had my
big break with Carrot.

  So, there it was. I was one of the select few to successfully make the crossover from model to actor.

  Go me.

  That didn’t change the fact that now I’d fucked the one person I’d made a promise to myself never to sleep with.

  Damon Garcia was handsome and talented and funny and . . . he got me. All of which might be great things, except for the fact that getting me also meant that I had gotten attached and I couldn’t afford to be. We had to go back to being just friends. We had to—

  “Shit,” I muttered, knowing my inner pleading was the great sex equivalent of Pandora’s box. That lid was open now, and I knew all about what was inside.

  Or rather, I now knew all about those hard, yummy inches and how they felt inside me.

  Mistake. It had been a mistake.

  But could something that felt as good as my night in bed with Damon really be bad?

  Yes.

  Of course, it was.

  I’d promised myself that I wasn’t going to do this. I wasn’t going to get attached.

  Not ever again.

  I reached for my toothbrush and glared at myself in the mirror. “This was a mistake, Eden. You have got to get your shit together. Shower. Get him out of here, and then go back to your life—”

  “Was it really that bad?”

  I froze, Damon’s voice drifting down my spine.

  Fuck, I’d always loved his voice, especially when it was like that. Warm and soft, but almost predatory.

  It had made my thighs clench when he’d discussed the shot list with me during our first photoshoot together all those years ago, and it still made them tense now, though the pleasure was tinged with panic.

  I didn’t sleep with men I liked. I couldn’t afford to.

  The toothbrush hit the counter with a clink, and I girded my loins as I spun to face him.

  Not that it mattered. Despite the girding, heat still flooded my insides.

  Only now it was worse.

  Because I knew how good it could be.

  Caramel skin, chocolate eyes, strong jaw, dark hair, and enough stubble on his cheeks to remind me with a shiver of how good that stubble had felt rubbing against my thighs.

  “You need to go,” I blurted.

  In answer, he leaned back against the doorframe and loosely crossed his arms. “Eden, honey.”

  Honey down my spine.

  Just like the first shoot we’d done together when he’d taken it from his assistant and poured it all over my body, dripping it this way and that until he’d gotten exactly the look he’d been going for.

  The resulting photographs, me covered in the sticky stuff, glistening droplets down my skin, my body clad only in a silver bikini had, without a doubt, been the item I’d autographed the most over the years.

  This will be many a teenage boy’s spank bank material, Damon had teased.

  He was probably right.

  But he’d also made me see myself differently with that shoot.

  I’d never felt sexy, or as fodder for someone’s self-pleasure. I didn’t doubt I was okay-looking, though more cute than sexy for sure, but those photographs had . . . well, I’d seen how I could be transformed.

  And it had given me the confidence to pursue acting.

  If I could transform into a sex kitten with just a silver bikini and a few jars of honey, then maybe I could transform in other ways, too. But it wasn’t just being sexy, though that had definitely given me more confidence. It was that I could be seen as something more than just the superficial.

  Which is why he’d also told me, And when the important ones—the ones who can look past the bikini and honey—see this . . . well, your calendar is going to explode, sweetheart.

  He’d been right. My offers following that shoot had gotten bigger and bigger, until I’d been transformed from mid-list to one of the most well-known models in the world.

  But transformations didn’t help me now.

  Because Damon was there and awake and . . . still naked, unabashedly leaning back against the door. It should have been kind of icky. I mean, penises weren’t the most attractive body part to just be so casually on display.

  But Damon’s penis?

  Yeah, I could stare at it all day.

  Which I was doing. Right at that moment, watching it lengthen and harden beneath my gaze, remembering how it had felt in my mouth, how it had tasted as I’d sucked him deep, how he’d pulsed between my lips, his fingers sliding into my hair and—

  Damon cleared his throat and my eyes shot to his.

  His lips curved. “Morning, baby.”

  I whirled around, released a shaky breath. “Y-you should g-go.”

  Silence.

  Then, “I ordered breakfast,” he announced, ignoring my statement. “I hope you still like French toast.” His words had gotten louder as he’d closed the distance between us, and I felt the heat of his body hit my spine. But he didn’t touch me—though if I were being honest, I was almost desperate for the contact.

  Fear locked my spine.

  I couldn’t want him.

  Correction: I couldn’t still want him.

  That wasn’t what I did anymore. Second dates weren’t required. I didn’t form lasting relationships with my lovers. One night and I was done.

  And I’d never had an issue with that.

  But Damon?

  There was a reason I’d never slept with him before.

  Fuck.

  I was going around in circles and—

  The doorbell rang.

  My hair was swept to the side, his lips pressed to my nape. “Must be breakfast. I’ll go grab it.”

  I locked my knees against the physical onslaught of his touch, holding back my shudder until I heard his feet pad out of the bathroom, heard the soft brush of fabric against skin that indicated him putting on his clothes, then more footfalls trailing down the hall.

  Only then did I slump against the counter, resting my head in my hands.

  I’d messed up.

  Oh, how I’d messed up.

  Three

  Damon

  I’d known Eden for a long time.

  I’d known I’d wanted to sleep with Eden for a long time.

  I just hadn’t expected her to let down the walls enough to make the first move. But she’d done that last night, and after only two drinks. We’d hung out enough that I knew two drinks weren’t enough to get her drunk or to make it so she wasn’t lucid enough to make a decision about whom she was going to sleep with.

  We’d hung out a lot.

  I’d watched her pick up many male hands and lead them from the bar.

  Just not me. Eden had never chosen me.

  There was a line between us, one I’d made clear I was willing to cross, one she’d made clear she wasn’t going to cross.

  Except, last night she’d done just that.

  And now I had a bag of food in my hand, Eden was all but locked in the bathroom, and I had been given a sliver of a chance to finally get what I’d been pining after for years.

  Eden.

  Not just a one and done spectacular night, but Eden.

  Forever.

  I knew I had an uphill climb, knew that Eden was gun shy, that she didn’t date or form meaningful relationships with men. Though, that wasn’t an entirely fair statement. She did have friends—I’d been strictly in that category until last night—and she had lovers.

  It was the lovers that weren’t around for long.

  The friends. They were allowed to hang.

  Now I was firmly in No Man’s Land.

  Sighing, I debated between leaving, like Eden clearly wanted me to do, and staying, which would risk me being put back in the friends category, but would also ensure that I stayed out of the lover’s section.

  I didn’t want to be just friends with Eden, but I liked the idea of being relegated to the periphery of her life even less.

  There was a reason I’d maintained contact with her over the years
, even though our connection was less important now that she’d transitioned over to films and I’d remained firmly in photography.

  I didn’t have any desire to enter Hollywood or to direct films or TV, like some of my colleagues. I was happy to shoot a portrait of a star or fashion or bikini shots (Eden’s, in particular, had shifted my focus, that was for damn sure). But what all of those had in common was good money and exposure. And yet . . . they didn’t feed my soul, and for the most part, they weren’t particularly interesting. I couldn’t say that as a be-all-end-all because there were often undertones and interesting personalities beneath the veneer of celebrities, but it was typically a struggle to have the time and patience to reveal them.

  Still, those shoots were important because they padded my bank account, kept me busy and in the right circles, and gave me freedom.

  The freedom to pursue the subjects that did feed my soul.

  Some might call those subjects nobodies, but those so-called nobodies were so much more open than a PR-represented, agented celebrity. Or if they weren’t open, they usually had more time in front of the lens to peel back the layers.

  Eden hadn’t fit into either of those categories when I’d first met her.

  She’d been a successful model, not world-renowned like after the photographs had hit, but those photos had also catapulted me onto a whole other tier along with her. Still, while she’d been in the industry and knew how shoots worked and what was expected, she’d also been . . . open.

  Her pain, her vulnerability, her insecurities had shown through her eyes, had bled right over into the photographs.