by Gina Whitney
However, not only did Cam not ask me for my number, he was only walking behind me because he had parked his powerful, black Harley 1200 Custom next to me. He spread his thick legs and straddled it then put on his Aviator sunglasses and revved up his baby. I had to say, that motorcycle…the way it just hung between his legs…looked more like a big, hard dick than anything else.
Cam turned the twistgrip like it was his cock and throttled up. The rumble from the motorcycle bounced off the concrete walls of the garage. It was almost deafening. He didn’t care. In fact, if I hadn’t known any better, I would have sworn he’d done it on purpose. I was totally conflicted. Never had I so detested a man and still wanted to fuck the skin off his dick at the same time.
Alas, Cam drove off without even looking in my direction. I let out an audible gasp. No straight male ever looked at me and just turned away.
Hmm…maybe my gaydar was in need of a tune-up.
Chapter Two
“Miss Lilly, which do you prefer?” the makeup artist asked me.
I did not know the artist’s name. She was just one of many Sig had hired to make me look appropriate enough to fit his image. I picked out a brilliant shade of turquoise shadow to go on my eyes. As I watched myself in the Hollywood mirror, I could see the reflection of Sig’s self-portrait behind me. That awful oil painting always gave me the willies. It was of monstrous proportions and loomed over the entire room. And it was true to life. Sig looked like an anthropological forty-five-degree angle. Everything about him was square, sharp, and pointy. There was absolutely no softness about him. The way his white-blond hair blended seamlessly into his almost transparent skin and nearly colorless eyes was disconcerting at best.
What Sig lacked in warmth and humanity, he made up for in ego, and he wanted to document his life for posterity. I was an extension of that mythical life like furniture was to a house. That is why he had me shadowed a few days a week by Tamara, his personal photographer. Tamara grew up in Trinidad and was a bouncing ball of sunshine. She was a proud Trini woman, gorgeous enough to be a model herself. Every visit with her was like a relaxing trip to the tropics, which I needed after being under Sig’s constant scrutiny. Over the past few weeks, Tamara had become a confidante of sorts. Of course I did not tell her everything.
When the cosmetologist left, Tamara started snapping photos of me. “Girly,” she said, “aren’t you a busy woman? Today the interview. Tomorrow the big gala. You’re going to be totally worn down.”
I stood at the mirror and adjusted my demi bra. “Yes, but this is the life of a famous man’s girlfriend.”
Tamara looked through my custom-built closet that was the size of two bedrooms. It was overflowing with designer clothing, footwear, and jewels. She put her hand on her hip and said, “It looks like you’re really suffering. What’s up with the spokesperson position for Klå? Do you still want it?”
“Are you kidding? A chance to be the face of Klå? Be what Brooke Shields was for Calvin Klein? That is the biggest modeling gig ever. I’d never have to do another catalog again.”
“You’d think because you’re his girlfriend, Sig would just give it to you.”
“Sig doesn’t operate like that. Business is business. Home is home. My function right now is to be an asset for his image.” I looked back at the mirror. “And I am getting older.”
Tamara stood right in front of me and took a direct photo of my face. She asked, “Do you love him?”
I had already asked myself that question a million times and always came back with the same answer. Sig was like a fog machine. As he spewed mist, I was able to hide behind the haze of his life. Sig, like modeling, validated my existence. Lord knows I couldn’t. All I had to do was keep the real me—the me that was damaged beyond repair—tucked away in some recess. Essentially I was nothing more than a fraud.
So when Tamara asked me about true love, I could only go off my experience. And experience taught me that everyone is fucked up. True love has to do with authenticity, and everyone is living a lie. How can love happen in a sea of illusion?
“I have been with him for years. Of course I have developed affection for him,” I answered honestly.
I was thankful to hear the doorbell ring so I would not have to continue that conversation. “The reporter is here,” I said, adjusting my wrap dress.
As I went to the door, Tamara stopped me as she pushed one of her many locks behind her ear. “Lilly, you still haven’t answered my question.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t. Do you love Sig?”
I turned her question around: “Can anyone let themselves be real enough to truly love and be loved by another?”
I just couldn’t figure out why I had no emotional connection with Rebecca.
Rebecca was a tiny thing, highly intelligent, with a degree in biochemistry. She was an interesting conversationalist and made me laugh occasionally. She was waiting tables to pay her way through grad school. That’s how I met her—during one of those times when that weird, lonely feeling crept up on me. But something was missing…something fundamental, basic.
And here we were again on another Sunday night, fucking. It was almost like it was on my to-do list: pay the bills, do laundry, fuck Rebecca.
Rebecca was on top of me bouncing up and down. She must have read somewhere that men like watching skin flicks, and she was doing a bad imitation of a porn star. I tried not to laugh as she threw her head back, ran her fingers through her pixie cut, and moaned like she had just gotten shot in the stomach.
“Cam! Cam! Cam!” she grunted and yelled. Goddamn it. I was two seconds away from stuffing my dirty sock in her mouth to make her shut the hell up.
It didn’t matter how loud Rebecca screamed, though. She could make as much noise as she wanted because I was the only occupant in the building. Ever since I was a teen, I learned how to save and invest my money. I had to. By the time I finished law school, my investments had paid off, and I was able to purchase this distressed warehouse building cheap, which was surprising in New York. I did all the rehab myself. The first level still basically looked like an industrialized space. However, on the second level, I created a series of lofts. I had the largest one. My intention was to one day rent out the rest, but for now I just wanted to be by myself. In the end, with all the refurbishing, I wound up with a pretty nifty property that is coveted by developers.
I heard Rebecca’s stuttered groans. She was cumming. I always held out until a woman climaxed; I was never going to be that premature-ejaculating dude. But since Rebecca got hers, it was okay for me to get mine, and I did. Though the sex was intense at times, it was not the height of physical ecstasy and was emotionally stunted. I figured I was overthinking the situation with Rebecca and needed to be satisfied with the way things were. It was safer that way. To never care if she disappeared like everyone else in my life had done.
I rolled over on my back. The night was essentially over for me. I was trying to think of a new way to tell her to leave without actually saying it. I did want to be polite, you know. But Rebecca was stalling. She started studying a framed photograph of the mountain cabin I had recently purchased in Upstate New York. It was a small cabin but had sweeping views of the Catskill Mountains. It even had a small pond and stream out back.
“God, Cam, you’ve had this cabin for months now. When are you going to take me to see it?”
I thought, Never. But I replied, “We’ll see, Rebecca.”
“I told you to call me Becky. ‘Rebecca’ sounds so formal. Everyone close to me calls me Becky.”
I did not consider myself to be close to Rebecca, but she was putting the pressure on me to commit. She tried to lie on my chest; however, I managed to block her by putting my hand over my heart. I thought she would have picked up on that not-so-subtle hint, but she was on a mission.
“How about I stay over tonight? I mean we’ve been dating for a year—”
“Well, not exactly dating.”
&nb
sp; “Yeah, dating. I think it’s about time I spent the night. I mean are you hiding something from me?”
I did not want to go through this again. “I have work in the morning. A ton of files. I really need to rest up. Maybe some other time.”
Rebecca was miffed at me but was not about to cause a commotion. She was playing it smart by making sure she did not do anything to jeopardize her chances of becoming my official girlfriend and more.
“Okay, silly goose, some other time,” she said with a grin. “But you know women like me can be easily snatched up by the competition.”
I stifled a laugh at that veiled threat. If I had any competition, she would have been gone by now. “I hear you.”
“I’m serious, Cam. I’m not going to say it twice.”
“Then don’t.”
With a huff, Rebecca bounded out of bed and rounded up her clothing that was scattered about the room. I watched her eye my ratty college T-shirt and worn-out sweatpants. She coveted my clothing. She wanted to have the exclusive privilege of wearing it like a real girlfriend.
After Rebecca got dressed, I wrapped my waist in a sheet and walked her to the door. She spread her arms wide to engulf me. I patted her back and opened the door. She deflated and said, “Same time next Sunday?”
“We’ll see.”
I stayed there to make sure Rebecca got on the elevator. Then I went to my window to watch her get into the car. I did not do this because I cared about her safety. I was simply making sure she was gone.
My belly started talking to me, and I realized that I had not eaten all day. I went to the fridge and luckily had some leftover lasagna bolognese and antipasto. I ate this combination way too frequently, but these two recipes were the only ones I could remember my mother cooking for me before she died. She was an Italian immigrant from a well-to-do family. She enjoyed a good life until she met my father, a hard-living, uneducated WASP…and my childhood demon.
I sat down in my favorite leather chair, nice and cracked, and started to eat my post-coitus meal. An unopened envelope with a return address belonging to Hilda Brown sat on the coffee table. She was my next-door neighbor when I was a little boy. The last time I heard from her was fifteen years ago. I had been procrastinating about opening the letter. I knew what it was. If I was going to open that envelope, I knew I had better do it right then. If I did not, I would have tossed it in the trash. I took a bite of pepperoni as if it would prepare me somehow and opened the envelope. Sure enough it was what I thought it was: an invitation to a memorial service for my deceased mother.
I tossed the invitation back on the table and looked out the window at the hazy, setting sun. I noted how awesome it looked. If it were possible, it would be a perfect place to escape to at that moment. My thoughts began to drift, and a surprising remembrance of Lilly crossed my mind. I blew it off and turned on the TV instead. As I watched a boxing match, more intrusive thoughts about Lilly kept popping into my head.
Chapter Three
Unlike most people, I loved Monday mornings. The weekends always seemed like a waste of time, doing nonsensical things of no real value. That is why I spent as much time as I could down at Wotherspoon and Associates. I was driven to be productive, and stress, competition, and adrenaline were my fuels. What would I achieve by the day’s end? Which crisis would my firm come to me to avert? I could not wait to get to work.
As I locked my front door, I glanced up at a small security camera I had installed in the second-level hallway. I could not be careful enough. Working at Wotherspoon required me to perform some, shall we say, dubious tasks. I had made enemies and took the issue of security seriously.
I rushed to work as fast as I could. Wotherspoon and Associates was located in a formidable glass-and-steel skyscraper just off Park Avenue. It was a veritable fortress complete with armed guards and iris recognition just to get in. I always took the stairs to the fifth floor, where the associates were congregated.
Once there, I made my way through a stormy sea of type A’s, including the secretaries. My tiny, windowless office was located in the back. The office was bleak. Piss-colored walls, awful blue carpet dating back to the ’70s, and the distinct smell of an aged space. The only thing that livened it up was my golden name plate that read “CAMERON D. STERLING, ESQ.” All the associates had the same kind of offices, and we never met clients in them. We steered them to a magnificent meeting room on the fourth floor.
I didn’t mind my working environment because I had a plan. I was determined to make partner at any cost. I was going to make it to the legendary twenty-sixth floor, the one that most associates had only heard about. Only a select few ever saw it. And I was going to be one of those lucky ones who did. This measly office was a mere stopgap along the way.
The day was progressing uneventfully. I was finding myself in a state of boredom with no conflict to engage in. That is when Linda, the founding partner’s stern secretary, came to my door. Linda looked like a creature from some old fairytale, and I would not have been surprised to find out that she transformed into a troll at night.
The old hag walked in without even so much as knocking and said, “Mr. Wotherspoon requests your immediate presence.”
She could have just called my desk, but the partners liked to put on a show and strike occasional fear in the fifth-floor associates. Now my office reeked of her. I said to the dragon lady, “I will be up immediately.”
Linda went back to the hole she climbed out of. I then made myself more presentable for the partners. I swished mouthwash, spritzed some cologne, and double checked the shine on my shoes. I opted for the elevator instead of the stairs so no trace of perspiration would be seen on me.
When the elevator doors opened, it was like I had entered another world. The twenty-sixth floor was a tribute to lavishness and greed. Linda appeared out of nowhere and led me to an oak-paneled conference room. I was grimly greeted by a room of astute but foreboding older men—the partners. Lurking in a dark corner was an intense-looking man in a well-tailored suit. He was definitely not a partner.
Mr. Wotherspoon did not rise out of his chair. His beaky nose reminded me of a bald eagle, and his salt-and-pepper hairline receded all the way to his nape. To compensate, Wotherspoon wore the rest of his hair long and oiled back. With clasped fingers he studied me for a few moments before offering me a seat. I sat at one end of the table alone, while he and all the partners grouped at the other.
“So this is the incredible Cameron Sterling I have been hearing so much about,” said Mr. Wotherspoon. He really was not impressed.
“Yes, sir. I have been working here for the past five years, and they’ve been good ones too. I don’t think I would have been requested for this meeting if they had been otherwise.”
Mr. Wotherspoon cracked a small smile. He was pleased with my response. “You remind me of myself so many, many years ago. Let’s hope for your sake that my impression is correct.”
“I have never failed this company. I know you are probably well aware of my record,” I said.
Mr. Wotherspoon slid a brown file all the way down the length of the table. “We have been eyeing you for a long time.”
I opened the file. It was a case that I had worked on two years earlier. I was hungry to make a name for myself and did some unethical, possibly illegal, moves to get my guilty client off. I had no regrets about it. After all, it was part of my plan to make partner. Now the partners were bringing it back up. Was I about to be fired? I decided to play it cool. “Yes, the Dawson case. Fraud. As I recall, I kept our client out of prison.”
“Yes, yes, you did,” Mr. Wotherspoon said. I waited for the backlash. But I got another response from him instead. “You did an outstanding job. Just the type of man we consider for a partner.”
I tried to maintain my composure, but inwardly I was turning flips. “You’re making me a partner?”
“No, not right now. This is a chance to move up, after being thoroughly vetted. As you already know from work
ing on the fifth floor, some of our clients do not possess the best characters. However, the clients that the twenty-sixth floor deals with are of a particular nature. They are some of the world’s most elite who may be involved in terrible, even horrific, activities. It is our job to protect them. Sometimes shortcuts have to be taken to please the client. And if that’s not enough, more severe methods have to be employed.”
Another partner, Mr. Slezak, pointed his stubby finger at the off-putting man who was still standing in the corner. I could make out the faint outline of a large pistol under the silent one’s jacket. Mr. Slezak’s lips curled into a reptilian smile. “That is Xander. He handles those situations for us.”
Xander was a freak of nature. The golem stood inches taller than me and was so massive that his footsteps could leave imprints in the pavement. His freckled, bald scalp unflatteringly showcased his apish, inclined forehead and Quentin Tarantinolike projected chin. His eyes had a color unlike any I had ever seen before—red as rage—and their scorching gaze singed my skin. Xander just stared at me as though his sixth sense alerted him that I was some sort of threat.
Regardless of Xander’s mammoth proportions and antisocial personality, I was not intimidated and boomeranged his stare right back at him. It was more than clear that the beastly asshole had no intentions of becoming best buds with me. But obviously Xander had no clue who he was messing with. Fuck him.
“So do you understand what we are really all about? What we do here and why?” Mr. Wotherspoon asked me.
I casually responded, “When it comes down to it, are there really such things as right and wrong? Everything is subjective, and we all do what we feel is necessary to reap maximal benefit. Therefore, I completely understand why the firm has to take such drastic measures to protect its interests. It would be foolish not to.”