I brush away the bartender’s hand and towel. “I’m fine.” I move away from the bar a little, getting closer to the small group.
It’s definitely Grace. She has the same dark eyes, same lips, but she’s no longer cold, no longer distant. Everything is different—her hair, clothes, makeup…the way she moves, stands, talks. She’s a fucking cat ready to spring. Her eyes drag across the room and spot new prey.
I can just barely hear her at this distance. Even her voice is different. It’s almost the same, but more…sultry. It’s not a word I use, but it’s all I can think. Her halting voice is now a purr, low and deep and smooth. I’m blown away.
I lost track of her fifteen months ago. She disappeared completely and never returned to her shitty apartment or job.
I had to scramble to find a new product, but I obsessed about her. I tried to find out anything I could about her. Discreetly. I came up with nothing.
I figured she was running from her past and bolted to a new destination and identity. Or she was one of the unidentified girls killed every day. Or she was on to me and she ran. Most likely, it was the second option.
But now she’s here, looking like this, acting like this. Her. Here.
Seattle: Miles Vanderson
Time teaches hard lessons.
When Gillian first went missing, I was sure that she was kidnapped, taken against her will. The police, FBI, investigators were all convinced of the same thing. As far as everyone knew, my stepsister was a sweet, innocent girl caught up in a sadistic ransom plot. I made it well known that I would pay any price to have her returned to me safely. Rewards were offered and upped.
I was certain that Gillian wouldn’t have left me of her own volition; but then no information came. There was no ransom, no demands, no leads. That was my first lesson, humility.
And that led to my education with the harder lessons of patience, perseverance, and composure. I learned quickly to not break down every time the phone rang or when another search along the many nearby waterways didn’t produce any clues. When I heard “no news is good news” over and over or when enough time went by that the investigation shifted from ransom to runaway, I learned to maintain my equanimity.
I remained calm through the many questions about Gillian’s home life, hobbies, and habits. I endured the countless inquiries about her friends and potential boyfriends, or really, the lack of both. I was composed even when the investigation delved into my personal life. I stayed tight-lipped when my staff and friends were pulled into it.
When the investigation stagnated quickly after the trail of money turned cold in Seattle, that’s when the lessons were hardest.
Three long years I waited to hear from her, to hear about her. I held on to hope for a long time. I hoped that Gillian would come to her senses and return to me on her own. It was a final lesson in foolishness.
It’s been three long years of not knowing, of keeping my mask of composure on, and hiding the rage I feel inside as it grows every day that she remains missing.
San Francisco: Simon Lamb
I watch Grace walk away from the brothers. She heads towards the doors but stops at the circle of men I saw her eyeing before. She’s smart. These are better options—much older money, slightly older men. She picks the weakest and moves in. It’s a good choice, I admit. She’d be at the top of the food chain quickly with him.
I follow at a distance, not within listening distance, but it’s not something I need to hear. The conversation is obvious. Yes, I know I’m beautiful and fuckable. Yes, I know I’m rich and that’s my best quality. Now, let’s get down to when, where, and how much.
It’s the same no matter who’s doing the talking…girl’s got pussy, how much are you willing to give out to get in it. Most bastards don’t realize this until they’re standing next to an altar. And they always wonder why the chick isn’t as interested in sex afterwards. Because you already paid the Goddamn price of admission, dumbass!
Red. Grace. She’s good. She’s smooth. She doesn’t linger. She hints. She suggests. But she moves on quickly.
Men need to hunt. She obviously understands this. She’s offering herself as prey. Not easy prey. But willing.
Is this why she disappeared? I found her when she was only taking a break in between men?
No…no fucking way! She was a small, sheltered, little girl, frozen behind expressionless stares and never venturing to even touch another person. I watched her for almost four weeks. She never said more than a few words together unless it was about the fucking stars and alignment and astro-fuck-shit. No way she was only pretending, laying low.
I don’t know this Grace though. This woman didn’t exist fifteen months ago. Grace was smart, but she was weak, meek, and docile. She didn’t stand out, and she didn’t want to. I chose her because she stood out trying so hard not to. And I wanted her. I wanted to break through her indifferent stares.
I’d dropped off a product near the grocery store that time I first saw her. I’d gone in afterwards to pick up a bottle of champagne. I’d already text a fuck for the night, but then I saw Grace and decided to keep an eye on her. I tracked her. She was undeniably a perfect fit for my training. I thought she’d be a small challenge, and she sort of fit a new order I had back then.
This woman? She’s on a Goddamn stage. She doesn’t have to do more than flick her hair a little to get noticed. She’s unwavering, confident, and hot. She’s fuck me at your own risk if you dare and if you can pay the price. She’s definitely not suitable for my training. Well, maybe…except now she’s in my circle. Sort of.
I watch her walk back to the brother. He’s fucking trussed up dinner in her hands. She pats him on the back and walks away with both brothers trailing behind. I follow and watch her get in a limo outside. She’s clearly fucked the driver before by the smile they share and maybe the brother? Or maybe she’s only fucked with him?
I walk outside and take in the cold air. What the fuck?!
Grace. Here. Like this?! I can’t get my head around it.
San Francisco: Simon Lamb
I wait for her outside her address. It’s a step up from Chinatown, Grace. A doorman holds open the glass door for her, and she barely brushes her tits against him as she passes. It could’ve been an accident, but I can see the smug half smile on her face as she puts her sunglasses on. He’s still checking out her ass.
She’s in red again, a little more subtle this time. Everything about her is polished and expensive except her hair; it’s still wild and kinky.
Her strides are long for her short legs. Heels clicking, ass shooting side to side—it’s a runway walk. She’s bony like a model. That’s her job now, though she’s too short to make it big. She has a few gigs with local boutiques, a photographer that specializes in soft porn for book covers, and a few legit magazine shoots.
I glance at my phone. I have a few pics with her dark hair straight and sleek. I prefer her like this though, like she’s been pumped with electricity. I smile. I could get more than just her hair to stand up with a few volts.
Supposedly, fifteen months ago she was in the Riviera, sulking over a bad break up with some underwear model or local politician’s boy. Maybe it was both if rumors were true.
But I know she was in that crappy Chinatown apartment, hiding. Why?
It doesn’t matter. She’s now off limits. So why am I still watching her?
It’s pretty simple. No girl’s ever gotten away from me.
San Francisco: Simon Lamb
I keep my distance, but Grace is easy to follow. I track her to a trendy fusion restaurant and watch her sit with three other overly thin women. I decide to wait at the bar; it’s close enough to their table to overhear most of what she’d say.
It’s not close enough to smell her though. I miss her smell. I kept one of her bras for a while, thinking I’d choke her with it when I found her again. I threw it away finally, giving up after six months of looking for her. That and the smell no longer was hers.
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The conversation at her table is inane. It’s all fashion, fashion shoots, and fashion fucks; but her voice stays low, deep. Her laugh is the same from last night—hard, strong…sultry. The other women whine and giggle, trying to outshine each other. Grace is steady, smooth. It’s almost like she knows she’s being watched, and she’s trying to be extra sexy while coming across like she’s not trying at all.
I glance again in her direction. No, I’d bet my reputation as a top producer of fuck toys that she has no idea she’s being watched.
I tune out their words, pulling out my phone to look over investments, catch up on emails. I even text my cousin about his visit next week. I occupy my mind with the mindless shit of life.
I get up and throw extra money on the counter without waiting for the bill when I hear the women divvying up their check.
Keeping my back to the door of the restaurant, I wait across the street but with a clear sightline of her through a reflection on a storefront window. I move with Grace as she walks but keep traffic and tourists between us. She heads into a small shop with the other women.
I plan, I’m meticulous, but I’m also a man of impulse and have learned to trust my inner voice too, my gut. I don’t have a plan with Grace anymore anyway, so what the hell?
I cross the street quickly, ignoring the honk from oncoming traffic. I enter the low-music, leather smelling store. Great. Shoes. Women’s shoes. Hard to look inconspicuous in here.
Fuck it.
“Those will make your feet look big.” I stand right next to Grace, tall against her short frame. I actually look down my nose at her. Her startled look is quick to disappear. She’s composed by the time she drags her eyes up my body. I have an urge to swallow under her gaze. Nicely done, Grace.
“Oh? Maybe that’s what I’m going for.”
I laugh, “Some men do have a foot fetish. Usually for the small variety though.”
“Some men? Or you?” She hasn’t moved, still holding the heel in her right hand. She hasn’t tried to put any distance between us. She’s all confidence and poise. Just as I start to answer, she interrupts, taking my eyes with hers back down her skin-tight jeans. “And I know I have nice feet.” She lifts her head a little, not quite smiling with her lips, only her eyes. “You like them, don’t you?”
I give her a full wolfish smile, all teeth. Still, there’s no shaking her confidence. “Take off your shoes.” I’m hard. I’m not a foot guy. I’ve had a few as clients, and I’ve tried to understand the whole fetish shit. But this is the first we’ve spoken; this is the first order I’ve given Grace.
No change to her face or body, and with hardly any movement at all, she slowly takes her feet, one at a time, out of her shoes. She stays on tiptoes for a moment longer, dark eyes still locked on mine. I watch her inch lower, gracefully, down to her natural height.
I can’t get over how different she is. I’d swear she’s a twin, a yin and yang, except I know this is the same girl. Even her smell is different though. It’s deeper, stronger, like her voice. It’s still clean, but now there’s a hint of something earthier, richer. I can’t put a name to it, but it’s nice. It’s still all her, no disgusting fake perfume.
I give her a slow, smooth charm smile this time, knowing it makes me more handsome, my blue eyes more striking. I’ve been told this my whole life. I let my eyes take their time traveling back down her body, all else forgotten. “You do have nice feet.” She responds with a small frown to her perfect brows, and I’m pleased to see her skin’s not frozen by injections. She’s young, but that doesn’t stop most of the girls in her line of work from overdoing the plastic shit. I enjoy seeing the full extent of emotion on a woman’s face, especially pain. “We should go somewhere more private, though, before I tell you to remove anything else.”
Her laugh is the same as yesterday—rich, long, deep. Her head is thrown back, lips full and open, teeth parted, and pink tongue on display. She’s not faking this laugh. There’s no forced effort, no attempt to make it more feminine or lighter. She tosses the shoe in her hand onto an empty chair and moves her hand to squeeze her own throat. She touches her laugh just the way I want to.
I wait for her to quiet, for her friends to come in closer to see what’s so funny. They’re piranha circling fresh meat. I give each a tooth-filled smile before landing my stare on her again.
She finally steps back to get a good look at me. I know what she sees. I’m tall at 6’3”, in very good shape, muscled and lean. It’s easy to see this, even in a coat. I’m casual, but there’s my watch, my shoes; I obviously have money. I could be a model but her direct opposite—my light blond to her deep chestnut, my ice blue to her rich chocolate. Clean cut and all American, I look innocent and sweet, impish and charming. I’ve been told all this by countless women who learn how wrong they are very quickly.
I give her time to think these thoughts, watching her face play with each one. I answer her friend’s questions while keeping my eyes locked on hers. “No, I followed her in here to see if her voice is as nice as her ass.” The friends laugh, but she doesn’t. Her eyebrow makes a perfect arch, her hand still languidly tracing the line of her neck as she decides what to make of me. She’s enjoying watching me track her tiny movements. She’s used to controlling a man’s hunger for her, feeding it. She likes pulling the strings.
“And?”
“Turn around.” She smiles at my second order, but she slowly rises back onto her toes and puts one foot in front of the other before turning slowly, lazily, around to stop with her ass to me. “Nice.” Giggles and jokes from the friends, but she only turns just as slowly to stop in front of me again with a slight smile fluttering her lips.
I glance at my watch. “It’s early, but let’s grab a drink.” I purposely don’t include her friends in my look.
She gives me a full smile this time. “Only if you help me on with my shoes again.” She lifts one foot and circles it from her ankle, stopping with pointed toes out to me.
I grin and lower onto one knee, grabbing her right calf and foot firmly. She places just the tips of her fingers to steady herself against my shoulder. Delicate but not tentative, she’s sure of herself. She’s almost laughing again at me, on bended knee to her.
I only smile back, watching her red toenails disappear into the heel. When I stand, I wrap my fingers around her thin arm, not pulling, not squeezing, just making it clear that we’re leaving together now. She seductively blinks through her thick dark lashes up at me, a smile coiling her lips into a grin. She foolishly thinks she’s still in control, that she ever was.
“Bye, girls,” she tosses over her shoulder, allowing me to guide her out of the store and back onto the street. Giggles are thankfully lost behind the closed door. “So, where shall we go for this drink?”
“Around the corner there’s a good place.” I continue to pull her along but keep at her pace. I like the feel of her body strutting next to me; I don’t want to throw off her rhythm. Her firm steps click away on the pavement, causing her body to brush against mine with every other step. On purpose or not, it’s nice.
I still don’t have a plan. I should be heading in the opposite direction. This was a woman I was thinking to take and torture before selling her off. Walking with her, like this, I’m on unfamiliar ground. Maybe I just need to fuck her to get her out of my system, to stop obsessing, and forget about her. Maybe.
“I suppose I should be asking your name, who you are, what you do?” She smiles, relaxing into the curve of the plush booth more and tucking her bare feet up under her ass. She leans a little more towards me, a little more into the table. “But I sort of like the mystery…so don’t tell me. Let me guess.”
“All right, but then it’s my turn to guess about you.” I smile, but I’m not sure about this. I can’t reveal too much of myself or of what I know about her. No, this will be a one-time thing. Fuck and forget. I relax more with this thought. I watch the ice tumble and slip in my glass as I lift it to my lips.
She reaches out and grabs my hand suddenly. A firm and strong grip, she flips it over to look at my palm. Her touch is cool, fingers delicate, but she rubs hard against a worn spot. “Well you do some work with your hands…an engineer?” The callous came from using a small chain to whip my last product. I smile, making a mental note to pick up a new pair of leather gloves before I find my next girl.
I shake my head again. “What’s the matter? Can’t you read palms?” This is maybe a little close to her astrology shit, but I can’t help teasing her.
She narrows her eyes and drops my hand onto the table. “Please tell me you’re not a model!”
I laugh loudly at this. “No, trust fund baby. I do nothing to earn the millions I have to play with.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Hmm. Only millions?” She tilts her own drink back and swallows the rest in one gulp, elongating her neck to enjoy its slow travel down her throat. I watch her swallow and again have to resist the urge to grab her throat. She gets the waiter’s attention easily and orders two more drinks. I was surprised the first time when he didn’t card her, but it’s quiet and dark in here. I also gave him a tip already for showing us to the quietest and darkest booth.
“You sure you can handle another one?” She only smiles in response, the same quirking of coiled lips around a secret.
She moves her hands, languidly, to caress herself often. Her fingers glide through her mass of hair, down her neck, up her arm. She knows the effect; she knows I’ll follow along, look where she wants me to. “Your turn.”
We Were One Once Book 1 Page 3