Know Her, Love Her: Daisy & Belmont, Book ONE (LOVE in the USA 4)

by Z. L. Arkadie

  Did he regret being their gigolo? No. Was any of it ever easy? Hell no.

  He trudged up Wells Street and gazed at the vodka bottle on the billboard along the side of a building. Seeing it made him want a nice stiff glass of whisky, so he plopped down on a stool inside an Irish pub. Girls giggled. Guys laughed. He was out of place in his Armani suit, even if he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his jacket.

  “Shit,” he muttered once he realized he’d put his cell phone into his breast pocket.

  That was when Belmont saw that Daisy had returned his calls. She’d even left a message. He hadn’t planned on tossing back his drink the way he did. It had been a long time since he’d had whisky, and it went straight to his head. It was too noisy inside to listen to the message, so he shot off the stool.

  “Hi, I’m Lacey,” a girl said, blocking his path to the door.

  He frowned at the girl. She had that look that made leaving Chicago when he was seventeen easy. When she stepped out of her house and into the bar, she did it with the intention of enticing the opposite sex. Her goal was to attract, fuck abundantly, six months later pressure him for a ring, and the rest became the shit that used to give him nightmares.

  “Nice to meet you, Lacey. You can have the stool. I’m leaving.” Belmont walked around her and out into the night. He pulled up the message.

  “Hi… Sorry I didn’t call you back sooner. I guess you’re busy.” She took a long pause. “I don’t know. Okay. Bye.”

  The sound of Daisy’s voice made his chest tight and his dick hard. Belmont gritted his teeth and roared at the sky. He dialed her back. The call rang over and over. He didn’t leave a message. If he didn’t need his cell phone, he would’ve crushed it under his foot.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  It was that girl, Lacey. Belmont glared at her. She wasn’t what he wanted to take the edge off.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” He stomped down to Chicago Avenue toward his hotel. Pretty soon, he would knock on Stacy’s door.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Missed Messages

  I huff and shove my phone into my purse, trying to make room for it. I could kick myself for leaving Belmont such a dumb voice message. I just didn’t know what to say other than ask if he was with her. Since he didn’t answer, I couldn’t keep myself from assuming the worst.

  I’d spent a long day in the conference room, determining where and how to shoot the first episodes of The Lone Traveler. There was a lot of back and forth regarding parts of New England as opposed to the Blue Coast. After being impressively guided in the right direction by Dexter—who made us realize that the show is not just a travelogue, it’s about seeking and finding happiness—we decided on Provence, the South of France, and a trek from the Sonoma Valley to San Francisco. Tomorrow, I’m supposed to dial up my contacts to let them know I’m coming and bringing a camera crew with me.

  Tonight, I’ve accompanied Dexter and the others to karaoke, which is something I’ve never done. After a girl skipped on stage and belted out a very bad rendition of “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor, I excused myself from the table. I went outside to finally listen to the messages Belmont had left. In every single one, he simply asked me to call him so that we could talk. They all concluded with, “I miss you.”

  So I did as he asked, and he didn’t answer. I wish I still smoked. I just want to grip the cigarette between my fingers and tremble as if I’m nervous. I get this funny feeling in the pit of my stomach as I gaze up Chicago Avenue. It feels like déjà vu. Foot traffic is heavy with lots of couples dressed up for a night on the town and people in their twenties hanging in packs. There’s very little digression from these two sects of the population. I miss L.A. No, I miss Martha’s Vineyard. My cigarette craving subsides, and I go back inside to rejoin the group.

  The team is comprised of seven people, including Dexter and myself. Kristin, the beautifully pale Midwest type, is the other producer. She has been pleasant in an insincere manner. I can tell she wishes I would go back to wherever I came from. Damien, Emma, Braden, and Kate are associate producers. We’re sitting in a horseshoe-shaped booth with a square table in the center.

  “I told him he has two months to ask me to move in with him or else,” Kristin yells over a horrible rendition of Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.”

  “Or else what?” Kelly says.

  “I don’t know. I just hope it works!”

  “It will.” Kelly’s tone sounds hopeful and rehearsed.

  I half regret coming out. There’s a lot of work to be done. The executives want the shooting schedule and script for the first two shows by next Friday, and I can’t understand why these people want to waste precious hours listening to horrendous renditions of famous songs. We should all be working, especially since the sun is soon to rise in France. Dexter and the others are laughing and singing along. They have a high tolerance for the spirits. I try not to look bored.

  Dexter smiles at me before he comes over and sits beside me. “Having fun?”

  I want to say yes, but instead I say, “I’m sort of worried about finishing that shooting schedule and script by the deadline. Aren’t you?”

  I’m confused about why he’s chuckling, and it must show in my expression.

  “All work, huh?” he asks.

  I snort cynically. “Not lately.”

  “Is that so?” Now that he’s gotten me to admit something personal, he’s like a dog with a bone. “You said you’re still married to the billionaire?”

  I thought the girls weren’t paying attention, but they seem to have heard that.

  “Yes,” I say and shrink into my seat.

  Dexter nods. He looks as if he wants to know more.

  “How long have you been married?” Emma asks.

  I think she’s Emma. I get her mixed up with Kate. They’re both frail with fine light brown hair.

  I really don’t want to answer. “Almost two years.”

  “You were married to Belmont Lord, right?” Kristin asks.

  I caught her phrasing—very tricky. “He’s my husband.”

  “Oh,” she says.

  “Do you like ‘Staying Alive’?” Dexter asks me.

  “Sorry?”

  “The song. ‘Staying Alive.’” He takes my hand. “One song, and then I’ll walk you home.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t sing”—cheesy karaoke in cheesy bars.

  The girls’ eyes bob between Dexter and me. They’re intrigued. He tugs me out of my seat, and now that I’m standing, I fear there’s no backing out. Great. I get to sing my own bad rendition of a classic.

  I feel as though I’m walking the line between reality and a bad dream. I’ve never done anything like this. I’m a voyeur, not a participant. Dexter helps me onto the stage before he shuffles over to tell the operator what song to play. I look out over the sea of curious gazes. I feel naked. I want to race out of here, and I’m on the verge of doing that when Dexter shuffles back. Standing behind me, he puts the microphone in front of my face.

  The music starts. The words roll. Dexter is singing in my ear. I keep my eyes on the words, singing them with a severe lack of enthusiasm. Some people find this fun, but I don’t. I’m eager for the words to stop and the music to end. Finally the place erupts with whistles, claps, and hoots. My skin runs hot.

  “Another!” a drunk guy slurs.

  My eyes expand in horror as a new song starts. I’ve heard the song before—it’s by that Disney kid gone bad who always sticks out her tongue—but I’ve only heard it once or twice. Dexter wraps his arms around me and starts singing. I’m shocked by the liberty he’s taken. Thank God his knob isn’t stiff.

  I stumble through the lyrics, skipping words and singing off-key. It’s embarrassing, but people seem to be enjoying the show. Maybe because they’re all smashed. Dexter sways my hips so we’re moving in unison. Great, now I’m off-rhythm because the music is moving faster than I am.

  Kristin runs up on stage to join us. The men hoot a
nd holler again. Soon Kate and Emma join us. Dexter is still holding the microphone in front of my face. Kristin tries to take it from him, but in a subtle way, he refuses to let go. I wish he would give it to her. Finally the song concludes, and another starts immediately. I don’t recognize the song, but my coworkers are singing it with gusto. Two guys and three girls climb on the platform with us.

  I turn to Dexter. “I’m leaving.” I break out of his grasp and step down.

  Everyone seems to be watching me, wondering why I’ve decided to abandon the fun.

  “You’re over it?” Damien says once I make it back to the table.

  “Pretty much.” I collect my purse.

  “Me too,” Damien says. “By the way, I really dug your book.”

  “Oh, thanks.” For some reason, I’m thinking twice about leaving.

  “You want a drink?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No, I’m a lightweight. What I can go for is some coffee. I’m going to be up all night trying to map out a scheme for the South of France.”

  He snickers. “You won’t find much coffee in Chicago outside of Starbucks. This is a bar town.”

  “I noticed.”

  He scoots closer to me. “So you’re going home to work?”

  “Yep.”

  “We take a commuter flight from Paris to the Provence, unload all our shit, get situated, and then what?” he asks.

  “We do what I did when I first visited the region.”

  “You climbed a slope to a hillside village in Provence.”

  I smile. “You read my book.”

  “I did. I don’t normally read books like that, but it got me excited about working with you on this series.”

  “Wow, thanks.”

  “You know what I think? If we stick to the pages, then we can’t go wrong.”

  “I agree.” I turn my attention to Dexter, who’s walking our way.

  “Are you ready?” he asks.

  I shoot straight to my feet. “Yep.” I turn to Damien. “See you tomorrow.”

  He lifts his glass. Dexter says good-bye to him and escorts me out of the bar. Once I’m outside, I squeeze my eyes a few times. The sudden change in the noise level has clogged my ears.

  “Getting acquainted with the team, I see,” Dexter says as we start up Chicago Avenue.

  “Oh, Damien? He seems excited about the project.”

  “So, Daisy, tell me more about yourself.”

  I glance at him. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know if I should tell you this, but your husband called yesterday.”

  I flinch, taken aback. “He called you personally?”

  “On my cell phone.”

  “But how did he…? Forget it. Belmont can do anything he puts his mind to. What did he say?” My heart is beating so fast.

  “He wanted your address. I told him I couldn’t give it to him because that violates our policy.”

  My eyes expand. “What did he say?”

  “He said he understood.”

  “Ha. He was charming you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, what did he say next?”

  Dexter’s eyebrows furrow. “Shit, you’re right!”

  “What?” I’m anxious to hear it. Belmont’s ability to charm the socks off the Grinch is one of the things I love about him.

  “He started talking about your book and how observant you are. He said you hardly have any fun and he’s probably the reason for that. We just talked more about you.”

  “Then you gave him my address?” I can hardly breathe. Belmont could be waiting right outside my door. I want him so badly. We can make love tonight and resume fighting in the morning.

  “Which leads me to the next course of business: you need to process in with HR tomorrow.”

  I grin. “You didn’t have my address?”

  “That would be a negative.”

  I’m disappointed that my address didn’t miraculously find its way into Belmont’s hands, but I laugh anyway.

  Dexter chuckles a little. “So is that how he got you to marry him?”

  “Like I said, he’s very convincing.”

  “So you’re the one who wants the divorce?”

  I finally realize that we’re stopped at a light. The bridge over the river is just up the street. “It’s complicated.”

  “That means it’s none of my business.”

  I snort a chuckle. “Kind of… But he’s the one who left me.”

  “Get the fuck out of here!”

  “Apparently I make a really bad wife.”

  “Why do you say that?” he asks.

  We walk again.

  “I was pregnant. Had a baby. Lost her. I didn’t want to have another one.”

  “And he does?”

  “I think so.”

  Dexter nods. “I was married, now divorced. I have two daughters.”

  “What’s the divorce rate again?” I ask.

  “High.”

  We chuckle.

  “Well, I’m sure there are a host of women who want to pick up where your wife left off,” I say.

  “First of all—likewise. Secondly, I was twenty-four when we got married. I just turned thirty-seven. The next time I do it, there has to be fireworks and shit like that.”

  “It wasn’t like that with your wife?” I’m getting too personal, but he started it.

  He shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Well, I experienced the fireworks.”

  “And yet you’re separated?”

  “Yep. And I still see them whenever he’s near.”

  Dexter grunts thoughtfully. We walk past one of the many tall buildings in my neighborhood.

  “So you stay over here?” he asks.

  “Yep.”

  “Near a park?”

  I tilt my head suspiciously. “Why, what’s wrong with the park?”

  “Have you ever been out in the neighborhood in the daytime or on the weekend?”

  “No, why?”

  “Nothing…”

  “No, there’s something.”

  He shrugs. “You let me know if there’s something.”

  I grin. “Okay.”

  We gallop down a sloping road. Dexter walks me to my front door, which is right off the street, and says he’ll see me in the morning. He adds that he’ll try to avoid calls from Belmont now that he knows where I live. Five minutes with Belmont, and he’d spill the beans. We share a good chuckle before we say good-bye.

  I go into the kitchen and cook the tuna steak I sliced in half before leaving this morning. I have to hand it Heloise—she knows me better than I thought. I find spinach and onions to sauté, and the Greek feta salad dressing is one-hundred percent organic with nothing on the label that’s hard to pronounce. Unless I’m on the road, I’m a clean eater.

  I make a tuna burger and a cup of mint tea, and go upstairs to work. However, I sit at the desk unable to lose my yearning for my husband. He’s been screwing another woman, and my soul just knows he’s done it more than once. Regardless, I want him to ravish me. I run my fingers through my hair, messing it up, as I try to stave off the anxiety. I get up and take long steps to my bedroom. I stand in front of my cell phone, which is sitting on top of the dresser. After a deep breath, I pick it up and dial him. It rings once.

  “Hey,” Belmont answers.

  “Hey.”

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  It’s silent.

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m just walking into the hotel. I was at a bar. I got your message.”

  I squeeze my eyes, regretting what I said in that message. “Oh, sorry about that. I totally jumbled it up.”

  “You’re in Chicago, right?”

  “Um-hum.”

  “You want some company?”

  I release the breath I’ve been holding. “Um-hum.”

  “What’s your address?”
<
br />   I give it to him, wolf down the rest of my tuna burger, and brush my teeth before jumping in the shower. Belmont likes my honeysuckle-scented lotion, so I put it on. I don’t want to look as though I’m in it for the sex tonight, so I put on an oversized T-shirt and leg warmers. Belmont knows the outfit as my work-in-the-home-office clothes, and this look usually drives him insane with lust. I fluff out my hair, the way he loves it. I smooth on a little matte dusty-rose lipstick.

  The doorbell chimes. I jump. That was fast.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dire Consequences

  Belmont looks divine and smells delicious.

  “Hey,” he says as though he’s out of breath.

  “Hey.”

  I wonder if I’m staring into his eyes like he’s staring into mine. He puts his hands on my waist and comes in for a kiss. It starts slowly, as if we’re rediscovering each other. I forget where I am. The taste of his mouth is gratifying. The door slams. He lifts me off my feet, walks me inside, and our tongues and lips are entangled as my backside meets the sofa cushion.

  “You know what this outfit does to me,” Belmont says as he pulls down my panties.

  Next thing I know, his face is between my legs, and he’s latched on to my clit. I whimper and moan. He’s looking at me, but my eyes won’t stay open long enough to meet his gaze. He moans as though I taste delicious. I run my fingers through his hair. His hands knead my stomach as my muscles tighten. My wriggling and moaning excites him even more. He whimpers louder, intensifying whatever he’s doing with his tongue. The impact is immediate. I cry as pleasure streams through my pussy. He never fails to take me there—never.

  We’re kissing, and my taste is in his mouth. The tone of our kiss has changed. The warmth of life emanates from his body. His strong frame and the depth of our kiss are the conduits that flood my heart with love. Belmont forces his mouth off mine, and we squeeze each other tightly. My ear is against his chest, listening to how fast his heart is beating.