by Cynthia Dane
You struggle to think of ways to show her your appreciation – ways that don’t include more sex. You buy her dinner. You treat her to the movies. You buy her train and airplane tickets to wherever she wants to go, although you better be going with her. Wouldn’t she look beautiful in a summery sarong? How about those jewels you see in the store window every time you go to your favorite pub?
Then you realize… it’s only been two full days together, and you’re already acting like this! You’re acting like she’s your girlfriend! Your fiancée! Your soon-to-be-wife! You’re in deep, man. Deep like your cock in that trap of a pussy. Or that ass, when she cheekily reminds you of what you said when you were high off your rocker. You live for the way she growls at you to keep going, to satisfy her needs before you think about yours. You want to subvert her expectations, to take complete control of the situation and tell her when to come, but one perfectly timed look later? You’re filling her up on her command. She’s the queen of your body. You thought you owned it. You thought bodily autonomy was a done-deal from the day you were born. You were wrong. Cher has arrived, and she’s going to ride you until your eyes roll back and you tell her she can have whatever she wants.
So, yeah… I’m fucked.
It’s probably infatuation. When you’re having this kind of crazy good sex with a hot woman, you get infatuated. It’s not love. How could it be love? You know she’s not capable of that. Although she turns down your gifts and immediately calls you when she discovers her rent paid for the next month, you know it’s not love she feels for you. You’re her victim. Her mark. You’re wrapped up in the long con. You’ll do whatever she wants from three hundred miles away. She texts you at two in the afternoon asking for a dick pick? You whip that fucker out and later wonder what the shit you were thinking. Then you consider it worth it, because she sends you back a picture of her cleavage in a pushup bra. You’re in the bathroom taking care of business, and all because of a five-minute interaction that didn’t happen in real life.
She asks you when you’re coming back to Portland. You want to tell her you’ll be there one hour ago, if that’s what she wants. Instead, you play it cool. Tell her you can come down in a few days, because work has you tied up. Oh, but you probably shouldn’t remind her what you do for a living.
Then again, you’re seriously thinking about some life changes.
I’m not happy. Sure, I always knew I couldn’t stay in this business forever, but I don’t have a backup plan yet. I’m not about to close up shop and tell Brent he no longer has a job in an expensive city. Although it’s a huge waste of money for me to keep this place open. Between office space, Brent’s wages… fuck, I might as well be flushing money down the drain. I already break even as it is. If I’m not working, I’m not being paid. And if I’m not making taxable income in my business, the IRS comes tsking at me.
Gee, maybe my father taught me one lesson after all.
I was drunk when I told Cher we should go into matchmaking together. While that was obviously a joke at the time, it’s something I’ve been thinking about ever since. I run the idea by Brent. Not doing it with Cher, duh, but figuring out a matchmaking service that would work from my unique perspective in this crowded industry.
“That would be a serious switch, man.” He scratches his head as he sits at his desk. Another overcast Seattle day displays behind him. The only sounds in this office are the hum of Brent’s desk fan and the White Stripes music playing on my phone. Yet I swear I hear Brent’s adrenaline pump when I tell him I’m thinking of changing career directions. Like I said, it’s an expensive city, and the man has a house-husband. “You’d have to completely change your image among your clientele. You’ll go from being the guy who gets them some twisted sense of vengeance, to the guy who hooks them up with their next relationship.”
“Could be a fun way to give back to the community in a new way.” Why, no, I’m not repenting. Not yet. Give me a few more months of this elastic love I feel around Cher. “Can you hear my pitch now? ‘Remember the guy who helped you feel better? Now he’s back and ready to help you fall in love with someone new, someone better!’ My target audience would be rich guys who are terrible at picking out girlfriends for themselves. Really, they go together.” I leave out the part about Cher recruiting the sugar babies that would make up a bulk of the matches. Of course, for a job like this to work, we’d have to pick hot women who want to marry, and not only suck the money out of wallets. Would Cher understand a point of view like that, though? She’s made it clear her only interest is independence. This is a woman who happily barks orders at you when you’re balls deep inside of her, but you never feel a real emotional connection. Only the deep, dark sadness of realizing she’ll never really love you.
At least I know it, unlike the poor saps she’s left in her wake.
“It’s definitely a neat idea. You should develop it,” Brent says.
“You think?” I admit, I wasn’t expecting him to say something like that.
“Why not? Maybe you’re onto something. Now, did I tell you that you had an appointment for your old job today?”
I turn back toward him before I can disappear back to my desk. “Come again?”
“Rothchild’s in town and wants a follow up with you.”
Bile is in my throat. Didn’t take long for that to happen. All Brent had to say was Rothchild and I’m hissing through my teeth. No, I haven’t forgotten about him. No, I haven’t been in contact with him since the last time you saw me call the bastard. Did you think I was calling him to say our deal was off? That may have been my original intention. Then I decided on something different.
I still wasn’t sure how things would go with Cher. Now I know.
“I don’t recall signing off on any appointments today,” I say to Brent.
He shrugs. “You’re currently working with him. You’ve never turned clients away unless it was an emergency. What’s the problem? You took all those ‘days off’ to work Cher, right?”
Yeah. Working. That’s totally what I was doing as I followed her every whim. You know, it was my idea to give her a pearl necklace. Just because she turned down the actual jewels and suggested something kinkier, doesn’t mean it still wasn’t my idea. Although she looked me right in the eye and purred with her legs spread wide open as I came all over her breasts. (Yes, yes, I may have missed my target a bit.) It was all part of her plan to ensnare me, anyway. Do you actually think she likes having cum on her tits? I doubt most women do, yet we guys have to keep hoping we’ll get to do it once in a while.
“Earth to Drew, yo.” Brent waves his hand in front of my face. “I said he’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Come on, man, read your schedule I give you sometimes. I work hard on those!”
“Sorry. I appreciate it, really.” I clap him on the shoulder and turn away in the hopes he doesn’t see me take a harried breath. Jason Rothchild is on his way right now. I’m gonna have to come up with something to tie him over. Either that, or he’s here to collect his deposit.
Fifteen minutes isn’t enough time to adequately plan.
“Mr. Benton.” The man sitting in front of my desk dresses better than my father. We’re talking three piece suits in varying colors. Pocket squares. High-end watches that are actually checked. Rothchild isn’t old enough for a cane yet, but when he is, you can bet your ass it will be polished myrtlewood with a gold cap and tip. He smells better than most of my clients, too. That’s because Rothchild is old money. He’s taken his family’s money – that was already impressive, mind you – and expanded it in ways they never dreamed. For him to call me means he truly felt so wronged by Cher that there was nothing else in the world his money could buy to soothe his gaping wounds. “I hope you don’t mind that I dropped by while I was in town. I’m most interested to know how things go with… the woman.”
He won’t call Cher by name. He won’t call her my ex. The way he dances around her identity only seals how much she hurt him. Usually, I’d feel for the g
uy, but my judgment is so clouded that I struggle to think of something diplomatic to say.
“I have good news and bad news.” I’ve left my door slightly ajar. Brent glances in when I say that. I’m compelled to get up and close the only thing separating me from my assistant’s curiosity. “The good news is that she’s become quite attached to me already. I suspect she’s playing me like she plays most of her victims. I’ve been… generous, to say the least.” You know what the nuttiest thing is? I write most of my dates off my taxes! Cost of doing business, indeed.
Rothchild grunts, but does not look at me. “I am not surprised. At the first whiff of money, she’s on you like a fly on honey. The fact that you’re…” Ah, yes, now he’s looking at me. With mild derision. “Sufficiently attractive helps. I can only assume that a mosquito like her enjoys her games more when she’s attracted to the man in question.”
Rothchild isn’t awful to look at. Honestly, he’s everything most people think of when they conjure up the image of old money sophistication. He’s fit for his age. Tall and lean. Salt and pepper hair, not to mention still having his hair. His dapper dress and vintage mannerisms undoubtedly make him friends, both male and female, wherever he goes. What I know about Cher tells me that she would be attracted to this debonair man, at the very least. I’m not convinced she needs six-pack abs, a giant dick, and a head of pure-colored hair to keep her happy. Those are a bonus.
“What’s the bad news?” he then asks.
I sit back down in my seat. Hands fold on my desk. Now, I must be careful to not look like a reproachful teacher about to scold his (much older, I must remind myself) student. But I have things to say. Things that could end my career before I ever intended.
“I’m not sure I can seal our deal,” I say.
Rothchild studies me, as if searching for the truth beneath my words. He already has the truth, though. I don’t think I can seal the deal. Not with Cher. Maybe not with any other woman in the future, if I dare believe my own worries.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” he asks. “You’ve said so yourself, she’s taken in with you, Mr. Benton. Now, do what I’m paying you to do.” Great. He’s got that look in his eye. The one that acknowledges I’m banging the woman he was so in love with. I’m not dumb. I know Cher was sleeping with this man. I can almost imagine them doing it. Can he imagine me on top of her. Behind her? Does he know how hard she bit my sheets a few days ago, as I roared like a mighty beast and came so hard that I had to immediately go at her again?
If he couldn’t see it before, he definitely sees it now. Some of my clients go into minor fits of rages when they realize they’re paying me to seduce their exes. It’s part of the deal. Adding sex to the mix always makes it sweeter when the women realize what I’ve done.
Except, in this case…
“Cher is unlike anyone I’ve encountered in my few years of doing this, Mr. Rothchild.” Jesus, isn’t that the truth? No woman has killed me the way she has started to, and I’m about to smash my face into my desk to make the memories go away. “She’s quite possibly a sociopath. The only way I could do what you’re asking me to… well, I’d probably have to find a way for her to commit a crime and go to prison. I’m sure you can understand how difficult that would be. My usual tactics aren’t going to work. I can’t ask her to marry me, obviously. Nor can I make her fall madly in love with me without dedicating a few more months, at least, to this endeavor. Even then, it wouldn’t be a sure thing. Usually, at this point in my process, I’ve all but put the final nail in their coffins.” Then again, most women aren’t Cher Lieberman, professional sugar baby from hell.
“You’re right in that she’s probably incapable of feeling the usual assortment of feelings a human being is expected to harbor.” Rothchild leans his elbows against the arms of his chair and steeples his fingers before his face. I feel like I’m in his office, not the other way around! “But I’ve seen some of your work for myself. That’s why I felt so confident in hiring you, Mr. Benton. If there’s anyone in this sorry world who can give her a taste of her own medicine, it’s you. I don’t care how you go about it.” He leans forward, the madness in his eyes now clearer. “I don’t care how long it takes, or how much it costs me. That woman’s crimes go beyond my own… unfortunate moments. Do it on behalf of all the men out there who can be spared her cruelty. Do it for the young women who might want to emulate her.”
Whelp, now I’m thinking of that business idea I pitched to her. “Hey, Cher, how about you train me some sugar babies to pair off with some rich bastards? We’ll get rich on our own!”
“That requires manipulating emotions we’re not sure are there, Mr. Rothchild.”
He leans back again, his knowing smirk unnerving me. “Tell me, Mr. Benton. How much does the woman fancy you? Don’t worry about offending me or making me jealous. I’m past such petty things. Spare no details of how you’ve ensnared her, if you must.”
Before I struggle to think of anything to say, my phone buzzes beside me. Normally, I’d turn it over or tuck it into my drawer while I’m in a meeting, but I instantly see Cher’s name on the header of a photo attachment.
While Rothchild watches on in mild amusement, I hold my phone up to my face so only I can see what my supposed girlfriend has sent me.
It takes a few seconds to register what it is.
“Tell me…” The only thing I can do is swallow my pride and act like the scuzzy asshole I usually am when talking to a client. That’s who they want to see. A guy who isn’t afraid to stick it in the crazy, to pump and dump them on his way out the door. Maybe make them think they’re in love. Humiliate them in public. Ruin their reputations, drain their funds, and break their hearts until they no longer know who they are. That’s who I am, after all. A professional heartbreaker. “What does this look like to you?”
I show him the intimate photo Cher has sent me. While she’s savvy enough to know anything she texts or emails could end up in a cloud dump somewhere, she still assumes that I won’t maaaaybe share it with others. Let alone her ex-boyfriend.
That’s why she had the confidence to send me a candid photo of her in her apartment. She’s fresh from the shower, her makeup-less face glowing. The bathrobe barely clings to her body, but it’s not supposed to. The eye may be drawn instinctively to her cut-off face, but you’re soon staring at her supple cleavage and the water droplets left behind. While it’s an artistic, very aesthetic shot, we’re all thinking the same thing while looking at it. Sex. With her.
Now, what if I also told you that there’s a little something inked on her right breast? In elegant script font, the French word je t’aime bursts from her skin.
Rothchild glances away. Whatever he’s thinking – personally, anyway – is lost to the moment. Because what he soon says is, “Do your worst, Mr. Benton. Destroy her while she’s in your clutches.”
I do not let my gaze waver.
Chapter 22
CHER
“Are you sure about this?” I lower my voice to a hush. I don’t need any of the people around me hearing what has me so upset. “Are you sure that’s him?”
“Oh, that’s him.”
I ease my grip on the wicker chair I’m sitting in, as if that’s enough to save my palms now. Across from me, Stella the PI tucks away her photographical evidence of Jason Rothchild leaving Drew’s office. That isn’t the look of a guy who has been told he’s getting his money back. That’s smug smug smuggity smug all over my ex-boyfriend’s visage, and it’s taking a healthy dose of reality to keep from slapping a photograph.
“I didn’t ask you to do this,” I remind Stella. Indeed, I haven’t. She did all the work I needed from her when she looked into Drew’s identity. To say that I wasn’t expecting a phone call from her this morning, urgently asking me to meet her at a café around the corner from her office, is an understatement. I could only imagine what she had to present to me. Obviously, it was about Drew, but could I anticipate that he was still working for Jason?
Yes, I could, actually.
I’ve had a hunch this whole time. Do you think I keep jumping into bed with Drew while assuming he’s pure of intention? Hardly! There may be a mutual sexual attraction between us, but it ends in the bedroom. Actually, it’s more accurate to say it ends with his cum all over me (and all up in me) but I’m trying not to think about that right now.
According to the time stamps on these photos, Jason left Drew’s office shortly after I sent my boyfriend those photos. Very art school, I know, but part of my amusement comes from making him think about me so much that he shortly loses his damned mind. There’s something erotic about knowing you control a man’s orgasm from hundreds of miles away. Plus… it’s fun to take tasteful nude photos sometimes. What?
Now I know he’s probably sharing them with Jason. God only knows who else. It’s not like I didn’t already have seeds of doubt planted in my head, but those seeds are growing at a pace I can’t keep up with, and my skull is about to fracture. Nice to know that all those hot moments we shared really were empty. Jesus. All that grunting, sweating, and daring one another to push themselves a little bit farther in the bedroom was nothing but a toxic game. Like I didn’t know. I always went to bed with Drew knowing that it probably wasn’t good for me. But it felt so good. Physically, I mean. It’s a rare guy who can fuck you like that without making you legit fear for your life. I was taking all I could get while I’m still young and elastic. Call me again in ten years when the soreness has settled in and I can barely ride cowgirl, let alone get piledriven in the ass for ten minutes.
Stella closes the folder from whence the photos came. “No, you didn’t ask me to go checking up on him, but I was in Seattle on other business yesterday and decided to drop by. I know you’ve still been seeing him, so thought it might be good to do a quick follow up. I apparently showed up at the right time.”