Lust & Loyalty

by Shelly Ellis

  Terrence frowned. “Huh?”

  “I said do it again, honey,” the man repeated, tugging the towel from around his neck. His dark eyes were wide, like he was totally enraptured. “The thing with the shirt and the water . . . It was absolutely beautiful!”

  Terrence cocked an eyebrow.

  He had been approached by men before, though this was the first time it had happened in a locker room. In the old days, when he was still modeling, it had happened quite a lot. For some reason, people assumed that just because you were willing to wear lipstick and eyeliner on the runway or for photo shoots, you also wouldn’t mind sucking a dick every now and then. He’d had to disappoint a few admirers and let them know that though he appreciated the adoration, he didn’t swerve that way. It looked like he would have to do it again today.

  “Sorry,” he said, “not interested.”

  “Not interested?” The man laughed. “But you don’t even know what I’m offering!”

  “I know what you’re offering, and trust me, I’m not interested.”

  The man took another step toward him. “How about I offer you the cover of a magazine like Men’s Health or a soda ad on TV that will have every woman in America wondering who was that fine-ass brotha in the leather jacket?” The man inclined his head. “Ever thought of modeling professionally?”

  Terrence laughed. Here he was, thinking he was getting hit on, but instead he had been spotted by a recruiter for a modeling agency.

  “What’s so funny?” the man asked, his smile disappearing. “You don’t believe me?”

  “No, I believe you! It’s just . . . I used to be a model, but I’m five years older, fifteen pounds heavier, and not up to that shit again.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “I thought you looked familiar! Were you . . . were you in a few Gucci . . . no! Valentino ads, right?”

  Terrence nodded. “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “Oh, honey, it’s not the only thing I’ve got!” He reached into the gym bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out a business card and held it out to Terrence. “My name is Andre Lewis and I’m with the Sigmund Agency based out of New York. I’m just here in Chesterton visiting family, not even worried about business, and I ran across your beautiful face. It has to be kismet! What’s your name?”

  “Terrence . . . Terrence Murdoch.”

  “Oh, and such a manly name! I love it!” Andre exclaimed. “Well, Terrence Murdoch, why don’t you give me a call later this week? I can see if I can set you up with a photographer who can take some more recent headshots of you. We can build up your portfolio and get you working again.”

  Terrence shook his head. “I told you, I’m not up to that shit. And I’m too damn old!”

  “Too old? What are you, twenty-eight?

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Humph!” Andre breathed through his nose, waving him off. “Ever heard of Lars Burmeister? Jamie Strachan? Armando Cabral? They were modeling past thirty! And, sweetheart, you can’t put an expiration date on those cheekbones, those lips, and those eyes!”

  At the mention of his eyes, Terrence winced. The prosthetic shell he had gotten was good, but he wondered if some photographer would notice the difference between the real eye and the fake one and play on Terrence’s lingering insecurities. It had taken intensive therapy to drag him out of his depression and regain most of his confidence. There was no way he would put himself through that again.

  “Sorry, Andre, but, like I said, I’m not interested.”

  Andre sighed gruffly. “Just take the card and think about it! There’s no harm in that, right?”

  Terrence hesitated for a few seconds before finally reaching out and taking the business card from him.

  “Think about it and let me know,” Andre repeated before winking and walking off, leaving Terrence alone in the locker room.

  * * *

  Several hours later, Terrence was once again gazing down at Andre’s business card as he sat at a restaurant table waiting for C. J. to arrive. He hadn’t had the chance to talk to her about his encounter at the gym, but he wanted to get her opinion on what he should do. He didn’t know if he really wanted to go back to modeling, but C. J. might have had a point when she said yesterday that it was time for him to start working again. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see himself at an office job. The prospect of having to wear a tie every day and sit behind a desk practically made him break out in hives. Modeling had been his first job and his only job since a talent scout had spotted him on his college campus when he was nineteen years old. While it hadn’t been perfect, it did have its good side—the parties, the hobnobbing with celebrities, and the beautiful women. Of course, that fast lifestyle and the women didn’t hold quite the appeal that they had six years ago, but it would still give him something to do all day, especially now that C. J. was away so much. But if he was really going to do this, he’d probably have to move back to New York. If he thought he and C. J. rarely got to see each other now, he could only imagine how often they would be together if he moved up there.

  Terrence took a deep breath and tapped Andre’s business card on the linen tablecloth, still deep in thought. He really needed to talk to C. J. about this.

  Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He looked down to see the text on the screen.

  “So sorry, baby ” C. J. wrote. “I’m JUST heading out from a last-minute event I got pulled into. Not gonna make dinner. I’ll meet you at your place later tonight!”

  He closed his eyes and grumbled. So much for their romantic, celebratory dinner, and so much for talking to her!

  He glanced at the business card again. Maybe he should just give Andre a call after all; it looked like him moving to New York wouldn’t make much of a difference, considering how much time C. J. seemed to have for their relationship.

  Terrence angrily shoved himself up from the restaurant table before stalking toward the restaurant’s front door. He swung the door open and headed to his Porsche to make the long drive home.

  It was around midnight, and he had just stepped out of the bathroom, about to climb into bed, when his doorbell rang. Before even answering the door, he knew it was C. J.—finally.

  He groused as he put on his eye patch and headed out of his bedroom to answer the door. Frankly, he wasn’t in the mood to see C. J. right now. She had canceled on him yet again. Whatever excitement he’d had at the prospect of seeing her had evaporated hours ago while he sat alone on his sofa, flipping channels on his television as he waited for her to arrive. He was pissed and tired and just wanted to go to sleep.

  Terrence swung open the door, still scowling. She stood in the hallway with an awkward smile, cradling an overflowing bouquet of yellow roses. She held them out to him.

  “A peace offering?” she said.

  He glared down at the flowers.

  Being in a serious relationship had definitely put him off his game. In the past, he had been the one offering flowers and apologies to some chick he had pissed off. Now it was the other way around. He tugged the flowers out of her hand and turned to head back to his bedroom to finally get some shut-eye.

  “Please don’t be mad, baby,” she pleaded from behind him, unbuttoning her coat.

  He tossed the roses onto his glass coffee table and kept walking.

  “I had no idea that event was scheduled for today. My brother threw it at me at the last minute and I couldn’t—”

  “You couldn’t say no. Right,” he muttered, stepping back into his bedroom. “Same ol’, same ol’.”

  “Come on, Terry. I said I was sorry, honey. Don’t be this way!”

  “Don’t be what way?” he snapped, yanking his T-shirt over his head and tossing it aside. “Don’t be pissed that you canceled on me a second time? That you came here thinking you could show up almost five hours late and all you have to do is give me flowers and an apology and I’m supposed to be all . . .”

  His words drifted off when he turned just in time to watch her strip off her skirt
and let it fall to the floor and pool around her ankles. She strolled toward him, wearing only a red lace bra and thong, gnawing her bottom lip.

  “No, I don’t think that’s all I can do,” she whispered as she braced her hands on his shoulders and eased him back onto his bed.

  He gazed up at her, turned on despite himself.

  “I can do a lot more,” she said as she dropped to her knees on the hardwood floor, pushed his legs wide so she could kneel between his thighs, and then pulled back the waistband of his sweatpants.

  “So you think sexual favors are gonna work? That sex is . . . is supposed to make it all . . . all better? You think . . . Oh, shit!”

  The last part was barely audible. She had already wrapped her hand around his dick and started to slowly stroke him, making him gulp for air and grip the edge of the bed.

  “Of course not,” she said, meeting his gaze, licking her lips. “But it’s a start, right?”

  She then lowered her head and took him whole into her mouth. As she suckled him he fisted one hand in her hair and the other held on tight to the bed to steady himself.

  “Shit,” he groaned again.

  After that, Terrence forgot what he was so mad about. In fact, he didn’t do much thinking at all.

  Chapter 9

  Dante

  Dante floated back to consciousness gradually, like a boat set adrift that was finally making its way back to shore. He heard beeping and the drone of voices he didn’t recognize. He slowly opened his eyes and squinted reflexively at the bright aura of light around him. He tried to raise his hand to shield his eyes but realized, belatedly, that he couldn’t raise his arm. It was limp with fatigue, as if he had done two hundred curls at the gym. It was also weighed down. He would later realize it was weighed down by electrodes, an IV, and a series of wires. Unable to shield his eyes, he closed them instead.

  “The sedative should be wearing off now,” a female voice murmured. “Dr. Basak said to keep a careful eye on Mr. Turner for the next few hours.”

  Dr. Basak?

  “Like we wouldn’t,” another female voice countered with a snort. This voice was throatier. It sounded older. “That’s our job, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, but I think Dr. Basak is a little more worried about this guy. His recovery took longer than expected on account of . . . well . . . what happened. You know what I mean!”

  “Yeah, I know,” the other voice answered. “Kelly’s still on suspension for that one.”

  Wait, he thought. What happened?

  He didn’t know what they were talking about. Nor did he know who the doctor was or who these women were, for that matter. Why was he here in this bright room, more than likely a hospital room? His last memory was of being in a very dark, quiet place. He struggled now to remember what place that was.

  An office building? A parking lot? No, that’s not right.

  His mind felt sluggish. His head felt like it was filled with cotton, not brain tissue, and was operating accordingly. Maybe it was the effects of the sedative one the woman had mentioned.

  No, I wasn’t in a parking lot, he realized. It was a . . . a garage!

  It was the multi-level parking garage near his law office.

  He could see the parking garage now and where he had fallen on the second floor. He remembered cold, wet asphalt against his forehead and cheek and the smell of gasoline and car exhaust. He remembered the searing pain spreading across his abdomen and seeing the tread of his back tire only inches from his face after he fallen to the ground.

  But why had he fallen?

  Before Dante fell, he remembered bringing up his briefcase to shield himself and shutting his eyes when he heard a booming sound.

  Even now, Dante recoiled from the reverberation that had bounced around the concrete garage. After the boom, he had opened his eyes.

  “What the hell?” he had mumbled.

  And then a minute later, he had noticed the red spot bloom on his dress shirt and spread across his torso. He remembered touching the spot and marveling at the bright red blood on his fingertips.

  He remembered now what had happened that night.

  I was shot, Dante thought, letting the full comprehension slam into him like the bullet that had torn into the flesh and muscle of his torso. I was shot! And now I’m in a hospital.

  His mind struggled to remember who shot him. He could see a shadowy silhouette under the dim light of the garage. The face . . . that face! He was on the cusp of remembering who it was, but his mind felt so listless. The face was like an inkblot he was trying to form into a recognizable shape.

  “So what did you bring to lunch today?” Dante heard one of the women in the hospital room ask.

  “Fettuccine alfredo. My boyfriend made it. It’s pretty good,” the other answered. “He even used wheat pasta, which isn’t something I usually go for.”

  “Wheat pasta? Please, girl, I bet it isn’t as good as the pork chops and greens I’m having!”

  Shut up! Shut up, you stupid bitches, Dante thought, annoyed by their mundane prattle, which only distracted him. He fought again to remember who the shooter was.

  The image began to coalesce into someone he recognized, someone he had known well. When he realized who it was, he tried to clench his hands into fists on the hospital bed but only managed to twitch his fingers.

  He wanted vengeance. He wanted to kick some ass! Dante tried to rise out of the bed he was lying on to do just that, but he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t follow his command. He opened his eyes again. This time the bright light wasn’t quite as painful. His vision was a bit blurred, but he could now vaguely see the two women standing near his hospital bed. One was adjusting his bedsheets at the foot of his bed, the other was examining his IV bag. His fluttering movements drew their attention simultaneously, and they both turned to look at him.

  The large black one smiled and dropped her hand to her hip. “Well, look who’s awake!”

  “We better tell Dr. Basak,” the one with the red hair and freckles whispered, leaning toward him.

  “Uh-huh,” the other echoed. “We better tell those cops, too.”

  Chapter 10

  Evan

  Evan was interrupted from his work by knocking at his office door. “Mr. Murdoch,” a voice called out to him. “Mr. Murdoch, sir?”

  He looked up from his computer screen, squinting with irritation, to find his assistant gazing timidly at him from a crack in the doorway.

  “Yes, what is it, Adrienne? I was in the middle of something.”

  He hated when his thoughts were cut off mid-stream.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you have a Detective Morris waiting for you out here,” Adrienne said, pushing the door open a little wider. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. “He said he wants to speak with you.”

  At the sound of that name, Evan’s stomach plummeted. Why was the detective sniffing around him again? Why couldn’t that man leave him the hell alone?

  “Because he can sense you know something,” a voice in his head answered. “And he’s going to keep sniffing until he finds out what that something is.”

  “Did he say what he wanted to speak with me about?” Evan asked.

  The petite young woman shook her head, sending her curls flying. “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  Evan leaned back in his chair. “Well, then tell him I’m busy. If he really wants to speak with me, he can make an appointment.”

  Adrienne frowned, then glanced anxiously over her shoulder at the closed door.

  “Is there a problem?” Evan asked.

  “N-n-no, sir. It’s just . . .” Her words drifted off. She shook her head again. “I’ll tell him, Mr. Murdoch.”

  He then watched as she fled from the room, shutting the door behind her.

  A couple of hours later, Evan powered down his computer. He glanced at his watch. He would have to head out soon if he didn’t want to be late. He was supposed to have lunch with Terrence today, but, prior to that, the two
were meeting at a jewelry store where Evan wanted to buy Leila a “push gift”—an expensive piece of jewelry that he was supposed to bestow upon her after she delivered their daughter.

  “You want to buy her more stuff?” Terrence had exclaimed over the phone when Evan had asked him to come with him to the jeweler. “Does Lee really want more jewelry, Ev?”

  Probably not, Evan had thought.

  Leila now had several chests full of jewelry he had purchased for her in the past year or so. It was more than she could ever realistically wear, and she never had been a “diamond and furs” kind of girl to begin with. But he felt like he owed her this gift. He couldn’t marry her yet with Charisse still holding out on their divorce. The least he could do was let her know that if she wasn’t his wife she was still the love of his life.

  Evan stood up from his desk, walked across the room, and opened his office door.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, Adrienne,” he called to his assistant who nodded. “If I’m a little late for my three o’clock, let Jim know I’m on my way.”

  “Yes, Mr. Murdoch.”

  He then made his way down to his private elevator at the end of the corridor that took him to the lobby twelve stories below. As the elevator’s metal doors opened and he was about to step onto the lobby’s marble tile, he looked up and felt the blood drain from his head.

  “Why, hello, Mr. Murdoch!” Detective Morris drawled with that predatory smile of his.

  “H-hello,” Evan answered, taken aback.

  “Your assistant told me you were busy, so I just decided to grab a quick bite to eat and wait for you down here.” He looked around him, gazing at the catwalk overhead. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy slacks. “This is quite a place you got here! All this glass and marble. . . the best that money can buy, huh?”

  The elevator dinged and the doors began to close. Evan hopped out before they closed on his shoulders.

  “What do you want, Detective?” he asked through gritted teeth, unable to keep his tone polite. He was tired of being harassed by this man. “You called the doctor’s office, didn’t you? They should’ve confirmed my and my brother’s alibi. We were there the whole time that you said that thing happened to Dante. What else do you need to ask me?”