LaClaire Touch: An After Hours Novel

by Dori Lavelle

  “Little cunt, you can finish up with the toes now. My friend is hungry.”

  “As you wish.” I rise off the floor and sway my hips all the way to the white box of condoms at the windowsill. I take out one of the silver packets and return to him. A few seconds later, I glide the condom down his small penis to his large balls. “How do you want it?” I ask as I remove my underwear.

  “Ride me, little cunt, ride me like your life depends on it.”

  I climb onto him, insert him into my body—my head empty of thoughts, my feelings shut off. I’m relieved it’s come to the sex already. The sooner it starts, the sooner it ends. After that I’ll go home to scrub his sweat off my body.

  He grunts a total of four times as I move above him. Then he stiffens, eyes scrunched shut. His long fingers slither down my breasts until they cup them so tight it hurts. He lets out what can only be described as a roar. Then it’s over.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding and roll off him.

  “That was fantastic, little cunt.” He mops sweat off his forehead. “You were brilliant.”

  “Happy to be of service. Any more wishes?” While most clients only desire sex, there are some who ask for cuddling and kissing afterwards. I hate it as much as the sex.

  “No, I got what I came here for.” He slides to the edge of the bed and lifts his pants from the chair, pulls out a one hundred dollar bill from the pocket and presses it into my hand. “Go buy yourself something nice. I hope to see you again soon.”

  “Sure.” I swallow hard. “See you again sometime.”

  I say goodbye and walk out of the room. The money for the actual session is always paid to Hector.

  I find Hector sitting on one of the stools in the dressing room. “Sweetheart, I know you have to get home, but we have a surprise client. I thought we’d be done with the white room for the night, but he’s willing to pay triple what most white room clients pay. He's all yours if you want him.”

  I collapse onto one of the stools, shoulders slumped. “Hector, I’m exhausted. I’ve had four clients today.” Not all of them had been from the white room, and one of them gave me a one dollar tip.

  “We can’t let this opportunity slip by. You need the money just as much as I do. And you’re one of my favorite girls.” He taps his fingers against his lips. “You really want me to give him to someone else? Think of the tip.”

  I tug a wet wipe from a box on the dresser and wipe the sweat from between my breasts, and neck. “No, it’s fine. I’ll take him. Thanks, Hector.”

  “That’s my girl.” He stands up, pats me on the back. “It will be over before you know it. He said he doesn’t have much time anyway. I’ll have someone freshen up the room. Be there in fifteen minutes.”

  I clean myself up and refresh my makeup before I return to the white room. All I can think about as I walk down the hallway, is my bed, my single bed in my tiny closet apartment, calling for me, waiting for me.

  The client is standing by the window, his back to me.

  “Hey, good-looking.” The words I use while on the job sometimes make my skin crawl. But it’s my job to tell them what they want to hear, even if it’s a lie. “You waiting for me?”

  He turns to face me. My body goes cold. He approaches me. I take a few steps back.

  Without my eyes leaving his, I take in his looks. Striking onyx eyes, wavy hair that brushes the tips of his shoulders, and a strong slightly square jaw. A scar runs across one side of his jaw, barely visible under the stubble.

  After the guys I’d had today, sleeping with him would be easy, but he’s the one man I can’t have sex with. “I’m sorry. There’s been a mistake. I have to go.”

  His brow furrows. “You just got here.” He moves toward me.

  I take several steps back. I reach the door and grab the handle, a sour taste in my mouth. “I’m really sorry. I came to the wrong room. Hector . . . He’ll send you the right girl.”

  I step out the door and run as fast as my stilettos would let me.

  I almost collide with Hector, who is exiting the black room, the lowest ranked room at the The Mirage.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” He shoots out a hand to grab my wrist. I pull it away from him.

  “I couldn’t go through with it. I’m sorry, Hector. I couldn’t—” I bite my bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

  “What about Mr. Black? Don’t tell me you left him hanging.”

  “I’m sorry. I had to leave. I’m so sorry.” A touch of fear that I might lose my job for the decision I made chills my spine.

  He pulls me into the black room and shuts the door. “How can you expect me to understand that you left a well-paying client hanging?”

  “I promise I’ll make up for it. If you want, I’ll work more tomorrow.” Nervous butterflies flutter in the pit of my stomach. “Please don’t send me back to him.”

  “You’re not leaving this room until you tell me what’s going on here.” His brow wrinkles. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I sort of did.” I decide to tell him the truth in the hopes he might be able to keep Derrick away from me. “Mr. Black is someone I know from . . . from my past.”

  Hector folds his arms across his chest. “Did he figure out who you are?”

  “I didn’t stay long enough for him to find out.” I’m not surprised he didn’t recognize me. I’m not the girl he used to know.

  “Fine, if it will make you feel better, I’ll send someone else to him. Go home and get some rest. But we need to talk about this tomorrow.”

  3

  Derrick

  No woman has ever rejected me, definitely not one I’m paying for. All I wanted was a few minutes of her time, a good fuck before making my way to the airport. Instead she walks into the room, looks at me and flees. The wrong girl, my ass.

  I should be pissed off. But in some weird fucked up way, I’m excited instead, fascinated by her. The few seconds I got to see her pretty face and sexy curves had been enough for her to draw me in, to mess with my mind. Being rejected by her only makes my desire to bury myself into her stronger.

  As I lift my suit jacket from where it hangs on the back of the leather chair, the door opens and I turn to find Hector standing there. A sheen of sweat makes his low forehead glisten in the candlelight.

  “Mr. LaClaire, I apologize on behalf of my girl. She—she doesn’t feel well.” He wrings his hairy hands. “I hope you would consider someone else. We have some fantastic girls still working tonight. You can have your pick.”

  As horny as I was when I walked into The Mirage, something has changed. I’m no longer interested in only sex, not with anyone. I want to screw the girl who walked out on me. If not tonight, maybe some other time.

  “Apology accepted.” I shrug on my jacket, watching him squirm beneath my stare. “But next time I return, I want you to make sure this doesn’t happen again.” I glance at my wrist watch. “I have a plane to catch.”

  “You’ll come back, you say?” Hector’s charcoal gray eyes widen with surprise.

  “In two weeks. I’m one of the few people who believe in second chances.”

  “That’s wonderful. You won’t regret your decision.” Hector rubs his hands together in excitement. “I’ll make sure to have someone special waiting for you.”

  “Good.” I close one of the buttons on my suit. “Get me the girl who left me hanging.”

  “But, sir—”

  “You said she’s not feeling well tonight. I’m giving her two weeks to recover. That’s sufficient time, don’t you think?”

  “Certainly, sir.” His gaze slides from mine. “I promise to have her ready for you when you get back in two weeks.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” I reach into my pocket, pull out my wallet. I remove a few bills and press them into his hand. “That’s for her time tonight.”

  Hector lowers his gaze to the money in his hand. “But she didn’t stay. You don’t owe anything.”

 
“As much as I believe in giving people second chances, I also respect people’s time. Your girl might not have started the job, but she did make an effort to come in here . . . despite her illness.” I push my hands into my pockets. “Perhaps the money will be an incentive for her to finish the job next time.”

  Hector curls his fingers around the cash. “That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. LaC . . . Black. I’ll be sure to let her know not to disappoint you next time.”

  “Fantastic.” The cash I gave Hector for the girl was the tip I’d planned on giving her. While there are some women who enjoy selling their bodies, most turn to prostitution because they have no other options. That’s why I always tip well. I’m guessing the girl is new and still getting used to the business. I can only imagine how tough this line of work must be. The women who do it deserve respect.

  I walk out of The Mirage with the intention of keeping my promise to return.

  A minute later, I slide into the backseat of my Rolls Royce. I tug at the silver door handle to slam the door shut and sink into the cream leather seats with a sigh. Quiet jazz drifts through the privacy divider. I allow it to soothe my nerves.

  Bruce Murray, my driver, watches me suspiciously in the rearview mirror.

  “What’s up, Bruce? Something the matter?”

  “Just wondering why you’re back so fast.” Even after twenty years in the US, his British accent is still thick. “Did something go wrong?”

  “Something went wrong all right. She bailed on me.” I laugh out loud. Now that my cock has calmed down, I’m able to find the humor in the situation.

  “The prostitute? You’re joking.” Bruce rakes a hand through his shoulder-length ash blond hair and joins in the laughter. “What in the world did you do to her?” Still cracking up, he turns on the ignition.

  “She didn’t even give me a chance to get started on her. The moment she saw me, she ran.”

  “Sir, I hate to admit it but you can be quite intimidating sometimes.”

  “Quit calling me Sir. Why can’t you just call me Derrick? Last time I checked that was my name.”

  “Derrick, Sir, may I drive you somewhere else? Your second choice perhaps?”

  I unbutton my suit jacket and stretch out my legs. “Don’t bother, Bruce. I’m done. Take me to the airport right away. I’m no longer interested in waiting until the morning.” I might have better luck with the ladies in mid-air than on solid ground.

  4

  Brooke

  My pulse is still racing when I enter my apartment at 1:30 a.m. A cloud of comfort tinged with the floral blossoms and citrus smell of my perfume and the nail polish I applied before work, encircles me like a security blanket.

  My apartment is tiny, with low ceilings, mismatched furniture, and the old carpet smell that never goes away. But after a day at The Mirage, it’s my haven.

  Traces of shock still course through my body, weakening me. My stomach rumbles but I’d never be able to keep food down. Pressing my back against the door, I place a hand over my heart, willing it to settle, but every time the image of Derrick’s face flickers in my mind, shame spirals through me, sending my heart rate skyrocketing.

  I never thought I’d see him again after all these years, after everything that has happened since the last time we saw each other. My worst fear since starting work at The Mirage had always been that someone I know would find out my secret. Since it hadn’t happened in the last year, my fear had melted away. Until now. And it returns with the determination to splinter my heart. What if he had recognized me? A hot flush rises up my neck at the mere thought of that possibility.

  No. It’s not possible. If he had recognized me, he would have chased after me. Besides, seven years have passed since we last saw each other and too much had happened to me both physically and emotionally to make me a completely different person. I’m far from being the girl I used to be in school. Back then, he would never have pegged me to be the kind of girl who would end up prostituting herself. And I never thought he would be the kind of guy who paid for sex. That surprises me because in high school, girls fell right into his lap. Including me.

  My stomach twists as thoughts of Magnolia High School sweep through my mind. Memories I wish I could erase forever.

  I have two choices. I could choose to allow the memories of when I was sixteen to overpower and weaken me, or to go on with my life and pretend he doesn’t even exist. Why should I be ashamed for being a prostitute?

  I push my shoulders back and raise my chin. I don’t have time to get emotional. I’m doing what’s right for me at this point in my life. I’m selling my body for a reason. I have bills to pay and dreams to work toward. I can’t afford to let anything or anyone stand in the way.

  Tonight, I’ll allow myself a few moments of weakness. In the morning, I’ll find the strength to take the next step toward my destiny. I’ll beg Hector for forgiveness. Derrick LaClaire will not ruin my life. Not again. If he does return to The Mirage, I hope he goes for another girl. My prayer is that I never have to see him again.

  When my heartbeat slows down, I disappear into the bathroom and flick on the light. The bright amber eyes reflected in the mirror glitter with determination. This is who I am now, a survivor.

  I plant a hand on top of my head and pull off my wig. My natural copper hair swings out, landing on my shoulders in soft waves. Since my hair is my most distinct feature, Derrick would have a hard time recognizing me with a wig on.

  Breathing evenly now, I change into my peach silk pajamas and make myself a chicken salad, suddenly hungry. I take it with me to my desk, where I flip open my laptop. I eat my late dinner while reading my emails. There’s one from my step-sister, Laura.

  I haven’t heard from her in two months. Although she lives in Australia with her husband, Jake, and their one-year-old daughter, it would be easy to pick up the phone now and again, but our relationship is complex. No matter how long my mother was married to her father, she never quite warmed to me as her sister. Our relationship had become even more strained when I left home at sixteen.

  I was five when Clifford Rayner married my mother. Since I’d never met my biological father, Cliff was the only one I called Dad. Despite Laura’s bitterness at the new family arrangement, the first year was beautiful. I enjoyed being part of a complete family. Cliff seemed to worship the ground my mother walked on and showered me with affection. When the honeymoon phase ended, Mom’s depression handcuffed her again. From one day to the next, Cliff’s relationship with both me and her changed. We became a burden. Arguments and insults became the norm. When she took her life, he didn’t even shed a tear at her funeral. After Mom died, Cliff treated me like a stranger. Now that my mother was gone, he had no reason to remain a father to me. When the opportunity to push me out of their lives presented itself, he took it.

  Laura’s email is short and to the point. The kind of message one would send to a stranger.

  Dear Brooke,

  It’s been a while since we talked. How are you? We are doing great. Still loving Australia. Anyway, just wanted to touch base. Take care.

  Laura

  How am I? As if she cares. Could it be she feels guilty for the way they had treated me over the years? As far as I’m concerned, we are no longer a family. She didn’t even invite me to her wedding three years ago. Instead she sent me photos by email. I never responded. What could I say?

  Sometimes I wish we were close, that I had a sister to turn to when times are tough. But we don’t even share the same blood. All she is, is someone I used to know.

  I shut down my laptop and pick up the phone to call the only person I trust, my best friend, the person I wish were my sister. Outside the window, it has started to rain and the drops tap dance on the windowpane. I’ve always found rain and the rumble of thunder to have a calming effect on me. Tonight is no different.

  Allison Holt is five years older than me. We met two years ago, when she frequented a coffee shop I worked in at the time, as it was close t
o Boston University, where she was in her last year of pursuing her Master’s of Science in Elementary Education. She’s now employed at Drake Elementary School a few blocks from her apartment.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, voice husky with sleep.

  “I’ve been better.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry for calling you so late. I needed to talk to someone.”

  “Hey, sweety, you know I’m always here when you need to talk. What happened?” She yawns on the other end and guilt burns the back of my throat.

  “Look, it’s not urgent.” I let out a stream of air. “Go back to bed. Let’s talk in the morning.”

  “No chance. How can I think of sleep when you sound like that?” She coughs. “Go ahead, tell me what’s eating you.”

  “I ran into Derrick LaClaire.” The words tumble out before I can stop them.

  Allison knows everything there is to know about Derrick. We’ve discussed him so many times that she probably feels as if she knows him.

  “Oh my God.” Her voice clears immediately. “How did that happen? I mean where?”

  “At The Mirage.”

  Allison is the only person in my life who knows what I do for a living. She had been shocked when I told her, three weeks after I got the job at The Mirage. When she realized she could not talk me out of it, she respected my decision. She understood why I was doing it. She never treated me any differently.

  It made her feel better when I promised I would quit once I made enough money to pay off my debts and go back to school. When we’re together, we never discuss what I do after the sun goes down, unless it’s absolutely necessary, like now.

  On several occasions, she offered to give me money to at least pay some of my bills but I refused.

  She’s raising a child singlehandedly and needs every penny she makes. Even though Leon calls her mommy, he’s not Allison’s biological son. She got custody of him when his mother—her sister—died during childbirth four years ago. On her deathbed, Allison had promised to love and care for her sister’s son as if he were her own. She kept that promise by doing everything she could to provide for him. Even with a small child at home, Allison put herself through college and worked hard to support her nephew. Allison is my inspiration. She’s the one inspiring me to never give up on my dreams.