LaClaire Touch: An After Hours Novel

by Dori Lavelle

“Good.” He squeezes my shoulder. “This should more than make up for yesterday.”

  After Hector tells me a little about the cousins, he leaves me to prepare myself. It’s a struggle to keep my hands from shaking as I apply my makeup and style my wig, but after a few deep breaths I lock away my emotions and leave the room to do what I’m paid for.

  7

  Derrick

  The clock strikes 8:00 a.m. The rocket is released with a bang into the clear, blue morning sky above Pamplona. In a flash, the bulls and steers are released onto the cobbled streets of Pamplona.

  Like my fellow bull runners, I’m wearing white pants which feel too tight and a white shirt. A red scarf is tied around my neck, and a red sash around my waist.

  We don’t only look alike in our bull running uniforms, we hold the same fears. And adrenaline-fueled excitement.

  Before my own fear paralyzes me, I lift my feet off the ground and start running, faster than I’ve ever done in my life. No looking right or left, no stopping to breathe even as my heart thunders inside my chest.

  The ground shakes as bull hooves beat down on it.

  The run should be around two minutes, but when your life is on the line, two minutes can be an eternity. It’s a matter of life and death.

  Some bull runners fall to the ground. I have no time to wish them well, to hope they’re not trampled by the animals. According to the rules, if we fall, we should remain on the ground as it’s safer down there. If we get up, the chances of us being gored by the animals is higher.

  Some runners don’t fall but fear makes them quit the race early, sliding under or jumping over the barricades which mark the route, and keep the animals from escaping into other parts of the city.

  My feet lift and pound the cobblestones, my breath catching in my throat, sweat pouring down my face, adrenaline pumping like a drug inside my veins. I’m drunk with adrenaline as I breathe in the dust, the sweat, and the fear permeating the air around me. The cheers coming from the crowds on both sides of the street hit my ears, merging with the sounds of the hooves slamming against the ground.

  The onlookers shout words of encouragement, calling out names, and screaming when a bull runner comes to their downfall.

  Don’t pay them any attention, Derrick. Focus or die.

  I push my way through the sea of bull runners, the ocean of red and white, and I swear I feel the hot breath of a bull hitting my calves. But I don’t turn to look, because one moment of distraction could be the death of me.

  As I turn the corner, running harder and faster, careful not to fall to the ground, I catch a flash of long, curly jet black hair among the crowd of onlookers on the other side of the barricades. My mind instantly returns to Ruby, the first prostitute to reject me.

  Why the hell am I thinking about her now of all times? I shake my head to chase off memories of her. She’s a distraction I cannot deal with. Thinking is a deadly game when one has a pack of angry bulls hot on their heels. Death is not the only possible outcome in this situation. Bones can break, teeth can be lost, concussions can occur. I intend to walk away from this race unbruised.

  Nothing else matters.

  Making it out of these streets alive is the only thought I give my mind permission to hold at this moment. I refuse to end up a statistic.

  Fresh determination courses through my veins, I turn into another street, almost colliding with another bull runner, who’s screaming like a girl. I don’t know how long I’ve been running. In reality, it can only be a few seconds, but judging by the way my heart is pounding and my legs are burning, it feels like hours.

  I come to Pamplona every year, since the year my parents died. At the start, my brothers gave me hell, telling me I was a fool for putting my life in danger, accusing me of not valuing life. What they don’t understand is, I value it as much as they do. The reason I come here—the reason I dare to stare danger in the face—is the same reason they don’t participate in these kinds of dangerous sports.

  Only by putting myself in danger do I realize how precious my next breath is. Without my fix of adrenaline every two weeks, at least, I might as well be dead. I’d be the first to admit I’m addicted to adrenaline, but at least I don’t turn to drugs or alcohol. They prefer to play it safe, to stay out of the line of fire. I’m different. The only time I feel completely alive is when I’m staring danger straight in the eye, challenging death to take me and then, at the last second, cheating it. That’s the moment I start to breathe.

  Maybe I’m nuts, maybe one of these days death might actually win.

  No. Fuck death. I am living.

  My chest is so tight it threatens to crack open as we near the bullring. Only then, do I veer to the left and hop over the barricades, the same moment when the bulls enter the ring. My lungs are on fire, but I’ve completed the race without a scratch. This blinding, exhilarating rush will carry me for a while until I crave another fix.

  An hour later, I’m sitting on a stool at the Catalina restaurant, showered and dressed, eating a breakfast of crispy bacon and eggs. The only proof I’d been part of the bull running race is the rush of life in my veins. I feel invigorated, better than I’ve felt in a long time. This feeling drowns out thoughts of the tragedy that took my parents’ lives, the imagined sounds of crunching metal and breaking glass as their plane hit the ground.

  At one of the tables, I recognize the face of one of the bull runners, the one I almost crashed into toward the end. He’s having a beer for breakfast and he raises it with a grin in my direction. I raise my glass of freshly pressed orange juice and give a nod.

  Like everyone else in the restaurant, we all turn to the large flat screen TV and watch the replay of the race. As it’s repeated over and over, cameras zoom in to witness every moment of the action, to spotlight the fears and the excitement on the faces of the bull runners. The sounds of people cheering, the pounding of hooves on the ground, the hard beating of my heart, makes it seem as though I’m back there. I still smell the sweat, the dust, and the fear.

  “I don’t know how you do it.” My friend Diego, the owner of the Catalina restaurant, says from behind the bar as he tops up my glass of orange juice. “On the house.” He slides it toward me. “So, why do you do it?”

  “Do what? The race?” I ask and he nods.

  “It makes me feel alive. There’s nothing like it. You should try it sometime.”

  Diego swings a dishcloth over his shoulder. “Forget it. I have a wife and a child. Responsibilities, you know.”

  “I have responsibilities too. I may not have a wife and kids, but I have a family. But this is me and I have come to accept that. I’ve been doing this for years and I’m still standing.”

  “Will you be here again next year?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I drink my juice.

  “As much as I like to see you every time you come to Pamplona, sometimes I wish that you would find a sweetheart who will keep you from doing these crazy things. My Pa was one of the best bull runners in town, but I still don’t believe in playing games with fate.” He dunks a beer glass into a sink of half-soapy water “Life is about family, my friend.”

  “I can never give this up for any woman. And I’m too young to start a family.”

  “You say that now. When love hits you, you forget yourself and age doesn’t matter. I was your age when I got married. Twenty-four years young. Since I married my Catalina, I’ve never looked back.”

  “You’re one of the lucky ones.” I push my empty plate in his direction. He sinks it into a bowl of soapy water. “I don’t think there’s a place for a woman in my life, not now, and not in a few years. Marriage is not for everyone.”

  “Tell you what, let’s have this conversation again when you meet the one.” He rinses my plate. “You’re leaving tomorrow, am I right?”

  “Yep. I’m taking the first flight.”

  “Then why don’t you have dinner with us tonight? Catalina will be happy to see you. You know how she l
ikes to spoil you. She’s cooking your favorite shrimp chorizo rice.” He cocks an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

  “How could I say no to that?”

  “Perfect. I will go and tell her. She will be so happy.”

  With that, Diego disappears into the kitchen to look for his wife, the chef.

  As I wait for him to return, Ruby’s face flashes in my mind again and my dick flickers at the thought of seeing her again in a week. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  8

  Brooke

  The firm mattress sighs as I sink onto the edge of the round bed, fear coiling itself tighter in the pit of my stomach. I had two weeks to prepare myself for his return, to brace myself. He’ll be here any second and I’m far from being ready to see him again.

  I wipe the sweat off the tip of my nose, but more trickles down my back and between my breasts.

  I yank a tissue from a box on one of the bedside tables and run it down my cleavage and across the back of my neck.

  I’d thought coming to the white room before he does would give me the upper hand, an injection of confidence. I’ve never felt weaker or more afraid, or this pissed off at fate. How would I be able to look him in the eye and not show my true self? What if he sees past the blue contact lenses or my wig falls off and he sees my true hair color?

  Sliding my hands between my knees, I press hard, forcing myself to be still. But I break out in a sweat every time the rumble of a car approaching vibrates through the walls, the headlights making the curtains glow. Each time a car door slams shut, it could be him exiting. Any moment now, he would show up.

  I glance at the clock and my spine straightens as a calming thought pushes its way to the forefront of my mind. He’s five minutes late. What if I’m worried about nothing? Two weeks is a long time. He could have changed his mind. Do I dare hope?

  Although, if Derrick LaClaire is still the same guy I knew in school, he’ll be here. If he wanted a girl, he got her.

  My stomach churns each time I hear a commotion in the hallway outside. Stilettos tap the floor, one of the other girls screams with real or feigned pleasure, low murmurs filter through the slits around the door. The sounds drift into the room to merge with the drum of my heart and the tick tock sounds of the clock.

  Then I hear him. Every fiber of my being warns me he’s the owner of the calm, controlled footfalls coming down the hallway.

  My insides quivering, I dim the lights to the lowest level and position myself on the bed. The less of me he sees, the better.

  The door opens and he fills the doorway only for a second before stepping in. He’s wearing a dark suit with a matching loosened tie. His gleaming, black hair tapers neatly to his collar.

  As he closes the door behind him, I run my tongue around my mouth to chase off the dryness but it doesn’t help. Suddenly, I’m back in high school, helpless to his charm, fooled by his words. Even though I’ve despised him for many years, he still has a grip on me.

  I hold my breath and wait for him to say something. Normally, I’m the conversation starter, my aim to make the client feel as comfortable as possible. Both my breath and my words are trapped inside my throat. He moves closer into the room, comes to stand near the bed. I forget how to breathe as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the leather chair, never taking his eyes off me.

  “Switch on the lights, Ruby.” His voice rings with command. “I want to see you.”

  “Are you . . . are you sure?” I lower my voice to a purr. “I thought it’s more romantic this way?”

  He comes to me, places a finger under my chin so my head is tipped back and I’m gazing into his deep, dark eyes. “I want to see every inch of your body from head to toe.”

  “Whatever you want, babe.” I swallow hard and move away from his scalding touch. Biting down on my lip, tasting my lipstick, I reach for a switch nearest to the bed, press it with a fake fingernail. Bright, yellow light floods the room.

  For a moment he watches me, just standing there, his hooded gaze pinned on me. Even without his hands on my body, he is already making love to me. He narrows his gaze and I tense up. Can he read my mind? Can he see through the makeup, see the true soul at the other side of the contact lenses?

  He steps back. “You are a beautiful woman. Why do you feel the need to wear so much makeup?”

  “Because I like it,” I lie.

  “Well, you don’t need it, I can tell you that much.”

  “Thank you.” I lower my gaze and ignore the pain in my gut, the pain of what he has done to me. No amount of compliments can erase it.

  “It’s not a compliment. It’s the truth.” He wedges himself between my legs, placing his hands on my shoulders. I fall back on the bed, expecting him to lower himself over my body. He doesn’t.

  He moves away from between my legs, and unbuckles his belt.

  In a moment, his pants fall to the floor as he continues to watch me. And while he’s undressing, I remove a condom from the white box. I open it immediately, desperate to get this over and done with. The sooner he gets what he wants, the sooner he’ll be out of my life.

  “Did you get the money?” He opens his cufflinks and places them on the dressing table. “The tip I gave Hector to pass on to you.”

  “Yes. You didn’t need to.” I rise and approach him, ready to dress him.

  “It’s my money. I do with it as I please.” He plays with a strand of my hair. “Just don’t leave me hanging tonight.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  He moves away from me, sits back on the bed, legs wide apart, his dick rising from the short, dark hairs between his legs.

  Instant desire flickers between my legs. How could my body crave him after the pain he put me through? Being in the same room as him, breathing the same air is the last thing my mind wants. But my body is the worst kind of traitor.

  I avert my gaze as I roll the condom down his hard shaft, happy he’s not asking for foreplay. The longer we spend time together, the more chances he gets to study me.

  Before he can give me instructions, I take the lead and head straight to the deep end. I turn my back to him, making myself comfortable between his legs, and slide onto him. A gasp of pleasure bubbles up in my throat but I swallow it back down. Harnessing my raw emotions and feelings, I move up and down. But my body explodes with heat and fireworks as he places his hands on both sides of my hips, guiding me, his breath hot on my spine. I want this to be over. I want to make him come so he can leave, but at the same time I want it to last, for him to stay inside me.

  I’m on a high and my head is swimming with desire, when he tightens his hands around my waist and lifts me off, his dick sliding out of my body, leaving behind an empty feeling.

  He pulls me to my feet and turns me around, places a hand on the nape of my neck. I know what I have to do. I bend over and before I can settle myself on my arms, he slides back into me with a force that takes my breath away. He moves in and out, his strokes slow and measured, gentle and hard. One of his hands is on my lower back, the fingers splayed upward, his thumb pushing into the crack of my butt, while his other hand cups my vagina.

  I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood. I don’t know how long my trembling knees will hold me upright. The more he grinds into me, the weaker my body gets, and my resistance.

  I feel like shit for allowing myself to enjoy him but I can’t help myself as I come closer and closer to having an orgasm. I gyrate, as our bodies slam into each other and then part way too quickly. A drop of his sweat falls onto my back. It slides down along my ribcage.

  A quiver surges through my entire body. He’s making me feel alive again, bringing back to life the part of me he had killed. He feels like a part of me that I didn’t even know was missing.

  My whimpers fill the room as he drives deep into my body, my very soul. His breath and moans arouse my ears as much as my pussy.

  “You were worth waiting for,” he whispers. “You are worth every penny I intend to pay you toni
ght.”

  Normally I would say something, talk dirty to the client. But all I say is, “I’m glad.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to this night for a while. I couldn’t wait to see you again.” He gives me a slap on one of my butt cheeks, not enough to hurt, just enough to elicit ecstasy.

  “I’m, oh . . . I’m glad you came back.”

  In response, he withdraws and spins me around so I’m flat on my back. Closing my eyes so he doesn’t look into them, I open my legs wide. He plants his strong hands around my ankles, lifting my legs off the bed, placing them on his shoulders, and continues to fuck me.

  I’m completely undone now, exposed. If he looks closer, I’m sure he’d see who I really am. Right now, I’m finding it hard to hide from him, to hide from the past.

  “Oh my God, you are amazing. Your pussy feels incredible around my cock.”

  I react to his words with fire exploding in my belly, spiraling through my entire body but I force myself to hold off, to stay in control. He should come first.

  “Talk to me, baby.” He moves faster and deeper, his voice a croak. “I want to hear your voice when I come.”

  “Your dick makes my pussy so wet. Fuck me harder.” In my mind, I pretend he’s not paying me to have sex with him, that we’re making love instead of fucking.

  “That’s good, baby.” He crashes into me. “Keep going.”

  “Oh god, you’re driving me insane.” My body loses control without my permission and I come hard, the orgasm rocking my entire being. “Oh, Derrick. Oooh!”

  He stops moving and my eyes fly open, the blood rushing from my face.

  Shit. I blew it.

  9

  Derrick

  The sound of my name on her lips hits me like a bolt of lightning. How the hell does she know who I am? Only Hector should know my true identity. He assured me I would only be called by the name I chose for the night. The only name this woman should know, is Mr. Black.