Meat Market Anthology

by S. Van Horne

  “It doesn’t matter, Ben.”

  “Babe, if it bothers you, it matters.” There’s a gentleness in his voice when he says the words. It eases the pain and calms my churning stomach. “Talk to me.”

  “I thought maybe I was different. Maybe we were different.”

  “You are different.” I don’t respond because I don’t know how to. If that were true, won’t he cancel his dates? “You can come with me.”

  “Are you crazy? I’m not going on your date with you.” Sitting up again, I exhale deeply. He can’t be serious.

  “It’s not that kind of date. Come with me. Mrs. Morello would love the extra company.”

  “Mrs. Morello?”

  “Yes, my seventy-two-year-old date. That woman makes killer sauce. But Mrs. Boyle, my Wednesday night date, makes an Irish Stew that will make your toes curl.”

  “I don’t understand.” I stand, wrapping the sheet tightly around myself, and I turn to face him.

  “I told you, it isn’t what you think. I’m not what you think.” He smirks up at me, the lines of his face soften, and his eyes tell me he’s speaking the truth. He reaches for my hand and lifts it to his lips. “I don’t fuck for money.”

  “Then why did I give Jason my credit card number?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Pomp and circumstance. Check your statement, you’ll see he didn’t charge you for any of the fees you discussed with him. And he won’t.” He pulls me into him again, leaning down to place a kiss on the tip of my nose. “Jason called me the moment you left his shop, which he planned to do as soon as you told him your name. He’s my best friend, babe, he knows what you are to me.”

  “What am I to you?”

  “Mine.” The word sounds like a confession—one that makes me soft on the inside and tingly down south. “You have been since the moment I laid eyes on you. Fucked up when I didn’t make my move back then.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I’m being serious.” He looks down at our connected hands, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. “You’re gorgeous, Cami, everything a man could possibly want. You’re smart. Cute as hell, especially when you don’t realize you’re being cute. You even do this thing with a pencil, like you’re chewing on the end of the eraser, but you’re concentrating on something important. When you look up at me with those dark chocolate eyes, I sometimes forget how to breathe. You’re everything and more. You’re mine.”

  “Ben…”

  “My dates, I can’t give those up, Cami. Those women, they depend on me to show up every week.” He glances up at me and shows me his concern. “I can see if some of the other guys would be willing to take them, but it depends on their schedules.”

  “How many of them are there?” I ask carefully, bracing myself for his answers.

  “Four.”

  “But you don’t sleep with any of them?”

  He chuckles, maybe because he senses the jealousy brewing inside of me, but it does nothing to help ease it. “No, babe, I don’t sleep with them. But I’m not going to lie, I have slept with clients, in the past. No one recent, and it’s been a long time since I took on a new client.”

  “You took me on.”

  “You’re not a client.” I find his honesty inspiring and decide to trust him, giving him another piece of me.

  “I like you too—I mean, from the start.” I swallow hard, afraid to put myself out there with him but needing to do it. “I was married, before. He was a jerk. He hurt me, and since then, I’ve been cautious. You’re the first man to make me feel comfortable, like I’m good enough. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not with you.”

  “I like who you are, Cami. I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

  “I want to be with you too, Ben.” He cups my face and kisses me, wiping away any remaining worries or concerns. “What now?”

  “Now, we take it one day at a time,” he responds, pulling back a little. “I’m not going anywhere, Cami. I get you got a past. I do, too. But that’s all it is. Our past.”

  “Will you leave The Meat Market?”

  “Meeting with the guys on Monday, planned on doing it then.”

  Feeling brave, I drop the sheet from my chest and turn to straddle him. He pushes my messy hair away from my face and looks at me with adoration in his eyes. “We got some things to work out, but I don’t want to think about it anymore, Ben.”

  “When do you have to be at work?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think I feel a cold coming on.” I smile down at him as I wrap my arms and legs around him. Lowering my head, I brush my lips lightly against his, teasing him. “Maybe I should call in sick.”

  “I think that’s the best thing you’ve said all morning.” He reaches up and claims my lips in one swift motion, stealing the breath from my lungs and ultimately my heart.

  THE END…FOR NOW.

  CHAPTER ONE

  WADE

  FUCK.

  Flopping down onto the mattress—alone—is like fucking Heaven right now.

  Exhaustion permeates deep into my bones. I’m not even sure I could get it up right now if I tried. No amount of tugging, sucking, or fucking right now would rouse my soldier.

  How fucking depressing is that?

  My poor dick is so over-used, it’s practically ready for a coffin and burial. Six straight nights of dates. Six straight nights of fun but meaningless sex with six different women—over and over and over and over…

  Against a wall, on a desk, in a pool, in the backseat of a car, bent over the sink in a bathroom at a restaurant, in an alley behind a nightclub…

  Pretty much anywhere and everywhere you can fuck, I did this past week.

  Most men would be thrilled and probably call me a fucking pussy for complaining about too much sex. But I need a breather, at least for one night.

  Just give me a little time—away from the women, and away from the Goddamn filet mignon.

  If I don’t see another tiny, round piece of steak in my life, I would die a happy man. These women all think they’re funny and clever serving it to me when we eat at their homes or ordering it if we eat out on our dates.

  Yeah, real original.

  I would roll my eyes, but I’m too fucking tired for even that miniscule movement.

  But I need to know what time it is. I didn’t expect to be coming home this late, or early rather, since it was already well after midnight when I finally left her place.

  That woman was an animal tonight. Four…no five rounds of hot, sweaty, hair-pulling, hip-slamming, nail-scratching, fucking exhausting sex. And she probably would have wanted to go again if I hadn’t managed to sneak out when she finally dozed off. But there are rules, and rule number one is no spending the night…no matter how utterly exhausted I may be.

  With some concerted effort, I roll onto my side and check the clock on the nightstand.

  Two thirty taunts me in bright red numbers.

  Christ. I roll onto my back and close my eyes.

  Thank God it’s Monday. A night with the guys to unwind, and a few beers at The Bottle is exactly what the doctor ordered. Jason knew what he was doing when he required us all to take Mondays off. You can’t do this job without a scheduled break of some kind, it’s too physically and emotionally taxing.

  But I can’t enjoy that respite for another seventeenish hours.

  I first have to try to get a couple hours of sleep so I can make it through my two motion hearings this morning, and then a full afternoon of client meetings. But at least there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

  No dates until Tuesday, and as of right now, my Saturday night is still free. I can’t even remember the last time I had a weekend night off.

  Fridays and Saturdays are prime nights, and my rates are double those nights for that very reason. Women don’t want to attend parties alone. And with The Meat Market offering escort services, they don’t have to anymore.

  Tonight was an anomaly. Sunday dat
es are usually low-key—a walk in Lincoln Park, maybe a stroll through the Field Museum. But this lady…sweet fuck was she feisty. I had barely knocked on her door before she was dragging me inside by my lapels and smashing her mouth on mine. It was immediately clear this was not going to be a casual mid-afternoon date, but rather an all-day and all-night fuck session.

  I normally wouldn’t mind, but after my dates Friday and Saturday, I had kind of been looking forward to something a little less, well, physical.

  Who would have ever thought I’d be tired of having sex? Not me. But after almost two years, and countless women, it’s starting to get real old, real quick. The faces all blend together, and I’m pretty sure at least half of them give fake names anyway. Having a hot, wet pussy wrapped around my cock always feels incredible—how could it not? —but just once, it would be nice to spend some time with a woman who wants to actually spend time with me, not with “Lewis.”

  I stare at the ceiling and try to will myself to get off the bed.

  A scalding hot shower would probably be prudent right now. The scent of her flowery perfume and our mingled sweat still clings to me, but I don’t have the energy to make it to the bathroom, let alone stand for ten minutes to scrub the filth off. I’ll just change my sheets tomorrow.

  Right now, the only thing I’m going to do is sleep.

  Sleep and dream about my night off and away from the sexually crazed, desperate women of Chicago.

  JOSETTE

  It’s taunting me.

  The damn calendar entry is a constant reminder of how pathetic my life truly is. Well, maybe not pathetic. But definitely lacking in social engagements. At least, ones that aren’t work-related.

  The retirement party for one of the founding partners is Saturday.

  And it’s shaping up to be another blown opportunity to demonstrate to the partners I’m stable and reliable enough to be considered as a new partner. After busting my ass for them as a clerk during law school, and another five years as an associate, I’ve brought in more business than some of the damn partners.

  Yet, they still don’t take me seriously as a partner candidate. The misogyny runs deep. These old codgers don’t believe a young, unmarried woman is partner material, no matter how good I am at my job or how much money I make for them.

  Assholes.

  I could sue them for sexual discrimination, but aside from the misogynist shit, I actually like working here. I have great co-workers, great benefits, and I’m free to do pretty much whatever I want. I don’t want to throw away all the hard work and long hours I’ve put in to establish my client base. But I need to do something. I can’t bust my ass for another five years of my life knowing there’s no potential for advancement. There’s no way I’m moving up in the firm without at least a stable relationship.

  Which means I’m screwed, because it’s not like I have time to date.

  Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I went on one. It was probably Jake whatever his last name is, and God, that had to be…what…eighteen months ago? Working eighty hours a week doesn’t really leave time for relationships. Other than the one I have with my BOB.

  Which reminds me…I need more batteries.

  I drop my face in my hands. God, I am pathetic. My life revolves around work and a battery-operated boyfriend.

  Something needs to change.

  I let my hands fall, and my gaze returns to the calendar. Only this time, it’s not the party reminder my eyes are drawn to, it’s a phone number scrawled along the side margin.

  When Ginger told me about The Meat Market, I thought she was full of shit. How in the world is there a male escort service in Chicago? Do women actually use it? I mean, what kind of woman pays a man for sex?

  And I figured she had to be fucking with me when she told me her boyfriend, Dylan, used to be employed there, as something other than a butcher. He seemed perfectly normal when I met him at The Brown Bottle when Ginger dragged me there for dinner after work one night. Ginger got a kick out of my disbelief and assured me it was true, and that she actually met him because her sister booked her a date through The Meat Market.

  I’m glad things worked out for her, I really am. Dylan seems like a really amazing guy, and I love seeing her so happy. But come on, I’m a fucking lawyer.

  I know escort services are legal as long as nothing sexual occurs, but hiring somebody to be my date is just so…I don’t know…sleazy. Plus, there’s no way sex isn’t happening with these guys. Ginger confirmed as much for me. So, getting involved with The Meat Market, even for just a date, would be putting me in concert with illegal activities. And that is so not kosher.

  Besides, even if I did book a date, no way I could pass off an escort as a legitimate romantic partner. My bosses would never buy it…would they?

  Ginger insists the level of “cuts” they have is unlike anything I could ever imagine and that I’ll be surprised by their “quality.” But I can’t say I believe it. How could anyone I would actually be able to pass off as a date work as an escort?

  When she slipped the menu underneath my office door this morning, I almost shit myself. It’s one thing to mention it to me over lunch—far, far away from the office—but she actually brought that thing into the firm. She’s lucky she’s an amazing assistant, otherwise I would smack her upside the head for bringing it here.

  Instead, I quickly perused the menu and scribbled the phone number along the side of my calendar before I shredded the evidence.

  Good thing my industrial shredder doesn’t leave anything for the cleaning crew to piece back together…

  Dammit.

  I don’t want to do it. Just thinking about calling and actually paying for a date has my stomach churning worse than before final exams in law school. But I don’t have a choice. It’s this or slave away for another five to ten years and maybe never make partner.

  My hand shakes as I pick up the phone from my desk and then immediately slam it down.

  Jesus Christ, I almost called from the work line.

  Epic face-palm.

  I’m not cut out for this cloak and dagger criminal shit.

  Instead of using the phone on my desk and potentially leaving incriminating evidence, I pull out my cell phone. After pressing the numbers into the keypad, my finger hovers over the send button so long, the screen blacks out, and I have to reenter my password to bring it up again.

  It’s now or never, Josette. Time to grow a pair and just make the call.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JOSETTE

  I THOUGHT I WAS NERVOUS calling The Meat Market to place my “order,” but that was nothing compared to the acid climbing up my throat waiting for my date to arrive.

  Date…ha! Can you call it that when you pay for it? And I mean pay for it…a lot.

  Filet Mignon seemed like the most prudent choice even though he was by far the most expensive. I chose him specifically because it said he has extensive higher education and can charm even the most difficult crowds.

  Please God, let him be able to hold an intelligent conversation with the partners at the party.

  Otherwise, I’m royally fucked, underwent all this stress, and spent my money for nothing.

  I just need to get through this night.

  All I need is one night of them taking me seriously as a partner candidate. The rest, I can figure out later. This will at least show them I’m capable of having a relationship, even if it is fake.

  Everyone needs a man, after all.

  The eye roll is only seen by me in the mirror, but I can’t stop it. It’s the twenty-first century, and I still need a man to advance in my career. What an absolute dinosaur-size load of shit.

  Chill, Josette.

  I need to tamp down my anger and annoyance if I want to make a good impression tonight. It’s so damn easy to control my emotions in the courtroom, but anywhere else, I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve.

  And that won’t fly tonight. We need to be the perfect, happy couple if there’s
even a rat’s chance in Hell of convincing the old farts that our “love” is real. I need to play the part perfectly.

  A layer of mascara turns my practically clear lashes into long, black, elegant ones. I step back and give myself a final look in the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The shimmery black cocktail dress is definitely going to turn some heads tonight. But it’s tasteful, not over the top. And my highlights are perfect platinum thanks to a trip to the salon earlier today.

  At least I know I look good tonight. Hopefully, he’s as handsome and charming as Ginger’s boyfriend. Having to spend a night pretending to be a couple with a guy I have zero attraction to or who is a total bore would be pure torture.

  The doorbell rings, and I take a deep breath to steady my fraying nerves.

  I check the clock. It has to be him. At least he’s prompt. With one last glance at myself in the mirror, I grab my clutch and head toward the front of the house.

  For some reason, the walk to the door feels more like I’m walking down death row toward my electrocution than to answer the door to—hopefully—an attractive date.

  A look through the peephole doesn’t help much. All I can make out in the dim porch light is a dark head of hair on a very tall man.

  Here goes nothing.

  My shaking hands smooth down my dress before I throw the door open, and my breath catches in my throat.

  Wade Saxon.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  WADE

  If you would have given me a million guesses to figure out who would be opening the door for my date tonight, the last person I would have named is Josette Westmore.

  The perky blonde is a damn shark in the courtroom.

  I’ve noticed her.

  It would be impossible not to, with the way she commands a room and always appears so confident in her sky-high heels and expensive, tailored suits. The woman is an absolute powerhouse, and from what I hear, she pretty much wipes the board in every case she handles. This is a woman who is always in control and always comes out on top.