Dr. Matheson leaned forward and pressed a box of tissues into her hands.
This one show of compassion weakened her even more until her shoulders slumped and then shook with tears. She didn’t feel like she deserved it.
“Why did you keep these secrets from Kingston, Aria?”
“There are things about me that I want to forget. Things that I regret. Why would I want to tell him?” she asked in anguish, clutching the box of tissues so tightly that the cardboard sides buckled.
“Things like what?”
Aria eyed him like he was crazy. “I just said I want to forget.”
“But you haven’t forgotten, have you. You’ll never forget.”
No. Never.
“How old were you?”
“I’m lucky to be alive,” she admitted in a shaky tone.
Dr. Matheson leaned forward in his chair and pierced her with his eyes. “You deserve to be alive. Do you know that?”
The truth hit home like a ton of bricks. She didn’t believe she deserved anything. Nothing. Not even her life.
And definitely not to bear a life.
“Kingston hates me, doesn’t he?” she asked, voicing her worst fears.
“I can’t speak for him,” he said.
A long cry from simply, “No, he doesn’t.”
“Is he coming?” she asked, her fears evident in her voice.
“I honestly can’t say. He is supposed to be here in thirty minutes.” Dr. Matheson held up his hands.
“I love my husband,” she said, voicing her heart.
“Even more than working on your marriage, Aria, you have to deal with your unresolved issues, your guilt about your past. The first step is talking about it. Tell me about it.”
Aria closed her eyes and let her head fall back as she opened a door to a past she wished she could erase.
But she couldn’t.
“Before the age of sixteen I had slept with more than a hundred men and had more than one abortion,” she admitted in a whisper swollen with shame. “I know things that could make a whore blush. I was a whore. Instead of getting paid up front, I stole from the men. I robbed them in their sleep.”
“Why?”
“For the money. For the thrill, I guess. I don’t know.” Aria shook her head, trying to free it of a vivid image of nearly being gagged by the dick of this old man in the back of his car.
“My cousin seemed so cool to me and it was exciting being out and about, sneaking, making money, partying.”
“How old was this cousin?” he asked, making more notes.
“Eighteen or nineteen.”
Dr. Matheson looked up. “And do you understand that you were a child being influenced by someone not more than a child herself?”
Aria shrugged, giving in to the urge to kick off her shoes and pull her feet beneath her in the chair. Fuck it. He wanted to get to the real scoop. Then she had to be as real as she could. The realest bitch ever. “I smoked weed. Drank. I even tried to pop pills once, but that . . . that . . . that took me out of my game too much. It was too risky to be that high,” she admitted, pushing back a memory that could very well send her crazy . . . if she let it. That memory she would never share. Never.
“But weed is still a drug and a lot of the decisions you made were under the influence?”
Aria pressed her chin to her knuckles, allowing her eyes to go distant as she allowed the memories to come rushing at her like an oncoming train going full speed. “Yes. I mean I was a ho. This was beyond being fast and hot in the ass. This was straight criminal activity and promiscuity.”
“Do you think there are other young girls who could learn from your story?” he asked.
She cut her eyes over at him. “Only if I tell it . . . and I won’t,” she said with certainty.
He fell silent for a second and Aria knew he was switching gears. “Tell me about the abortions?”
Aria felt nauseous. She shook her head, feeling like she was no more than a child.
He waited. No words. No real actions. Just waited.
“No,” she stated emphatically. Translation? Move the fuck on, doc.
He scribbled away.
That angered her. “My life is more than whatever you’re writing in that pad. My marriage might be over and all you’re worrying about is keeping shit on the record?” she snapped, needing an outlet, a bull’s-eye, for her anger.
“Do you want to know what I just wrote?” he asked calmly.
“Yes.”
“I made a note to speak with you about a referral to another counselor to deal with your guilt about your past.”
Aria released a heavy breath. “Where is Kingston?”
“The choice is his whether to show up or not.”
Aria checked her watch. “I don’t have anything else to say until my husband arrives.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Dr. Matheson asked.
Aria just pressed her lips closed and watched the clock. She meant what she’d said. The only thing that mattered was her marriage. She had nothing else to say until Kingston arrived.
The appointed time for his arrival came and went.
Kingston never showed.
Chapter 8
Betrayal. Once again Jessa Bell’s venom left them momentarily paralyzed. Jaime didn’t know if she would ever recover. How could she when financially she was ass out? No ends. No dinero. Nothing.
“I hate that bitch,” Jaime drawled, as she sat in the back seat of the yellow taxicab.
It was the longest ride ever. It was about more than the miles or the sixty minutes to get there. Emotionally it felt like she crawled across glass on her knees to get where she had to go.
And she had to.
She had no choice.
As the taxi pulled to a gentle stop, Jaime licked the gloss from her lips and looked out the smudged window at the sprawling brick house.
“Thirty-five forty-six, ma’am,” the fair-skinned driver said, looking at her with odd bluish green eyes through his rearview mirror.
“Yes, of course,” she said, picking her clutch up from the cracked seat to look inside her wallet. President Grant was sitting there lonely as hell on her last fifty-dollar bill. All the money she had to her name.
She pulled it out of the wallet, folded it, and placed it in the metal slot in the bulletproof glass. Patiently she waited for her change. She needed it. The days of heavy tip-giving were gone. Long gone.
Smoothing her shirt over her hips, Jaime climbed out of the back of the cab and made her way up the long walk. They knew she was coming—she had to be announced at the gate—still she was nervous about their reaction to her upcoming request.
The ornate front door opened before she was halfway up the walk. Suddenly it felt like a walk of shame as her parents stood there watching her every step. Even though she knew her pale pink suit and pearls were presentable, Jaime knew their eyes scrutinized her. Judged her. Maybe even found their daughter—their only child—lacking.
“Hello, Mother. Hi, Daddy,” she said softly, barely above a whisper, stepping up onto the step just below them, allowing them to look down on her—just like her mother wanted.
Virginia Osten-Pine nodded her perfectly coiffed head, her lips pursed as if she had just sucked on a dozen lemons or swallowed a shot of vinegar. She turned and entered the house.
Jaime knew she was headed for the formal living room, the place where they entertained guests.
“Come in, Jamison,” her father said sternly, using her given name.
Her mother had an ally and Jaime knew it was two against one. Lord help me, she prayed silently.
Jaime walked into the living room. Sure enough, her mother sat perfectly poised on the edge of her French Provincial settee. Jaime took the seat opposite her. Her father, ever the referee, sat in the chair adjacent to them both.
“Well, Jamison, you called and asked to speak with us,” her father began, resting his hands on the round swell of his belly, a sign of the good life
he led. “But first, I must stress to you how disappointed your mother and I are in the way you’ve handled your marriage and yourself.”
Jaime nodded, avoiding her mother’s gaze. “I understand that you both feel that way, but there’s a lot that you don’t know.” She chose her words carefully. Very much so. “My marriage is over and Eric was not all what he portrayed himself to be. He verbally and sexually abused me in the months after my affair—”
Her father stuttered as he fought hard to sit up straight. “What did you say?”
Her mother gasped and literally clutched her pearls.
Jaime ignored her. She swallowed the shame she felt and continued on. It was time for the truth. “And he has been having an affair of his own with Jessa.”
“What?!” Virginia screeched like a banshee.
Her father jumped to his feet. “I will snap his neck.”
“No, I will divorce him and move on with my life . . . with your help,” she finished softly, finally turning to glance at her mother’s face. She took some pleasure in shocking the café au lait complexion to a pale and sickly looking beige.
“I never wanted to embarrass you or the family. And I didn’t want to be an imposition . . . but Eric has repossessed the car and took what little money I had from my bank account, leaving me penniless.”
Jaime’s eyes shifted to her father’s hand balling up in a tight fist as if he had Eric’s neck in his grasp.
“What are your . . . plans, Jaime?” her mother asked, her facade back in place and emotions hidden.
Jaime faced her mother. “I would like to keep my town house and continue rebuilding my interior design career.”
She took a deep breath she hoped her mother didn’t see. “I do need to borrow some money until my divorce is settled,” she stated softly, too softly.
Her father rose from his chair and walked out of the living room.
“You want our money but not our advice?” her mother asked.
Jaime’s spine turned to steel. “Actually I would love your support, your trust, and your love. That won’t cost you anything.”
Virginia’s face showed disapproval.
She didn’t raise her daughter to speak back. Or to speak up, Jaime thought.
“And the naked man in your living room? Where does he play into all of this?”
He is none of your fucking business.
Jaime’s father walked back into the living room carrying a check and a set of car keys. He handed her both. “Jaime, never feel as if you have to keep things from us. We’re your parents and we love you.”
Jaime’s relief far outweighed her shame in even having to ask. She folded the check, not looking at the amount. Whatever it was beat the hell out of what she came there with. The keys were to a Honda Accord—a car they kept just for any errands the staff had to run. She felt blessed to have it as she rose to her feet and wrapped her arms around her father. “Thank you, Daddy. I’ll pay you back.”
He squeezed her back and Jaime never thought a man’s embrace could feel so comforting. Tears welled up, but she blinked them away.
“Franklin, a word please.” Virginia walked over to the massive unlit fireplace against the far wall.
Here comes the bullshit, Jaime thought as her father released her and joined his wife. Their heads bent together.
Her mother spoke. Her father nodded enthusiastically.
Her life was planned in just that quick moment. Jaime just knew it.
“We have just two stipulations for the help we’re giving you,” her father said as he crossed the polished hardwood floors.
Jaime said nothing.
“Nothing would help your career more than all of the affiliations you pulled away from. The church, your sorority, and your charities could be a great way to network for clients.”
Those words came straight from her mother’s mouth into her father’s ear and back out of his mouth.
“That makes a lot of sense and I missed everyone,” she lied, playing the game. Her mother was the best at it but she had taught her well. “Anything else?”
“Regardless of both of the mistakes you and Eric made in your marriage, as a woman your reputation is everything. The, uh . . . young man . . . that, uh . . . was at your house.”
Jaime squirmed where she stood, thinking of the look on her mother’s face at the sight of Pleasure’s naked body.
“Until your divorce is final he is not welcome in your life.” Franklin slid his hands into the pocket of his pants as he gave her a hard look filled with his disapproval.
No Pleasure?
Her pussy throbbed in disappointment at the thought of turning loose that dick. Sheeeee-it. “I understand,” she said.
“Do you agree?” Virginia asked, stepping forward to stand beside her husband.
Jaime locked eyes with her mother. The implication was clear. Play by our rules or get the fuck out of the game. “Yes, I agree,” she said, feeling that familiar weight of obligation and falsehood causing her shoulders to droop.
“Excellent,” her mother said in pure satisfaction, a smile as big as a skyscraper spreading across her face.
As soon as Jaime could free herself from her parents’ home and all of their questions and reminders of obligations, she did. Once she climbed behind the wheel of the 2008 Honda Accord and cruised past the metal gates of the subdivision where they lived, she felt some of the pressure ease.
Some but not all.
As she cruised up the brick-paved street lined with shade trees, Jaime reached for her cell phone. Sitting at a red light she dialed Pleasure’s cell phone.
Until your divorce is final he is not welcome in your life.
Jaime made a face. “Picture that shit,” she said, pressing the phone to her ear as it rang. The sun was finally going down, but it was already a quarter to nine and she knew where he was.
Her “dance” with Pleasure had begun more than five years ago while she was a senior in college. He’d performed at a bachelorette party she attended and he had her attention the minute he walked through the door with his dick swinging in this black sling-looking contraption. He was six foot nine inches of caramel-dipped muscles that screamed hot sex. It was her first real exposure to anything sexual due to the sheltered life she’d led under her mother’s watch. After his up close and personal performance, Jaime had kept the business card he handed out. Within the month she pulled out that card and found the club where he worked.
And once a month her trip from suburbia to the Newark strip club became a ritual that she absolutely craved. Even after her marriage to Eric, she gave in to that one moment of defiance from the life she knew and enjoyed a secret life that gave her some sanity from the bullshit falsehood of her life. He came to recognize her and she knew that he knew he had her good and fucked up.
But the years of sexual frustration he had awakened in her exploded into a nasty, freaky fuckfest in one of the back rooms of the strip clubs last year. She’d never intended to cheat on Eric, but that sizzle Pleasure created deep within her was undeniable. She gave in just that once and she hadn’t called on his services again until six months later when the message from Jessa Bell made her take a cold hard look at her marriage and find it unbearable. She left Eric and called Pleasure.
It had been on ever since.
She wasn’t stopping now.
Jaime tried Pleasure’s cell phone on and off during her drive on the Garden State Parkway toward Newark. No answer. She dropped it onto the seat before she grabbed the wheel and turned the Honda into the parking lot surrounding the brick building with neon flashing lights. The steady thump of the bass vibrated against the walls.
Her eyes skimmed the parking lot. Her clit thumped like a heartbeat at the sight of Pleasure’s shiny black motorcycle.
Dressed in her prim and proper suit and her heels, Jaime was taken back to the time she’d snuck out to come here and see the man she was fixated on. Maybe a session in the back room won’t be so bad, she thought, nee
ding a dick fix.
Jaime used the last of her cash to pay her way into the club. Some rap song played, Jaime didn’t know the name or artist and didn’t care. She just liked how the loud bass seemed to pluck her clit and vibrate against her nipples. She paused to let her eyes adjust to the darkness as she made her way closer to the stage.
Jaime hadn’t been inside the club since Pleasure had made home deliveries. The smell of the dancers’ heavy colognes and body oils mingled with the smell of liquor and the scents of the women—between their thighs and otherwise—something about the atmosphere still repulsed her and turned her on all at once.
She took a seat by the front of the stage, her eyes locked on the dark-skinned bald stripper, who was flipping a three-hundred-pound girl like she was a featherweight. With the catcalls of the women and the music, the noise in the club was deafening.
Jaime watched the next few performers with only mild interest. “Excuse me,” she said to the muscular waiter dressed in nothing but a black thong embossed with his name in white script: Man-Man.
“Yes,” he said, bending down.
She had to swallow and blink her eyes from the overwhelming scent of whatever “supposed to be” sexy cologne he wore. “Pleasure—”
“Mr. Popularity is up next,” Man-Man said, smiling like a hyena.
Jaime turned away, dismissing him. She looked around in the darkness as she clutched her car keys and the last few singles she had to her name. Who else came just for a taste of Pleasure? she wondered, jealousy creeping up on her.
And she knew it was irrational and foolish to be jealous of a man who was not her man, who stripped and sold his dick for living. But . . .
Out of sight, out of mind.
She hadn’t been in the club again after that one night she’d fucked him in the back room.
The lights dimmed and the music shifted easily into the slow and sultry strains of the next song. Jaime sat up straighter. She recognized the song. It was “Invented Sex.” Pleasure was always playing it on his iPod. The lights flashed like lightning during a rainstorm just before the curtains opened and Pleasure stepped onto the stage in a bright red bodysuit that was little more than shreds that exposed his muscular frame.
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