by Zara Cox
The whole operation is smooth enough to make me wonder how often the man with the mechanical voice organizes one-million-dollar sex gigs.
I don’t care. The money is all I’m after. Selling my body to buy my life is an exchange I can live with.
“Have you ever had an STD or suspect you might have one now?”
I jerk back to myself and shake my head. “No. Never.” Use of condoms was a number one rule at The Villa. One of the very few things Clayton got right. Although I suspect buying rubber was cheaper than forking out for medical bills, or worse, having a prized girl off work.
“Do you suspect you might be pregnant?”
“No.”
“You have to go on birth control. The boss prefers Depo-Provera. It’s quick. It’s non-invasive—you get a shot in your arm, and the side-effects are minimal.” She passes me a leaflet on birth control. “Read up tonight. You get the shot tomorrow unless there are reasons you can’t get it.”
I stuff the leaflet in my pocket.
“Do you bruise easily?”
My heart lurches and my precious burger and fries threaten to regurgitate. “Why would you ask me that?”
Dr. Allen doesn’t blink. “The camera will pick up blemishes, even with makeup. I need to know whether to provide you with a fast healing cream should you be bruised.”
A perfectly reasonable explanation. In a very fucked up world. “I guess I’m normal on the bruise scale.”
She makes a note. The rest of her questions are as mundane as a thorough scrutiny of my sexual history can be. When she asks me to, I undress and hop onto a bed behind the screen for an internal examination.
Fionnella returns after my blood has been drawn and we leave Dr. Allen’s area to return to hers. She hands me a brand new phone. It’s sleek and expensive looking.
“The boss wants you to keep this on at all times.” Her gaze catches and holds mine. “It’s untraceable and it’s got my number programmed in there. From now on, you call me when you have work specific questions.”
I look down at the phone. “Does that mean I won’t be talking to the…boss again until…”
“Yes.”
Something inside me tightens a touch. “And when will that be?”
“Depending on how your diet and exercise goes, a week to ten days.”
The knot tightens harder. I mentally frown at it. “Right. Okay.”
“I need to know your work schedule, then you’re free to go.”
I tell her and she frowns. “I was told your time would be more flexible than this. We have a lot of ground to cover.”
In the grand scheme of my fucked up existence, I choose not to take offence. “I have to work.” I don’t elaborate.
She meets my gaze again and nods after a minute. “Okay.” She does the let-me-escort-you-out gesture.
Just before we reach the front door of the apartment, I remember my backpack.
“I need to get my stuff from the camera room.”
She nods and returns to the large, empty living room. Having been here twice, I know where the interview room is without direction. I enter, grab my bag from the floor and straighten. The camera has a red light on, as if it’s still active.
I hesitate, then walk closer.
I’m not sure what compels me, but something inside wants to hear that voice one more time. I bend forward, stare into the lens. I open my mouth but can’t think of any words to say that won’t make me feel like a complete idiot talking into a camera.
After a minute, I straighten. But I still can’t leave the room.
“Lucky.”
I jump out of my skin at the voice I’ve been recalling in my head. “You’re still there?”
He doesn’t respond. Irritation and embarrassment duel inside me. Of course he’s there. When my fingers protest in pain, I look down and realize I have a death grip on my brand new phone.
I wave it at the camera. “Thanks for this.”
“You’re welcome.”
I should leave. My business here is done for now. Time to return to my hellhole.
“Did you want me, Lucky?” he asks, that robotic voice weirdly spellbinding.
I wrack my brain, dig out what I wanted to say to him before.
“Yes, I’ve thought about it…a name for you.”
“Yes?”
How could a mechanical voice be so smooth, so sexy?
“Q. I’d like to call you Q.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. I begin to feel like an ass.
“Q. Are you sure?”
I shrug. “Not really, but it’s the only one I can think of that’s not pretentious or absurd. If you’re not okay with it—”
I may be imagining it, but I hear faint amusement in his voice as he replies, “Say it again.”
Yes, definitely ass territory. A knot of embarrassment forms in my throat. “Q.”
“Thank you, Lucky. Q works very well for me. Bravo.”
Bravo? I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I can’t ignore the tiny pulse of something heady that moves inside me. “Okay.”
“Goodbye, Lucky.”
The finality of it is a command I heed. The light on the camera blinks off.
I leave.
7
ACTION
I put my tweaked plans into motion first thing on Tuesday morning. Axel, my business partner, and the guy who strays within a whisker of what I term a friend, doesn’t blink when I make the request. This is why our dynamic works. We’ve made such requests of each other in the past. He will need this favor reciprocated in the near future, and I’ll step up, no questions asked.
We make sure to keep our sheets balanced. Imbalance doesn’t suit either of us.
Once I’m sure the obstacles I need removed are on their way to being dismantled, I email my executive assistant with my second request. I watch her through the glass partition of my corner office.
She looks up, nods, and picks up her phone.
Satisfied, I frost the glass and stare at the email sitting in my inbox.
Maxwell.
I click on it without disabling the notification button. The summons is pretty much the same as it’s been all week. Dinner at the Upper West Side mansion I grew up in.
I reply with my agreement. He opens it immediately and I can almost see the smug look on his face as he reads it.
It takes me a minute to work through the need to succumb to the void inside me. That is what he does to me. For as long as I’ve known him, my father has had this effect on me. Even long before Ma died. Even before I knew where and when my end would be, I knew he was partly responsible for the blackness of my soul.
The passage of time has merely confirmed and cemented that belief. Sure, I could’ve stopped myself from feeding it. The head shrinking and pills would’ve possibly stood a chance if I’d allowed it. If I hadn’t let Adriana Nathanson offer me her version of extra credit therapy by getting on her knees and sucking my cock when she should’ve been tending my mental health.
But I am Quinn Blackwood. Rich. Entitled. Unapologetic asshole with a death wish. I accepted that a long time ago. I don’t intend to change. For myself. For anyone.
I exhale and pick up the first file on my desk—a condominium deal on a revamped Miami beachfront that’s almost at completion. Once it’s done, it’s going to sell for at least three and a half mil apiece. More money to add to the overflowing Blackwood pile.
I pick up the phone and hit ten on my speed dial.
“Quinn, I was just about to head up.”
“I need to cancel lunch, Ash,” I say to the head of my contracts and planning team.
“Oh, okay. But we need to get the Denver deal done and dusted. The consortium is getting angsty that we keep postponing.”
“Blackwood is backing the project seventy-thirty. Let them wait.”
He sighs. “You pay me to give you advice so here it is: if there’s no legitimate reason for stalling on this deal, let’s just get it done. Fostering bad blood
just for the hell of it may give you a momentary high, but it’s not worth the aggro we’ll garner down the line. If your father were here, he’d say the same thing.”
I hit the speaker button and set the phone back in its cradle. I don’t answer until I hear him fidget. “Ash?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re fired.” I kill the connection.
The knock comes ten minutes later. Five minutes later than anticipated. Perhaps he made a detour to the bathroom to change his soiled pants.
“Come in,” I say without raising my voice.
A pale-looking Ash Langston enters, palms already outstretched. “Look, Quinn, I know you don’t make idle threats or…” he takes a deep breath, “or fire people just for laughs. I was just trying to smooth things along, do what you hired me to do.”
“And you think I’m being irrational for stalling on the Denver deal.” I eye him as he paces the front of my desk.
“Not irrational, no. Just…look, I’m sorry. You want to wait, we wait. You’re the boss.”
I don’t reply. My gaze drifts to the silver antique clock on my desk, silently willing the time away.
I want to see her again. I want to confirm if that spark is real.
Before me, Ash tries to keep his composure, but the man is unraveling. I bet he can see his quarter of a million gambling debt rushing at full speed toward him. Or perhaps it’s the potential loss of the SoHo loft where he stashes his mistress that’s making him sweat.
“Do you know that two of the consortium members indulge in underage sex? Or that the head has squashed four counts of domestic abuse brought by his wife in the past two years?”
He stops pacing and his mouth drops open. “No! Jesus, I had no idea, Quinn, I swear to you. We did all our due diligence, used the investigation firm we always use.”
I shrug. “They were good at covering their tracks, but I’m better.”
Ash nods. “I…of course. I’ll stall for as long as you want me to. Or we can tear up the contract. I’m sure we can find a loophole that’ll protect us. Failing that, we’ll tie them up in court for years.”
“No. I’ll handle the consortium.”
His face turns puce as if he’s about to hurl. Sweat drips down his temple. “Quinn, I’m begging. My twins are about to go to Yale. I’ve remortgaged the roof over their heads just to pay for tuition. I can’t lose this job. Give me another chance.”
He’s lying, of course. He remortgaged his house to pay for his mistress. His wife is paying for his kids’ tuition with her inheritance.
I stand and round the table to perch against my desk. “You want to save your job?”
“Yes!”
“Tell me, what are the top five properties my father still keeps his eyes on. His pet projects.”
Ash looks uneasy. “But…you’ve taken over his portfolio.”
I deliver a ghost of a smile. “I know he calls you once a week to check on some of the deals we’re working on. Top five. I need the names.” I harden my voice.
His Adam’s apple bobs. “I, uh, there are two in Boston—Blackwood One and Blackwood Two, the condo project in Miami, the stud farm in Montana your stepmother insisted he buy last year, and a building that houses the junior philharmonic orchestra in Philly.”
I wasn’t aware of the stud farm, but the rest are as I guessed. I hitch my thigh over the side of the desk and cross my arms. “How much did we give away to charity last year, Ash?”
“I don’t have the numbers to hand but I can check for you.”
“Ballpark it.”
“Uh…possibly in the region of a quarter of a billion.”
“How much of that was recouped in tax breaks?”
Another dribble of sweat makes it way down the side of his face. “All of it.”
I nod. “Here’s how you get to keep your job, Ash. By five pm today, I want an iron-clad contract ready for me to sign, together with a press release.”
“I…sure, just give me the details.”
I stand. “It’ll be in your inbox by the time you get back. Don’t fail me, Ash.”
“I won’t. Thank you, sir.”
He scurries out and I return to my desk. My gaze immediately zeroes in on the time. Quarter to one.
The faintest of tremors shakes through me. I hit send on the email I prepared for Ash before I rang him. I take care of a few more business items, until my intercom buzzes. I lay my pen down.
“Send her in.”
The first thing that comes through is the solid silver executive trolley given to each Blackwood Estate board member two Christmases ago. I look past it as the door widens.
She enters with a touch of hesitancy, which she covers with a brisk intake of her surroundings.
Her green eyes meet mine and she swallows. The clench in my abs tells me I haven’t imagined the effect she has on me. Or I on her. She stares at me for charged seconds before she heads for the twelve-seater dining table set on the far side of my office.
I track her, take in her coiled hair, her fragile nape, her curvy form. The petiteness of her frame rams home to me as she passes my desk pushing the trolley. Her unremarkable dress affords me an impression of her lightly bouncing tits and a first glimpse of her smooth legs. They’re shapely, firmly muscled with delicate ankles I can’t wait to wrap my fingers around. My senses tweak to the decadent morsel she’ll make once I get my hands on her.
Observing her this way on Friday would’ve given me away, but here in the privacy of my office, I indulge myself.
Without speaking, she reaches the table and starts to lay out my lunch in precise movements. I scrutinize her body again as my cock wakes. Despite being on the thin side, her proportions are flawless.
Put simply, she’s perfection wrapped in drab work clothes.
Hell, even her hands are delicate.
I rise and return to the front of my desk as she leans forward to place the last of the domed dishes on the table.
“It’s customary to acknowledge the occupant of a room when you enter,” I murmur.
She stiffens, turns and grabs hold of the trolley handle. Our eyes meet for a charged second before she looks away. “I’m not normally that rude.”
“But?”
Her face pinches. “The chef…he briefed me on how you like things.”
“I sincerely doubt he has the first idea of how I like things. But please, enlighten me.”
Her gaze meets mine, again for a furtive second, then darts away. I want to be irritated by that. But I know what she sees when she looks in my eyes. I know what everyone sees. So I let her get away with it.
“You don’t like being engaged in conversation. You don’t like the noise of cutlery. And you like your dishes to be laid out in precise angles.”
“Lord,” I murmur. “You must think I’m a freak…?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Elly,” she supplies, her voice a touch on the husky side.
“Tell me, Elly, do I look like a freak to you?”
Her breath catches. The sound is faint, strangled at the last moment, but her gaze returns to my face. I’ve given her permission, and she takes her time to drink me in. The tinge to her cheeks is evidence that she likes what she sees.
My cock thickens. I cross my legs at the ankles, which draws her gaze lower. Her eyes widen on my crotch and she blinks before averting her gaze once more.
“Umm, no, you’re not a freak.”
“Thank you.” I straighten and approach the dining table. Her fingers tighten on the trolley, but she doesn’t move away. I reach her and slowly inhale.
No perfume. No expensive shampoo or cosmetics. Just cheap soap. And yet, I want to rip the uniform from her body, lay her bare on my dining table and devour her instead of the food.
Perhaps she senses my forming intentions. She takes a few steps to the side, dragging the trolley behind her. When she continues her retreat, I pause in the act of pulling out a chair.
“Where are you going?”
Th
is time when her eyes meet mine, they stay for more than a second. “Back to the restaurant.”
“No. You’ll wait until I’ve finished. Then you’ll clear up. I can’t abide the lingering smell once I’m done eating.”
She seems caught between mutiny and surrender.
“Is it a problem, Elly?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I don’t want the chef thinking I’ve skived off.”
“Are you in the habit of doing that?”
An affronted frown unleashes before she visibly reels it back. “Of course not. But he’s a bit…temperamental.”
“Is he?”
She grimaces. “Please don’t tell him I said that.”
“I won’t. It’ll be our little secret. Let go of the trolley and come here, Elly.”
I walk to the opposite end of the table and wait. Her movements are slow but she obeys. When she reaches me, I pull out the chair.
“Sit.”
Her head tilts back, and I catch the hint of the rebellion I’ve seen in Lucky’s eyes. But too soon, secrets and trepidation overcome rebellious fire. She lowers her head and slides into the seat.
“Have you eaten?”
I know the answer to that, but I wait for her to tell me.
“Yes.”
“Would you like something more?”
She shakes her head. “No, thanks.”
I take my place and unveil the first dish. And then in silence, I polish off an excellent chateaubriand.
8
TRANSITION
“Are you out of your goddammed mind?”
I calmly hand my coat to Felix, my father’s grey-haired, unflappable butler, brush the specks of rain from my hair and straighten my cuffed sleeves. “Good evening, Dad. How was your trip to Albany?”
“Answer me, boy!”
“Am I out of my mind? We both know the likelihood of that answer leaning towards yes is high. Sadly, ten years of therapy later, Dr. Nathanson hasn’t found her way to a clear diagnosis. Perhaps we should invite her over, discuss the matter over cheese and wine?”
He rushes toward me, six foot one feet of thoroughbred Blackwood stock. I keep a loose-limbed stance, but my blood spikes in anticipation.