My Father's Dirty Friend

by Ava Carpenter

  Curse you, alarm clock!

  My eye catches the bottle almost instantly as I turn to leave — his favorite cologne. I feel the smile on my face as I reach for it and pick it up. I can smell it already, even before I pop the lid off and bring it to my nose. I inhale a deep breath and I hold it in, letting my olfactory nerves dance for as long as possible before I suffocate.

  My mind races with possibilities and doubts and second guesses but I simply decide to say fuck it, life owes me as I dab a spot of the cologne behind my ear so he can follow me around for the rest of my shift. And here I thought this job was going to be the worst thing that ever happened to me. Two weeks in and I’m having dinner with a billionaire.

  Mason Lockwood, our oldest family friend, and all I can think about is his face between my thighs.

  Chapter 2

  Mason

  This morning certainly didn’t go the way I had imagined.

  Not that it was a bad thing, mind you.

  I had simply woken up at dawn, the usual time, the early bird gets the worm and all that, and sat in the recliner in my hotel room reading the morning papers. Before flying out here I had arranged beforehand with the local mom-n-pop store to have their paperboy deliver all my usual journals straight to my room by throwing a bunch of money at them until they agreed. Even the paperboy has made off with a hefty tip the last few mornings.

  Of course, when he showed up this morning the kid was more than a little out of breath and not quite on time. It wasn’t his fault, though, he had been instructed to take the papers to the penthouse suite where I was checked in, but this morning he had been informed that I was actually on the fifth floor. The consequences of a business discussion gone… not so much in my favor.

  Thomas Bradley was never cool under pressure — especially when it came to his beloved hotel chain.

  But alas, it was not much of an inconvenience for myself. I’m a billionaire, yes, but I’m no snob and I’m not unaccustomed to the dread of a hard mattress or lumpy pillow. I like to pride myself on traveling light and playing my expectations, or indeed my wants, fairly. Besides, this is all part of the business. Thomas’ actions in declaring the penthouse under maintenance — sorry we have to put you up in the only other available room in the building, you’ll be compensated — was just a silly little attempt to annoy me.

  We’ve known each other for many years, old friends we’ve been called by others, and he would know that this wouldn’t get under my skin, but still, he had to play something to show his disdain and this proved to be his ultimate move.

  So for the first few hours of the early morning, I read the papers and caught up on all the latest business news and formulated a plan in my mind for how best to deal with the hotel situation later this afternoon.

  I was at least able to make myself a cup of coffee from the rooms meager supply scattered across the countertop, and it wasn’t the best cup I’ve ever had in my life but it was adequate to sip on while I caught up on the worlds overnight changes. Oh, how so much can change in a short six-hour period. But sometimes, a person can run into those delightful little morning surprises that take place after the night’s events have been committed to memory.

  Like the event this morning.

  Stacy Bradley.

  I had been in the middle of dressing when she entered my room. Even though I had heard her call out her entry, I did not respond simply because I’d recognized her voice and wanted to surprise her. The bathroom door was only half shut and this allowed me to watch her in the mirror as she moved into the room and began to get to work, of little she was able to as I’d already tidied up after myself — a trait ingrained into me by my mother and father throughout my childhood.

  Many years had passed since I last saw Stacy at her high school graduation. She had gone on to attend college in another state and then afterward to find her place in life so we had not had any time to interact with one another since then. Besides, I had only known her through my business, and eventually, friendship relationships with her father, Thomas. Up until now, she had just been his pretty daughter who had obviously inherited his will to make it on her own in the world.

  But now…

  What I saw in the mirror was a pretty young woman who, according to her father, had to bite the bullet and return home after trying to make it alone, who now worked in this very hotel, and as a maid as well. I had watched her as she moved around the room, seemingly unaware of my presence and the maid uniform she was wearing looked really good on her body — especially when she bent over to get something from her cleaning cart.

  I had felt the bulge growing, the blood flowing as I watched her. She is averagely pretty, yes, but I quickly found as I matured into a young man, and indeed more so as I grow older still, that I am a man that is attracted to the entire package. There are men that look for certain singular attractions that could be rated ten out of ten, but myself I find even the average can sum to a knockout in totality. There was something about the young woman in my room when taken as a whole that attracted me, turned me on so, and it made me suddenly want her, crave her.

  So I had revealed my presence to her and as we talked I could see that she was seeing me, that she looked me over and during the conversation her eye contact had betrayed the hidden sexual tension in the air between us. Stace is a woman now and I’m not about to treat her any differently from other women that I’ve been attracted to over the years. Even if she is Thomas Bradley’s daughter, I’m of the mind that a woman knows exactly what she is doing and no second-guessing should be done by myself on her part. Even our age difference doesn’t bother me, we’re both matured regardless and I’m not going to place assumptions on another person.

  So we talked and I offered to buy her dinner and then gave her a great tip and went along on my way. I could feel her eyes on my body as I left, could feel her trying to undress me. And that was how my morning offered up a surprise, one I didn’t see coming, even though I had already been hoping I’d run into her at some point to catch up on the missed years.

  I hadn’t realized just exactly who I was going to run into.

  Stacy Bradley.

  It’s just after two o’clock when I step out of the meeting room and sigh heavily. Another meeting that tanked, and I can hear Thomas’ fuming rants follow me into the corridor. We’ve been friends for a long time but the man just needs to learn when to take an amazing offer when it lands in his lap.

  I glance at my watch and reaffirm the time. It sure does fly in this hotel, I think before moving off down the corridor, the sounds of the ongoing debate in the meeting room behind me slipping off into an obscure muted din.

  My stomach grumbles reminding me that I have not eaten lunch yet and since I usually forgo breakfast — just coffee for me, and lots of it — it is remarkably loud and I hope that some of the other guests I pass in the corridor cannot hear it. I’ve never believed in the whole breakfast is the most important meal of the day thing, even though that may actually be a fact, simply because I find that loading up on food in the morning dulls the senses, kicking the brain into a sort of autopilot while vital resources are devoted to digestion.

  It’s definitely one of the tricks I’ve used to stay well ahead of the opposing side, and since most of my meetings take place in the morning time by incident or my own design, it works very well in my favor. But because our meeting went on for so long I had to miss lunch and now I’m famished and I usually like to hit the gym around three o’clock.

  No way I’m doing that on an empty stomach.

  I stop at the first elevator and hit the button for the lobby, dreaming about a really nice sandwich I’m going to get from the vendor down the street. My thoughts circle back to business and Thomas Bradley’s problem, I begin to realize, is that he suffers too much from emotional attachment; sentimentality is the foil of a good businessman.

  With a ping, the elevator car arrives and the door opens and as if summoned by the mere thought of the name another Bradle
y stands staring up at me. “Hello again, Stace,” I say as I step into the car and wonder why the fates have yet again delivered to me another grand gift.

  I press the button and the doors slide shut, and my mind is already appraising an ongoing situation that seems tense in the car. I stand next to Stacy whom is leaning against her cleaning cart and I can tell instantly from her demeanor that she is going on a break or some otherwise temporary reprieve from her duties. Standing just next to her are the only other two occupants riding the car, two young men, twenty-somethings that have the look and body language of misplaced eager and jeer; that I can tell alone from their ill-fitting suits that make them look like a stereotypical used car salesman.

  Maybe there’s a convention in town, I think to myself wryly.

  As I’ve trained my body in the gym, I’ve trained my mind just as well. My spatial awareness is proved correct when one of the men, the tallest, leans back over to Stacy and continues a conversation that surely started before I got on.

  “I saw you in the hallway earlier,” he says. “Baby, you know, it’s rude not to speak to the guests when spoken to,” he smiles as he speaks.

  I sense Stacy shuffling her feet. “Yes, sir,” she says in a firm voice. “I work here.”

  The shorter man nudges the other in the ribs with his elbow. “Then, that means you have to do whatever we tell you to do,” he says. His leer is worse than the taller man and I make a note to deal with him first.

  “Come to our room,” the tall man says.

  “No, thank you,” Stacy fires back.

  The tall man laughs. “That wasn’t a request. It’s an order,” he hisses through his teeth as he places a hand on Stacy’s shoulder.

  I step forward and grab him by the wrist. He is so surprised there is no resistance save for a momentary look of shock as he gazes from his own hand to mine and then there is a loud pop as I apply just the right amount of pressure and he falls screaming to his knees.

  “Piss off, old man!” the shorter man shouts as he tries to move around his fallen companion toward me.

  With my other hand I reach forward without looking and push the emergency stop and the car comes to a screeching halt. Everyone but myself is thrown off balance and I take the opportunity to simply take two quick steps forward and then I have the shorter man in a choke hold in my right arm while my left goes to Stacy to make sure she doesn’t fall into her cart.

  “Old man,” the shorter man struggles to say, “you better let me go now or I’ll break your hip.”

  I look to Stacy and shake my head in bemusement. Her own expression is one of shock and disbelief at this entire situation — less than ten seconds have passed since I stepped into the car.

  “Son,” I growl into his ear. “You made me break a promise to myself that’d I would take care of you first, so you better rethink your outlook on this situations future.”

  The man tries to struggle out of my choke hold and even though he is shorter than myself, he is much wider, barrel-chested but his body is weak, I can tell from how tense it is through his cheap suit — he has only applied training to his body for show, not for pound by pound strength — and so he falters.

  “Ms. Bradley,” I say, “would you mind starting the elevator again for me?”

  Stacy takes a giant step over the crumpled man on the floor and presses the button and the elevator lurches to life, going down and it is only a few more seconds until it dings and the doors open into the sprawling lobby. I watch as a few of the guests milling around react to the scene as I push the man in my grasp to the floor of the lobby where he rolls into a crumpled ball, gasping for breath.

  “Hold the door, Stace,” I say as I step out of the car and approach the two security officers that bear down upon me. They start to question me but I cut them off. “Mr. Bradley wants these two assholes out of the hotel,” I tell them. “You won’t get any trouble from them, right?”

  The two wannabe used car salesmen look up at me.

  “We wouldn’t want to tell anyone you assaulted the daughter of the Bradley Plaza owner now, would we?”

  The two men stare at each other.

  “We got it from here, Mr. Lockwood,” one of the officers say as they help the defeated men to their feet and walk them toward the security office.

  Behind me, I become aware of Stacy’s eyes on my body and I turn to face her, walking back to the elevator and getting on again. The doors slide shut as we stand in silence.

  “Stace, are you all right?”

  She looks up and smiles at me. “Holy fuck, yes.”

  Chapter 3

  Stacy

  There are a few moments of silence and all I can feel is my heart pounding in my chest and the rumble of the elevator car beneath my feet as it ascends the building.

  I look to Mason and find him readjusting his suit jacket. He looks over his left hand and I can see that he is inspecting the large watch fixed to his wrist. I sincerely hope it didn’t get damaged in the incident because it looks really expensive.

  The incident… it wasn’t even two minutes ago.

  I bite my lower lip and hold my breath in an attempt to bring down my heart rate, the muscle feeling like it’s about to pound its way out of my chest and flop onto the floor. I grip the handle of my cleaning cart in both hands and squeeze it just a little tighter, using its rigid support to calm my hands that shake still.

  It had all happened so suddenly once Mason had stepped into the elevator. Those two jerks had been bothering me for several floors and I thanked the heavens that Mason had decided to call the elevator when he did — I have no idea what might have happened otherwise. Well, it couldn’t have been a good thing, that’s for sure.

  But the way he had handled the situation… it shook me up, certainly, but Mason was calm and smart and efficient when he stepped in to help. Not that I was totally useless, I’ve been in almost similar situations before and was able to get my way out of them on my own, I’m not that much of a pushover. I wish I had Mason’s cool exterior, though, and from the fleeting glimpses I take of him he doesn’t seem shaken at all.

  Then I feel a slight pang somewhere in my body and I realize at once that I wasn’t feeling shook up from those two jerks bothering me. What is firing me up, making my body shiver and lose control was Mason’s intervention.

  Oh man, I think suddenly, I’m wet as hell.

  His ice-cold assertion into that testosterone-fueled incident had allowed him to take full control; his masculinity was never overplayed beyond whatever actions he needed to take. Control and reservation had been the tools he had used to win and I’m sure that’s how a person can become a billionaire. Well, those things and that rock hard body he must be packing under that dark suit.

  “Sure you’re okay, Stace?” he asks.

  I try to answer and forget that I’m holding my breath, that my body is tensed, and end up in a coughing fit that I stifle with my fist. “Yes, yes,” I struggle to answer. “Just still excited, is all.”

  “Excited,” Mason says, still looking ahead at the floor numbers as the car climbs higher.

  I wait for more but nothing comes, it was a statement, not a question. Why did I have to say excited? Damn it, Stacy you are losing control, hold it together. Just because there is an amazingly attractive older man standing next to you doesn’t mean you have to go all weak-kneed, even if he did just kick the asses of two guys that were harassing you and never broke a sweat doing so, even if it is an old family friend that you’ve crushed on for quite a while now, even if you were imagining his face between your legs just this very morning—

  “Stop,” I say and with horror realize I have spoken it aloud. I feel Mason’s gaze fall upon me and I turn to meet his eyes and almost get lost in the color.

  “This is your floor?” Mason asks simply.

  I fluster. “Oh, no,” I mumble, “I was just talking to my hands is all, they are still shaky.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  I flash him a smile
. “Shaky Stacy,” I say and then immediately slink back against my cart in complete shame and try and make myself invisible until this hell of embarrassment passes.

  “What floor are you going to?” Mason asks.

  For a moment I am about to tell him the floor number but I can’t even remember it and then it dawns on me that before I found myself riding in an elevator car with Mason Lockwood I was heading to punch out for the day.

  “Oh,” I say quietly, “I’m done for today, I was going to finish up. All this ruckus kind of threw me off, Mr. Lockwood.”

  He turns and looks me right in the eyes again. “Well if you’re done for today you don’t have to keep calling me Mr. Lockwood. Call me Mason.”

  I nod and smile. “Okay, Mason.”

  There is a sudden loud ding sound that makes me almost jump into the air and if it wasn’t for my grip on the cleaning cart handle I would have probably ascended to the heavens and beyond. The elevator doors slide open into the penthouse anteroom, the door to which stands just a few feet away, an oaken monster that makes me think it wouldn’t be out of place in some sort of ruined ancient castle.

  I watch as Mason steps out of the car then turns on his heels and stares straight into me. “You’ve done what I requested with my room?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I nod. I had spent a lot longer than normal earlier this morning making up his penthouse suite to the exact specifications he’d requested.

  He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the key for the electronic lock. “Well now, I know your shift is over but how about you come inside while I make sure,” he says as he swipes the card over the lock and the big wooden door begins to swing open. “That way you’ll know right away of any changes you can make on tomorrows shift.”

  I swallow deeply. Mason Lockwood inviting me into his private suite. How could I turn this down? Even if I didn’t want to, and certain aspects of my mind are actively trying to tug me back from agreeing, I nod and say, “sure, Mason.”