“Coming right up.” Andrew jumped up from his chair and walked over to the counter. Someone was getting her a cup of coffee. She admired his long stride and his cute butt. He looked strong but not in that muscle-bound way that made a man look deformed. No, his muscles looked honestly earned—probably playing tennis and racquetball or swimming at his club. Even though he was just in jeans and a T-shirt, she had noticed the fine watch, the smooth hands and manicured nails, and the way he carried himself. The man personified success. Ashley sighed a little. This man was obviously way out of her league. Oh well, at least she could look.
What had gotten into her? Ashley almost never paid attention to the man she was with. Not that those men she usually found herself with were anything like Andrew. Andrew would never have to pay for a woman’s attentions. He probably had to fight them off or make them take a number or something.
When he returned with her coffee and a little plate of mini-muffins, they started to talk. Andrew smiled easily and often. Ashley noticed his smile was a little lopsided. This pleased her—it saved him from being too perfect, she thought. She was amazed at how easy it was to be with him. She said more in the space of the two hours they spent together than she would say in a month at Greg’s house. When she tried using new words, the ones she was teaching herself and using in her head, Andrew didn’t bat an eye. He was, she realized, taking her at face value. A young woman who shared a passion for literature. That’s what she was, right?
So what if she was those other things, for this morning she was what he thought she was and she felt terrific. At twelve o’clock Andrew looked at his watch and said, “Uh-oh, I better get going. I have a weekend meeting with a client I have to baby-sit through a bunch of depositions. I’d love to continue where we have to leave off. Perhaps I could call you later? Maybe we could meet for a drink or something. I’m free tonight. I know it’s short notice but…”
“No!” The word exploded out of Ashley with more force than she intended. More softly she said, “I’m sorry, I, uh, I can’t. I mean, I’ll be back here on Tuesday. Is there any way you might be able to meet here Tuesday morning?”
“Oh. Uh, well.” Andrew looked disappointed and Ashley thought his features were suddenly a little less open. “I don’t know. Let me see.” He pulled out a little black leather booklet and thumbed through it. “Tuesday. I can’t be here then. I have to be in court. But, let’s see, Friday? By Friday, I should have a couple of niggling cases pretty wrapped up. Maybe Friday we could meet? And maybe for dinner too?”
Fridays were one of Ashley’s busiest nights. She almost always had a “client” on Fridays and Saturdays, though Greg rarely let her know in advance. Still, the morning would be doable, as Greg didn’t care where she went during the day, as long as his meals were made, the house was clean and she was available for whatever assignment he gave her.
She nodded noncommittally and only said, “Okay, Friday morning it is. I’ll see you then.” Andrew bent swiftly, kissing her on the cheek before walking from her, his stride easy, his posture confident.
Like a schoolgirl she touched the spot his lips had touched, again sighing aloud. His scent as he leaned over her was delicious. Something like warm, fresh bread coupled with some exotic spice. Her body had reacted to his smell, to his touch, before her mind could even register that he had kissed her. Her panties were suddenly damp and she closed her eyes a moment trying to compose herself enough to get home and make Greg’s lunch.
Friday came finally and Ashley awoke almost before the sun, so eager was she for the day to begin. She dressed carefully in a dark blue linen blouse that showed off the corn-silk highlights in her blonde hair to advantage. Her legs looked long and lean in denim and her pink-painted toenails looked pretty against her sandals. She sprayed some perfume in strategic spots and stood in front of the mirror trying to critically assess her appearance.
“Ashley. Get in here. I need you to do something.”
Shit, he was going to ruin her plans. The bookstore opened at nine-thirty and Ashley had planned to be there on the dot so she wouldn’t miss a minute of possible time with Andrew. Now stupid Greg was going to mess it up. She knew she wouldn’t dare tell him she had a “date” or whatever it was. Greg would fuck it up for sure then. She knew instinctively, though she’d never tested her theory before, that Greg would object to her seeing someone socially.
That body belongs to me, she imagined him saying in her head.
Quickly she came out of her bedroom and said quietly, “Yes, Greg?”
Without looking up from his computer screen Greg ordered, “I need a new ink cartridge, pronto. The office supply store opens at nine o’clock. Hurry up because I need to print this out before the mail comes.”
Nine o’clock. She could do it and just about make her nine-thirty goal. Thank goodness that was all he wanted. She took the money he tossed toward her and the keys he fished from his pocket. Ashley was allowed to drive his car but only with his express permission. The bookstore was a quick bus ride away, so happily she had never had to ask Greg’s permission for that. She would just tell him she would be back later and he would usually grunt, if that, his head buried as usual at his computer station.
She started the car, the usual fantasy that she could just keep on driving, getting herself as far from Greg as possible, passing through her mind. But now she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay and see Andrew again. Andrew Nolan.
Ashley Cole Nolan. Andrew and Ashley. Andrew and Ashley wish to invite you to share in their happiness at their wedding…
Stop, you idiot. She admonished herself as she almost drove past the office supply store. Whatever she might have with Andrew, marriage was certainly not in the cards. Anyway, she hardly knew the man. He might be married himself, though he hadn’t acted as if he were. She wasn’t marriage material, obviously. She was, to borrow Greg’s phrase, damaged goods. Seriously damaged goods.
Well, so what. It wasn’t like Andrew was asking to marry her. They barely knew one another. Maybe she didn’t want to be married anyway. She certainly didn’t know any happily married couples—when her mom was still alive, all she and her dad did was fight. She would match him drink for drink until they either passed out or came to blows. Her oldest brother had married before she lost contact with him and he talked about his wife like she was the enemy. Who needed that?
She would be like Marlo Stevens, or Felicia Caldwell, another of her favorite heroines who refused the offers of many sexy, handsome men, choosing instead to set up an orphanage in India for lower caste orphans that no one else would care for.
Focus, Ashley, she told herself as she scanned the store for the ink cartridges. Grabbing the right one, she hurried to the checkout and back to the car. It was nine-twenty. She would only be a few minutes later than she had hoped. Andrew probably wouldn’t be there until ten anyway, she reasoned, as she forced herself to drive the speed limit.
Once home she gave Greg his change, his keys and the ink cartridge. She was careful to hide the fact that she was in a hurry. Instinctively she knew if he picked up that she had somewhere to go, his natural meanness would find some other trivial task to make her late.
Calmly she said, her voice quiet and respectful, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Greg? Would you like a cola or something?”
He glanced up at her, nodding a little to indicate he approved of her submissive attitude. “Uh, yeah. A cola would be good. And maybe a sandwich. I didn’t have breakfast. I’ll have a bacon sandwich. Oh, and some potato chips. We have potato chips, right?” Nodding, she tried to smile.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Well, she’d asked. It would only take a few minutes to make the sandwich if she microwaved the bacon. Moving quickly to the kitchen, she grabbed her ingredients and worked as fast as she could to make the sandwich, cutting her finger a little in her haste to slice the tomato.
A few minutes later she brought Greg his food, carefully setting it on the side table next to him. She
didn’t speak, as Greg had warned her not to interrupt him when he was executing trades. She stood aside, seething inside though her face was a mask of calm.
After a full forty seconds swept by on the clock over his head, Greg looked over at his sandwich, chips and soda and grunted. “Uh, thanks. Leave me alone, I’m concentrating.”
Silently she sighed with relief. It was nine-fifty. She’d make it by ten o’clock. She didn’t even stop at her bathroom to freshen up. She would do it there.
She realized as she pushed open the door to Bradley Bookstore that she’d forgotten her copy of Catch-22. She’d finished it and was eager to discuss it with Andrew.
Well, no matter. If they wanted a copy to refer to, she knew where to find one in the classic literature section, right next to her beloved romances. She would tell him how much she had identified with Yossarian, and how she understood the concept of a catch-22. She had even thought about what she would say, admitting to herself that she hoped to impress Andrew, so he’d still think she was smart.
She would talk about the poor pilots in the novel, who were trapped because it was patently crazy to be willing to fly to certain death, but if they denied madness and asked to be released, they were forced to fly because it proved they weren’t crazy. It was a hopeless situation without solution.
Kind of like mine.
Ashley pushed this thought aside with a toss of her head. Maybe that was too deep a discussion to begin on this bright morning. It occurred to Ashley that Andrew might be curious how the ideas in the book related to her own life. No—better to focus on the black satire of the novel and on how funny its dialogue was. As she was going over these thoughts in her mind Ashley scanned the café.
There he was. He already had a pot of coffee on the table, a whole pot. Plus two cups and a big plate of croissants. She hurried toward him, suddenly stopping just shy of his table. What if he were expecting someone else?
He looked up, grinning at her as he playfully tapped his watch. “Hey, Miss Latebird. I was afraid for a minute you weren’t going to show.” As she stood there grinning back stupidly, Andrew laughed and said, “Well? Sit down, why don’t you? Have some coffee. I absconded with a whole little pitcher of cream just for you.”
Ashley sat, her heart thumping, her spirits soaring. She was sweetly touched by his attention to detail, his remembering that she liked lots of cream and his going the extra step to get it for her. She tried to think when someone had last done something like that for her but memory failed.
She forgot her carefully planned speeches about the novel. Instead, they just engaged in small talk for a while and sipped their coffee. The croissants tasted delicious, all flaky and buttery. Ashley couldn’t remember enjoying her food more. Somehow, today the room seemed brighter, the food tasted better and she felt as if she were breathing some kind of purified oxygen.
She liked the bones of his face. The planes and lines of his jaw and chin. The fine wrinkles at his eyes that crinkled into crows’ feet when he smiled, which was often. “So what did you think of the ending? Isn’t that book amazing?”
It took Ashley a moment to focus on his actual words. She had been staring dreamily at him and realized she had zoned out for a second. Blushing, she sat up and tried to respond, launching into her topic of the concept of a catch-22.
Andrew listened for a while, nodding, but finally said, “Hey, slow down. Relax, Ashley. There’s no quiz to pass. You don’t have to try and impress me. I’m already totally impressed. I think you’re terrific.”
She sputtered to a halt, now thoroughly embarrassed but also delighted at his words. His compliments were just that, not couched in cruel terms with nasty innuendo, as Greg’s always were.
Greg. She glanced at her watch and saw it was coming on twelve o’clock already. How had time sped up like that? Why couldn’t time just freeze, right here, right now, forever?
She had a one o’clock hair highlighting. Greg had told her she’d better look her best tonight, as George Stannapolis, the Greek shipper, was coming to town and had expressly asked that Ashley accompany him to a fund-raiser for the Republican senator before he took her back for some quick, boring sex at his penthouse suite.
Ashley didn’t really mind George. He was harmless and he didn’t expect much of her. Just that she look pretty, stay quiet, suck his cock and then let him fuck her for a few minutes until his erection wilted and he fell asleep. He would tip her well too, usually forty or sixty dollars, depending what cash he had on hand.
Still, what she wouldn’t have given not to have to work tonight. What she wouldn’t have given to be able to accept Andrew’s invitation of dinner. Then maybe back to his place for a drink? Her mind wandered, dancing around the fantasy of being a “normal girl” for just a moment.
As if reading her mind Andrew said, “So what about tonight? Think you could make it out for dinner with me? There’s this new bistro I’ve been wanting to try…” He trailed off as Ashley slowly shook her head, her smile fading.
“You’re married, aren’t you?” he whispered softly.
“No, oh, no,” she responded quickly.
He continued, “Not that I’m surprised, of course. A lovely, bright woman like you still single? No way.” He smiled though his eyes were sad. “Listen, I understand. You don’t have to explain. I was married for four years to the wrong person. But I know you don’t just walk away from a relationship, even if it doesn’t feel right.” He hurried on, as if she were about to protest, adding, “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t with the right guy. It’s just, I don’t know, the connection we seem to have. It’s so immediate, so intense. I doubt that could happen if things were perfect for you at home?” He looked toward her expectantly, his face at once a study of longing and sympathy.
When Ashley didn’t answer, he stood up abruptly, a small tight smile on his face, the pain in his eyes eloquent. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ve overstepped and I apologize. Forget the nights. I’ll take the days here. I’ll take what I can have with you, Ashley. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to share.”
Ashley stared at him, speechless. He hadn’t made a scene, as she had half expected when he stated that he knew she was married. Though it was far from the truth, the fact of the matter was there was someone at home. Someone who wouldn’t approve of her meeting with Andrew “on his time”, as Greg would surely say.
Yet how could she ever confide this to Andrew? He thought she was some sweet innocent girl. A girl who liked to read and who had nice nails and expertly highlighted hair. He probably figured she was a housewife, taking care of someone not unlike himself, living in the lap of luxury.
Should she disabuse him? Admit that no, she wasn’t married, she was a prostitute? A whore, as Greg reminded her daily, earning her living on her back, kept by a pimp who would beat her if she got out of line and who kept all her wages, allowing her only room and board and whatever tips she could accumulate? How would this jive with his mistaken idea about what a bright, terrific woman she was? How would her complete subservience to a mean little man who essentially kept her enslaved impress Andrew Nolan?
He would be repulsed and horrified. He would hate her forever. He would never speak to her again. Tears pricked at her eyelids as she stared up at Andrew who looked down on her, his face questioning.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I am married. I’m sorry.”
Chapter 3
Ashley stayed away from the bookstore the next week. She desperately wanted to see Andrew but lacked the courage to face him again. Why had she lied? Now he would think he had no chance and, gentleman that he was, he would back down, back away, back off.
Yet what choice had she had? She went over their conversation endlessly, letting it reel out in her mind like an old film. She examined it from every angle as she lay in her bed, only getting up to take care of Greg’s needs or prepare for a client. Greg actually noticed after a while, sticking his head inside her door to inquire if she felt okay.
“You’re not pregnant, are you? You always use the condoms, right?” His face took on a menacing look, ready to pounce, to punish, to hurt her.
“No, no!” Ashley sat up in bed, shaking her head emphatically. “I’m always careful. I’m definitely not pregnant. I’m just tired, I guess.”
“Well, that better be all you fucking are. Hurry up and get over it. I can’t have you taking too much time off. I’ve got my eye on a new stock offering and if you fuck it up, I’ll use the hose again, I promise you that.”
Bastard. Even his meager efforts to check on her health had to end up with a threat. But she took his threats seriously since he almost always delivered. Rousing herself, Ashley got up, determined to face the day. Maybe tomorrow she’d go back to Bradley Bookstore. After all, it was a free country. Andrew didn’t own the bookstore and she could go where she wanted, couldn’t she?
This thought cheered her. Even if there was nothing left between them, no possibility of a future, at least she might get to see him. Just to look from afar at his handsome face. To see the curve of his forearm as he turned a page, engrossed in his reading. To watch him abstractedly take a sip of his coffee, not noticing the crumbs from his muffin that scattered across his shirt as he took a bite. She smiled at the thought, feeling proprietary toward him, wiping the crumbs in her mind from her lover’s shirt. Her lover. “Get a grip, Ashley,” she said aloud and then she sighed.
“Hey, get in here.” Greg’s voice got Ashley moving and she went out to see what he wanted. “That was Stockton. He says he’s willing to give you another chance. I didn’t let on about your little lie. This is our chance to make it up to him. You will report to his hotel tonight at eight o’clock. You will do whatever he says. And I mean whatever he says. If I get a complaint from him, little girl, or if I find out you pulled any shenanigans, I will personally beat you ‘til you drop.
“I told him this time I would collect the money up front but the bastard says it’s part of his thrill to pay you directly. Whatever gets him off, I guess. You make fucking sure you bring home every penny of the money too. Remember, whatever he says goes. He knows the rules. No beatings, no marking. Other than that, you take what he dishes out and you take it with a ‘thank you, sir, may I have another’, got it?”
True Submission Page 4