LaClaire Touch

by Dori Lavelle

  “Is that so?” I gave her my lopsided grin. “And how would you know that?”

  “Because on more than one occasion, I saw you holding your book upside down.”

  “Damn.” I slapped my forehead, glad the ice had been broken. “Well, maybe I’m able to read books upside down. I’m sure that’s some kind of skill.”

  “Yeah, right.” She laughed again and dropped her gaze. She didn’t speak anymore and I didn’t make her.

  We sat in silence for what felt like hours. I’d never been close to a girl for so long without doing things to her body. When I thought I’d go nuts if she didn’t speak, she did.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It means a lot that you came here.”

  “You’re welcome.” Unable to stop myself, I reached for her hand. She flinched, but didn’t pull away. I counted to twenty and lifted it to my lips, my gaze holding hers.

  “What . . . what are you doing?” she whispered as I watched her eyes melting with warmth.

  “Making it all better.” Without saying another word, I kissed every knuckle. Only then did I let go of her, lowering her hand back in her lap. That was all I needed to do to open the door to her pussy. The next week, we bonded while talking about her cold-hearted stepfather and my adoption. Three days after that, I fucked Brooke Rayner against one of the library bookshelves, and after getting what I wanted, I moved on to the next girl, pretending Brooke didn’t make an impact on me. I never talked to her again until, from one day to the next, she left Magnolia High.

  I finish my coffee and almost slam the cup onto the table. “Brooke Rayner, a prostitute? How did I not know it was her?” But then again, I did feel something while in her presence, a familiar pull I could not explain.

  “You had a crush on her in high school, didn’t you?”

  My feet shuffle under the table. “It wasn’t a crush. She was just another girl.”

  “Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Mitch reaches for the pages which had fluttered to the table. “Anyway, what will you do with this information?”

  “Why do you think she chose this path?” I ask, ignoring his question. An uncomfortable ache blooms inside my chest.

  “Why do most women choose to be pros?”

  Pros, the name Mitch always preferred to call prostitutes.

  “Money.” My shoulders sag.

  “Exactly.” Mitch slides the papers back into the envelope and hands it to me. “You’ll find her phone number and address in there as well.” He props his chin on his hand. “Now, tell me, why did you need this information so bad?”

  “I was just curious.” I don’t tell him that I already know where she lives.

  “All right, then. And now that you know the truth, what will you do with it? I get the feeling you won’t stop here.”

  “Is that so?” I give a half smile.

  “Yes. I’ve seen that look in your eye before. Actually, the last time I saw it was when you were determined to sleep with Brooke.” He shrugs. “But, since you said she was just another girl, it shouldn’t bother you that she sleeps with random men for a living.” He takes a swig of beer. “Or does it?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Mitch.” I lean forward. “And stop cracking your damn knuckles. It drives people crazy.”

  13

  Brooke

  Shortly before midnight, I pull into a parking spot a few blocks from my apartment building. Stretching my aching back, I groan. I’d kill for a hot shower and warm food.

  Today wasn’t too bad. I’ve retrained my mind again so it switches off during sex with my clients. After a week of not seeing Derrick LaClaire, I finally relaxed. He probably didn’t recognize me and it’s for the best. I can go on with my life and he can go on with his. He’s just someone from the past. With time, I’ll forget he ever showed up in my present.

  I lift my backpack from the passenger seat and exit the car. The air is cool and gentle against my skin, but I still feel sticky and dirty, as I always do after work. I hoist the bag over my shoulder and start walking.

  Under the blanket of night, I feel like the only person in the world. There’s something about being one of the few people awake at this time of morning. In a few hours, the sun will light up the sky and people will spill onto the streets, but this moment feels like mine alone.

  I breathe in and hold the air in my lungs for a few seconds before letting it go, allowing it to dissolve the toxic emotions inside my chest. Gazing up at the dark windows of my apartment building, I cross the street, my black plaid skirt swirling around my knees.

  I’m about to reach my door, when I catch a movement to my right. I turn to look and freeze in shock.

  The man walking toward me is none other than Derrick LaClaire.

  What is he doing here? A warm flush of anger and humiliation creeps up my neck.

  His hair is disheveled and, as he gets closer, I notice his white shirt glued to his chest by sweat. He looks as though he ran all the way to my apartment.

  I hurry to my door, scrambling inside my bag for my keys, my mouth dry. He reaches me before I can open the door. Now he’s standing before me. His eyes tell me everything I need to know. That he knows my secret.

  As I look into his eyes, agony twists my stomach. Ignoring he’s even here, I continue the frantic search inside my bag. Where are the damn keys?

  “Hi, Brooke.” Even though it’s clear he knows the truth, my name on his lips still shakes me.

  “What are you doing here?” I swallow hard and lift my chin. “How do you even know where I live?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” He takes a step toward me but I shrink away from him.

  My hand is still inside my bag, searching for my keys. I hope I didn’t forget them at The Mirage. The last thing I want to do is return there. Finally, as my hands come into contact with metal and my fingers wrap around the keyring, a thought flicks through my mind. Two days ago, after I went to the Cup & Cream, I’d felt as though I was being watched. “Have you been following me?”

  He rubs a hand over the stubble on his cheek. “We need to talk.”

  “I don’t see what we need to talk about.” I turn to the door, ready to slide my key into the keyhole. Behind me, he closes the distance between us, the heat of his body on my back. “I don’t talk to clients outside of . . . work. If you want to make an appointment, call Hector. He’ll get another girl to meet your needs.”

  “I’m not here for sex.” He steps away from me and leans on the graffitied wall next to the door. “I need to talk to you.”

  “I really don’t think there’s anything for us to discuss.”

  “I think there is, Brooke.” He leans into me and the woodsy and spicy scent of his Hugo Boss wraps itself around me. “You don’t have to hide from me . . . not anymore.”

  As I attempt to open the door, my keys fall to the floor, at his feet. Before I can reach for them, he picks them up and holds onto them, briefly glancing at the Boston University keyring before meeting my eyes again.

  “Please, give me back my keys.” I reach out my sweaty, trembling hand.

  Instead of handing them back to me, he drops them into his pocket and shoves his hand in after them. “Talk to me first and you can have your keys back. Why, Brooke? Why are you working as a prostitute?” He pulls his hand out of his pocket, empty.

  I square my shoulders. “It’s none of your business.” The ball of panic surging through my veins is breaking me up inside. I need to get out of this situation, fast. Talking to him will hurt too much.

  My gaze fixed on his, I move toward him and reach into his pocket, yank out my keys. “You have no right to be here, Derrick.”

  He raises his hands in a gesture of peace, his expression softer now. “I’m sorry I showed up like this. I just, I was worried about you. When I found out who you are, I needed to know you’re okay.”

  “Like you did back then? You seem to be really good at that.” I can’t keep the bite from my tone. “This is not high school anymore. This is my l
ife.”

  He pushes his hands back into his pockets. “Is it so wrong to look out for a friend?”

  “We were never friends, Derrick LaClaire.” I push my key into the lock and turn, listening out for the familiar click.

  Pushing the door open, I turn to face him. “Whatever happened between us back then, means nothing to me. So, please leave me alone and return to your life.” My embarrassment blooms into anger. “And you have no right to judge me.”

  “I’m not judging you. I just want to know why—”

  “Why I’m a whore?” Laughter spills from my lips. “It’s a job, Derrick. And as long as there are men like you, willing to pay women like me for a good time, it will continue to be a job.” I push myself into the cool interior of the apartment building. Before he can respond, or decide to follow me inside, I shut the door behind me.

  I take the stairs two at a time and run down the hallway to my apartment door. Inside, I drop the bag on the chair, strip off my clothes and stand under the hot shower, allowing it to wash away the dirt, to flush it down the drain. On one side of the paper thin wall, one of my neighbors is peeing and I hear every trickle, the way I hear when anyone is having sex.

  Seeing Derrick again is painful because it reminds me of a time in my life when I’d felt whole, in those few minutes he’d made love to me in the library. But it had all been a game to him.

  14

  Derrick

  I can choose to disappear from Brooke’s life. The look in her eyes before she walked out on me made it clear she wants nothing to do with me. But I’m sitting inside my car, staring like a fool at her apartment building.

  Being close to her body earlier had made my skin prickle, made me feel as though I had been transported back to Magnolia High. At the time, she was only a pretty ass, someone I wanted to fuck and move on. Now I’m not sure about anything. I can’t explain why I felt drugged in her presence.

  I won’t go as far as saying I’m in love with her, because I don’t believe in that crap. But I do know one thing, I suddenly feel like an ass for the way I treated her back then. A few minutes of fucking had done more damage than I could ever imagine. Beneath the layers of shame and humiliation, I detected shards of glass. I had broken her.

  What happened to her? I could ask Mitch to continue the investigation into her life, but I don’t know if it’s fair for me to invade her privacy any more than I already have. But what if we met again for some reason? What if I can help dig her out of whatever mess led her to sell her body? We might not be friends, but we each hold a moment from each other’s lives. No matter where we end up, those few sweaty, adrenaline-infused minutes of passion will remain in both our memories forever. I didn’t admit it to her then, and I’d be damned if I admit it now, but she was the best I’d ever had. But, at this point, sex doesn’t matter.

  I press my forehead to the steering wheel and blow out a breath.

  I need to know more, to find out what happened to her. And I want to hear it straight from her lips.

  I’m still in my car fifteen minutes after she walked away. She has not come back out to talk to me, even though I know she knows I’m still outside. Only the light inside one of the windows is on. Someone had appeared at the window briefly. The curtain lifted for only a few seconds before it fell again. My intuition tells me it was her. When the light is switched off, I take it as my cue to get the hell out of here.

  My body seething with frustration, I turn the key in the ignition and drive away. Thirty minutes of driving around town with no particular destination in mind, leaves me exhausted and confused about everything in both my past and present. My thoughts keep returning to images of her in her apartment. Is she sleeping now or lying there staring at the ceiling, thinking about our brief encounter?

  Pull yourself together, dammit.

  I do pull myself together eventually, and stop at the nearest isolated bar where I order myself a drink.

  “Bad night?” The well-built African American bartender with rolled up sleeves revealing a snake tattoo on his lower right arm asks.

  “Something like that.” I take another swig of my fourth vodka and slam the glass onto the counter. “More, please.” My throat is burning and my head is swimming but not enough to drown out images of Brooke Rayner.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take a break?” The bartender picks up a remote and mutes the TV, where a boxing match is playing. There’s not much of a change in the noise level given that heavy metal music still blasts from the speakers.

  “Are you a fucking therapist or something?” I catch the slurred sound of my words before the music breaks them into pieces.

  “Some people call me that.” The guy flashes me a smile. “If you want to talk, I have all the time in the world. Female troubles?”

  “Sort of. No.” I shake my heavy head. “Problems with a friend.”

  “Male or female?” He leans onto the counter, resting his chin on a fist.

  I push away the empty glass. “A woman.”

  “I thought so.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Is it a friends with benefits kind of thing?”

  “No.”

  “How do you feel about her?”

  “No idea.” I let out a defeated laugh. “We had a quick thing in school and then we didn’t see each other for years.”

  “Now you met again and old feelings have resurfaced?”

  I’m quiet for a long time, contemplating ending this conversation. It’s heading in a direction I’m not interested in going. “Look, forget about the drink. I’m leaving.” I toss a few bills onto the counter.

  “Hey,” the bartender calls before I can step out the door. “If she still has an effect on you after all these years, she could be the one.”

  “She doesn’t,” I shoot back and swing open the door. I repeat the words inside my head over and over as I sit inside my car, waiting for Bruce to come get me, as I’m drunk from more than alcohol.

  When we get to my townhouse, we find an Audi Q7 parked in the driveway. As soon as I exit my car, a woman in a trench coat and high heels gets out of the other car. She’s gorgeous, with luscious wavy blonde hair flowing down her shoulders. Her dark eyes are heavily made-up.

  I say goodbye to Bruce and sway toward the beautiful stranger.

  “Who are you? This is private property.” I move to walk past her but she comes to stand in my way. “What the fuck?”

  “You asked me to be here at midnight. Just because you didn’t show up, doesn’t mean I’m not getting my money. I kept my end of the deal. You will pay me for the time I waited for you.”

  I blink away my blurred vision. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m Daisy. You called me last night at 11:00 p.m., remember? You told me to be here by midnight sharp. You booked the whole night with me.” She puts her small hands on her hips. “Instead, I show up and there’s no one here.”

  I close my eyes and rewind my tape of memories until, through all the haze, I find the right one. I open my eyes. I did give her a call, a few minutes before I decided to go and talk to Brooke. I totally forgot to cancel.

  Swaying from side to side, I pull my leather wallet from my back pocket. “I’m sorry about standing you up . . . family emergency.”

  “You should’ve called to cancel. I could have visited other clients.”

  “You’re very right. I should have.” I flip open my wallet. “Let me make it up to you.”

  I watch in amazement as the anger melts from her face, and a smile softens her lips. “That’s all right. I had a slow night anyway.” She draws closer to me, pressing her body to mine, her big boobs pressing against my chest, a French-manicured hand wrapping itself around my left bicep. “Since you’re here and I am here, why don’t we . . . see where the next couple of hours lead us?”

  “I don’t have time for the next couple of hours. Go over there.” I gesture toward my BMW. “Bend over and let’s get this over with now.”

  Her eyes dance as she
approaches the car, tossing a cheeky grin over her shoulder. The moment her body touches the BMW, she opens the belt buckle of the trench coat. It slides to the ground. Underneath, she’s naked. Inside my pants, my dick unfurls with excitement. Since she still hasn’t done what I asked her to do, I close the distance between us and bend her over myself.

  15

  Brooke

  I flick off my bedside lamp and fall back onto my bed, curl up into a ball. Even though he’s out there and I’m in here, his presence crackles in the air around me. The way I’m feeling, he could be right here next to me, his intense eyes searching my soul for answers. For a moment there, I was tempted to give him answers but I was too pissed off that he barged into my life without respect for my privacy. Some questions are better left unanswered, anyway.

  No point in going crazy, no point in worrying. Hopefully he got the message and won’t show up in my life again. I don’t know what I’d do if he does. I don’t want to know.

  I pick up the phone and call Allison. “Are you sleeping?”

  “Of course, I’m sleeping. It’s late. But I made you promise to call me anytime you’re in a funk. It better be good.” Allison gives a sleepy laugh.

  “I’m so sorry. It’s just that something happened and I . . . I don’t know how to feel right now. There’s no one else I can talk to.”

  “First of all, what you have to do is breathe. That’s all you can do for now.” She yawns. “Now, tell me what happened.”

  “He showed up.” I rub my eyes. “I came home and found him waiting for me outside.”

  “Who?” Allison’s voice is suddenly alert. “Derrick LaClaire?”

  “Yes.” I sigh and turn to lie on my side. “I have no idea how he found out where I live. And I think he’s been following me around. Remember when I told you about feeling like I was being watched?”

  “I remember. You thought you were imagining things.”