by Sorbe, Lisa
“Do you get lonely, Rebecca?”
I’m smart enough to play dumb. Because to oppose this guy outright would be suicide. He’s twice my size and exuding so much testosterone I can practically smell it. Musky and earthy, the aroma makes me think of fallen leaves left too long in the gutter. Sweat beads on his brow, the slight sheen a result of either the day’s heat or excitement, most likely both. And if I looked down, I’d bet Hollis’s thumb drive that I’d see a hard on straining against his pants.
Of course, I could just throw caution to the wind and make a mad dash for my front door, hoping I can get to it and through it before he gets to me. Though, given our close proximity, something tells me I wouldn’t stand a chance.
I can smell the beer on his breath.
“Lonely? Well, maybe sometimes, I guess.” Softening my stance, I shrug. “But it’s, you know, part of the job and everything.”
My hand is still in my pocket, gripping my phone, the only weapon that I have.
Randall chuckles, like I said something funny. “A woman like you should never have to feel alone. Rebecca.”
I’ve never hated the sound of my own name more than I do right now.
“I’m fine with it. Really.” Casually, I take a step back and up, onto the first of the three steps leading to our porch.
Randall’s answering smile is more like a leer, showing off square teeth that want to bite. “Something tells me that’s a lie.”
Before I can respond, he pulls out his own phone, swipes a thick finger against the screen, and holds it up for me to see.
The initial image is grainy, blurry. But then it clears, and something that looks an awful lot like my backyard bleeds into focus. Squinting, I take in the large deck, noting the familiar space: the new patio furniture delivered back in June, the built-in grill flanked by a woodburning stove, the large stone firepit big enough to roast an entire pig.
At first I’m confused, wondering why this jerk is showing me a video of my own…
Oh.
My mouth drops.
It’s me and Ford. The night I covered myself in an itsy-bitsy, teeny weenie, whipped cream bikini and dared him to lick it off me.
Randall Beaumont thumbs up the volume, and tell-tale sounds of my infidelity spill out from the speaker. Our voices are faint, and you can’t make out our exact words, but if there’s any doubt as to what we’re doing, our moans give us away.
Not that there could be any doubt, considering the way our bodies are writhing against each other, polished by moonlight.
Then, I hear it, one decipherable word cutting through the static: “…Ford.”
My stomach tightens.
“Now, I could be mistaken. But I thought your adoring husband’s name was Nicholas.”
The time for playing dumb is over. Apparently, Randall is choosing brains over brawn.
Folding my arms over my chest, I huff. “My husband is hardly adoring.”
Before me, the scene continues to play out. Looks like Randall the Pervert filmed the entire thing.
“How much do you want?”
Randall sighs. “Rebecca. You’ve got me all wrong.”
I roll my eyes and peer at the screen again. Like a train wreck, it’s hard to look away. Given the distance and waning light, our faces aren’t entirely discernable. But what if, during this amateur porn, the moon’s glow happens to land just right, unveiling our identities? All it would take is a split second, one move that would have me facing the camera the right way at the right time…
I’m so very fucked.
“Then what do you want?” My voice is clipped, all business. But inside, I’m shaking, trembling, filled with so many emotions I can barely see straight.
I’m not ready for my marriage to end. Not yet.
Randall pockets the phone and leans against the house, crossing one foot over the other. “I just want a taste of what you’re giving away, that’s all.”
My head jerks as if I’ve been slapped. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, like we’re discussing something as simple as the weather. “Oh, come on. Don’t act all surprised. You knew what you were doing, all those times out there on your back deck, spreading your legs...for me.” He pushes off the house and edges closer. The cocky humor is gone from his eyes, replaced by a wicked glint. “And baby, I’m tired of watching.”
I wasn’t expecting this. But how could I not have expected this?
Play with fire, and you get burned.
I’m frantic. Beyond frantic. I want to cry and scream and claw Randall Beaumont’s eyes right out of his fucking head…
“Of course, if you’d rather, I could just send this little video to your husband. See what he has to say about it. Though,” he chuckles, “I promise you, the alternative would be far more to your liking.”
“How do I know you won’t just send it to Nicholas anyway?”
Randall’s expression ripples, and a smile so genuine that it could win over Mother Theresa herself flits across his features. His entire demeanor has changed on a dime; he looks completely different. There’s sincerity in his gaze, a trustworthiness that goes so deep as to affect the color of his eyes, turning them from a sickly green to a warm emerald.
Two-faced bastard.
“Now why on earth would I do that?” When I give him a you’re full of shit look, all pretenses fade. “Look, you give me what I want when I want it, and this little fuckfest between you and this Ford” – I grimace – “will stay locked in my vault. Permanently. You have my word.”
Now I laugh. “Really? Your word? And what’s that worth?”
Randall joins me on the step, looming taller now that we’re on the same level. Pressing his body to mine, he dips a finger into the waistband of my shorts. His touch feels like a searing poker, and despite the strength I’m determined to show, I flinch. Pushing back my hair with his other hand, he dips his head so that his mouth brushes my ear. “My word, Rebecca, means everything.”
I suck in a breath, swallow back a scream. “What are you, a used car salesmen?”
Randall’s hand glides up from my waist, slides along my stomach, and teases the silk of my bra. “Close. I’m an attorney. And a highly respected one, at that.” He gives my breast a light squeeze. “So don’t think about trying anything funny. My word against some slut who’s cheating on her husband won’t hold up in court, sweetheart. I promise you that.”
His hands are on me now, all over me now, exploring and pinching and tweaking, and I feel like I’m going to be sick, so sick, maybe puke all over his shiny shoes. I swallow down bile, and in a voice that I don’t even recognize, I whisper, “Fine.”
Randall’s breath catches, and his hands freeze. Which tells me that, despite his display of confidence, he wasn’t entirely sure I’d go for his deal.
“Say it.”
My heart is hammering, thudding against my chest, and the ocean in my head is roaring at an all-time high. “S-say what?”
He grabs my waist, pulls me so tightly against him that I can feel his erection against my hip. “Say you want me to fuck you.”
“I…” I squeeze my eyes shut, whimper softly. “I want you to…fuck…me.”
Randall growls, the exhalation hot and wet against my forehead. “Good girl. Damn, baby…you’re a sweet little slut, you know that?”
He kisses me then, thrusts his hands down my pants, and I let him. I let him, because I need him to feel like he’s won. To think he has me right where he wants me, and that there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
When he slides his tongue between my lips, it takes everything in me not to bite the damn thing off and spit it back at him.
I return his kiss, meekly, while his hand cups my mound, dares to dart a finger under the silk material. “Smooth,” he murmurs. “Just like I thought it’d be.”
And that, right there. That’s the final fucking straw.
I pull back a little, whisper against his lips. “Can I see it again?”
&
nbsp; Randall stops, though he doesn’t remove his hand. “See what?”
I fight to keep my head straight, to keep my lunch down, to remember the plan that sparked moments ago, when he first touched me. The plan that will hopefully, fingers-fucking-crossed, get me out of this mess.
Because there’s no way, no way I’m having sex with this brute.
“The video.”
Randall traces my jaw, tilts my head so he can peer into my eyes. “I know what’s going on here. You think you can make a grab for the phone, maybe get lucky enough to erase it.” He brushes his lips over my forehead. “Don’t play me, bitch.”
“Play you? I’m not, really I’m not.” I try to sound like I’m pleading. Try to pretend I don’t really care. “It’s just that…” I trail off, like what I was about to say is embarrassing. “Never mind.”
But Randall is curious now. He doesn’t like being kept in the dark, and if there’s something going on with the video, he wants to know about it. It is, after all, his insurance policy. “What? It’s just what?”
I close my eyes, worry my lip between my teeth. “Well, um. It’s just that…” I sigh, open my eyes, and meet his heavy-lidded stare. “It totally turned me on.”
He raises his brows, surprised by my admission. So I rush on.
“I’ve never, you now, seen myself like that before. And it was so fucking hot. It made me so….wet.” I reach out, run my hand over chest before sliding it down. When I reach his hard on, I know I’ve won.
Seconds pass, then years. Or, at least, that’s what it feels like.
Everything hinges on me getting that phone.
And then I hope to God it shows what I think it shows.
Randall chuckles, and the hand that’s still between my legs gives one last squeeze before letting go. “Whatever gets you in the mood, baby.”
He hands me the phone, pulls up the video, and hands it to me. Leaning against the house, I slide the bar all the way to the left, so I can start watching from the beginning. I also turn the volume all the way up, so I can catch every single sound.
There’s no room for doubt. I need to be absolutely certain before doing what I’m about to do. So I watch. With bated breath, I watch.
Randall mistakes the intensity of my focus for something it’s not, and resumes his touching, his groping. He thinks I’m turned on and getting more so by watching this…filth. This fucking invasion of my privacy.
I’m hot right now, so hot. But not in the way Randall Beaumont thinks. I’m filled with rage, with indignation, with vengeful thoughts of ramming an exceptionally sharp object into Randall’s crotch over and over and over again until there’s nothing left but a bloody, pulpy mess.
The video ends, Randall’s mouth is suctioned to my neck, and…I smile.
• • •
Randall the Pervert, Randall the Asshole, Randall the Sorry Excuse for a Human Being is nervous.
“You can’t tell that’s me.” I’m still holding his phone, still smiling, when I repeat the words that took the wind out of Randall’s sails.
“Bullshit.” But he’s staring at me like a deer caught in the headlights, and I can’t help but think that he knew this from the start. Knew that there’s not one moment in that entire video where my face isn’t either turned entirely away from the camera or thrown completely in shadow. The bastard was just hoping I’d be too beside myself to notice. “That’s your fucking backyard. How do you explain that?”
He stares me down, tries to appear tough. Yet there’s a tremor in his swagger, a sliver in his smugness that wasn’t there before.
I knit my brows together and frown, like he caught me. “Yep, yep. You’re right about that.” Without warning, I toss his phone back to him, and as he grapples to catch it, I pull mine from my pocket. In a flash, I dial Nicholas and press the speaker button. Voice mail picks up, like I knew it would.
Not that it matters.
This is just for show.
“Hey, babe,” I say. “Just calling to let you know someone broke into our lake house. Don’t worry, I’m okay, I wasn’t here when it happened. I came up to meet with a potential client and found, well, a mess, really. Looks like they came via the lake – I found bottles and wrappers and,” I pause, sigh, “condoms all over our back deck. The cops are taking everything for prints, of course. But they think it was just teenagers, maybe some college students on break having a party. Nothing was taken, but they did break the window on the sliding door. Fortunately, it doesn’t look like they went inside. Weird, right? Of course, they were probably drunk, so…”
Randall’s face, which was tomato red at the beginning of the call, whitens.
I ramble a bit more about the trespassing, and by the time I terminate the call, Randall is fit to be tied. His mouth works, and it takes a few tries before he can muster up words. “You have no idea who you’re messing with. Bitch.”
I smirk. “Coming from you, that’s a compliment. And I think the shoe is on the other foot, here. You don’t know who you’re messing with.” I point at the hidden camera tucked alongside a fake plant next to the door, and Randall, dumbass that he is, looks straight into it. “We have two security cameras on this porch. You come near me again, even attempt to drag my name through the mud, I’ll have you charged with harassment so fast your dick will spin.”
He waves me off. “You mean what just happened here? The only thing that footage will show is a slut enjoying herself.”
I cock my head, arch a brow. “You sure about that?”
Randall certainly doesn’t look sure about that.
“That’s what I thought.” I chuckle, turning for my door. This jackass has wasted enough of my time. “Oh, and if I see you on my property again, if I see you even looking in the direction of my house, I’ll call the cops.”
But just as I’m about to step inside, he calls my name. Playing his last card, he lifts his chin. “Does that boy toy of yours – Ford – know you’re married?”
“Yes,” I say, allowing him one last look. “He does. Met him on Tinder. Said he liked the idea of fucking another man’s wife. It was a one-time thing.” I shake my head, though a new fear has my heart racing in a way it wasn’t before. “So if that’s all you’ve got, you’re fucked. Randall.”
I slam the door in his face.
Then, pressing my back to it, I sink to the floor and cry.
I need a woman tonight, and not a man.
Not after what just happened.
Unfortunately, the only one I can call is…Marla.
After I tell her what happened (editing a few details, of course), she moves into “mom” mode.
“Give me the address. I’ll be right over,” she says, and the urgency in her voice tells me she means business. Right now, she believes what Ford believes – that I’m housesitting for a couple who’s spending the summer in Europe.
“No!” Good God, man. The less people I have coming over here, the better. At least, as long as my nosey neighbor is on the loose.
“Becky…”
I cut over her, desperate to keep her away. “What I mean is, I don’t want to stay here. Tonight. At all. And…I don’t want to be alone.”
And it’s the truth. I’m jittery and twitchy from Randall’s visit, like his hands are still on me, all over me, like he’s gone but not really gone.
What I need is a distraction. Noise and chaos and flashing lights.
Marla doesn’t miss a beat. “Then come here. You can sleep on the couch in Hollis’s office.”
I picture spending an entire night in Hollis’s family home, under the same roof as his wife and daughter, and my stomach turns even more.
“No,” I say, thinking of Ford. “I have a place to stay. I just want some” – I cringe, because I hate this phrase, even though it’s exactly what I need right now – “girl time.”
And then I tell her exactly what I mean by that.
• • •
“I’m worried.”
I throw back
my shot of tequila and groan. “Stop. Seriously.” Nudging the second one Marla’s way, I urge her to drink it. “Drink that. It’ll help.”
Marla accepts the drink and brings it to her lips, taking a tiny sip.
I roll my eyes. “For fuck sake, down it!”
Marla squeezes her eyes shut, tilts her head back, and pours the liquor down her throat. She swallows, gags, and for a minute I think the shot and the appetizers we just ate might come back up. But then she nods, makes a face, and sucks in some air. “Oh, my God. That was awful.”
“The more you take, the easier it gets.”
Marla just stares at me while I signal Don the bartender. Holding up two fingers, I flash a red-carpet smile. So far, we’ve been at our neighborhood dive bar for a little less than an hour, and Marla has already called Ford twice to check up on the kid.
It’s…insane.
“I don’t know…I think one is enough for me.” She fingers the stem of her wine glass. “I’ve got to be alert if Belle needs anything. With Hollis out of town and all.”
I huff. “Trust me, she’s fine. Ford is a great guy with a good heart who is entirely capable of watching a kid for a few hours.” Don delivers the shots and I slide one her way. “Besides, she’ll probably sleep for most of the time.”
Marla remains unconvinced. “Belle sort of keeps her own schedule. She’s not a big fan of sleeping. Especially when she’s in a new environment. What if she’s too much for your boyfriend to handle?”
I take my shot and feel the heat burn its way down my throat, warming my entire body like a liquid hug. It also sands away some of the remaining doubt I have about mixing these two parts of my life together – Ford and Marla. But I needed this. Needed it.
And Marla the Lump seems hellbent on ruining it.
“Has anyone told you that you worry too much?”
“Well,” she says, considering the shot in front of her. “I’m a mom. It’s my job.”
I swivel on my barstool and face her. Crossing one leg over the other, I lean back and rest my elbow on the bar. “No, Marla. It’s not. Your job is to care, not to worry all the damn time. To love unconditionally, to provide and to support. To be there for her when others aren’t. And to remind her of the wonderful little human that she is.” My rambling spiel has me thinking of my own mother, of the fact that she never did any of these things, never once worried over me or showed concern for my well-being.