by Mia Madison
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.
The unrecognized number popped on screen. I didn’t know who it was, but I refused to take my chances. I declined the call and lay back down. The voicemail alert sounded, followed by a text message.
Hey Morelli, it’s Dom. Please call me when you have a minute.
My heart sped up. Dom? He actually called me? A rosy glow filled my cheeks. Maybe he wanted to go out for drinks. If so, then I couldn’t go to work tonight. I wanted to spend time with him.
“Hey, Dom, it’s Morelli!” I said into the phone. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Yourself?” His voice was gentle and smooth. I loved that it was soft-spoken and masculine; it oozed Southern charm.
My crush on Dom was crazy. All these men were out here, some with bigger arms, flatter stomachs, and perhaps more passion and interest in me. But something about Dom was so magnetic. He was tall, slightly husky, and fucking handsome with his shy and silent demeanor. He also always had this worried look on his face, like a perpetual deer in headlights.
“I’m good, I’m good. Thanks for asking.” I paused for a half second before I asked, “What’s up?”
“Do you work tonight?”
“No.” Yup, that decision was made instantly. As long as Dom asked, I wouldn’t be going anywhere near the club tonight. They could do without me.
“Would you like to meet this evening?”
My face lit up as the Cheshire cat smile spread. “Of course. You’re ready for those drinks?”
“Actually…” He took a short breath. “I was thinking dinner, maybe?”
My heart leapt for joy and my toes curled so hard they nearly cramped. He was asking me on a real date. A. Real. Date. D-A-T-E. My nipples hardened in excitement and a tingle shot through my pussy. This had to be the luckiest day of my life.
“Yes.” I had to catch myself from sighing into the phone. “Totally.”
“Great!” Was that a sigh of relief on his end? Aww… “I’ll pick you up at seven fifteen. Is that okay?”
I stood in front of the full-length mirror and turned to the side. Thanks to Dilayla, I had on a gorgeous floor-length maxi. It had a wild black, pink, and green print on it. My figure was accentuated, but my cleavage had been reduced to the bare minimum.
“You need to look like a fierce empress goddess,” she said. “Dom is too shy to have a real bad bitch on his arm, so you have to look super good without looking super obvious about it.”
I was amazed by her work. My face was bronzed, and my lips were swabbed with a soft nude pink with bronzy tones. My eyes were heavily lined but not too smoky.
My hair was done in soft tousled waves, and I was covered in a cloud of Versace Eros, Dilayla’s “must-have” scent for “first date magic.”
I was headed for the door when she stopped me. “Wait, girl.” She lifted up the hem of my dress and dropped to her knees.
“What are you doing?!”
“Watch!” Her voice was muffled from the fabric. I felt her hands rubbing something on my inner thighs.
“Eeek! What are you doing?!” I squealed.
She emerged from under the dress with a vial of oil. “It’s Abuelita’s love oil. It’s got rose and orange and vanilla and shit.” A naughty smile spread across her face when she added, “It’s what I wore when I met Nick.”
“I’m not doing love spells on Dom.” I rolled my eyes. “We’re just doing to dinner. I don’t think he’s the type to want sex on the first night. He did just hear about my date with Manuel.”
“The swinger dude?” Dilayla shrugged. “Who cares? He still asked you out, though. Men like competition. Knowing that other men are chasing you lets a man know you’re hot and in demand.”
God, she was such a player.
“Here.” She slapped some on my pulse points. “Abuelita says it gets you a husband. That’s how she got Abuelito.”
“Girl.” I wanted to protest, but when I smelled the fragrance on my skin, I melted. It was heavenly.
I checked myself out nervously in the mirror. 7:14 p.m.
“He’s going to be here any second,” I said. “You sure I look okay?”
“Bellisima,” Dilayla said, using her best accent. “You’re one of the baddest bitches in Miami. Men love you. Women love you. Women want to pay for you. You have nothing to worry about.”
The doorbell rang, and I nearly peed my pants. Running to the bathroom, I waved to Dilayla. “Get it for me. Let me pee quick.”
I gathered my thoughts, popped three breath mints, and made my way to the front. Dom stood wearing a crisp, patterned shirt and slacks. It framed him so nicely. He almost looked like a big, husky Italian Superman when I approached him.
“Good evening,” I said. My heart fluttered in my chest. How was it that I danced nude for hordes of men every night, yet needed an asthma pump for dinner with one man?
Dom smiled and froze when he turned to me. His mouth was slightly agape, and I saw his eyes move up, taking in my face and hair, and then swept down my body. It was clear he loved what he saw. I could feel it. It felt like a thousand tiny hands caressed me within his gaze.
“You look beautiful,” he eventually said, reaching forward to embrace me. I melted into his arms, allowing my senses to become woozy with the scent of his fresh cologne. Whatever it was, I wanted to spray it on my pillows and sleep next to it at night.
“You guys look great,” Dilayla cut in. The flash went off. “Oh, you really look great.” She showed us the photo, and I had to admit we did look amazing together.
She pushed us out the door as she promised, “I’ll text this to you. You guys have fun.”
We arrived at Devon Seafood and Steak in time for our reservations. Dom was rather quiet on the way over, preferring to listen to an audiobook instead of talk.
“I’ve been listening to this all week,” he explained. “It’s almost done.”
“No, go ahead,” I urged. “It’s actually interesting.”
“It’s Unscripted by MJ DeMarco. He’s an entrepreneur and thought leader, but without the douchebag personality.” Dom smirked, and for the first time I noticed the dimple hidden in his smile.
I nodded and looked it up on my phone. It looked like a good read, and something I needed to add to my library.
Dinner was lovely. We enjoyed a round of sushi, followed by entrees of salmon panzanella and seafood mixed grill. The conversation was light yet interactive. He mostly spoke of MJ DeMarco, Tim Ferriss, and other lifestyle entrepreneurs. It was engaging to have an intelligent conversation instead of a basic one about our favorite colors or hobbies. This was rare for me.
And it represented a sense of serendipity about where my life was going. There was more beyond working at the club every night. Real freedom was just beyond the corridor of my exit.
I happily engaged in silence peppered with the occasional light banter over dessert. As I spooned decadent spoonfuls of chocolate lava cake and listened to Dom discuss things like the third-circle theory, he abruptly cut straight to the point.
“I want to marry you.”
Dom
“I want to marry you.”
I repeated the words slowly, feeling strangeness flood my system. She coughed to prevent herself from choking on the chocolate lava cake my abrupt statement interrupted her from eating.
“On the first date? This is a record,” Morelli said. “Are you in a wedding pact with the guys?”
“No.” I cleared my throat. “I don’t have a ring, and I don’t want to make a scene. But I need to get married as soon as possible.”
I looked at her with steely seriousness, and revealed, “I also need the woman I marry to get pregnant just as fast.”
I grabbed my glass of water and took a sip, dehydrated by my revelation. As my taste buds revived from their terrified state, I watched Morelli’s reaction. Her chest heaved hypnotically, but it was her eyes, those honey-colored eyes that did the real talking. They were contemplative, glittering with sh
ock, questions, and perhaps a ton of concern.
I couldn’t blame her. Any sane woman would have to know what the fuck was wrong with me for soliciting a proposal with this strange level of speed. This was supposed to be our first date.
Her eyes were wild with concern when she finally looked at me. Her dessert, once the main focus of her world, was now pushed away, suddenly no longer of interest.
“May I ask why you need to get married so soon?” Her eyes widened. “Are you terminally ill—”
“My mother’s sick. She had a stroke, but I didn’t know until she came into town a couple of days ago. She lives in Destin. I called my siblings…” My fist balled and I squeezed my eyes shut as my heart panged. Dreadful emotions filled my body as I thought of the unthinkable. “… Apparently, it’s not the first time.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was lowered, a husky whisper.
“I’m turning forty several days from now, and I’m still not married. She made it clear that she wants me to have a wife and child so she can die peacefully.”
My heart felt heavy with this admission. It was bad enough that I already craved a wife and children on my own. Mother’s proclamation intensified the pressure. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least give her what she wanted.
Women often told me I was a great catch. That any woman would be lucky to have me. But then, for whatever reason, they wouldn’t commit to me.
I was constantly the nice guy in the friend zone, the one the gorgeous women called when some other guy made them bawl. I knew all about the womanizers, the players, the ones who refused to commit, and all about the ones who did the least yet got sucked, fucked, and cooked for faithfully.
I was also the one women could call and borrow money from. The guy who made sure a woman had a ride home when a man kicked her out of his ride for not blowing him at a stop sign. The guy who would take a woman out for ice cream while she cried on my shoulder.
Women loved me, especially the gorgeous ones. But not for love. Not for romance.
I was also often tossed to the side when these women felt they had better chances with Nick and Kenny. They’d dry their tears and ask, timidly, for a good word with my friends.
Being overlooked on a consistent basis burned me to a crisp, but I understood where I fell on the hierarchy of hotness with women.
I was profoundly average in comparison to Nick and Kenny. I was tall, yet husky. I had money, but I wasn’t a celebrity. I didn’t have their twelve-pack abs, their sexy playboy attitudes, or the ability to open up a world of influence and celebrity just by letting someone ride on my dick.
Yet even if I could, I wouldn’t. Casual affairs and superficial connections weren’t my style. I always desired love, authentic, lasting, and unconditional love reminiscent of what my parents shared until my father’s passing.
Because I didn’t have athletic prowess or celebrity, most women passed on me. I was “the ugly friend” who got the leftovers. For a while, I approached and stuck with women I considered average or below average. I figured we related. We both knew what it was like to be ignored because our physical package didn’t represent the golden heart, character, and personality deep within.
I learned, a long time ago, that while looks weren’t everything, someone’s general attractiveness didn’t necessarily mean shit either. An “ugly” woman could just as easily take advantage of me as a gorgeous one.
But I still resolved that the more beautiful a woman was, the more out of my league she was, and it was better to be rejected by a woman I thought would accept me than a woman I’d been conditioned to believe would never look my way.
I avoided eye contact with Morelli. I suddenly felt foolish. Why’d I even made this proposition?
Just the other day, she had a beautiful rich couple begging to sleep with her. She could have any man she wanted. She’d be a fool to settle for me… but I thought there wasn’t any harm in trying, especially when she loved to flirt with me unprovoked.
Flirting and making it real were two different things though. There was no way for me to know where her interest laid.
Devon Seafood and Steak was one of Miami’s crown jewels, a lavish feast of seafood and celebration, but its joyfulness was quarantined from our table. Morose silence filled the air between us, and grisly self-defeating thoughts saturated my brain, telling me I was an idiot for this fucked-up idea.
In my peripherals, I saw Morelli’s chest rise with a deep inhale. Her husky voice was loud enough for only me to hear.
“Dom,” she began, “I’m so sorry you’re going through this. I can’t imagine how tough it is to get such harrowing information, especially in terms of health and mortality. And if my mother held back information letting me know just how bad it was, I’d be extremely crushed…”
My cheeks stung with shame. She was letting me down nicely. This would be a horrible night, one of embarrassment and egg on my face.
I nodded and tapped my foot, preparing myself for her refusal, rehearsing my gracious lines of gratitude and acceptance for her disinterest in my offer.
“… Why me?” She looked at me, and her eyes were soft, vulnerable, and yearning.
For the first time, I was left speechless. Her inquiry was tender and delicate, as if a veil had fallen off her sultry, confident demeanor.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean, I thought you… didn’t find me attractive,” she added, red-faced as if she were the one put on the spot. “Dilayla says Nick and Kenny think the world of you, but that you’re, uh picky about who you date, and I was told I wasn’t your type.”
Inconvenient discomfort clogged my throat. Morelli wasn’t my type because she was unattractive. She wasn’t my type because she was too beautiful to be my type. Experience had proven that.
And why? Because I was desperate and willing to do anything to make my mother happy. And I was also heavily prepared to make it worth her while.
“I—I, I am picky about who I date,” I internally kicked myself for blundering response.
“Since that’s the case, I guess I need to know why? Of all the women you could possibly approach, why marry me? Wouldn’t your mother notice something was off with us?”
I grimly shook my head. My mother wouldn’t have a clue. I’d never dated a woman long enough to give her the honor.
“Well…” I started. “I don’t know you, but I know you. I know you are close to Dilayla, and possibly Raquel. Birds of a feather flock together. Whatever it is these ladies possess, it’s changed my best friends. They’re married, which speaks volumes about their character.
“Next,” I continued. “We’re both in a perfect position to work together. You want to leave the club behind, right?”
She nodded, her attention rapt to the discussion.
“How much do you need to save before you leave?”
She rattled off the money needed for credit cards, living expenses for ninety days, and another lump sum amount for savings. The total amount came under $70,000.
“I’ll pay you $100,000 to marry me.”
An audible gasp escaped her perfect lips. Her eyes widened and her body stiffened as she gripped the table.
“That’s a lot of money.”
“I know.”
“No. That’s a lot of money, Dom. A lot.” Her pupils expanded, her expression became plagued with concern.
“Money isn’t my concern. It’s yours.” My response was pointed, but spoken with enough softness not to sound harsh. “Would $100K help you leave that life behind?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But what?” My thoughts flared, exposing some of my emotions. “I need a wife and a child, and I need someone I can trust to do this for me.”
She looked at me with the faintest curl to her lip, and gazed at me like she wanted to argue me down, but couldn’t, and would just keep listening.
“You just came over to Nick’s the other day, crying because a guy couldn’t take you serio
us. He wanted to play with you. It was then that you said you wanted to settle down, you were ready to leave the club behind. You’re ready to move on, you just don’t have the funds.” I continued to appeal to her senses. “This doesn’t have to be anything more than an arrangement. We get married, we keep my mother happy. I’ll happily grant you a divorce when she passes. We can figure out custody of the kids, and I’m more than happy to give you alimony.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” Morelli’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You want to get married just to get a divorce? I want to marry a man who loves me.”
“Will you find that where you’re currently heading?” I asked. Her eyes flashed and she shot me a nasty look that made me feel like dog shit.
I reached across the table and grabbed her hand. She tried to pull away but I pulled it forward. “Please, Morelli… please. I didn’t mean to sound like a dick. I know this isn’t how any woman wants to do things. You deserve a man who wants to marry you. You do. But for right now, please, help me.”
“You don’t have any other lonely strippers to insult?” she spat. I swallowed hard and said nothing. I deserved that retort.
“You’re the only woman I’ve approached or thought of.” Her eyes pierced me at the revelation, and even though she was pissed, she looked so sexy in that blaze of anger.
“I want a man that wants me,” she pushed.
“I want a woman who wants me too, but I’ve been holding out and now that I’m almost forty, I realize I might have been going about this the wrong way.”
Douchey feelings filled my chest. I looked at her and pushed my final argument. “I can accept if you’re not interested. Just say, ‘No, Dom, leave me the fuck alone,’ and I’m gone. We’ll drop this like it never happened.”
Silence.
My palms felt sweaty, but I pushed.
“But if you say yes, it would help the both of us. You get your new lease on life, a handsome amount of money, and a generous pre-nup agreement. You won’t even have to worry about your alimony, child support, any of that.”