by Kara Hart
So I open the damn briefcase. Of course it’s wrong of me, but it’s a compulsion I jump headfirst into. I click the numbers in place, I press the metal down, and it opens with a slight spring. I half expect to see solid gold inside, but instead see something akin to that in the male world.
Inside are women’s panties. Not just one. Not just two. But three pairs. Tucked away in the center of one pair is a note with a kiss mark pressed against the paper. “That bastard,” I whisper.
I grab the note and read it with ferocity. “Last night was the best night of my life. I love it when you tie me up, daddy,” it reads. “Love, Natasha.”
“Natasha!” I blurt out. “Is he fucking kidding me? He’s fucking his secretary?”
After all these years, after all we’ve been through, he ends up being an old, washed up story. Constantly dissatisfied with his life, he’s the guy who forces himself to crash and burn at every corner of his life. Needless to say, I’m livid.
I dig through his files, I look through every pocket in his stupid briefcase. I find exactly what I’m looking for. Underneath the reports, folded clandestinely, there is Walker’s card. The Boyfriend Experience.
“So, you found it,” I laugh.
He should have gone to greater lengths to destroy this thing. As I hold it in front of me, my legs tremble. I imagine his deep accent and the way his hands felt around my waist. I remember how choked up he made me and how fast my heart was beating. It was so wrong of him to follow me in the women’s bathroom like that. But when he locked the door, I couldn’t help but want him to take me right then and there.
I call him. I just have to do it. I’m full of urges today and I feel like a naughty girl. The phone rings at least five times until I hear his breath in the receiver. “Walker,” he says.
I don’t say anything. I’m too fucking choked up. What does a married woman say to a man like that? No, this just isn’t right. This isn’t how I want it to go. “Hello?” he asks, confused. My breath comes out sharp and quick.
“Is that you?” he asks.
I hang up the phone and throw it across the room. It lands flat on its face and I watch as it starts vibrating again. He’s calling me back. “Oh, god!” I yell.
I hear footsteps in the house. “What is it?” Darrin is standing in front of the doorway. His eyes dart from me to my phone, back and forth in quick bursts.
“What are you doing home?” I blurt out. But before he even has time to respond, I look back at the panties that are now strewn across the bed. “Natasha? Your secretary? Come on, Darrin.”
“I was going to tell you,” he sighs, turning dark red.
“Tell me what? That this is the fourth time you’ve done this? Get a grip. You’re losing it,” I say. “Seriously, you’re so far from the man I fell in love with.”
“And the boyfriend experience man? What’s his name? Walker?” He walks forward. “What about him? Is that who you went out with the other night?”
“I went to Jackie Faadon’s birthday party with Renata, you jerk. That’s the guy who crashed into your fucking bumper,” I say, collecting my things.
“Don’t you dare leave right now,” he says, blocking my only path outside.
“Darrin, get out of my way. Now,” I say, breathing heavy, but remaining as calm as I can.
“There’s something else I should tell you,” he says the words quickly, before I can run away from him.
“Oh yeah? What in the world could it possibly be?” I ask him. I’m beyond frustrated at this point. All I want to do is find a motel somewhere and sleep the day away.
“I’m leaving you,” he says with an air of confidence that makes me nauseous. “Me and Natasha… we’re running away together. I’m selling the house. Now, don’t cry. This is the natural progression of things, isn’t it? We’ll split everything 50/50.”
I’m so stunned that I actually start laughing. I laugh so hard that I have to fall to the floor to stop myself.
“What’s so damn funny?” he asks me. “Are you that heartless? Don’t you care about me at all?”
“No! I don’t. Not anymore,” I say. “Honestly, I can’t believe any of this is real. I have to leave.”
So, he won his little game. He knew it was over, so he made a rash decision. He decided to run off with the secretary. Now, they’ll buy a house together. They’ll feel so good about their “love” that they’ll have a baby or two. Barf. The whole thing makes me sick.
I push past him, carrying my two suitcases. “Let me help you with those,” he says, feigning hospitality.
“Don’t touch me, you perv,” I hiss at him, already halfway into the hall. Of course, right when I reach the step down to the front entranceway, I trip, nearly landing face first against the marble tile.
He helps me up, asking if I’m okay.
“I’m fine,” I say, feeling the tears attempt to flood down from my eyes. I hold my breath. My damn shin hurts so bad. My elbows are all scuffed up. Worst of all, I feel so stupid and embarrassed. I am not okay. I’m anything but okay. My husband has cheated on me with four different women. He’s called me a bitch. He’s thrown things at me. And now, as I try to leave with some ounce of grace, he watches as I trip. It’s the worst way to go out and I’m honestly hating myself for it right now.
“Wait!” he yells at me, once I’m back on my feet. “You forgot this.”
Great. What does he have for me now? In his hand is Walker’s card. I don’t need it. His phone number is on already locked in my phone. I give a harsh groan and don’t even respond. I get into the car and pull out. The bumper, which I had tried to tape together the other day, comes undone. It falls against the cement and scrapes loudly as I pull out.
I swear, when I leave, he’s smiling to himself. I look like a fool, while he looks like he could take on the world. It’s not always about appearances, but I have no shred of dignity left.
I’m left with the knowing that I’ll always have myself to rely on. It’s not the most comforting of realizations, although there’s something to it. I’m also left with one voicemail. I turn on my bluetooth and drive toward a motel in the near distance.
“I haven’t any clue whether or not this is you,” he says. “But if this is the woman I’m thinking of, call me.”
8
Walker
I lift the barbell over my chest. Ten. I press it back down, feeling my muscles bulge against the weight. Up again. Eleven. Pounding that barbell. Twelve. Up and down, the sweat runs down my body. I feel powerful. Thirteen. Strength ripples throughout my chest and arms. Fourteen.
I finish my workout and grab a sports drink from the fridge. I practice my American accent at noon, reading back the words from the CD I bought, while eating the finest eggs in town, hand delivered by the chef himself. I pay extra for that kind of service.
At 2 PM, I have basketball practice at the courts and at 3:30, I do some more pushups to tide me over. I eat a steak over at Monty’s and I’m feeling on top of the fucking world. Still, when I look at my phone, there’s no sign of her. She refuses to return my calls.
I know it was her. I just know it.
I grab a bloody mary, to loosen myself up a little. It’s been a full and productive day. Time to take it up a notch. A woman sitting with an older man at the bar keeps looking back at me. By the third time, I have to smile. Hell, if whatever-her-name won’t call me back, I’ll have to keep my options open, right?
I give her a wink and she smiles back, biting her lower lip. She’s some skimpy blonde woman, not typically my type, but I tend to make exceptions. Her man eventually heads to the bathroom and of course, she walks over to say hello. Her ass is almost on my lap, she’s sitting so close.
“I hate to ask,” she says, “But are you Walker Hambell? The boyfriend experience guy?”
Shit. One of those. I frown and take a sip of my drink, wondering how I’m going to answer this. “Never heard of him,” I say.
“Are you sure? My friend loves you,”
she says. “She won’t stop talking about a date you two went on.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” I laugh. “Sorry.”
I glance over at the bathroom hall and her boyfriend is leaning against the corner, just staring at us. My heart starts to race faster than normal. “Look over here, sweetie,” she says, placing her hand on my cheek.
I quickly reach into my pocket and put a hundred dollar bill on the table. “Hey, where are you going?” she asks.
I move out of the booth I’m sitting in, headed for the door. “Where you off too, so soon?” the man asks. His voice is grim and tinged with a north London accent.
I ignore him and walk out to my Bentley. I get in, start the engine, and peel out of the parking. The man slowly walks out of the steakhouse, watching as I drive away.
“Fuck!” I scream, pounding my steering wheel. Hawk. He’s found me.
It’s time I face my demons. Back in England, I lived on the worst streets there are. IRA sentiments, young thugs looking for a fight, skinheads on every corner… and then there was me, a young wanker who refused take shit from anybody. I roamed those streets on my own. I took the beatings with pride. Each time I was bludgeoned, I got stronger.
Hawk eventually got to me. He got to every young kid without a home. Not to say I didn’t have a home. I did. Well, somewhat. But it was a small flat with a lonely mother. She couldn’t give me what I needed. The only person that could was Hawk and he knew that.
He took me in. First, he fed me. He gave me the best fucking steak dinner money could buy. “Can you imagine? Eating like this every day of your life?” he asked me. At the time, I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine eating more than a biscuit and hard-boiled egg for lunch, maybe with a slice of ham on the side.
Soon, he’d give me cigarettes. He’d buy me a cider or two. Sometimes, he’d see me out with my friends and he’d ask, “You really want to hang around lowlifes like them? Why don’t you find better people? You’re destined for greatness.”
Destined for greatness. Well, I liked the sound of that. Deep down, I did feel like I was destined for something bigger than my current standing. I knew I’d get out of England. I’d get away from those cobblestone streets, stained from years of boots and the blood, sweat, and tears from the city’s working class. I knew I wouldn’t end up in one of those factories, destined for a life of drinking in pubs and singing during football matches.
I’d end up in America, like so many others. I’d head out west. I’d feel the sun for once in my life. “Give the people a service,” he’d tell me. “Something unique, but nothing drug related. You don’t want to go down that path, my boy.”
It confused me at the time. What could I do that was unique? I was just a bloke from a poor town and poor mother. My father didn’t even know my bloody name. But women, they took a fancy to me. From the very start, it was the squeezing of my cheeks and the kisses on the tops of my head. “He’s so cute, this little one,” they’d squeal. I knew if they said something like that, I could get something out of them. It meant cookies before dinner. It meant a fiver so I could go to the market and get a little something for myself.
Later in life, it meant loads of fucking cash. Hawk dealt in everything shady. He may have told me to stay away from drugs, but that didn’t mean he did. He was building a little empire for himself and the police turned a blind eye once they got their cut every week. There was Adi, the young bloke from Pakistan. He was a drug runner and he was considered the best. There was Boris from Russia. He dealt in entertainment. Women from Czech. That sort of thing.
There was me. I had charm. Somehow, I always looked and acted like I had class. Hawk didn’t know what to do with me. He’d tell me, “Someday, I’ll have you run this whole thing. You’re the only one I trust over here.”
Eventually, it was obvious I needed to make some money. He sent me to the entertainment clubs with Boris and I saw what they did for money. I couldn’t fathom it. Sex? It was unsettling. Boris didn’t give two shits about it. He laughed at their plight.
As he showed me around the club circuit, I realized the life of the freelancer. I read about the divorce rates in America. I knew about the sad housewife, the woman who lost her husband, and the females who just wanted someone to talk to. That paid twice the price of sex. It was the most unique thing I could think of and it didn’t take that much talent.
Hawk loved the idea. He sent me to the richest country clubs in London. I collected cash from politician’s wives. Fucking Tories even. They confided in me. Soon enough, Hawk became the richest man in the city.
I grew weary and left. I made for the west coast, just like I said I would. No one would find me there. I’d become my own boss and I’d build my own kingdom in the comfort of the sun.
I should have known Hawk would be searching for me. I should have been more careful. Fuck, I shouldn’t have gone by my own name. How stupid am I? It won’t be long before they drag me back. Whatever happens after that is a mystery. Before I go, however, I have one wish. To find that woman and give her everything I have. I want to show her what it’s like to be touched, to be tasted, and to be savored. I want to show her what it’s like to fuck a real man.
9
Erica
Late at night, in this motel room, I’m thinking of the dirtiest things. Flesh on flesh, collars around the neck, hands grabbing thick waists, his lips kissing down my body… I’m the hottest I’ve ever been, now that I’m away from the terrible reality that was my life.
Walker’s voice on my voicemail keeps playing in my head. I wish I had the nerve to call him, but I don’t. When I think about doing it, I feel too embarrassed. I think of myself falling yesterday. I think of Darrin smiling as I pulled out of the driveway. I’m such a wreck. There’s no way Walker will ever want me and, frankly, I’m not sure if I even want him. Well, I want him, but for how long? How far could we even go with that?
“He’s a rebound,” I hear Renata’s voice in my head. “A booty call.” The whole thing kind of grosses me out. I mean, what is the boyfriend experience anyway? Is he an escort? Does he get paid to fuck these women?
Finally, when the clock hits ten at night, I’ve got the television going. Some bad 80s action flick is playing, while I surf on my laptop. I hear my phone vibrate again and my heart skips a beat. Do I answer it? I just stare as the phone lights up with his number.
I grab it and hold it in my hand. I try to calm down and then I answer it. “Finally,” he says. “You answered my call.”
“Are you an escort? Because if you are, I can’t see you,” I say.
He laughs. “Right off the bat? Is that how you start a conversation?” he asks.
“Sorry,” I sigh. “It’s been a rough few days for me and I’m not really used to talking to someone like you.”
“I’m not an escort,” he says. “How do I explain this? I offer women an experience. Sex is not included. I take women out. I’m a person who listens to their feelings, someone who tells them stories and jokes. Sometimes they want me to comfort them. It’s quite an easy job, actually.”
I think it over for a second. The whole thing is just so alien to me. “Listen,” he says. “If you’re going to judge me for what I do, I can hang up right now. I’ve got all the money I need. I could be out right now, making even more money. I don’t need to deal with an uptight woman like you.”
“I am not uptight,” I say. “In fact, I still want to do that trade we discussed.” The words just come out.
Still, the arrogant bastard just laughs at me! “No can do. Sorry,” he says. “That chance has flown away.”
“Flown away? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask him. “You owe me for my bumper.” He’s making me feel so shitty about myself. I keep going back to how I left my house. The tripping, oh fuck me. And now this? This is chalking up to being the worst few days of my life.
“You’re not getting the experience,” he says. “That’s for old bags with no hope left. As for the b
umper, I’ll pay you for that. Don’t worry. I just want one date. That’s it.”
“One real date?” I ask him.
“That’s all I’m asking for. The experience thing… it’s not real. It’s an act I do,” he says.
“I see,” I mutter, feeling a little strange. The sound of his voice is enough to keep me on the phone. It’s handsome. It’s powerful. It says, “I’ve got a big cock and I know how to use it.”
“When I crashed into you the other day, I knew I had to ask you out. Then, when I saw you at the party, walking into the women’s bathroom,” he pauses for a second, before continuing, “you don’t even want to know what I was thinking.”
“I do,” I find myself saying. “I do want to know.”
“It’s bad,” he says. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Erica,” I whisper. I cough a little, clearing my throat. “It’s Erica.”
“Erica,” his voice is smooth and dark when he says my name. “I wanted to lock that door and take you right then and there. I wanted to throw you in that stall, to push your ass over that toilet seat, and fuck the life out of you then and there. I wanted to leave you twitching.”
I feel it in between my legs. I’m wet. I start to touch myself, trying not to moan into the phone. “Yeah?” I whisper. My voice is shaky and weak. My throat is dry. “What else did you want to do?” I barely get the words out.
“I wanted to spank you for being a naughty little bitch,” he says. My eyes widen as my pussy grows even wetter. Fuck, how does he know exactly what I want to hear? “I wanted to use my belt as a collar, so I could teach you how to behave like a good girl. I wanted to cum inside you, Erica.”
That last part gets me. “But I’m not on birth control,” I say.
“You think I give a damn?” he asks. “You’ve been driving me crazy for almost a bloody week now.”