I enter the freezing water. There are a few surfers out, and they’re wearing wetsuits, but I like the feel of the cold water on my bare skin. It’s refreshing and exhilarating. Mornings in Malibu tend to be overcast and a little dark, and the water is colder here than in the rest of Southern California. But I’ve been living here for close to two years now, and I’m pretty used to it.
When I dip my long yellow board into the first wave, my headache vanishes immediately. I ride the first wave all the way to the edge of the sand and then paddle back out into the blue. I ride another one and another one and another one, and each one makes me feel more alive than the one before.
I stay in the water for close to an hour. Then I shake my hair out before grabbing the board and walking back upstairs. This is one of the perks of having a house on the beach. Back when I lived in West Hollywood, I used to get up at the crack of dawn to beat the traffic, drive forty minutes, park and surf for forty-five minutes before heading back into the traffic and the grind of my life. The irony is that back then I had a job that I needed to get to and had to squeeze my surfing in before it. Now that I don’t have a job and actually have time to waste my life in LA traffic, I live right on the beach and don’t have to.
Chapter 2 - Logan
“Hey Marilyn,” I say walking into the kitchen, dripping wet.
“Oh, Logan, you’re getting all the floors wet!” she exclaims and runs over with a towel. Marilyn is a small, round woman with curly hair who speaks in a thick Spanish accent.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
This is a game we play every morning. For some reason, Marilyn doesn’t believe me that the bamboo floors will be perfectly fine if they get a little wet, and I pretend that I’m actually sorry about it.
She has already made my smoothie, and it’s sitting at the end of the kitchen island. One thing I can tell you is that Marilyn was not happy when I insisted on having smoothies for breakfast. I don’t know if it has anything to do with being born and raised in El Salvador, or if it’s just a Marilyn thing, but for some reason she doesn’t approve of fruit being mashed up into tiny pieces.
“The fruit lose all of their nutrients when they’re processed like that,” she used to say. “You should eat them cut up, but not processed!”
To which I would smile and laugh and insist on it anyway, even if they no longer had the nutrients. Her response was a shake of the head and something that sounded like a curse to the devil in Spanish.
Luckily, both of us have begrudgingly agreed to disagree, and she no longer tries to convince me to have hot tamales for breakfast. Even though, those suckers are to die for. If you ever the chance to have one of Marilyn Abarca’s tamales, do not pass up the chance. You’ll think that you died and went to heaven.
“Delicious,” I say, taking generous gulps of the berry banana green tea smoothie. Even though she hates the idea of smoothies, Marilyn is the type of person who takes immense pride in her work, and since she must make smoothies, she makes the best fucking smoothies on the planet. Lucky for me!
“Thank you for asking the women to leave,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah,” she shakes her head. “Logan, you’re 30 years old. Rich. Handsome. Why do you need two women for a night? Why don’t you try to find one woman for the rest of your life?”
It’s funny. My mom asks me the same kind of questions, except that she doesn’t exactly know about the threesomes. Something about my mom asking me irritates the hell out of me. When Marilyn does it, I don’t really mind. I find it kind of humorous.
“How can I be just with one woman, Marilyn?” I ask, jokingly.
“Then you’ll have someone to take care of you. Cook for you. Clean for you,” Marilyn says, pushing a rag across the kitchen island, even though it’s already spotless.
“But I already have a woman who does that for me,” I say.
“Oh yeah? Who?”
“You, of course!” I wrap my arms around her soft, pudgy shoulders and give her a big squeeze.
“Oh, Logan, please!” she pushes me away. “I won’t be around forever, you know. I can find other clients, if that means you’ll finally get married.”
“Are you serious? You want me to get married so much that you’ll forgo the crazy salary that I pay you?”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.
“I told you it was a crazy salary,” she says, pointing her index finger in my face. “No normal housekeeper is paid this much.”
“Well, you’re not just a normal housekeeper,” I shrug. “Not everyone will kick women out of my bed in the morning in such a nice and delicate way that they’ll actually come back to me for more.”
Marilyn rolls her eyes again and laughs. A big, infectious laugh, the kind that makes the whole world light up.
“You crazy, Logan,” she says.
“You know you love me!” I joke. “But seriously, what do you think of Allison?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“C’mon, please?” I give her kiss on the cheek. She blushes and pushes me away. I know I make her uncomfortable, but in a good way. I think of her as an old, wise aunt, and I really do appreciate her input in my life. Even if I rarely follow it.
“Allison is nice, of course. They’re all nice. And they’re all in love with you. But you know that already,” Marilyn says sprinkling some baking soda on the stove. She insists on using only natural cleaners, even if they require her to do more work.
“Yes, I do,” I say, winking at her.
I’m almost entirely air dried by now, and I head toward the master bedroom to take quick shower and wash the salt off me.
“But you don’t need a nice girl, Logan,” Marilyn yells as I close the door the room. That’s one of the things that I love about her – she isn’t someone who’s threatened by closed doors. She knows that she voice carries, and she isn’t afraid to use it.
“Oh yeah? And what kind of girl do I need?” I yell through the door.
I’ve already taken off my swimming trunks and I’m admiring my nicely toned body in the mirror. I love the way the early morning light wraps itself carefully around each muscle in my stomach. I run my fingertips of the each curve of the six pack, which look like little hills protruding out of a 3D topographical map.
“Someone who can put up with all your shit,” Marilyn yells and starts the vacuum cleaner. I smile at myself in the mirror. This conversation is over. I turn on my rainfall shower and enter my favorite thing about my house. On occasion, I’ve shared this shower with a girl or two, but I love this shower so much that I tend to vet women extra carefully before introducing them to it.
Unlike my old apartment shower and bathtub combination, which barely had room for one person, this shower room has space for at least four. The walls are made of beautiful Mexican tile – my favorite – and the floor is made up of little pebbles to mimic the feel of the earth. Water falls directly from the 12 foot ceiling, and there are additional steam nozzles on the side, which I don’t use nearly as much as I should. It was this shower that made me finally realize how much money I really had and how far I’ve come.
Stepping out of the shower, I glance at myself in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all. My green eyes catch the light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling window and sparkle. My face is wet and my eyelashes look a little longer than normal. I never quite got it, but I’ve had a number of girls note how long my lashes were. A few even admitted how jealous they were of them. I look at them carefully in the mirror. I’ve always thought that their unusual length made my eyes look a little too feminine, but my one and only serious girlfriend, Sadie, said that they gave me eyes “a kind of ethereal quality.” Ethereal. I like that.
I love the tall ceilings in this place, especially in the bathroom. I’m 6’2” and it’s nice not to feel like a giant all the time. I flex my six pack and run my fingers over my stomach. Many men would kill for this stomach. I may sound vain – don’t get me wrong, I am – but I was a c
hubby kid and I know what it feels like to hate your body. For some reason, my mom let me eat everything in sight and finally, at the age of ten, I realized that I was a lot fatter than all the other kids at my school. That’s when I started working out. I hated how I felt about myself and I really hated how angry and sad I was all the time. My moods were completely controlled by my food and the last meal of sugar and sweets that I had. So, one day, I just decided that enough was enough. I started monitoring my food intake and doing pushups and sit ups. The first six months were utter horror. But over time, I grew to love working out. I loved how strong and powerful my body was becoming. It built my confidence, which eventually turned into pride and cockiness.
I toss my dark straight hair out of my face. Some people joke about $400 haircuts. Say that they’re not worth the money, especially for guys, but I’ll go to my grave arguing that they are worth every penny. There’s no way to even compare the haircut you get at some cheap place like Super Cuts to the one handcrafted by a meticulous Japanese hair artist like my Hiroshi. He takes the time to make sure that every strand is cut just so. So that when my hair does get a little long, they continue to fall in the effortlessly casual way they do now. It’s as if each strand knows its exact place on my head and goes there no matter what aggravation I put it through. No matter how many times I run it through the rough surf mixed with sand of the Pacific Ocean. No matter how many times I drive my Aston Martin at 85 miles per hour down the 101 with the top down. None of these things matter. My hair somehow always looks just right afterwards.
Drying myself off, I linger a little bit too long looking at my dick. I’ve definitely lucked out. It’s 7 and a half inches long when erect with barely any curve to it at all. A few years ago, I got into the habit of going in for monthly waxing appointments and getting rid of all hair – and I mean everywhere. The first time I did this, I did it as a joke. I watched porn with this goddess I met in the South of France who held my attention for close to two months, and she asked what I thought about going for the porno look.
“It will make your cock look huge!” she said.
When she came back from the beach the next day, I had a little surprise for her. All of my hair was gone. She went wild for it. Ever since then, I’ve been getting quite a kick out of seeing the look on girls’ faces when they discover that I’m completely hairless. I swear to God, they find it so arousing that the blow jobs now last at least twice as long as before. A few actually said that it makes them feel like they’re with a porn star! I guess girls are no different from guys in that way – porn stars fill their fantasies.
I wrap junk in a towel and walk out into the kitchen, where Marilyn is still hard at work cleaning invisible dirt. Honestly, she’s such a hard worker. I don’t notice half the things she does, but she still insists on cleaning things that basically don’t require any cleaning.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, how your family? Back in El Salvador?” I ask.
One of the reasons I pay her so damn much is that I know that she sends almost her whole paycheck to her sisters and mother back home. Her father died when she was young and her mother supported her and her sisters on a seamstress salary. She grew up in a one room apartment in the slums of San Salvador and came to America when she was 18.
Marilyn’s face turns almost green at my question. Her eyes drop down and her lips curl out of disgust. I know what’s going on there. I’m not that uninformed. A month ago, Augusto Sanchez overthrew the democratically-elected President Salvador Cesar. Sanchez was previously in charge of the military, and he took power through a military coup. The attack culminated in the surrounding of the presidential palace and President Cesar’s exile. Now, Sanchez has a new military government, which is ruled by the heads of the three armed forces. As the head of the army, Sanchez appointed himself head of the state and started banning all opposition and rounding people up.
“Everything has gone to hell since Sanchez took power,” Marilyn says. “Three of my mother’s neighbors, our oldest friends, have been taken away in the middle of the night. No one heard of them since. They were probably killed.”
“That’s terrible,” I say.
“I’m so scared for my nieces and nephews. Some of them are very opinionated. They don’t know enough to keep their mouths shut. They argue when they need to be quiet. They think all their friends will be their friends. But in that atmosphere of fear, that’s not always the case.”
Marilyn looks terrified. Her eyes grow large. I can hear her heart starting to beat faster and faster. I wish there was something I could do to calm her down.
“It’s going to be okay, Marilyn,” I say. It’s the only thing I can say. Not because I don’t know what else to say, but because I can’t say anything. I’m not allowed.
“I don’t think so,” she says, shaking her head.
“I need to get them out of there somehow. But I don’t know how,” she says. Her eyes start to tear up.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask.
“Not unless you know someone in immigration,” she says. I don’t, but perhaps that can change. Lots of things change with money. I make a mental note to look into this matter in the near future.
“I’m also worried that someone will find out that I work here. For you.”
“Why?”
“Because then my whole family will definitely be in trouble. Sanchez is rounding everyone up who is the opposition. And I work here, in America, for a very wealthy man. He might think that it will give my family members resources to oppose him. Even though we won’t. Ah, I’m so worried about my stupid nephews. They’re so full of pride for their country. They’ll do anything. You know how men are. At 20, you think you’re invincible. Or worse yet, you believe that there’s sense in dying for your country.”
She shakes her head and walks away. I know she wants to be alone now. I let her.
Again, I wish that I could ease her fears and anxieties. I can. All I have to tell her is who I really am. What I really do in my spare time. But I can’t. It might jeopardize the whole mission. So, instead, I just stand there quietly, trying to offer my sympathies from afar.
Chapter 3 - Logan
I’m dreading this lunch. We’ve had it planned for some time. Apparently, Sadie has something very important to tell me. Why we couldn’t do this on the phone is beyond me. Or better yet, text message. I don’t see why text messages get such a bad rep nowadays. They are efficient and to the point. And if you want emotions, just add an emoji.
Sadie and I make plans to meet at Salvatori’s. A ridiculously overpriced Italian restaurant on Rodeo Drive with excellent wine and so-so pasta. Though I have my suspicions that I might be the only one who has ever noticed, because I might be the only one who still eats carbs out in the open in this city. Salvatori’s isn’t my favorite place, it’s not even in my top ten, but Sadie likes the atmosphere, and it is her choice. Even though I’m the one who’s going to pay for it.
I walk into the restaurant and tell the hostess my name. She takes me to my table where I order a scotch. Sadie is late, as always. I don’t think I have been out with her for one meal when she wasn’t at least fifteen minutes late. Sadie adores Coco Chanel and believes in the importance of making a grand entrance. I agree, of course. Except that this is a dinner. Something of a business engagement.
I drink my scotch, scroll mindlessly through the Google News feed and occasionally look up at the door. Finally, I see her. I glance down at my watch. Burberry with a nice cloth strap. I can afford much more, but I have a weakness for this British company. Something about its quiet understated style turns me on. Sadie is only five minutes late. Wow, she wasn’t kidding. This must be important.
We give each other a brief hug and an air kiss. There’s no kissing on the cheek in this town – only pretend air kisses. Real kisses, even those on the cheek, might mess up the makeup and definitely don’t mesh well with the contouring.
Sadie’s legs are so long that they hit the top of
the table as she sits down. She’s a Victoria’s Secret model, which means she’s 5’10” tall. Add to that her obligatory 5 inch Louboutin heels.
“Traffic was horrid,” Sadie says. She grew up in South Africa and went to boarding school in England. Her accent is all over the place, but it’s beautiful and soothing. I smile and nod. I don’t mention the fact that she only lives 15 minutes away.
“I ordered you a watermelon martini,” I say.
“Awe, thank you,” she smiles. “I wish I could.”
I furrow my brow. I don’t know what this means. Sadie is not the woman to miss a drink. Ever. When we dated – however, briefly – she didn’t go one night without a glass of wine or three.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
The waiter arrives and asks us our order. I order the lobster bisque and she orders the spicy tuna. Not really Italian, but they carry it and it’s delicious. Sadie doesn’t even bother to open the menu. It’s what she always gets here.
After the waiter leaves, I don’t ask her my question again. Instead, I just wait for her response. Her eyes have a hard time meeting mine. They are all over the place. As if she has something to apologize for. I try to think of what this can all be about.
Sadie is my longest relationship ever. We dated, exclusively mind you, for three whole months. That’s three months during which I didn’t sleep with anyone else. It may not sound like a lot, but I don’t make that kind of commitment lightly. Our breakup was a mutual decision. I know that everyone says that, but it’s true. I was thinking of calling it off for about a week, before she brought it up at dinner one night. Why did we break up? I don’t know. Just wasn’t feeling us anymore. I wouldn’t say that it got boring. Just a little bit predicable. We ran out of things to talk about after a few dates, and the sex was only really good for the first two months. After that, it required a lot of work. Work that neither of us were willing to put up.
Auctioned to Him 7: The Contract Page 49