Taking Her

by Banks, R. R.

  I close my eyes and let out a long, contented sigh, when an abrupt knock on the door interrupts my reverie. I look down at myself and realize I'm still wearing nothing but my stockings. I look at the pile of clothes on the floor and groan, knowing I don't have time to get dressed.

  I figure it’s probably “Andy.” He must have forgotten something. I grab a robe from the closet and throw it on quickly, cinching it around my waist. I walk to the door quickly and open it – and feel my cheeks burning and a knot in my stomach twist painfully.

  “Hey,” the man says. “Sorry I'm late, I got held up –”

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “Derek,” he says with a cocky little smirk as he eyes me up and down. “I'm from the agency.”

  “Oh, my God,” I say, my stomach roiling.

  If this is the guy Izzy sent over – who was the guy who just left?

  Chapter Seven

  Connor

  He's getting off the elevator just as I'm stepping in and I can't help but laugh. Dressed in tight leather pants and an even tighter white t-shirt, I have no doubt who the strapping young lad is – he's the man who was supposed to be “Misty's” company for the evening.

  “What's so funny?” he turns to me and asks.

  I shrug. “Nothing, mate,” I reply. “Just thinking about a joke an old friend told me about the importance of punctuality.”

  He looks at me for a moment and snorts. “Yeah, whatever, man.”

  I watch him walk down the hallway toward her room. He's a good-looking lad. Tall, well-built, with muscles upon muscles. Unfortunately for him, youth and muscles don't outweigh experience – and a healthy dose of good fortune. Oh, and being on time for an appointment usually helps too.

  Fortunately for me, I was in the right place at the right time – and he wasn't. Nothing like a good dose of the luck of the Irish. It's gotten me through a few tight spots in my life.

  I laugh heartily as I get on the elevator, riding it down to the lobby before heading to my car. I give a brief thought to taking a room, but opt to make the drive home instead. Given the time, traffic shouldn't be too much of an issue and I can be home in an hour or so.

  I feel good. Energized. I even feel inspired enough to paint – something I haven't done in a few weeks. In addition to being a musician and owning a very successful winery, I also paint. Some galleries in Sonoma and San Francisco show my work pretty regularly.

  Painting is another one of the many things one of my many therapists suggested I take up during my recovery. Their prevailing belief is that to prevent relapsing, I need to fill my life with things I enjoy doing. Things that give me a sense of purpose and accomplishment.

  They were split on my music. A few of them thought it would bring me back into the orbit of people and situations that led to my overdose – and Ronnie's death. A couple of them thought it was still a good idea. That music can help serve as a creative outlet – something they all agree that I desperately need.

  Unlike most of the other activities they suggested I take up, painting stuck. And I was surprised to find that I have something of a natural knack for it. I mean, I don't expect to see my work hanging in the Louvre or anything, but some people seem to appreciate what I do, and I've sold quite a few pieces as a result.

  It's almost midnight by the time I pull to a stop in my driveway. Shutting off the engine, I get out of the car and bound up the steps to my front door. Punching in the code on the keypad, I wait for a moment and hear the soft beep, announcing that the door is now unlocked. Pulling it open, I step inside and close it behind me, re-arming the locks.

  The front room has an open floor plan, making the space feel even larger than it already is. There's a sunken living room with a large fireplace at one end, a dining nook, and a kitchen near the back wall. A few couches and a large flat-panel TV are set up in one corner, while large, floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one entire wall of the room.

  The windows overlook the back of my property, giving me a view of the vineyards that produce the grapes for my company – Six String Winery. The winery itself sits in the distance, on the opposite side of the vineyard.

  Once I got myself clean, one of the hobbies I took up was learning how to make wine. I don't know why. Maybe it was fate steering me to this, or perhaps it was just boredom. Whatever it was though, I enjoyed learning the process and art of winemaking. I appreciated it so much, in fact, that when a small local winery came up for sale, I jumped on it.

  It started off slowly, as new businesses always do, but I threw myself into it with an addict's zeal. Eventually, I won a few small awards and business started to pick up. Six String took off from there and now, we're one of the most popular wines coming out of California.

  When the business got to be too big and overwhelming for me to work alone, I hired on a master vintner and a substantial enough workforce to keep Six String running – and growing. That little taste of success doing something I enjoyed, and not needing chemical enhancements to enjoy it, was a stunning achievement for me. When I was touring and making records, I celebrated success with a needle in the arm. When Six String really took off, I celebrated with a quiet dinner with close friends – and felt better for it.

  It was then that I first felt truly thankful for the counselors and therapists who helped me through my recovery. It's a process that still continues, of course, but they put me on the right path. Because of them, I haven't touched a drug in years and have really gotten myself to a good place in life.

  I feel fulfilled. Content. My cup, as they say, is full. And I can honestly say, this is the happiest I've ever been in all my years on this rock.

  I walk through the glass block hallway that leads from the front of the house to the back. Back here I have a small recording studio, my painting studio, and the bedrooms. I head into my bedroom and change into a pair of sweats. It's a warm evening out, so I go shirtless as I step into my art studio.

  Flipping on some music and the lights, I set up a fresh canvas and start squeezing out some paints onto my palette. I let my mind wander, let it get lost in the music that's flowing from the speakers set up around the room, and try to funnel that inspiration I feel into something coherent.

  Of course, it's not difficult for me to decipher the thoughts and images flashing through my mind. I think on some level, I knew what I wanted to paint before I sat down to do it.

  It's her.

  For whatever reason, I can't get “Misty” out of my head. I can clearly visualize the beautiful contrast between her midnight black hair and pale, delicate skin. The depth within those dark eyes. The fullness of her breasts. Her plump lips. I close my eyes and can smell her perfume, her skin, the smell of our sex. Recall the taste of her. The way her body felt against mine. The way it felt to be inside of her.

  I open my eyes and put brush to canvas and let my mind and body run free. My reaction to this mystery woman is puzzling. Typically, it’s out of sight, out of mind. I get my fix and move on – regardless of how beautiful or thrilling my partner was.

  But this woman – something about this one is different. Something about her is sticking with me and no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to shake it. I don't know what it is about her, but I can't stop thinking about her.

  This woman – or rather, something about her– has its hooks in me. And those hooks are in deep.

  As the music flows through me, my brush hits the canvas with bold, confident strokes. My mind is caught up in the memory of the smell, taste, and feel of the mystery woman. My virgin.

  This isn't like me. Not at all. As the kids say, I usually prefer to “hit it and quit it.” Women are my addiction and once I get my fix, I'm gone.

  But, this woman – “Misty” – has somehow wormed her way into my head and I can't get her out of it. My hope is that once this painting is done, it will have exorcised her from my mind completely. I mean, it's not like I'm ever going to see her again – I don't even know her real name. I gave her my number �
� which is unheard of for me – but I somehow doubt I'm going to get a call from her anytime soon.

  The first fingers of dawn begin to appear on the horizon, fingers of pink and purple stretching across the sky. When the dazzling brilliance of the sun finally creeps over the edge of the world, beginning a new day, I'm surprised to look up and see that I've finished.

  Ordinarily, it takes me a few days to complete a piece. But, as I look at the painted canvas before me, I nod, approving of what I see. I guess I was extraordinarily inspired this time.

  The painting is of “Misty,” done in the impressionistic style I'm most fond of. I won't say I'm a master or anything, but as I look at the painting, I recognize the fact that I'm pretty damn good for not having been formally trained. In the painting, she's wearing black lingerie and is stretched out on in a reclining position. It's all very tasteful and shows nothing inappropriate. If anything, it's seductive and sensual, yet understated, given the artist.

  I have to say, I think it's one of the best pieces I've ever done. This one though, isn't going to a gallery or auction. This one is for me. I don't know why, but I feel strangely attached to it. I was wrong though, finishing the painting didn't expel thoughts of her. If anything, they only intensified them – this woman, who I'm never going to see again.

  Stretching my arms above my head, I let out a long, loud yawn. Putting my supplies away and cleaning up a bit, I head off to take a shower, exhaustion finally taking over me. Now all I want is to clean myself up and get a little sleep.

  And hopefully, when I wake up, all thoughts of this mysterious woman will have magically disappeared.

  Chapter Eight

  Zoe

  I sit in the back of the car, staring out at the landscape as we drive on. Bryant and my father are passing some papers back and forth, talking in quiet tones with one another. Why I'm even out here with them, I have no idea. It's not like I've been chomping at the bit to be part of this little extortion racket they've cooked up with Jay Hill.

  “Zoe?”

  My father's voice cuts into my thoughts and I look up to see both men staring at me. Their expressions are impatient as if they've been trying to get my attention for some time.

  “Sorry, what?” I ask.

  “Are you here with us?” my father asks, his tone carrying a hard edge.

  No, not really. Not at all, actually. My mind is still caught up in the man I slept with the other night. “Andy.” After the initial freak-out of having the second guy show up at my hotel room door, I felt like I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown and called Izzy.

  She laughed about it for a minute and said that sometimes, the agency accidentally double-books a client. She said it had happened to her once – with both guys actually showing up at the same time – so she'd just gone for it and had a three-way. Yeah, I stopped her before she got into the gory details. One man was more than enough for me for my first time around.

  After speaking to her, I felt somewhat better about the situation and allowed myself to simply revel in the memory of it. I recalled everything about it. The way he'd made me feel. The things he'd made me do. I remembered his hard body pressed to mine. The feel of that glorious cock inside of me. The scent and taste of him.

  Even now, sitting in the back of the car with Bryant and my father, the mere thought of the man gets my panties more than a little damp. Part of me wishes I'd kept his number.

  “Yeah, I'm fine,” I say.

  “We really need you to be on point today, Zo,” Bryant says. “We need you to bring your A-game.”

  I sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you it's Zoe?” I snap. “I don't like you calling me Zo.”

  He chuckles and holds his hands up in front of him in mock surrender. “My bad,” he says. “Wow. Someone is a little feisty this morning.”

  He and my father share a laugh as I glower at them, but bite back the scathing reply that's on the tip of my tongue. It's a Herculean effort on my part because he's such an arrogant, sexist, condescending jerk. But, I'm in too good of a mood and I don't want to fight.

  “What am I even doing here?” I ask. “It's not like you two have let me in on your strategy, or how you're going about building your… case.”

  I don't see a case here. I see a guy who's strung out, looking for his next high, and is trying to extort an old friend to get it. What bothers me the most is that my father seems to be going along with it – with Bryant's urging, of course. The two of them seem bound and determined to get as much out of this Connor guy as they can.

  My father, though he sometimes pushes the line, isn't a man whose ethics I've ever questioned. He's arrogant and irritating as hell, but he's always done the right thing, as far as I'm concerned. Something about this case strikes me weird. It doesn’t add up.

  This is shady. Unethical. And I have no idea why he's doing it.

  “Well,” my father says, “what we want for you to do is to read over the proposal before we get there. And once we sit down with Mr. Grigson, we'd like for you to present him with our offer.”

  I roll my eyes. “Great,” I say. “So, I'm a glorified PR person.”

  “We just think putting a – softer face – on the proposal might be a little more conducive to both sides coming to an agreement,” Bryant replies.

  He gives me a wide, slick smile, and I watch as his eyes roam up and down my body. I can't help but feel repulsed like his eyes are leaving a trail of grease in their wake. I hate being in the same room with Bryant. I want to slap my father for working so hard to put us together. It's not going to happen. Not in this lifetime, or the next. Or the one after that. Never.

  I suppress a shudder, taking the paper my father is handing to me, and arch an eyebrow at him. “A softer face, huh?”

  My father shrugs. “Many studies confirm the fact that when an offer is made by a beautiful woman – as opposed to a couple of battle-hardened men – the recipient of the offer is far more likely to accept.”

  Battle-hardened. Right. The closest either of them has ever been to a fight is a disagreement with their caddy over golf club selection, down at the country club. A sudden surge of anger jolts me, and I have to fight the urge to tear their documents into tiny little pieces right in front of them.

  I feel a sense of power welling up inside of me that I haven't felt before. I can feel it stiffening my spine and putting a real heat in my heart that's new. I don't know where it's coming from, but I like it. I like it a lot.

  “So, rather than respecting me as a lawyer and an intelligent woman,” I snap. “All I'm good for in your little scheme is to be the softer face out in front of it. Is that about right?”

  My father sits back in his seat, looking a bit dumbstruck. Normally, I'm compliant. I typically do whatever he asks of me without hesitating – at least for too long. I've never had the strength or conviction inside of me to stand up to him. To stand up for myself. I've always let myself be a doormat.

  But, maybe, taking Izzy's advice and spending some time with “Andy,” has shaken something loose inside of me. Maybe, it's unlocked something in me. Perhaps, liberating myself by doing something that pleases me – and only me – has inspired some changes within me. Possibly, it's steeling parts of me and adding some iron to my core I didn’t have before.

  Or maybe, even a few days later, I'm still on a buzz after experiencing sex for the first time – incredible, Earth-shattering, mind-blowing sex, at that.

  “Bryant is right – somebody really is a bit feisty this morning,” my father says. “That's good. We can use that. We're going to need you to be a pit bull in there today, in addition –”

  He bites off his words and looks away as he clears his throat. He doesn't finish his statement, but he doesn't have to. I already know what he's going to say.

  “In addition to being a pretty face,” I say, my voice low and tight with anger. “Is that what you were going to say?”

  “What's gotten into you today, Zoe?” my father asks. “You jus
t seem a little – different. A little angrier than normal.”

  I shrug, noticing that he doesn't refute my original point – which tells me, I hit it right on the head.

  “Maybe, I'm just finally hitting my breaking point,” I say. “Maybe, I've had enough of being marginalized, trivialized, and condescended to, just because I wasn't born with a penis. Maybe, I want some respect for being brilliant and being a good lawyer in my own right.”

  “Zoe, nobody's questioning your intelligence or your ability,” Bryant says.

  “Sure could have fooled me,” I snap.

  “Enough of this,” my father roars, his voice impossibly loud for such a confined spot. “We're about to walk into a very important meeting and I need everybody's head in the game. I need everybody sharp, focused, and on point. This childish bickering will stop right now. Am I clear?”

  “Crystal clear,” Bryant says quickly, like the good little, boot-licking lapdog he is.

  I fold my arms over my chest and look out the window again. “Fine,” I say. “Whatever.”

  “Read over the offer, Zoe,” my father snaps. “We should be at his place in a few minutes.”

  I don't say anything, but I have to suppress the smile on my lips. For the first time in my life, I stood up for myself in front of my father. Sure, it wasn't in a big, dramatic way, but the fact that I'd spoken my mind – it was something. It was a start.

  I like this newfound fire burning in my belly and the steel in my spine. I like it a lot.

  ~ooo000ooo~

  The driver pulls the car to a stop in front of a large, sprawling Mediterranean-style house that's absolutely gorgeous. The driver opens the door and I have to wait as the men slide out. I follow them, still fuming about being dismissed like I was. But, that's pretty normal when it comes to my father and Bryant.

  No, what has me fuming even harder is the fact that they expect me to be their pretty little spokesperson. It only serves to underscore the point that neither of them takes me seriously. Neither of them thinks of me as a “real” lawyer.