Buy My Soul: A Sixty Days Novel

by West, Jade

  I moved downstairs at pace, scrolling through my phone and hating the way I felt such aversion to the cunts who wanted in on the action. I paced right on past the office doorway and through the house onto the back porch, hating the fresh wave of aversion I felt toward my jackass of a brother.

  He didn’t follow me out and I was grateful. My throat was scratchy as I lit up another cigarette, my lungs crying out against the invasion of smoke as much as my mind craved the nicotine.

  Under regular circumstances I’d have been quick to chase down Drake’s river of threats on the encrypted portal, but under regular circumstances I’d have been considerably stronger in my ability to counter his shit with my own. I imagine that’s why I turned my attention to other portals of communication on the business radar and let it lie. I imagine that’s why as a result I noticed the fresh ping on the shadowy social media profile where I’d first heard from Miss Emmerson.

  Let’s talk, the message header said. It took me a moment to recognise the college boy face staring back at me from the user profile, but when I did it set my pulse off all over again.

  Jake Wharton.

  One of the three idiot kids I’d set on their way on the beach that first night with my beautiful siren.

  The jackass Lance had photographed switching numbers with her on the university campus.

  You have Paige Emmerson for sixty days like you had Rebecca Lane, his message continued. I want to see her. I’ll pay. I may be young but I have money. My family are the Wharton haulier business. I can afford it. Just let me see her. I’ll sign up wherever I need to, just tell me how.

  The idiot really didn’t have any idea of the money involved in the sign up process. Sure, the kid had cash. I’m sure the haulier business was more than enough to keep him in an affluent lifestyle, but my client base were another species altogether.

  On any regular business day I’d have laughed out loud and sent him a dismissive response at best. This wasn’t any regular business day.

  The fact that a kid like him was willing to put his family wealth up for grabs for the chance of seeing a girl was borderline insane.

  If I hadn’t been feeling borderline insane over the same girl myself, I’d have written him off as a joke and little more.

  My fingers did the work before my brain.

  What do you want to do with Paige Emmerson in one of our sessions exactly?

  I was finishing up my cigarette when a ping sounded back.

  Talk, it said. How much just to talk to her?

  I leaned back against the porch railings as I stared at the screen.

  Talk.

  He’d pay a ridiculous chunk of bank balance just to swap words with the sweet Miss Emmerson.

  Another message flashed up before I’d had the slightest real chance to think it through.

  Please, it read. Soon. I’ll pay more for a priority appointment.

  My eyes shot up to the back door. No sign of Eric or any of the security detail.

  I couldn’t reply in any depth on that social media login, not knowing my brother had admin rights to the same profile.

  I switched away from it on my handset and went back to the bid screen, trying to pull myself together enough to regain my business brain and click accept on the latest offers.

  It was a pointless task. The requests were enough to make my stomach spit and lurch. The idea of watching those seedy cunts tear the girl upstairs a new one was enough to inspire a fresh wave of turbulence.

  If I could have pitted the two sides of myself against each other in a fist fight and trusted the business sense side to come out on top I’d have commissioned the fight gladly, but as it stood I wouldn’t have hedged my bets on the outcome.

  I hissed a whirlwind of self-abuse to myself as I stared up at that clear winter sky, determinedly reminding myself that affection meant nothing in a world drenched in greed. Love meant nothing when pitted against piles of cash.

  This couldn’t be anything like love.

  This compassion, affection… fascination… whatever the hell it was that I felt towards the slip of a girl upstairs could in no way be constituted as love, no matter what the pangs down deep had to say.

  Love didn’t exist.

  It hadn’t existed in any way that meant anything when it mattered to me the most.

  It hadn’t existed in any way that meant shit when I’d been prepared to put everything on the line for a woman who claimed I meant everything to her way back when.

  Everyone could be bought.

  Everyone would sell any part of themselves in a heartbeat in the right circumstances.

  Everyone would sell their proudly pronounced declarations of love down the river for a decent cash injection.

  I was past keeping an eye out for Eric when he decided to join me on the back porch. It was the slap of his hand on my back that sent me spinning, eyes fierce as they slammed into his, only to find his stare full of pity in return.

  Was that really me? Pitiful?

  Was I really so far off my throne of self-control that the world was witnessing some kind of weakness?

  “I didn’t tell you about that college boy message,” he said, clearly having registered me as logged into the profile. “Didn’t figure it was worth more than a laugh when it came through last night.”

  I graced him with a nod. “His family do have money.”

  “Yeah, I know them. Seen their name on a shit ton of trucks. Just didn’t think he was client material. Not even close.”

  I pinched the honesty that he was damned right on that score between my teeth. “Maybe the kid has some dark urges with enough of an allowance to grace them an outing.”

  He shrugged. “You’d think he’d be better off waiting for her to get back on campus and offering her a movie night, not paying an absolute shit load to spend a few minutes with her in this place.”

  I didn’t laugh. He did.

  Another shrug and he carried on talking. “Who knows, hey? She seems to the turning enough of the world crazy right now.”

  For a flash of a moment I had the urge to spill some of the truth of my own crazy to the sibling in front of me. He was my only actual memento of my younger lifetime, when I had belief in something other than the supremacy of money and power combined. The only person who stood a hope in hell of remembering the side of me I’d long left behind and being able to talk some fucking reason into me.

  But I couldn’t manage any of it.

  I’d never manage to spit any truth into the outside world, not even to my biological brother, I simply couldn’t make myself that vulnerable.

  “I’ll keep the kid in mind,” I muttered, forcing myself into some semblance of control. “In the interim we have more than enough clients wanting in on the action.” I landed a slap on his arm and headed us back inside, determined to enforce my composure. “I’ll be getting on it shortly. Drake will be eating his bullshit when he realises how well the Emmerson sixty days is performing for his cash balance.”

  His eyes pierced me, digging deep for truth. “You mean it? You’re really going to run this show as it should be run? She’s not completely gobbled you up?”

  My scoff sounded vacant. “I think it’s you who’s lost your mind, brother, if you think I’m capable of being gobbled up by anything.”

  He came to a standstill outside the office doorway. “You’re going to accept the bids and get them scheduled?”

  I didn’t nod. “Please, like you need to ask me that question.” I slapped him again on his shoulder. “You’ve been talking to Drake too much. The guy is paranoid to shit about his cash injection, always has been. Maybe he’s been going too hard on the underworld poker stakes.”

  “He says you’re fucked. He says you need taking down from the leader post.”

  I forced a stupid smirk. “Yeah, like he’ll stand true to that opinion when I start the scheduling process.”

  I despised the shudder creeping up my spine, but Eric seemed oblivious, shrugging as he took
my hollow words onboard. “As long as you’re sure, Bran. I know I wanted in on the stakes, but you’re still my fucking brother. This is still your bag.” He punched my arm like a kid in the playground. “Don’t wanna see you disappear. Went through that shit enough for one lifetime already with Dad, didn’t we?”

  I didn’t respond, having no desire whatsoever to revisit the passing of our father.

  He was right. We went through that shit more than enough for one lifetime already.

  Just a few days prior I’d have stated that it was Henry Drake who’d graced me at my weakest by dragging me out of the aftermath, regardless of what an utter prick I’d come to think of him as in the past few years.

  The fact I now had even a sliver of doubt that Drake had graced me at all was another glaring testament to my oncoming insanity.

  “I’ll head out with the guys,” Eric said. “Bring you back some lunch from the pier to big you up for your show this evening.”

  I knew he was after a lunchtime beer with his friends on the payroll. For once I didn’t care.

  “Make it a good one,” I told him. “It’s going to be quite a show this evening, believe me.”

  He liked this comment. His whole face lit up at the thought.

  Relief, I guess.

  Relief and the dick in his pants.

  “Oh, I believe it’ll be a good one,” he said, and this time his slap on my shoulder was full of bloated camaraderie. “Can’t wait for Drake to fucking see it. We’ll have bids coming out of our assholes by this time tomorrow if you give it another good one tonight.”

  I watched him leave with a smile plastered on my face, back straight and shoulders firm as some of the guys from the back room joined him for their seaside jaunt.

  I only wished I believed my shit as much as he seemed to.

  I waited for the rumble of the car outside before I unlocked my mobile handset.

  Lance picked up on the third ring, keen to bleat on about how he was still making inroads to Rebecca Lane’s disappearance when I cut him off with a new instruction.

  “Jake Wharton,” I told him with no niceties. “Get me his mobile phone number.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Paige

  Every mark he’d put on my skin was testament to the monster I was falling in love with.

  I surveyed myself in the coolness of the bathroom mirror. I stretched and turned, keen to view every aspect of his signature on my body.

  I should be horrified, scared shitless for the days ahead of me, but I felt a weird wash of pride at being his dirty possession.

  The devil on my shoulder must have been fully in command in this haunted place, the angel long since bailed.

  I ran my hands over my breasts, teasing the tenderness. I was sore yet sensitive. My nipples strained for more contact.

  I wondered what lay ahead that evening. If my beautiful master would ease up on my bruises and focus on a different kind of entertainment for the viewers. If maybe he’d make me retch and vomit, or stretch and humiliate me until I cried hard tears for those watching.

  I wondered if I’d feel his mouth on mine again. If he’d be as hungry for the kiss as I’d felt in him the night before. If he’d lift me just as tenderly and hold me in the warmth of his arms to recover.

  I wondered if I’d be able to walk away from such beautiful contact when my sixty days here were done, without so much as looking back at the man who’d claimed my soul as his.

  I forced myself to push the thoughts aside. My world here was about doing what I was told. Taking each day as it came. Surviving through whatever it took to provide my sister with the lifeline she needed.

  The door lock sounded before I expected it to. I was still standing naked under the bathroom lighting when the beautiful monster stepped on through with a breakfast tray in his solid hands.

  He stared at me.

  I stared right back.

  I gave him a smile, cheeks burning.

  He didn’t smile back, just turned his attention away and placed the tray down on the bed.

  It was then that I stepped out enough to notice the two plates instead of one.

  “A simple lunchtime breakfast,” he announced, but it wasn’t.

  The sandwiches were well prepared. Crusty bread with a side salad topped with cress. Like something from a quaint little lunch bar on the beach front.

  I took a seat opposite him on the bed and pulled up my legs folded, past caring about the exposure of my naked parts as his eyes ate me up. It’s not as though he hadn’t seen me up close under far less flattering circumstances already.

  The sandwiches should have held my attention, but didn’t. My gaze wouldn’t leave him. He looked different. More dishevelled than I’d known him.

  His hair was slick and dark, but not nearly so preened. There was a tiny tuft of rebel strands midway along his parting. His shadowy stubble was dark enough to complement his uneven shirt collar with a hint of just rolled out of bed.

  The thought made me smile and I had to fight back a giggle.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “You seem in surprisingly good spirits for a young woman with bruising over the majority of her body.”

  I managed a shrug. “I’m enjoying a surprisingly good lunch for a young woman who expected to be shackled to a whipping post for sixty days straight.” That did get a smirk from him. I was smiling pretty bright when I spoke again. “Please send my compliments to the chef. Very nice.”

  “Why thank you,” he said. “The chef appreciates your manners.”

  It took me a moment, head tipped at the implication. “You made this?”

  “You sound shocked,” he countered. “Tell me, sweetheart, did you not expect a man like me to be able to put a lunchtime sandwich together?”

  “It’s not that you wouldn’t be able to…” I said. “More that you wouldn’t… wouldn’t have the, um…”

  “Tolerance of the finer aspects of life and routine?” he finished, and I cringed inside, worrying if he was going to be offended enough to slap me for my cheek.

  He wasn’t.

  His smile was surprisingly light as he picked at his salad.

  I took the opportunity to push the conversation. “Do you like cooking? Would you be a chef if not for the world’s most hard-handed escort business?”

  If I hoped he would laugh, he didn’t. “I don’t make a habit of rustling up food of any kind.”

  “So what do you do?” I prompted. “In your free time, I mean.”

  His stare was blank but cutting. “You’re talking about hobbies? Interests?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You must have things you enjoy, outside of this place, I mean.”

  “How about you?” he countered, without an answer. “You’re the university student stepping out into the big, bad world. You’re the one who must know her favourites around lectures. Shopping? Reading? TV?”

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  “Too busy are you? Too vigorous a student to spend her free time dicking around with daydreams and hobbies?”

  I shook my head again. “I have free time. I just… research. Research and head out for a few stupid drinks with my floor mates on campus. That and plan my future, read through my lectures and assignments.” I paused. “And Phoebe, I spend a lot of my time wondering about Phoebe–”

  He waved his hand at that. “I’m well aware of your interest in your sister, little girl.”

  But he wasn’t.

  He couldn’t be.

  If he had any awareness of the depth of my concerns for my sister, there would be no way he’d rule out a touch base conversation for two minutes between me and her.

  I didn’t have long to dwell on it before he asked another question.

  “What do you want to be on the back of your university degree?”

  I could answer that question all day long.

  “An occupational therapist,” I told him. “I want to dedicate my life to helping people live theirs to t
heir greatest potential.”

  “Watch it with that good girl bullshit, or I’ll end up retching up my sandwich,” he said, but he was joking.

  For once he was actually joking.

  But I wasn’t.

  “I mean it,” I said. “If you don’t spend your time doing some good in this world, then what is the point of existing in it?”

  He pulled a face. “Because we’re pushed out of a birth canal before we’re old enough to make even a smidgen of choice on the prospect of whether we want to be here. Because we’re individuals with individual wants and drives, whose priority is to live our longest and fullest, to our own free will.”

  “You think that’s all this life is? Putting ourselves first no matter what?” My tone wasn’t hard or harsh. Not even cynical.

  “I know that’s all this life is,” he said. “I’ve seen how money makes the world go around. And there’s no arguing with that selfish crud, believe me.”

  But I didn’t believe him.

  Couldn’t believe him.

  “I wish one of us could believe the other,” I whispered with a smile. “I think we’ll be having this kind of debate an awful lot over the coming sixty days if we aren’t careful.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll survive sixty days of my intelligent reasoning without taking it on as your own?” he pushed, and it was my turn to feel the easiness in the comment.

  “We’ll see,” I said. “I’m hoping maybe it’s you who’ll have to survive my intelligent reasoning and come out the other side wanting to sign up for charity gigs along with me.”

  Brandon Grant looked gorgeous when he dropped his sandwich back on his plate and focused his stare right on mine.

  “What charity gigs?”

  I shrugged, regretting raising the topic. “I just do some stuff at university. Help the committees raise cash and hold fundraisers. I’ve been doing that kind of thing since I was a little kid.”

  “Good Samaritan,” he said, but I shook my head, surprisingly honest.

  “Not only that. You know, I’ve been thinking. Since being here. Thinking about me. About my choices. My thoughts. My methods of moving through life, the world and everything.”