Trophy Wife
* * *
My sleep-drugged mind slowly wakes as I move, alarm bells blaring at the implications of what we are doing. But the forbiddance, the risk of being caught, only makes it hotter. My hands scramble over his chest, fumbling down to tug at his belt, my fingers frantic in their quest to have him unzipped and exposed. I can feel him pushing out, his pants tenting, his readiness impressive.
* * *
His mouth won’t release mine, the scruff of his stubble burning the skin around my lips as he takes what he wants, pinning me down to the bed with his kisses. And then, finally, I have him in my hand, my palm closing around a stiff shaft. He closes his eyes and pulls away from my body.
“Wait. Take off your skirt.”
* * *
I shimmy the fabric down and off, watching as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom, ripping it open with his teeth, the intensity of his stare causing my breath to hitch and my mouth to water. I spread my legs before him, opening myself fully, his eyes feasting on the sight, and he kneels on the bed before me, stroking the latex of the condom down his cock.
* * *
“I know what you like,” he grounds out, pressing on my opening with his stiffness. The smooth head of his latex-covered cock pushes slightly in, his face tightening when my body accepts him, my velvet lips sliding around his cock, already wet, already ready. “I’ve watched you fuck so many times that I feel like I’ve had you. Do you like when he fucks you?” He thrusts forward, my eyes closing at the sensation, a moan spilling out of my mouth. His hands flip my legs over, turning me to my side, his torso coming down, his mouth taking a greedy tour of my breast while he pumps his hips, his cock dragging slowly in and out, stretching me, the angle perfect in its sensation.
* * *
“Do you, Candy? Do you like his cock?” His words are a demand, gasping out of him, his breath haggard as he moves.
* * *
I don’t answer, pulling his head down on my breasts, gasping when his mouth covers my nipple, sucking it, his eyes on me, teeth gently scraping my sensitive skin. I roll to avoid the eye contact, facing the mattress, bringing my knees beneath me and arching my back, his body moving with me, his cock beginning a faster movement, pumping in and out as his hands roam over my ass and along the line of my back.
* * *
“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he groans. “Being inside of you. I jack off to you at night, Candy. I picture your perfect mouth sucking my cock. I think about you, just like this, bent over before me, waiting for me.”
* * *
I can’t respond, my mind arguing with my body that this is wrong, that I should pull off his body and walk away. But my body loves his words, loves the depth of the passion. I love the feeling of him inside of me, his hands now cupping my breasts, his mouth planting kisses along my back as he continues his fuck. A desperate, hurried fuck, as if he is worried that I will disappear, and he needs his fill of me first.
* * *
He is not Nathan. Our bodies do not mold in perfect synchronization, our arches and valleys do not coincide. There are times when he moves left and I move right. But he has fire for me; he cares. He is a living, breathing man who has the capacity to love, who looks at me and sees something more than a contract.
* * *
He returns me to my back, his body settling above me, his mouth softening on mine, kissing me tenderly as his strokes bring me there, to the point where my mind stops thinking and I come, my body clenching and contracting around him, causing his eyes to shut and, a moment later, his own finish to come.
CHAPTER 29
Life in wealth is a beautiful thing. Our streets are unclogged, our nights mosquito-free, our comfort managed and attended to twenty-four hours a day. My latest hobby is speeding, pressing the gas pedal hard enough to feel a slight vibration in my legs, my Mercedes jumping to attention, hugging the streets with a purpose. I have been pulled over twice, both times given a warning, despite my generous attempt to accept a ticket. Attempt is putting it lightly. I practically begged the officer to write me a ticket, to allow me a bad girl moment. But apparently in this county, where the streets are lined in gold and the property taxes cover more than ten times the city’s budget, ticket revenue is not needed. Laws can be broken with only a slap on your diamond-studded wrist.
* * *
My tires squeal slightly as I make a too-tight, too-fast turn into the bookstore parking lot. Our corner of Nashville refuses something as tacky as a book superstore, chain stores apparently frowned upon by the uber-rich. We have no Applebees, no Gaps, no Walmarts, those storefronts replaced with organic markets, wine bars, and boutiques owned by bored housewives.
* * *
The bookstore is no different, owned by two trophy wives who had some Chardonnay one day and decided to sell books. It’s housed in a three-story plantation home, different rooms dedicated to different genres, antiques and comfy couches stuffed next to towering bookshelves and stacks and piles of books. I love it.
* * *
Today I explore the Adventure room, located on the third floor, tall windows on one side, separated by tall bookshelves. The other side is dominated by a large map, a custom piece that shows a city-planner’s view of our privileged corner of the world and the area that surrounds it.
* * *
I look at the map, my fingers trailing over the roads, finding Nathan’s estate. I trace the road that leads to town, then fan out, tip-tapping across areas I haven’t explored yet. Lockeland Springs. Madison. The Gulch.
* * *
“Thinking of exploring Nashville?”
* * *
I turn at the voice, one thick in a Tennessean drawl. I smile at the woman, one of the owners. She was the sort who wore diamonds with denim, and enough perfume to push me back a step. “Just realizing how little of it I’ve seen.” I glance back at the map. “What’s The Gulch?”
* * *
“Oh.” She waves a hand dismissively. “You don’t want to waste your time there. It's just strip clubs and head shops.” She giggles, and moves closer, her long red fingernail moving across the worn paper, her next few lines lost in the hum of my mind.
* * *
“There are strip clubs here?” I interrupt her without thinking, her eyebrows raising for a moment before she responds.
* * *
“Well … yes. Of course. Hard to have a city this size without those sort of places.”
* * *
“I …” I struggle for an explanation. “I just thought Tennessee didn't allow strip clubs.”
* * *
She laughs off the thought, her mouth moving, more words coming out, other areas pointed out, tapas bars and parks pointed out, her nails scraping over the landscape as she rattles off a dozen things I couldn’t care less about.
* * *
A wisp of something flickers in my brain, like an erratic synapse that is firing out of order, catching my attention. I reach for it, dig for it, but it is like the faded memory of a dream: gone. Street and city names float from her as my fingers move, back over the map, until my index finger comes to a slow, shuddering stop on Nathan’s house.
* * *
There. I feel it again. That wisp of thought. I still, trying not to pounce too aggressively on it, trying to let it wander into the light unafraid. Unease grows in me, the thought growing legs and arms and starting a hesitant crawl through my mind. I picture Nathan, stepping into the dimly lit dump that is Sammy’s. Rick’s excited announcement that I was wanted in VIP. My eyes flit across his neighborhood, one that is over five hundred miles and two states, from Destin. How many strip clubs could fit into that radius? Fifty? One hundred? A hundred clubs closer than the rundown establishment that he, Drew, and Mark walked into.
* * *
So why Sammy’s? And why, five minutes after stepping foot inside, did he ask for me?
CHAPTER 30
Confinement doesn’t necessarily require a limited space. Confinement
can be a mind fuck of restraint, a person stopped in every direction of action until they stand still in a room, afraid to move. Confinement can do strange things to a person.
* * *
Maybe that is what caused the snap. Maybe it was the two of us, both in prisons of Nathan, both desperately wanting a way out, wanting the freedom that is being withheld. I know why I am captive, my father a defenseless hour away. But what holds Drew? Why does he stay? Why does he live in this house, follow Nathan’s rules, and assist in guarding my prison?
* * *
Confinement can drive a sane person mad. I have seen a chink in Drew’s armor. He is human, he can stumble, and he can make mistakes. He made a mistake in touching me, in giving a drowning, lonely girl hope. Hope, and an opening.
* * *
I stare out the window of the limo, my legs demurely crossed, my hands clasping my clutch. I avoid looking forward to the front of the car, where I know Drew’s eyes will be. Watching me. The car rides have become a source of stress for me, each moment a possible opening for Nathan to start something sexual. Tonight, at least, I am safe. We have spent all evening with Raul, a foreign investor who Nathan is courting. I don’t know much except that Nathan has gone above and beyond with this man, our dinner stretching over three hours, the men already spending all day together at the site. They are drunk, their speech carrying a hint of slur, their ties loosened and spirits boisterous. Nathan sits back, and I suddenly feel his arm around my shoulders. I turn slightly to him, giving him what he wants, a loving smile, full of adoration. It is a smile I have perfected, and one he approves of.
* * *
“Did you know that Raul wanted me to find him a whore?” He enunciates the words clearly, the slur masked by his precise pronunciation. I stiffen slightly under his arm, narrowing my eyes at him as I blush appropriately, slapping his knee.
* * *
“Nathan!”
* * *
“It’s true,” he murmurs, bending his head to plant a soft kiss on my neck. “But I told him there is no need to waste money on a whore. Not when my wife is such an excellent fuck.”
* * *
My world closes in around his words, my eyes catching his, the look in his eyes unmistakable. I beg him with my own, my mouth moving, light-hearted words coming out. “What? Nathan—stop. You’re embarrassing me in front of our guest!”
* * *
We fight while smiling, his eyes demanding while mine beg. I won’t do it. Fucking me in front of the staff is one thing. Offering me to a stranger something else. He tilts his head, amusement mixing with the authority in his eyes. His mouth curls, a grin stretching over it before he speaks. “Come on, honey. Show him what an amazing blow job you give.”
* * *
I gasp, laughing a bit as I turn back to the window. “Next time, I’m cutting you off at the third tequila shot.” I pray for solace, for him to laugh and move on, silence coming from Raul’s side of the car.
* * *
“You’re being rude, Candy. We’ve had a long night and he needs a release. Show him how an American woman can take a cock.” There is an edge to his words, a warning in them, and I close my eyes at his voice.
* * *
I can’t do it. I just can’t. Of everything I have sold at this point in time—my dignity, my life, my past—this is one step I can’t take. I feel Drew’s eyes, piercing into me, pulling into my soul and judging me. I want to meet his eyes. I want to tell him that I won’t do this; he doesn’t need to worry. I will refuse and leave this car untainted.
* * *
Then I feel the seat shift, feel my husband’s lips against my ear. “Do it, Candy. I’m not going to ask again. We have an arrangement, not a romance. Refuse and I will stop supporting your father.”
* * *
My father. Nathan, in this despicable situation, brings up my father, brings his clean soul into this dirty world. Nathan knows my weakness. Knows which button to push to bring me to my knees. In this situation, literally. I turn with a coy smile, facing Raul and moving to the floor, my hands reaching out, my eyes catching Drew’s and begging him to understand.
CHAPTER 31
My hand hesitates on the receiver. Making this call is a direct violation of The Agreement. The consequence: my father’s well-being, the destruction of this life, however fake it is. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. He won’t know. No one will ever know. I dial the number and start the call, lifting the cell phone to my ear.
* * *
“Sammy’s.”
* * *
Rick was always a smirker. It is something I grew to despise—that smirk. He would smirk at us when delivering bad news, smirk at patrons who had drank too much and had gotten sloppy, and smirk as his hand would travel over our bodies like we were his personal property. I can hear it through the phone, in just the one word greeting.
* * *
I grip the cell tightly, reminding myself that I am no longer Candace Tapers, the pawn of this man, dependent on him for floor placement and wages. “Hi Rick.”
* * *
Silence. He’s probably twisting the skin on his fat face as he tries to place the voice.
* * *
“Candy?” His tone catches me off guard, one I've never heard from him, one of fear.
* * *
I lean against the side of the gas station and hold up a finger to the high school bitch, who rolls her eyes at me. For twenty bucks, you’d think she’d be a little more accommodating.
* * *
I tuck a hand in my front pocket. “Yeah, Rick, it’s me. It’s been a long time.” Not that long. Just over two months—but two months that have changed me in so many ways. I feel a swell of nostalgia at his voice, which is ridiculous, considering I spent the majority of my nights cursing the man’s existence.
* * *
“Candy, I … it’s good to hear your voice. I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again.” I called him the day I signed the agreement, giving him my ten-minute notice. He hadn’t asked any questions, hadn’t put any of the girls on, had cut the conversation short—with a brevity that had, outlandishly enough, hurt my feelings. I hadn’t expected a gold watch or a tearful response, just enough time to complete a sentence without being cut off.
* * *
“I have to ask you something. It might be hard for you to remember, but the first time Nathan came into the club—”
* * *
“I can’t talk about that, Candy.” His voice drops to a whisper.
* * *
“What?”
* * *
“There’s nothing for me to tell you anyway. I don’t know anything about them—didn’t even know a name until you just said it. I didn’t ask, and they didn’t tell. So I can’t help you.”
* * *
The girl sighs, lifting her wrist and looking pointedly at her watch. I turn away from her, my shoulder digging into the brick wall. “All I want to know is if he asked for me, or if you suggested me. That first visit … when you brought me into VIP.”
* * *
There is a shuffle of static and suddenly Rick’s whisper is loud, as if he is cupping his hand around the receiver. “Candy, they came here for you. They knew everything about you before they even walked in the door.”
* * *
The static ends, and there is a long stretch of silence. In it, I can almost hear my heartbeat.
* * *
“Rick?” I look at the phone, but he has hung up.
* * *
“You done?” The girl steps forward, her hand out, and I pass her the phone.
* * *
“Yeah. Thanks.”
* * *
I’m done, all right. Done with whatever this shit is. I need to figure out an escape.
III
TILL DEATH
“Please. Spank me again.”
CHAPTER 32
The sound of the door wakes me, the slide of glass against rubber disrupting the silence. I
open my eyes, the room dim, moonlight filtering through the curtains. Then the door clicks into place, and I stiffen.
* * *
I hear the gentle slap of bare feet, and then the sink of the mattress as a figure moves across it. There is a tug on my blankets, a breeze as the fabric is lifted from my skin. Then, warmth.