“Yeah, it was. And while Pan-seared Chilean Sea Bass in a dashi-soy broth is good, it’s just…not satisfying. It’s kinda cold and vacant. There’s no heart in it. No soul.”
I quirk a smile and with a deep, resigning breath, I stand. And against my better judgment and the God-given sense I once possessed, I offer her the bend of my arm. “I’ll be sure to tell my Michelin star, highly paid chef.”
“Oh God! Please don’t do that!” Allison laces her arm through mine without provocation as if the act is completely innocent. As if I hadn’t nearly tasted her lips just this afternoon.
“No? I shouldn’t fire her for serving such cold, soulless food? Or maybe I should can my sous chef, Riku. Good kid. He’ll land on his feet eventually,” I jibe, as we stroll toward the main house.
“No, you shouldn’t. That would make you a dick. And I’m quite enjoying the non-dick you.”
I turn to her, my eyes wide in mock mortification. “Non-dick me?”
“No! No, not what I meant! I mean, the dickless you. No! Um, uh, you without the dickiness!” Ally covers her rapidly reddening face with her other hand and shakes her head. “Oh my God, I’m hopeless. Cut out my tongue now before I make an even bigger fool of myself.”
“You are oddly fascinated with dicks, Ally. Freud would have a field day with you,” I laugh, tears forming at my eyes. I pull her hand away from her face, and she quickly turns away. But not before I catch a bright smile and the sound of her cackling laugh. She has one of those laughs that make you laugh. It’s not sweet or dainty. It’s a raspy, full-on belly laugh. The kind that’s sometimes accompanied by a snort. I chuckle even harder, and shake my head in disbelief. Yeah…even her snorts are adorable.
And fuck me. I’m using words like adorable.
Our laughter tapers off as we make it into the house, and we silently shuffle towards the kitchen.
“I hope we don’t get in trouble for being in here after hours,” Ally whispers, her arm still locked with mine. I flip on the kitchen lights and give a half shrug.
“I hope not. I heard the boss is a dick.”
She giggles and looks up at me, those animated eyes so alive with wonder. My gaze locks with hers, and I smile at the woman in front of me, like she is mine.
Now that we’re here, alone, the halogen lights illuminating that tainted smile that I have no fucking right to bear, my lazy ass Jiminy Cricket decides to intervene. I quickly unravel my arm from the warm comfort of hers and go to lean against a prep table. Ally doesn’t notice, at least she doesn’t show that she does, and begins to rifle through the large, stainless steel refrigerator.
“Anything in particular you want? You know…that isn’t incredibly pretentious or requires a dialect coach to pronounce?” she asks, her head still in the refrigerator. She picks something up and brings it to her nose, then gags and puts it back. I stifle a chuckle.
Ugh. Chuckling. What am I now? A giddy ass tween whose balls haven’t fully dropped yet? I palm mine just to make sure my boys are still intact.
“Anything you want.”
Ally emerges, holding up a wrapped wedge of Brie and a block of Manchego cheese like she just hit the jackpot. “Well, it won’t be gourmet, but I bet I could make some kickass grilled cheese. Now…what are the chances of us finding just regular white, sandwich bread?”
I make a face and shake my head. “Not likely.”
“Eh. Your soulless, hoity-toity bread will have to do,” she winks. And the hot, heavy feeling from earlier unfurls once more.
“WHO WOULD KICK whose ass in a fight: Iron Man or Batman?”
Ally tears off a piece of her grilled cheese sandwich and pops it into her mouth. We’re both propped up on stools at a prep table, a spread of focaccia bread grilled cheeses, green grapes and red wine in front of us. Ally sits across from me, plucking off a few grapes to make a happy face on the metal tabletop.
I swallow a bite and wash it down with a sip of wine. “Why are Iron Man and Batman my only choices? Why can’t I pick Superman? Or Spidey?”
“Nope,” she says, shaking her head. “You can only pick two. Iron Man or Batman. And, ew…Spidey? Lame.”
I take a bite of sandwich and contemplate my answer. “Fine. I guess I’d have to go with Iron Man.”
“Why him?” She finishes her grape happy face then eats the poor guy’s left eye.
“Well, he’s got the suit-”
“Batman has a suit!”
“—and he can fly.”
“Batman can fly!”
“But Batman can only swing from things from a bungee cord. He can fall. He does that a lot. He’s a pretty great faller.”
Ally frowns. “He is not a faller. He glides. He’s an ass-kicking glider.”
“With a rubber suit?” I smirk. “Because that is just so much more impenetrable than crystallized armor.”
“Bullshit. Iron Man is only good because he has Jarvis. They should just rename the franchise Jarvis Man because the computer does all the work.”
“Jarvis Man?” I raise a playful brow.
“You know what I mean. Or Jarvis and the Iron Asshat. They could be a team.”
We share an easy laugh and take sips from our glasses. That’s how things feel between us—easy. Uncomplicated with expectations or formalities. We’re just two people who share a mutual love of grilled cheese and superheroes.
“Why only two choices?” I ask as I refill our glasses.
“Huh?”
“When you ask me these little random gems of useless information, it’s only two choices. Mint Chocolate Chip or Rocky Road. Batman or the Iron Asshat.”
“I don’t know.” Ally shrugs and picks at a crust of bread. “I guess, to me… Life is just a series of choices. We try to always make the best ones, but really we’re just settling for the lesser of two evils. Or at least trying to.”
She looks at me and a sad smile touches her lips. I don’t know how to deal with it so I just look down. Coward.
“Is that what you feel you’ve done? Settled for the lesser of two evils?” I don’t elaborate, but she knows what I’m talking about.
“Honestly? I don’t think the choice was ever truly mine to make.”
I know I should just leave it at that, letting her words drift into another, simpler conversation. But, of course, I find myself needing to delve deeper into those turquoise waters. “Why do you say that?”
“There are things expected of me. Things I can only provide by marrying into an influential family and representing them in a certain light.” She turns to me, pinning me with those haunted, ocean irises. “We’re all just trophies. Shiny, plastic, useless trophies. Exciting at first, but we have no real purpose other than attesting to someone else’s grand achievements.”
I tilt my head to one side thoughtfully, my eyes trained on anything but her and those sad eyes. “A diversion—something pretty to distract from the real turmoil festering just beneath the surface.”
She nods but asks, “Is that how you see me?”
I lift my gaze to hers and find her expression filled with genuine curiosity—not anger or hurt. I shake my head. “No. Not you.”
“I had dreams, you know. Goals.” She smiles, but looks down, hiding its brilliance. “Now, I’m no different than them. I’m just like all those other women. Fighting, clinging on to the hope that we could be more than arm candy for business functions or designer incubators. That we could be truly loved for who we are, and not what we represent.”
I don’t respond, letting the words hang in the air until they dissipate under the weight of Ally’s pain. She stands and begins to collect the uneaten food. “It’s late. And you need your beauty sleep,” she winks at me, that carefree smile restored. I help her discard the trash as she takes the dishes to the sink.
“Me? Beauty sleep? What makes you think I care anything about beauty?” I take a washed dish from her and dry it with a towel.
“You’re kidding, right?” she smirks, scrubbing a pan.
“You possess beauty like most women possess shoes.”
“Not following you.” And I’m not. I could give a fuck about what’s deemed beautiful by modern society’s standards.
“Well, first of all, look at this place,” she says, waving a wet hand around the room. “This estate is magnificent. Like paradise in the middle of the desert. Seems almost like a mirage.”
I nod my head in agreement. Oasis is my oasis—my refuge. My escape from all the incessant narcissism and fuckery that comes with fortune. I didn’t end up in the middle of the desert—as far away as I could possibly get from my original home in NYC—by accident. Eleven years ago, when I said goodbye to the noise, traffic and permeating scents of piss and diesel fuel, I told myself that I would never, ever look back at my old life with a sense of fondness. A few years after that, I found Oasis, and I knew I was home.
“And then,” she says, turning to me, her cheeks flushed pink, “there’s you.”
I smirk and look down to hide my own blush.
Yeah. I’m fucking blushing.
My entire life, I’ve been told I was strikingly handsome, and I’ve always believed it. Dark hair, cobalt eyes, and naturally tanned skin—I was the good ol’ American Abercrombie prototype. That theory was confirmed soon after puberty when girls constantly defied their daddies and tarnished their good family names by spreading their legs without so much as a wink in their direction. As a kid, I knew about sex, but I wasn’t really interested it. Not until my seventeen-year-old Algebra tutor, Jessica, undressed me and swallowed my thirteen-year-old dick during a lesson on linear equations. It was an act of divine intervention that I passed the class with an A-minus, because I didn’t do much more than study every inch of Jessica’s body that school year.
Yet, hearing Allison even imply that she finds me attractive, let alone beautiful, makes me feel brand new.
She hands me the rinsed frying pan, and I take it from her without looking.
My hand covers hers.
Now this is the part in every gag-worthy, chick flick where the guy and girl instantaneously lock eyes and sparks fly. Cue James Blunt or some other sappy cliché as they move in slowly, lips parted in preparation for their first kiss.
Fuck that.
See, that’s the kind of bullshit that makes it difficult to have real, genuine connections. It’s what gives these women a false sense of hope that their men are anything more than walking dicks with eyes and limbs.
I’m a guy; I should know.
And even though I am so goddamn distracted by her every quirky laugh and goofy grin, that I ache to spend hours tracing patterns with her freckles while she’s spread out beneath me, I’m smart enough to know that this is reality. This isn’t some movie where the underdog wins the girl, saving her from a lifetime of heartache. This is real life, and in this episode of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Lonely” the good guy doesn’t rescue the girl from her philandering husband.
No. He teaches her how to fuck him.
I pull my hand back and quickly dry the pan before stepping away from the sink. “This was…fun. Thanks for the sandwich.”
“It was. Thanks for the company.” She dries her hands on a towel and smiles. She’s always smiling at me. I soak them up like precious rays of sunshine, because if she really knew me, if she knew the truth, things would be different. She wouldn’t only pity me—she would loathe me. I’m not sure which one is worse.
I usher her out of the kitchen, flicking off the lights on the way out. The rest of the house is completely quiet and still, and only the pale moonlight illuminates her face.
“Goodnight, Justice.”
“Goodnight, Ally.”
I walk back to my little home, hating the stupid grin on my face. It hurts my cheeks, and gives me hope that I have no right to feel.
I kinda love it too.
I WAIT FOR them to file in and take their seats, noting the questioning looks as they take in the new additions to the room. It sinks in for a few, and curiosity turns into shock.
Ah, there it is. The pitter-patter of my little black heart. It’s been a while, old friend.
It's like that zombie romance movie, as ridiculous as it sounds. The more I hang around Allison, the more alive I feel. The dark coldness of my heart begins to heat and bloom into something vital, and for once, I feel…normal. Like somehow, I belong.
The only difference is, I don't want to belong. Not really. I don't want to fit into her world. I don’t want to be defined by the media’s perception of me, or an image cooked up by my publicist. I’ve never been good at coloring inside the lines, and I won’t start now for some married chick I’ve known for five minutes.
That’s why I know it’s better this way. I’m not the good guy. To be honest, I’m the villain. Good guys wouldn’t do what I’m about to.
“Ladies, we have an exciting session for you today. I know you’re wondering about the changes to our regular instruction space. Well, today we have a special demonstration for you.” I turn to the young lady on my right and place my hand on the small of her back. “This is Jewel. And this is her colleague, Candi. And they are going to show you the art of the striptease.”
“You want us to be strippers?” Lorinda Cosgrove shrieks. She’s lost the ugly moo-moos and cardigans and traded them for something more form fitting and chic. She’s learning. Whether she wants to admit it or not, it’s starting to sink in.
“It’s not about what I want. It’s about what’s going to happen with or without your consent. Men like strippers. They go to strip clubs. They get lap dances. Now you can either cry about it or learn to do it yourself. And, get an inside glimpse of what is so damn enticing about exotic dancers. Now, I suggest you pay attention, because during our final review, you’ll be asked to do a little striptease…for me.”
“No way,” Shayla pipes up. “There’s no way I’m taking my clothes off for another man.”
“Not necessary, Mrs. Adkins. It’s all about the journey, not the destination. The tease of a woman losing her clothing. Anticipation. Do you know how fucking hot that makes us? Waiting, hoping, praying that you’ll show us just an inch of that smooth, silky skin?
“I’ve showed you how to get our attention, and now I’m going to show you how to keep it. Anticipation is what keeps us at home, dick hard, wanting you. Understand?”
They all answer with looks of shock and interest, so I fish out the tiny remote in my pocket and press a button. Booming bass lines and drumbeats fill the room, accompanied by the voice of Justin Timberlake.
Yeah. I put on JT.
Bitches love JT.
“Ladies?”
At my word, both Jewel and Candi begin to sway side to side, rolling their hips with every move. Jewel slowly makes her way to the pole situated in the center of the room, her 6-inch heels keeping in time with the beat. Candi slides over an empty chair and turns to me to rake her fingers over my chest. She gives me a naughty smile before biting her red, bottom lip, then pushes me back to sit in the chair that happens to be facing the makeshift stage. She doesn’t look away. Her big, brown eyes stay locked on mine, giving me her full attention. Making me feel like I am the only man in the world that makes her wet.
Candi’s red-tipped acrylic nails slide down my chest to my stomach. Her fingers explore the rigid planes of my abs through my white linen shirt, and she licks her lips in approval.
“Oooh, baby, you’re so hard here,” she coos. “I wonder where else you’re hard.”
The line is laughable, but she knows that’s exactly the kind of shit that simple-minded fuckers want to hear. Her hands drift down to my upper thighs, just a breath from my cock. Her eyes flick down to my lap then back up, mischief gleaming behind dark eyeliner and heavy mascara. I lift a brow, challenging her. If she wants it, she has to come get it.
Candi giggles and her hands trail down the tops of my thighs before she stands upright. Hungry eyes still locked on mine, she begins to move, her own hands sliding over her curves. She
palms her breasts, giving them a squeeze before caressing her flat, bare stomach.
I watch her as she dances for me in her sexy red lingerie, yet all I can think about is how daring that color would look on Ally accompanied with her red hair. How coy and mischievous she would act in front of me, moving those hips to the music. I close my eyes for a few beats, trying to blink away these thoughts and just focus on my job. And right now, my job consists of sitting back and enjoying a striptease. Not fantasizing about another man’s wife.
Candi can see the distance in my gaze and moves to stand between my legs. Body writhing, she reaches to her back to unhook her lace bra, letting it fall to the floor. Perfectly round DDs look back at me, not even drooping an inch with the lack of support. She cups her breasts and runs her fingers over her hard, light brown nipples. “Mmmm,” she moans, eyes nearly closed. “I want you to touch me.”
I nod, but I don’t give her what she desires. Instead, I look over at Jewel just as she slides down the pole, holding herself up only by her thighs. She spins, platinum blonde hair whipping around her face dramatically. She feels my gaze and looks to me, her expression burning hot and sultry. And with Candi now straddling my thighs, those perfect, doctor-designed tits bouncing in my face, Jewel performs just for me.
This is every man’s dream—a topless woman riding his lap while another dry-humps a long, hard pole. I watch them, but I don’t see them. In many ways, I’m no different than Candi and Jewel. We provide a service that is surrounded by sex. I know their angle. I know the only thing that truly gets them hot is cash. It’s the same thing that motivates me.
They take their clothes off. I encourage women to do the same.
Jewel steps away from the pole and makes her way to Candi, who is still dancing, her back to my front. She grinds her ass on my dick, stirring it from rest, and I grip her hips, guiding her erotic movements. Jewel moves in close, pressing her bare breasts against Candi’s, and they both moan. Their hands tangle in each other’s hair, caressing hot, puckered skin and humid lace. They’re putting on a show, touching each other with over-exaggerated wonder and desire.