Tryst

  “So . . . what exactly do you do? Are you, like, a teacher or something?” she asks, just above a whisper.

  “More like a consultant. You all share a very serious issue and I hope to . . . guide you toward some techniques that may improve your situation.”

  “What situation?”

  Holy fuck. Testing, testing. Is this thing on, or has Botox already begun to corrode her brain cells?

  I smile tightly through the aggravation. Patience is key in my profession. Most days, I feel more like an overworked, underpaid day-care provider than a . . . lifestyle . . . coach. Same, same.

  “I thought I explained the situation, Mrs.”—I squint at the file in front of me, matching her face to the name—“Cosgrove.”

  Lorinda Cosgrove. As in Cos-Mart, the place where you can go shopping for honey buns, cheap lingerie, and a nine-millimeter at 3 A.M. while wearing cutoff booty shorts and Crocs. No lie, there are websites dedicated to these train wrecks. Google that shit.

  “Yes, I am aware of your assessment, as crude as it is. However, what do you expect to achieve?”

  I shake my head marginally. There’s one in every class. One that doesn’t want to accept the ugly truth staring her in the face. Even though she’s read the manual, signed the contracts, and undergone all the necessary briefings before arriving, she still can’t grasp her reality—flashing bright, neon arrows toward her dried-up vagina. Good thing I have no qualms about reminding her.

  “You suck at sex,” I deadpan, my expression blank. Audible gasps escape from almost every collagen-plumped lip, yet I continue to drive my point home. “You don’t satisfy your husband sexually, which is why he wants to cheat on you, if he hasn’t already. You may be a fantastic wife, mother, homemaker, whatever, but you are a lousy lover. And that trumps all.”

  Lorinda clutches her chest with a shaky, manicured hand. The woman sitting next to her, a heavier-set, forty-something housewife—whose husband’s midlife crisis, and his love of barely legal debutantes, have turned their marriage into a media circus—steadies her with a motherly squeeze on the shoulder. Aw, how sweet.

  “And that goes for all of you,” I say, casting my glance around the room. “You’re here because you know you’re about to lose the one thing you’ve worked your pretty little asses off for—your man. You love the lifestyle you live, and instead of licking your wounds and moving on, you’d rather fix your broken marriage. And I’m here to help you.”

  “But how?”

  A slow, sardonic smile unfurls across my face. “I’m going to teach you how to fuck your husband.”

  More gasps. More pearl clutching. Even a few shrieks of My word!

  “But that’s not . . .” Lorinda screeches above the flurry of discontent. “Not proper. Not dignified.”

  And there it is.

  It’s the reason why her husband, Lane Cosgrove, likes to bend his pretty blond secretary over his desk and fuck her senseless while she calls him “Daddy.” He has a thing for anal—giving and taking it. His secretary keeps a strap-on in the locked file cabinet beside her desk for Thursday nights. Lane always works late on Thursdays, leaving Lorinda to her usual book-club meeting, women’s Bible study, wine tasting, etc., etc. Nothing Lane does on Thursdays is “proper.” Letting his secretary probe him with a ten-inch dildo while his mouth is stuffed with her panties to muffle his cries is anything but dignified. And he knows it. That’s why Lorinda can’t satisfy his needs. And letting your very rich and powerful husband leave home sexually unsatisfied is like giving him a loaded gun. Sooner or later, he’s going to pop off a few rounds.

  On cue, my head of concierge services, Diane, enters, followed by several members of my staff. Time to move this little welcoming party right along before any more tears are shed.

  “Ladies, if you think that you do not need this program and have ended up here by some mistake, please feel free to leave. Our drivers are prepared to take you straight to the airport, and you will be given a full refund. We just ask that you honor the nondisclosure agreements you and your spouses have signed.”

  No one makes a move to stand, so I continue. “If you would like to stay and learn how to improve your sex lives and, ultimately, your relationships, our staff will show you to your rooms. You will find that they are fully equipped with en suite facilities and amenities, plus we have a twenty-four-hour chef and staff at your disposal. The property also houses a state-of-the-art fitness center, spa, and salon for all your personal needs. Comfort is key here. Welcome to Oasis, ladies. We want you to consider this your home for the next six weeks of instruction.”

  Eleven sets of eyes stare back at me, waiting for the first command. No one wants to be the first to jump out of her seat, arms flailing as she screams, Pick me! Pick me! Teach me, I want to learn! They all want this; they all want to know the secrets of marital bliss. And they know everything I’ve said is true.

  Each and every one of these women knows that someone else is fucking their husband because she herself doesn’t know how to do it herself.

  And deep down, I feel for them. Hell, I even sympathize with them. They made it their life’s goal to meet and marry someone who would catapult them from their mediocre backgrounds and send them flying to the comforts of wealth and luxury.

  It’s a regular Pretty Woman syndrome. They go from lying on their backs for lavish gifts or some inconsequential promise of commitment in the form of a cheap, dime-store diamond ring, to more jewels than they even have limbs to wear them on. But what these ladies fail to realize is that whatever they had to do to nab their Richard Gere, they have to do that—and more—to keep him.

  The staff ushers the women up to their private rooms, leaving me alone in the great room just as the Arizona sun begins to set, slowly sliding down the azure sky. It morphs into a life-size canvas of ombré oranges, pinks, blues, and purples, the breathtaking view not sullied by towering buildings or jigsaw highways. Oasis is tucked far away from civilization, away from paparazzi, designer bullshit, and reality television.

  This is my favorite part of the day—when gravity pulls that scorching, desert sun above, coaxing it into the outstretched, jagged arms of mountains and cacti. Even the most tortured souls seek comfort and solitude.

  I make my way across the courtyard toward the guesthouse. I own all the property, but I don’t sleep in the main house. There’s a level of privacy and professionalism that I must uphold, and being locked in a secluded mansion with eleven women can be . . . difficult. My business is sex. I instruct sex. I live and breathe sex. And I need it, just like their duplicitous husbands.

  So thanks to my don’t-shit-where-you-eat policy, I endure six, sexless weeks during instruction, only sating my sexual appetite between the four courses I host per year. Even then, I’m discreet. Being any other way just isn’t profitable in my line of work.

  After letting the shower rinse away the day’s aggravation, I dress and head to the dining room for dinner. The ladies trickle in one by one, quietly taking seats around the grand table. They’re all still here. Eleven women desperate to reconnect with the men they hope to be tied to until death. The men that promised to move heaven and earth in exchange for their promise of commitment. The men who have broken their vows in order to sate sexual deviancies and feed their egos.

  The women are silent as we’re served the first course. Hardly anyone touches the starter of foie gras, elaborately dressed with poached apple in a fig reduction. Not even the scrape of silver against china echoes through the vast space.

  I chew slowly, surveying the eleven, perfectly poised women from the head of the table. All are determined to avoid eye contact as they pretend to nibble their appetizers and numb their nerves with wine.

  “So . . .” I start, drawing their reluctant eyes. “When was the last time any of you masturbated?”

  A symphony of coughs and gasps coaxes my mouth into a satisfied grin. This group should be fun.

  “Excuse me?” one sneers, after downing her red wine. A
server moves to grace her with a refill of velvety courage, knowing she’ll need it.

  “Did I stutter? Or do you not know what it means to masturbate?”

  “What? I know what”—she cringes, flustered, and shakes her head in embarrassment—“. . . masturbating is. Why do you feel the need to ask such crude, inappropriate questions?”

  I examine the striking redhead still glaring at me, her cherry lips tight with irritation. Her too large, almost animated eyes narrow in abhorrence, burning right through me with unspoken judgment. Even with her face twisted into a scowl, she’s stunning. Not overly done up or glamorous. She’s old Hollywood beautiful, yet there’s something fresh and simple about her.

  I frown, because that type of beauty is too much for this place. Yet it’s not enough for the world that she lives in.

  Allison Elliot-Carr. Daughter of Richard Elliot, owner and CEO of one of the largest investment banks in the world. Her husband, Evan Carr, is a trust-fund baby from an influential, political family, and Allison’s father’s golden boy. He’s also a pretty boy, a philandering bastard with no qualms about fucking anything in Manolos from Miami to Manhattan. Of course, that tidbit of information is not publicized. It’s my job to know these things. To get inside their heads. To expose their darkest secrets and make them confront them with unrelenting honesty.

  Allison purses her lips and shakes her head, her mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “You like this, don’t you? Humiliating us? Making us feel flawed and defective? As if we are the cause of our less-than-perfect marriages? We’re responsible for the way the tabloids rip us to shreds? You don’t know me. You don’t know any of us. Yet you think you can help us? Please. I call that bullshit.”

  I set down my silverware and dab my mouth with a linen napkin before giving her a knowing smirk. “Bullshit?”

  “Yeah, complete bullshit. I mean, who the hell do you think you are?”

  A smile slowly spreads my lips. I imagine licking my chops as a lion would before devouring a graceful, delicate gazelle. “I am Justice Drake,” I state smugly without apology. It’s a promise and an omen, gift-wrapped in two little words.

  “Well, Justice Drake . . . you, my friend, are a bullshit artist. You know nothing about our situations. There’s no magic, cure-all remedy for our marriages. But you wouldn’t know that because you don’t know a damn thing about us. You’re not a part of our world. Hell, you probably do your research on Page Six or TMZ.” With a wave of Thoroughbred arrogance, she settles back into her chair and sips her red wine, her blue, doe eyes trained on my impassive features.

  Mimicking her actions, I ease back into my own seat and steeple my fingers under my chin, elbows propped on the arms of the high-backed chair. A beat passes as my gaze delves into hers, unearthing traces of pain, embarrassment, and anger—feelings she’s been taught to hide in the face of the public. Still, no amount of MAC or Maybelline can mask the undeniable hell etched into her ivory skin.

  “Allison Elliot-Carr, wife of Evan Winston Carr and daughter to Richard and Melinda Elliot. Graduated from Columbia with a degree in business and finance in 2009, though your true passion is philanthropy, and you spend your free time working with various charities and nonprofits. You pledged Kappa Delta Nu sophomore year, where you met Evan, a senior, legacy member, and president of your brother fraternity. You were exclusive to Evan throughout college, and during Christmas of 2008, he proposed in front of both your families at your parents’ winter estate in Aspen. You were wed the following summer in New York City and honeymooned in the Caribbean. You hate spiders and scary movies, and think sweater vests should be outlawed. You can’t function without Starbucks, have a borderline unhealthy addiction to Friends reruns, and you eat ice cream daily. Mint chocolate chip is your current drug of choice, I believe. And according to the tabloids, your husband is sleeping with your best friend, and charming the panties off half of the Upper East Side. Plus you two haven’t fucked in months. But that’s just a little something I didn’t pick up from Page Six.” I lift an amused brow and lean forward, taking in her horrified expression. “Shall I go on?”

  The deafening silence swells and becomes uncomfortably dense, painfully pressing into my temples and crushing my skull, serving as punishment for my questionable conscience’s failure to intervene. Allison’s eyes mist with tears, transforming into an endless blue ocean of hurt. I don’t care. I shouldn’t care.

  “Well,” she croaks, her mouth dry and her wineglass empty. “Congratulations, asshole. You know how to navigate Wikipedia.” And as graceful as the elegant gazelle she was bred to be, she slides her chair back and stands, head held high, and glides out of the room.

  I go back to enjoying my meal while the rest of the table stares vacantly at the space that once briefly housed Allison’s retreating back. One down, only ten more to go. She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last.

  “Make her stay,” a meek voice barely whispers. Lorinda. The prim and proper housewife who’s more concerned with being dignified than where her husband puts his dick.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because she needs you. We all need you.” Several heads nod in agreement around the table. “Maybe her more than anyone else.”

  More nods. Even a few cosigning murmurs.

  I exhale a resigning breath, knowing exactly what I’m about to do, though it goes against every principle I’ve learned to live by for the past six years.

  Never get emotionally vested in a client.

  Never pressure or persuade them; it has to be their choice.

  And never, ever apologize for my unconventional technique, as cruel or brash as it may seem.

  The door to Allison’s suite is slightly ajar, but I knock anyway, letting it creak open to reveal her petite frame. “What do you want?” she snaps, refusing to look up from the suitcase she’s furiously stuffing with clothes.

  I step inside, not bothering to wait for an invitation, and close the door. “Going somewhere?”

  “Home. This was a mistake.”

  “That’s funny. I never pegged you for a quitter.”

  “Really?” she asks sardonically, casting an angry glare through thick, wet lashes. “Because you know everything about me, right? You know my entire life story. Height, weight, Social Security number . . . hell, do you have my gynecologist on speed dial?”

  “Don’t be absurd.” I smirk with a wave of my hand. “You know there’s no way in hell I could ever learn a woman’s true weight.”

  Allison raises her gaze from her Louis Vuitton luggage and shakes her head, dismissing me and my dry attempt at humor. But before she can turn away, the tiniest hint of a smile reveals itself at the corner of her mouth.

  I move closer, close enough to smell the Chanel dabbed behind her ears. “Mrs. Carr, it is my job to make your business my business. In order to best serve my clients, full disclosure is key. There is no room for dirty little secrets here. We’ve all got them, and trust me, yours pale in comparison to most. And believe it or not, no one in that dining room is here to judge your situation. They’re all too worried about their own reasons for being here.

  “With that said, I apologize if you felt my brand of honesty was too potent for you. It was callous of me. Still, that’s no reason to throw in the towel. Not when we’ve hardly scratched the surface.”

  She barks out a forced laugh and looks away toward the window. A sea of glittering stars dot the blackened sky, lighting a path toward a full moon. The paleness of night floods the room, bathing her fair complexion in the glow of diamonds and sorrow.

  “You said I was exclusive,” she says just above a whisper, her voice distant yet melodic enough to echo in my head.

  “Excuse me?”

  She turns to me, eyes painted in angst. “You said I was exclusive to him in college. Not we. As if I was faithful while he was not.”

  She isn’t angry, or surprised, or even embarrassed. She’s stuck somewhere between jaded and indifferent. In perpetual limbo,
writhing in the space between being hurt beyond words and too fed up to give a fuck anymore.

  She needs to give a fuck. I need her to give a fuck if I’m going to help her save her marriage.

  “I’m aware, Mrs. Carr. And so are you.”

  Allison smiles the kind of smile that’s meant to be a grimace. The kind contorted by deep-seated hurt and shame. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? That since I knew what kind of man he was from the start, yet married him anyway, I deserve this?”

  “It’s not my job to think that, Mrs. Carr.”

  “Right.” She smirks. “Just your job to point out what we’re doing wrong in the bedroom.” I open my mouth to object but she raises a palm to stop me. “I get it, you know. We all signed up for this. We all knew what we were getting into. That doesn’t make it any less humiliating.”

  I look at her—really look at her—and my head swirls with inner turmoil. Of course, she’s beautiful—they all are—but Allison is absolutely flawless. She wears very little makeup, and her face is unmarred by the telltale signs of plastic surgery or injections. Tiny, tan freckles dot her slender nose, giving her an almost innocent, youthful appeal. The fact that she hasn’t tried to hide or surgically remove a little piece of herself that society would deem a blemish, intrigues me. Shit, it makes her kind of badass. Such a small act of rebellion, yet such a monumental fuck you to a world that celebrates narcissism and bullshit images.

  Allison’s fiery halo of red hair falls to her shoulders in deep waves. It’s full and healthy, but not overly styled with product and extensions. It’s . . . her. Simple. Classic. Perfection.

  “What are you looking at?” she asks, her voice laced with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

  “You.” The word is out of my mouth before a lie can even begin to stifle the truth. Shit.

  “Why?” Less annoyance, more amusement.

  “You have freckles.”

  She twists her mouth to one side and raises a cynical brow. “That I do. Would you like to count my moles? I may be able to scrounge up some scars for you too.”