Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
He stroked my back and tugged a handful of my hair. “Goodbye, Chere. You can get up when you hear the door close.”
“Bye,” I said.
I heard his footfalls across the room, heard the door open and close. I wondered if he still felt pissed, or if he felt better now. My feelings had run the gamut since I arrived.
I took off the blindfold and stuck it in my bag, even though I knew I wouldn’t need it again. I tried to wrestle the halves of my stockings off the bedframe, but I couldn’t undo the knot. Oh well. I was sure the staff had seen everything in this kind of hotel. I collected the pieces of my dress and garter belt—he hadn’t taken them with him this time. I tried not to read anything into that. He’s weird, don’t try to understand him.
And it was weird that it took that long to remember I had poetry on my back. I went into the bathroom and twisted around to try to read it in the mirror. No dice. I had to use my camera timer to take a photo. I swiped at the screen to enlarge the black words written on my skin.
Oh drink me up
That I may be
Within your cup
Like a mystery
I didn’t know if it was a whole poem or part of a poem, written by him or someone else. I typed the words into my phone’s search engine and got the answer: Mystery by D.H. Lawrence. I lift to you my bowl of kisses/And through the temple’s blue recesses/Cry out to you in wild caresses.
I had cried out at his wild caresses, that was for sure. Well, as much as I could cry out when he gagged me. I touched my wrists, remembering the feeling of the zip ties, and then I touched the insides of my thighs, studying the pale pink marks from his belt. Talk about mystery...why the hell was I getting hot and bothered remembering that beating? Fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh, drink me up...
I sprawled back on the rumpled bed, masturbating and reading the words over and over, searching for meaning, or maybe the answer to a question I didn’t know how to ask. When I finished with a shuddering orgasm, I stood and crossed to the window to look out at the city. W always picked the higher floors with the best views. Beautiful, so beautiful.
Maybe I would stay here tonight and gaze out at the vibrant cluster of New York City’s lights. This room was so white and clean and bright, nothing like the loft I shared with Simon. Our loft was dark and claustrophobic, with no view at all.
In Between
I met with Henry a couple days later, at a quiet, private cafe in midtown. The first thing he did, after air-kissing both of my cheeks, was look into my eyes with deep concern. “How are you, Chere?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Talk to me about this exclusive arrangement with Mr. Cumming. Two dates ago, you were calling me to complain about him. You said he was an asshole.”
“He is an asshole.”
He waved to the waitress, and when Henry waved, women always came running. When she scurried over, he asked for a seltzer, then turned his attention back to me. “You know, you don’t have to be exclusive just because he asked you to.”
“I know. But I’ll make more money by being exclusive, right?” I didn’t want to admit the real reason I agreed...so I could see what the asshole looked like. “Not just more money, but less work.”
“Less work now. More work later, when you have to build up your client list again.”
“That’s where you come in. You always find more perverts to send me. I assume that’s not going to change.”
Henry smiled at me, his friendly, handsome smile with his white, handsome teeth. “I’ve got your back, love. I’ll always have your back.” He turned to the waitress and gave her the same drop-dead smile as she handed him his drink. “Thank you, Jessica,” he said, reading her name off her tag. “I appreciate it.”
Jessica practically curtsied as she backed away from the table. Ridiculous, his effect on women. I was glad he was my agent and not my boyfriend, not that Simon didn’t turn a certain type of woman weak at the knees. But Simon was artsy-beautiful. Henry was beautiful-beautiful.
“One to two times a week,” he said, turning back to me. “That’s your contractual duty. And those are two-hour sessions, not overnights. It’s a great arrangement, Chere. If you’re willing...” He shrugged. “Why not?”
Oh, there were so many why nots, but I wasn’t going to share them with Henry. I sipped my Irish coffee and looked out at the street, at people hurrying to appointments or jobs or lovers. “Do you know what he does for a living?” I asked.