The Rider List: An Erotic Romance
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Authors: J.T. Charles
The
Rider
List
J.T. Charles
Copyright © 2015 by J.T. Charles
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written consent of the Author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
She clearly has no idea who I am. Perfect.
This is the first time I’ve been around a woman who doesn’t see me through the prism of my fame. It’s intriguing to me. Almost like an experiment. I’m a paying guest here at the resort and I’ve reserved the biggest place on the grounds, so she has to treat me a certain way. But I’ll break down those walls, somehow.
It was all I could do to push thoughts from my mind when she was here. I’m drawn to the details of a woman’s mouth. It’s often the first thing I notice.
Those big brown eyes of hers drew me in as well. I imagine them looking up at me as she wraps her lips around my cock.
I could try to rush things with Audrey, but where’s the fun in that?
I have all summer to play with her, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.
Before I go out for the afternoon, I take a shower. With the towel wrapped around my waist, I walk into the bedroom. I sit on the bed, and intend to reach for the suitcase to get some clothes.
But thoughts of Audrey demand all of my attention. I open the towel and…there’s no way I’m going to make it through the afternoon like this.
I lean back on the bed and let out a heavy, frustrated sigh as I conjure up images from when she was right here in this room earlier today. The flash images of her are enough to turn me on, and it’s intensified as I wonder what she would think if she knew what I was doing right now.
I close my eyes as my hand goes to my cock….
Audrey
I’m driving to work just after eight o’clock, and it’s a routine morning in the last week of May, except for the fact that it’s raining so hard I can barely see the road. During the course of this day I will meet a man who will show me things I’ve never seen before, bring me to heights of pleasure I’ve never imagined, test my limits, and change my life forever.
Of course, I don’t know that yet, so the day seems pretty normal so far.
Despite the insane downpour, I stop at my favorite coffee shop on the island. We have coffee at work, but it’s no Bean Co. I get out of my car, splash through a couple of puddles in the parking lot, and finally make it to the sidewalk.
The good news is that it’s less crowded in here than it usually is at this hour. I can understand altering your morning routine before work due to bad weather, but skipping coffee? No way.
My shoes slip and squeak on the wet floor as I make my way to the counter.
This is the kind of place I’d like to walk into and have someone behind the counter say, “The usual?” But the baristas and I haven’t moved that far in our relationship yet. I’ve only had this new job on the island for two weeks.
I order my coffee—regular, nothing fancy, with a little room for cream—and wait. I look out the window and see the rain is steady. It’s not going to let up anytime soon. They call my name, I pick up my drink, and head back out into the drenching rain, splashing through puddles until I get to my car.
The drive over to the beach-front resort takes only a few minutes. When I get inside the clubhouse/office, I’m greeted with a laugh from Jeanine. She’s a concierge, like me, but we work opposite shifts.
When I see her, I say, “Tell me again why I don’t keep an umbrella in my car?”
Jeanine laughs. “You’re a mess. I’ll get you a towel.”
I do my best to pat dry my hair while Jeanine tells me about the overnight shift.
“The couple in Bungalow G were at it again last night.”
I shake my head. Not just because I’m trying to dry my hair, but because the couple she’s referring to have been giving us something to laugh about for a week.
“Out on the deck again. No candles this time, but I could hear them about one o’clock.”
“At least you didn’t have to see anything this time.” I ball up the towel and walk toward the laundry.
The couple in Bungalow G are on their honeymoon. They’re nice enough, and not too demanding, which makes our job easier. But they’ve been having sex on their deck for the last four nights, and even once in the morning, which is when I witnessed it. We told Jim, the resort manager. He said to let it go until we get a complaint from other guests. So far, we haven’t heard anything from the other guests, just the sounds of newlywed lovemaking.
“Yeah,” Jeanine says. “They’re leaving today so I guess you missed the grand finale.”
“God. Better you than me.”
Jeanine gathers her things and gets ready to leave, but before she does, she stops at the door and turns. “Oh, there’s someone new in A today.”
“Someone or some
ones
, plural?” I ask.
A is the largest bungalow. It’s usually a big extended family that stays there.
“Someone. Just one guy. All the info is on the desk. I gotta run. See you later.”
I walk over to the desk just as Jim comes in the office, calling out, “You look like hell, Audrey.”
“Thanks. Good morning to you, too.”
He laughs. I’ve only known him for two weeks, but he’s one of the friendliest and most easy-going bosses I’ve had at any job I’ve ever worked. Jim is in his mid-thirties, married with two kids, and has worked at this resort for fifteen years. I had interviewed with him on a Tuesday and he had called the next day to offer me the job. He told me then that I was going to have a great summer, it was a fun place to work, but it’s also a five-star resort and we are expected to deliver the finest and most professional service to our guests.
“New guy in A,” he says, as he sits down.
“Jeanine was just telling me.” I pick up the folder. Adam Lewis is the guy’s name. “One guy staying there by himself?”
I look back to Jim. He shrugs. “He paid for it. I don’t know what he needs all that space for, but it’s his.” Jim leans forward, elbows on the desks, hands clasping. “All summer.”
I feel my eyebrows lift a little. “Seriously?” I look back down at the cheat sheet—which contains bullet notes for us concierges so we can quickly familiarize ourselves with the new guests. Sure enough, Adam Lewis has booked Bungalow A until the weekend after Labor Day. “Does that happen a lot?”
Jim shakes his head. “Never seen it in all my years here.”
I know what all the bungalows cost, and of course, A is our most expensive. I quickly do some rough math in my head and calculate what this Adam Lewis guy spent on this place.
“Don’t bother doing the math,” Jim says, his timing snapping me out of my thoughts. “We discounted it somewhat, but it’s still an obscene amount.”
I can only imagine.
Jim opens a paper bag and pulls out a bagel, then opens a can of Coke. “One other thing. You know what a rider is?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“I didn’t, either, until this. It’s a list. Things they want when they arrive somewhere.”
“Like what?”
Jim bites into the bagel and rips off a piece, chewing as he talks. “Usually small things. Foods they like. Drinks. Shit like that.” He shrugs. “No big deal. Just wanted to make you aware that this guy emailed a rider to us yesterday. I printed it out. It’s in there.” He motions at the folder with his bagel.
I flip through the sheets of paper and find the list: Green apples, bananas, peaches, blueberries, mangos, carrots, red bell peppers, broccoli, whole grain sandwich rolls, and Yuengling. Hmmm.
I look over at Jim. “All this healthy stuff, and beer?”
Jim’s mouth is full of bagel. He raises both eyebrows as he chews, and speaks before swallowing. “What the guest wants, the guest gets.”
I look back down at the list.
Jim says, “I don’t know if he wants that stuff every day or every few days or if the list will change or what. You can ask him when you greet him.”
I look at the clock on my phone. It’s now just past 9 a.m. I have my usual rounds to do. This involves checking on each of our twelve bungalows, which are spread out at one end of the resort. The four-story hotel part of the resort is covered by an entirely different staff. Our crew is only responsible for these twelve stand-alone rentals.
Some of what this Adam Lewis guy requested can be picked up at the hotel restaurant, but I’ll have to go to the store for the rest. Running errands like that isn’t out of the norm; guests ask us to do things like that all the time—it’s part of the reason we’re here—but this guy’s “rider” is a whole new experience.
He’s probably some mega-rich guy who’s accustomed to people doing the little things that he needs done, while he does whatever important thing it is that made him rich in the first place. Whatever it is, I’m already intrigued. I’ve met a few interesting people here in my short two-weeks on the job—the couple in Bungalow G being the most entertaining—and I’m eager to see what Adam Lewis is all about.
. . . . .
The rain has stopped by the time I leave the office. It’s still cloudy, but that’s beginning to break up, and people are starting to emerge from their bungalows. I say hello to them, stop and chat for a minute, asking if they need anything.
I make this stop at each door. Sometimes they want certain items, other times simply recommendations—nearby shopping, movie theaters, restaurants. That’s pretty much the extent of my job, and I’ve loved every minute of it since I started here.
The couple in G is checking out this morning. I see them loading bags into their car and I stop to tell them we have an attendant who will be happy to bring their belongings out and pack their car for them. They decline. I thank them for staying with us and tell them I hope they had an enjoyable time.
The guy says, “Best week of my life.”
I try not to do anything that lets him know I’m highly amused by his answer.
He closes the trunk of his car and his new wife reaches for him. “Now it’s away from fantasyland and back to the real world.”
I wish them luck and happiness, and I walk away wondering how long they’ll be that enthralled with each other. And I’m also thinking that Bungalow G will now be known as fantasyland. I wonder how many fantasies were fulfilled in there over the last eight days….
The sun peaks out from behind the clouds, making a little steam rise from the wet sidewalk. This early, and already the humidity is setting in. I round the corner, beach view off to my right, the path lined with palmetto trees and knee-high beach grass in the sand.
I walk up the steps to the porch and knock on the door. As expected, there’s no answer. It wouldn’t hurt to do one last walk-through of the place before he arrives, so I use my master key and go in.
Everything looks clean and perfect, the air conditioner is set at 72, drawing the humidity out of the air. There’s a welcome basket on the counter that contains nothing on his list. I consider removing it, but decide to leave it. I go upstairs and check the six rooms. Everything looks good.
If he’s staying by himself, he’ll surely be using the master bedroom, so I go back downstairs.
The blinds are closed, so I walk around to the other side of the bed to open them and almost trip over a set of bags.
“Hello.” The voice behind me is low and smooth.
I turn and see a man dressed in blue shorts. His white t-shirt is off but it’s slung over his left shoulder. He’s wearing a baseball cap, but I don’t know what the insignia on it means. His shoulders and chest are broad, and his left bicep flexes a little as he leans on the doorjamb. He looks like someone who just walked in off the beach, not at all like the guy I was expecting.
“I’m Audrey Mitchell. Mr. Lewis, right?”
“Yes.”
Moving away from the window, I take a few steps toward him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were already here. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine,” he says, cutting me off mid-sentence. “I’m used to finding strange people in my bedroom.”
I pause, unsure what to say. I’ve just apologized.
He smiles. “Relax.” He looks down at my chest and I think he’s appraising me, looking at my boobs, but he looks up immediately. “I’m just fucking with you, Audrey. Nice to meet you.” He lifts a hand.
This is the first time in my life anyone has ever said any form of the word “fuck” when we first meet. I don’t sense arrogance from this guy, but rather a confidence I’ve never seen in anyone I’ve ever met.
I take his hand. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Lewis.”
“Please, call me Adam.”
I’m suddenly aware that he’s still holding my hand. Or am I holding his? I pull back a little, and he lets my hand go.
“Adam,” I say. “When did you arrive?”
“A little after four this morning.”
So Jeanine checked him in and forgot to mention that critical bit of information to me. She was hurrying out the door, though.
“I was just taking a walk on the beach.” He pushes off the doorjamb and walks past me, to the bathroom. I notice he has something in his mouth. It’s white, and I realize it’s a mint. I hear the water running in the sink, then splashing, and figure he’s washing his face.
This is the part that’s always hardest for me. The small talk. I’m not into small talk. It’s boring, it’s forced, usually meaningless. It’s the one part of the job that I don’t like, but that goes with any job, I suppose.
“Hope you didn’t get caught in the rain,” I say.
He steps out of the bathroom, blotting his face with a hand towel. He has taken his hat off. His hair is sandy blond and short. “How long have you worked here?”
I take his question as more small talk and answer, “Two weeks,” but I’m wrong about the chit-chat.
“How old are you?”
It’s an odd question. I’ve never been asked this before at this job or any other, but I see no smooth way to refuse to answer. “Twenty-two.”
He nods, tossing the towel back in the bathroom. He takes a few steps toward me. Close enough that I can see his green eyes.
Usually, I would be put off by a guy staring into my eyes like he’s doing, but it doesn’t bother me at all. I look back at him, and his gaze travels down to my chest, legs, feet, then back up. A brazen assessing scan if I ever saw one.
I’ve had guys check me out before, but they usually try to do it secretly. He doesn’t make the slightest effort. It’s almost like he wants me to know.
“I need to know that I can trust you. That I can count on your discretion.” I can smell the peppermint on his breath, and God, the hard lines of his jaw make me want to reach up and touch it.
I swallow hard, suddenly finding myself wondering about him. “Of course,” I say, and it’s no lie. In fact, I’d be breaking company policy if I were to violate any guest’s privacy. If that’s what he means. What
does
he mean?