Untimely You (4 page)

“Mistah Hocksted? You down there?” Yvette, my full-time cook and maid, hollers down the stairwell into the basement.

“Yeah,” I tell her with a grunt as I bench press the weights, the muscles in my chest blazing with a burn that doesn’t ever match the one of my charred heart.

“I cooked you summa that red beans and rice you love so much, boy. Git yer hiney up here ‘for it gets cold.”

“I’ll be right up.”

She lets the door slam shut and I press through the burn. Every night for nearly the last twelve years, I’ve come here to escape it all. Sometimes for thirty minutes. Other times for hours. It’s the only time I feel as though I can physically release some of the pain that is burrowed so deep inside of me.

Down here, I don’t obsess over pictures of her where her eyes twinkle and her smile is flawless. I don’t try to change the past. I don’t pray for things that just simply won’t happen.

Down here, I simply exist.

I lift the weights and focus on the physical pain, instead of what grips my heart in a prison death grip.

Down here, for just a moment, I’m free.

“I don’t approve of this Adrian!” Barbara screeches, sending a vase onto the floor with a crash. “You’re a bastard! There were plans. You’ve gone against everything!”

It’s been two days since the accident and already, I cannot deal with this woman. I can hardly deal with my wife’s mother on a regular basis, but when she comes into my world spewing her goddamn garbage all over the place, I want to lose my shit. I’m barely hanging on by a thread.

“There are no plans. Nothing was finalized.” The lie feels like truth on my tongue.

The older woman, who appears to be a vicious form of her daughter, glares at me. “Where are you hiding it? Where?!”

“Leave, Barbara. You’ll wake Damien. He’s already been through so much.”

“BECAUSE HE LOST HIS MOTHER!”

I snarl at her words and snatch the frail woman by her biceps. She struggles against me as I forcibly remove her from my home. The second I get her past the threshold I slam the door shut in her face and lock it.

“I have a key, Adrian!” she screams through the door. “You can’t keep me away on this. You’ve crossed a line and dammit if I won’t have my lawyers crawling all over you tomorrow morning.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “I’m her husband. You’re her mother. Try fighting that one in a court of law.”

“WAS, ADRIAN! She’s nothing now because of you! Nothing!”

I sling the door back open and shove my finger in her face, spittle spewing all over her wrinkled face. “Fuck you, Barbara! Fuck you! Now get the fuck off my goddamned property before I call the police or get my gun to take care of this shit myself.”

She swats my hand away from her face, and the anger simmers, her eyes giving way to tears. “Save the bullet, son. We both know who needs it.”

As she storms away toward her Cadillac, I drop to my knees and a gut-wrenching wail rips from my throat. The guilt consumes me and I die, one body-wrenching sob at a time.

It should have been me.

I shouldn’t have been driving that night.

I deserved this—not the mother of my son.

“Daddy?”

Sucking in a ragged breath of air, I swipe away the tears with the palms of my hands before turning to him. The staples along his hairline are visible, and it only serves to remind me of the fucking mess I caused.

“Come here, Dame,” I choke out as my boy scrambles into my arms.

I break down again and am only calmed when he begins patting my back with his sweet seven-year-old hands.

“It’s okay to cry, Daddy.”

And, boy, do I fucking cry.

I cry for so long that he finally falls asleep in my arms. The entire way to his room, I cry. On the way to my bedroom, I cry. As I crawl into bed, inhaling her scent, longing for her soft fingertips touching my bare chest, I cry.

And then I don’t cry anymore.

D
ress comfortably.

What the hell does that even mean?

I
was
dressed comfortably. Maxi skirts are like the ultimate definition of comfortable. And yet, with his husky request, I couldn’t help but feel as though he meant something altogether different. Perhaps, dress sexy because those clothes are coming off anyway…

“Turn right in five hundred feet onto Pop-a-Lar.” I snigger at the GPS’s horrendous pronunciation of Poplar but obediently obey her command. The houses in this neighborhood are expensive but older. I’d expected something over the top lavish for Mr. Sex God.

I fidget as I drive. The only purpose for a man like him needing a woman like me to work at his home is for something sexual. I’ve read enough romance books to know that I’ve probably agreed to something kinky and illicit. By noon he’ll have me hogtied in the basement with my panties stuffed into my mouth and have whipped my white ass until it’s swollen and red. He might even want me to call him Daddy.
I wonder what my real daddy would think of that…

That’s what rich, angry, complicated men like Adrian do. They pay for ridiculously hot, yet taboo sex. Lucky for him, not only do I need the money and am severely attracted to him, but I’m eager to be with someone with grade A sex game. It’s long overdue.

“Turn left onto Oak Place South.”

I flick my gaze up to the rearview mirror and furrow my eyebrows together. This morning I spent an awful long time in front of the mirror getting “comfortable.” My eyeshadow is an artful pallet of dark greys beneath newly plucked brows and I’ve painted my lashes midnight black with mascara. I’ve left my auburn hair down for once and it hangs in loose waves in front of my shoulders instead of piled up messily on top of my head. And my lips are blood red, perfect for sucking cock.

“Arriving at destination on left.”

I slow to a charming house that seems well below Mr. Hocksted’s means. The yard is meticulously maintained with flowers for miles and the cheery yellow paint looks fresh. It is by far the nicest house on the block. After pulling into the driveway, I peek down at my outfit. The fitted black strapless dress hits me mid-thigh and the heels are a bitch to walk in, but if I want to earn two grand a week and not get canned after the first day, I need to dress for the occasion.

The rumor in the office is that Adrian has no personal life. He’s been known to smile a time or two in the presence of Eric Andrews, but other than that, he’s as scary as I am determined. It seems unusual that he’d pick me to have sex with, but I’m certainly not complaining. When a man like Adrian propositions you for sex, you take him up on that offer—paid endeavor or not. The man drips lust, and I can guarantee he’ll be my best lover to date. Most women might have a problem with renting their bodies out for money. Not this chick. If I can get him to keep me around for a few months, I’ll have a substantial down payment for my loan and my chances for getting approved will be considerably higher.

And I’ll get a lot of fucking orgasms in the process.

I think I’ve landed my
other
dream job.

There’s an old Honda in the driveway and I wonder who it belongs to. Adrian drives a sleek BMW—not that I’ve noticed him leaving promptly at five each day or anything.

The walk to the front door in my fancy shoes is a joke when one of the heels gets stuck in the crack of the sidewalk. I nearly careen into a gigantic and vibrantly colored rose bush that I’m sure would be a literal thorn in my side but luckily reach out to a wooden pillar just in time. Once I’ve righted myself and put my shoe back on, I continue the death march to Mr. Hocksted’s door. I attempt to hide my amused smile in an effort to appear smug and confident before he answers. I knock firmly on the door and hoist my huge tan suede purse, which doesn’t match my dress, over my shoulder.

I’d fuck me.

Now I’m grinning like a fool.

Until the door swings open.

My eyes widen at the sight of him. He’s standing there in his black slacks and fitted white undershirt that hasn’t been tucked in yet, baring a sliver of olive skin above his belt. His black hair is still wet from a shower and hangs messily in his eyes. Water droplets fall and drop onto his exposed chest and shoulders. And Jesus, what a fucking chest. All curves and firm ridges. His shirts and jackets at work hide the sheer glorious masculinity behind the fabric.

I’d thought he was good-looking—handsome—but I was wrong.

He’s fucking hot.

“What the hell are you wearing? I told you to dress comfortably.” His voice drips with the same disdainful tone from yesterday. My smile is gone as I stare at him confused.

“I thought…”

I start to get flustered and then I remember this is all part of the “act.” The men in the books like making the woman feel powerless and worthless. I bite back my smile at how easy he is to read and nod. “Of course, Adrian. I’m sorry. I’ll wear jeans next time.”

He flashes me a polite smile that sends a shiver down my spine. “Thank you. Now come along so I can speak with you about what you’ll be doing.”

The urge to kick off my heels at the door is strong but I refrain and dutifully clomp behind him. The foyer is decorated with floral pieces and scattered pictures. I want to stop to inspect them but he’s stalking down the hallway too quickly, and I have to rush to keep up. He pushes through a set of French doors and guides me into a masculine-looking office. The room is dark and dreary, like I would’ve expected to see in one of the older houses in this neighborhood. The curtains are drawn and a single lamp lights the small space surrounding his desk.

“Please, have a seat.”

I sit in the spot he pointed to and face him as he sits across from me. He steeples his fingers together and leans back in his chair. I wonder if this is the part where he pulls out a non-disclosure agreement for me to sign agreeing not to blab about his dark, kinky preferences. Sitting up straight, I narrow my gaze at him to appear serious and aloof.

“I took my time researching you last night. Your social media accounts are fairly inactive. You have good credit. The hiatus you were on was because you took time to care for your elderly grandmother.” He nods as if he’s impressed with my boring life.

“That’s me,” I say with a sigh. “In a nutshell.”

“So what exactly do you do in your free time?”

Research locations for my business.

Work on my business plan.

Contact vendors.

Devour articles about the publishing industry.

“I read.” It sounds less complicated and more of a
submissive-kinky-slave-girl
thing to say.

He arches a dark brow and runs his fingers through his wet hair. When will I get to run my fingers through it? I chew on my lip and wait for him to continue.

“I guess that’s why I hired you,” he mutters. “Anyway, I need to have your word that your dedication to this job will be one hundred percent Monday through Friday from seven in the morning until six or so at night. That you won’t get distracted dealing with personal shit. That you will do exactly as I tell you.”

His chocolate-colored eyes grow fierce and it sends a shiver down my spine. Adrian is the type of man who a woman no doubt worships from her knees. If I were more forward, I’d offer to get this party started now. He looks good enough to eat and I’d start by licking the droplet of water from his jaw near his ear. But, knowing my role in this, I wait patiently for his orders.