Page 4 of Plum

Work. Yeah. I force my attention back to my phone. I hesitate for a second over the email I’ve been avoiding, tap delete, and then open our app. The market’s about to close in Hong Kong. We’re testing a new product that should increase average R.O.I. by half a percent. I’m testing it with my play portfolio, along with the guys in research and development.

Eric thinks half a percent isn’t worth the investment we’re making, but he’s never really understood scale on an intuitive level. Ten-year-old me scurried past men who’d kill for half of a percent of one million every day. You understand value when you know what people will do for it.

Which makes my misjudgment in regards to Renee even more inexplicable. I really thought she would be the perfect wife.

A bitter taste floods my mouth. I wash it out by downing my sixth bourbon.

Renee was value. Old money. Undergrad at Yale. MBA from Harvard Business. Passionate about climate change and dressage. We were golden. And then I forgot one anniversary, and she got Eric drunk and high and fucked him while I was closing a deal in Copenhagen.

When I broke off the engagement, she had the nerve to say I never loved her. Bullshit. I knew what she was worth.

Still, I knew I’d made the right call when I couldn’t bring myself to give much of a shit. I’ve never really been the emotional type. I want what I want, but it’s never been about feelings. I moved on. Eric bought me a 1951 Black Shadow, and we called it even.

Life is all good again, except the damn emails that keep popping up from a man I haven’t seen in twenty-five years.

I resist the urge to check for another one, scrolling through my portfolio instead, but the numbers blur together. It’s hard to focus with Eric thrusting his pelvis like he’s trying to knock his dick off. Besides, the Jim Beam is really kicking in now, and my vision’s going a little fuzzy. The chair’s creaking, and he won’t shut up.

“Swallow on me. Let me feel it.”

There’s a half-choking, half-gurgling sound, and my gaze flies up. I don’t necessarily want to see this, but Eric left to his own devices tends to not pay attention to others. It’s not that he’s a bad man, but when you’ve been brought up to believe you’re the center of everything, you don’t think much about what’s going on around you.

The situation across the room seems cool, though. From the grip the girl has on the base of Eric’s dick, I’m fairly sure she’s not suffocating to death.

She gasps and chokes again. This time I can hear it; she’s playing it up. Good for her. The quicker this is over, the quicker I can head back to Pyle. Get a shower. Some sleep.

I mean to go back to my phone, and I’m going to, but I stare a moment too long, and I see it. The girl is on her knees, head bobbing, her feet tucked neatly under her ass, and her free hand is sneaking, very slowly, behind her. What’s she going for?

She raises up a few inches, grabs the buckle on her sparkly white stiletto heels, and she tugs the strap loose. Then—all the time smacking and slurping—she eases the shoe off and starts rubbing the red crease marking the bridge of her small, white foot.

She moans really loud, pure pleasure, and Eric says, “That’s right, bitch.”

I have to cough to cover the laugh.

Eric starts panting hard, and I turn my head. We boarded at Mountchassen together, we pledged Kappa Iota Chi together, and we lived together for a few years after grad school. I’d like to say this is the first time I’ve been stuck playing on my phone while Eric gets his rocks off, but it’s not.

“Let me come in your mouth.”

The girl grunts a muffled negative.

“Come on. I want you to swallow my cum like the dirty little whore you are.”

There’s a wet slurp, and then a clear, entirely unaffected voice. “Extra twenty.”

“Whatever. Get back on it.” The noises start again, and then Eric grunts like he’s been punched in the gut.

I quickly click to make a trade and close my portfolio app. Eric’s not one to linger after he finishes. In fact, he’s already tucking himself into his pants.

“Card or cash, sweetie?” The stripper has him beat. She’s already on her feet. When did she buckle that shoe back on?

Oh, she hasn’t. She’s just slipped her foot in.

Eric shakes his head. “I paid already.”

“You asked me to swallow. That’s twenty extra.”

“I didn’t say yes to that.” Eric grabs his jacket.

Asshole. He always does this. Stiffs waitresses. Returns clothes he’s worn. Petty shit. It’s like he gets off on getting one over on people who don’t have the means to complain.

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