Page 37 of Plum

Fuck. My balls ache, but I can’t get in the head space to rub one out.

She couldn’t have loved it that much. She bailed as soon as she could, helping herself to one hell of a generous tip. My first time with a whore, at least she wasn’t a cheap one.

My fists clench, and tension tightens my shoulders.

I know she hated my place. She didn’t even pretend to like it. Literally everyone who visits can’t get over the skyline. It’s the best view in Pyle. That’s how the management company markets the penthouse. She turned up her nose at everything. Except me. She couldn’t get enough of me.

Yeah. Right.

I know she’s a whore. It’s her job to spin a fantasy. She does her job; she goes home. I get it, but I can’t shake this irritation. Makes me think crazy shit. She was supposed to be here when I woke up. I didn’t say the night was over.

I should call the cops. Have her arrested. Make her beg me with those plump lips to drop the charges.

Fuck that. I should hunt her down, spank that bouncy, heart-shaped ass until it’s bright red, and she knows who she belongs to. That she doesn’t get to leave until I say so. She’s mine.

I’ve never been so gone, so out of my mind, as I was last night. Nothing has ever felt so good. Not just the sex. Everything. How could she not feel the same thing? How could I be such a cliché asshole?

I can’t think about this anymore. I’ve got a dozen voicemails on my phone, ten times as many emails, and the acquisition of ArrowXchange isn’t going to settle itself because I decided to insert my head up my ass. Fuck.

I get in the shower, twist the temperature to scalding, and when I’ve scrubbed her off my skin, I turn the knob to cold. It takes a while, but my dick eventually goes soft. I dress, and every time a memory pops up—her tongue licking the dessert spoon clean, her whimpering and shoving her tit deeper in my mouth as I suckled her—I force it away while my adrenaline amps up another notch.

It was fun. A good time. I can do it again if I want. Five hundred down. A hundred an hour.

Why’d she go before I woke up? She could have been raking it in while I slept.

Shit, I know where she lives. I should take that key from her fake rock, climb into her bed, tie her down and tease her pussy ‘til she cries.

Now I’m even more pissed off ‘cause I’ve got all these thoughts that aren’t me. I’m not the kind of man who gets distracted by women. Certainly not by ones paid hourly.

I check my messages, and while it’s mostly my assistant reminding me to check various emails, there’s also Eric bitching about having to sit in on a research and development meeting for me. And then there’s a voicemail from my mother. She wants to meet for a late lunch.

I don’t need this today.

After listening to the last message—Eric warning me I better be in the office by noon so he doesn’t have to cover the meeting with the ArrowXchange risk management guys—I change my mind about lunch with Mom. Pissing Eric off will at least cheer me up a little bit.

Besides, if I put Mrs. Thomas Wade off, she’ll start calling, and it’s harder to get her off the phone than to wrap up a lunch. I text her assistant to set it up, and then I spend some time going through my inbox. My eyes keep straying to the bed, and each time, a surge of irritation cramps my muscles. I don’t know who I’m so angry with.

Plum?

Myself?

I’m in a truly foul mood when I arrive for lunch at La Fortuna. Mom is a creature of habit. She likes three restaurants downtown, and she can’t be persuaded that any others could possibly do a decent Caesar salad. At least La Fortuna is close to work.

I dread what’ll be waiting for me back at the office. I never take time off. I’ll definitely need to stay late tonight. Not seeing my bed or the easy chair, not constantly springing a hard on at the memories and then instantly fighting off rage all over again…yeah, working late doesn’t sound so bad. I don’t know why I can’t muster up my usual dedication.

Mom’s already seated when I arrive. She stands and offers me her cheek to kiss. She’s the perfect society matron at this point. The young woman who schlepped our dirty clothes to the coin laundry on Gilson Avenue is long gone.

“Adam.” She arranges herself in her chair, back straight. Imperious. “You look perturbed.”

“Mom.” I sit, ignoring the observation. I know she won’t pry. She never does. “You look lovely as always.”

“I ordered for you. I figured you’d want to get back to work as soon as possible.”

“The filet?”

“Of course.”

I’m a creature of habit, too.

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