Page 5 of Blackmail
I slide my phone into my pocket and take a few deep breaths. I’ve got a stabby attitude, and that’s not what you want when dealing with older people. The flickering lights out in the hallway aren’t helping. Each time I pass by this way, I’m convinced I’m about to get stabbed by a knife-wielding lunatic.
“A little dish soap and some scrubbing will help get that out.” Loretta, one of the ladies who’s been here a while, says to me as I dab at the grease stain. “You want to put it on there and let it sit first. Need to borrow a top?”
Oh, how badly I’d love to borrow a top. As in, well…you know. It’s my professional opinion as a guy who gets fucked for money that good ones are in short supply. That guy who pinned me to the fucking wall after catching me with his husband? I bet he’s a good one. I bet he’s a great one, even. The way he looked at me? Bet he fucks rough and mercilessly in the best way possible.
Anyway. Loretta’s a lovely lady, and she’s got thirty years on me, so I’m not sure she wants to hear about my sex problems.
“Here. I size up to make room for my blouse bunnies, but it should work well enough until you finish your shift.” She passes me a neatly folded square of pink fabric.
Not having Loretta’s generous chest, this top is definitely too big. If someone happens to tug the fabric the wrong way, I’ll wind up showing everybody my nipples. They’re nice nipples, if you ask me. But still.
“Thanks, babe. Usually, I keep an extra in my car, but I’m behind on laundry. It’s been a crazy week.” Crazy is one word. I don’t have a better one, but I feel like there should be one.
For a kid who wasn’t allowed to attend public school after eighth grade, I’ve studied a lot to expand my vocabulary in the past few years. Sometimes, though, I’m convinced there’s a better way to say something, but my brain can’t seem to make it happen.
Maybe there is no word for I-got-caught-by-my-client’s-fuck-hot-husband-and-I-honestly-thought-he-was-going-to-throw-me-into-a-wall-but-I-kind-of-wanted-him-to-and-I-don’t-know-what-that-says-about-me-but-I-haven’t-slept-in-days-because-I-keep-jerking-off-to-his-murder-face-and-waiting-for-some-kind-of-fallout.
For now, I’m sticking with crazy.
My phone buzzes with a text from Brennan directly to me. Since this legitimate job I enjoy doesn’t pay what I need to live or to pay back the money I owe Brennan, I make a point of checking it quickly.
Brennan: I have some requests for you this week. One party, one dinner date. Are you available?
Simon: I’m supposed to be taking time off to study for my nursing exam. But I can make it work.
Brennan saved my ass when I was forced to escape the community where I was raised. His help is how I avoided homelessness, how I put myself through nursing school. But his kind of help didn’t come interest-free. While I’m not a thousand percent certain he’s the kind of guy who breaks legs when people don’t pay, I’m sure enough.
Bottom line—I’d rather not find out.
I’m only a few months away from finally paying the last of what I owe him and having enough savings to move. Belle Argo’s a nice place, but the job market isn’t smoking hot.
Until I land a better paying, legitimate job, I can’t afford to turn down Brennan’s income. Honestly, though, having that substantial, angry dude walk in while his husband was sticking it to me shook me more than I’d like to admit. I mean, it’s happened before. Not to me, but I’ve heard stories. Brennan looks out for us, and thank fuck, I’ve never been arrested or attacked. But it wouldn’t be pretty if that guy decided to try and screw me in a bad way.
I’d kind of hoped taking a week or so off would help. Get my head together. Fly under the radar for a bit.
It’ll be okay, though. Not much longer, and I’ll be done with it all.
I aim to get out of the business before I push my luck. Ollie, a former co-ho, returned to Ohio after an angry client came after him, also after having to spend time in Belle Argo General with a broken jaw.
While my Angry Husband encounter didn’t end in violence, there was banked rage in the man’s storm-cloud eyes and the rigid lines of his body. The tight clench of his jaw and the wicked scar that hooked from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth gave me the distinct impression he wasn’t the type you fucked around with. So did the bruises he left when he wrapped his fingers around my arm.
The last few nights, when I’m not anxiously tossing and turning, I’ve been anxiously jacking my painfully hard cock while I use my free hand to trace the finger-shaped marks on my skin. Sometimes I just edge myself for hours, punishing myself by refusing to get off on fucking someone’s marriage. Or on wondering how it would feel to have those powerful fingers wrapped around my throat.
No orgasms for you, pervert.
I don’t have to be a psychiatric nurse to know this behavior can’t possibly be healthy. I just can’t seem to stop.
Once again, I run my palm over the blue and purple bruises, the sensation giving me weird shivers. I’d like to pass it off as some lingering nerves from the encounter, but I know it’s more. It’s the memory of Angry Husband’s fingers digging into my skin, the heat of his stare, and a strange tightening in my gut when he wrapped his hand around my forearm. A buzzy mixture of danger and arousal that I haven’t felt in a long time. Or maybe never. Not like this.
My brain supplies a helpful picture of a young, blue-eyed Elijah. I squash it as fast as it appears. When I met Elijah, we were both kids. Though Angry Husband didn’t look much older than me, he was all man. Everything about him told me he had seen things. Most of these rich dicks Brennan sets me up with have all the life experience of a toddler because avoiding discomfort is what their kind of money buys you.
Brennan: Booked. I’ll follow up with details.
Great. I guess it’s time to get back on the horse, so to speak.
A shoulder pat gets my attention. “Sweetheart, I’ve actually been looking for you. It’s Dahlia up in 212. She’s refusing to get dressed again. For some reason, she seems to listen to you.”
Ah, praise the Lord. This is a problem I know how to handle. Dahlia is a sweet lady, and honestly, I adore her. I’m going to miss her when I leave.
