To Have (The Dumont Diaries) (2 page)

I masked my apprehension, holding my posture straight, tits out, stomach in, a smile across my face. I walked directly to him and stopped before him. “You asked for me?”

He brought the cigar to his lips, taking a slow drag on it, his eyes raking up and down my body unapologetically. His eyes flitted to the pole, then back to my face.

“Dance.”

I turned slowly to the pole, feeling the absence of Rick, the emptiness of the room. It was odd that we were alone, that no one else was in this space. Even the bouncer had left, leaving me alone with the three men. The house music was piped through this space, a DMX song playing. I strode up to the stage, gripping the pole with one hand and doing a slow spin as I exhaled, releasing my stress and apprehension in one slow breath.
You are okay. You are beautiful. You will be fine.
I rolled my neck, repeating the mantra, my long hair sliding over my skin as my head moved. I wished for the lights, the bright lights that hid everything from me. Then I took another breath and moved, gripping the pole and swinging my body up and out into the air, a swirling motion that spun the room out of focus, allowing me a brief, short moment of invisibility.

I am reckless on a pole, trusting my legs and arms in a way certain to cause damage. It is a lover I hate and I ride it relentlessly, caressing it in a sensual way that leaves nothing to the imagination. The beat moved through me and I got lost in its strength, pulsating against steel, spinning away only to return to it, my heels a blur of clear sparkle, my thoughts lost in the movement.

My bra was the first victim. One quick unclasp, the release of heavy breasts as I spun slowly downward, my legs suspending my body upside down above the hard floor. One outward fling, and sparkles and black sequins became airborne and joyful in their flight. I kept my panties on, the thin fabric the only thing between me and the pole.

When the song ended, I was panting, my eyes finally moving, traveling across the floor and then up to his. Sometimes the most terrifying thing is eye contact. It certainly was at that moment, when I was exposed, bare and gasping, on the stage before him. He had the cigar in his mouth and want in his eyes. It was a look I was accustomed to, conditioned to. But on this man the look was different. Hungry and possessive, he ate me with his stare, with the blatant desire that he made no attempt to hide.

“Come here,” he commanded.

I moved carefully, down the steps on the stage, my sky-high stilettos wobbling slightly on their downward descent. Then I was before him. I watched as his hand moved, adjusting himself, the hard line of his cock outlined in his pants. He glanced at it, and then at me. “Suck me.”

I hesitated, the look in his eyes intoxicating, vivid blue that commanded me. Then I was on my knees, my hands working the leather of his belt, the zipper of his pants. Then his cock was in my mouth, my wet lips sliding over rock hard thickness. Behind him, motionless and silent, the two bodyguards stood, their eyes forward and hands clasped.

He said little, lying back on the couch and watching me. When he was close, I felt his hands, firm on the back of my head, pulling himself deeper into my mouth. He groaned as his cock twitched against my tongue, hot wetness filling my mouth, his hand tilting back my head, his eyes capturing mine as he finished, intense blue orbs of possession locked on me. Then his eyes closed and his head dropped back, his cock pumping one final release into my mouth.

His bodyguards paid me, stepping forward and helping me to my feet, placing a fold of crisp bills into my hand. Then they left, a trio of gone, and I was alone in the dimly lit room.

T
hat was nine months ago and he has been in the club twice since then, both times following the same MO. VIP room. Private dance. Blow job demanded, the words stated in the same authoritative tone that he used with every other command. I was always a willing participant, gleefully accepting the wad of cash that followed.

I can understand your judgment. I know that I am a prostitute. I’m not proud of it. And when I am flush with cash, I refuse the requests for extra services. But at times like today, when I am struggling to fill my car up with gas, I don’t have much of an option. And honestly, when it comes to him, I’d probably do it for free. I like his cock in my mouth. I like the look in his eyes when he watches me, the blatant need — like there is not another woman on the planet whom he desires more. My body responds to him, to his stare, to his touch. My body aches for his approval, and I want more. I want to feel his hands on my body; I need that cock entering me in some place other than my mouth.

Maybe tonight will be the night he asks for more. I’ve never fucked a client, always drawing the line at hand and blow jobs. But this is the first time I’ve been attracted to a patron. I don’t know if it’s the mystery, the money, the perfect features, or the cock, but I
want
him.

I flash a quick smile to Jezebel. “Thanks for the heads up,” I whisper. My eyes follow him, his normal entourage of guards flanking his confident steps. He turns, looking over the club, and I feel a shot of pleasure when he sees me, his eyes holding mine. He tilts his head in the direction of VIP and I nod, giving him a shy smile.

“Good lord girl, you are lucky.” Jezebel hisses. “There’s a number of things I’d like to do to that man.”

Me too, Jez. Me too
. I straighten my shoulders and move, winding through tables and heading to the VIP room.

I duck through the velvet curtains of VIP, expecting to see him at his normal position, stretched out and waiting on the couch, but the couches are empty and I am on full alert as I turn in a circle, searching the dim room. My shoulders relax silently when I see a group of men in the corner, Rick’s large mass present. They turned at my entrance, Rick’s face tinged with something akin to guilt. I see his hand move quickly, something disappearing into his pocket.
Cash
. I fight to keep emotion off my face as my mind wonders what the
fuck
is going on.

“Candy,” Rick steps forward, clasping my hands in his, the way a caring father would approach his child. I stare at our hands, then shoot him a glare that tells him to drop my hands if he wants to live to see another day. He does, a quick nervous motion that only raises my guard more. He takes a deep breath and then starts again. “Candy, this gentleman has requested you to join him. Outside the club, I mean.” He flusters, wiping his sleeve across his forehead. “He wants you to go with him.”

I stare at him blankly, the words not making sense. “Leave? Alone?”

“My security will accompany us.” The words come from behind Rick, from the blue-eyed stranger who stands confidently, his hands loose in the pants pockets of his suit. It is the most I have ever heard him say.

“And go where?”

“To my suite.” He walks around Rick, coming to a stop in front of me, his eyes meeting mine without hesitation. “I’m staying in town, at a hotel. The accommodations are very comfortable.”

My heart rate increases at the thought of leaving, of getting into a car and going somewhere unknown with this man, a stranger. “When would I return?”

He grins slightly. “Later tonight. My driver can return you to the club.”

I raise my chin slightly, keeping my eyes on him, pretending that we are alone in the room. “How much?”

His mouth twitches a little, and his tone is wry in its response. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

I can’t fight the grin, it stretches across my face in what I can only imagine looks like a Cheshire grin. I bow my head to him, fighting the ridiculous urge to curtsey. “In that case, I’m all yours.”

M
y view of love is an unfair one, created by Nicholas Sparks novels, Lifetime movies, and Michel Buble love songs. I recognize it for what it is — a fairytale fantasy, at least for a girl like me. Maybe I will be Julia Roberts, and a dashing, dignified Richard Gere will fall madly in love with me and whisk me away to a lifetime of diamonds, caviar, and True Love. But it is a long shot, and the last few years have proven that I carry poor odds.

My best hope for a happily ever after is the Anna Nicole Smith Dream — that an old rich man will hobble in, decide to part with half his riches so his few remaining years will be filled with bouncing breasts, bubble baths, and blow jobs to celebrate mahjong wins. I am happy with that scenario, happy with a slice of the good life minus the love. Love seems to be set aside for those who deserve it, for those who plan ahead, are responsible, those who recycle and donate a dollar to the March of Dimes at the supermarket register. I’m a non-donater. I’m the girl who spends that spare dollar on a candy bar instead. I don’t deserve love. Ten years with a centenarian, living in his country mansion and sucking wrinkly penis? That seems an attainable thing to deserve.

We haven’t had an old guy in quite some time. Coco came close to nabbing one, had a pasty white ancient who seemed all about her ethnic curves. But he died, mid-fuck, a heart attack yanking his life away as she rode up and down his scrawny body. His family was less than accommodating, kicking her out of the mansion with no ride home, and no invitation to the funeral. Coco is still despondent over that — her best chance at happily ever after gone with one thump of his weak heart.

BlueEyes is too young to be my love story, too handsome, too perfect to have any part in the rest of my life. His type marries blueblood heiresses who keep their cardigans clean and their sex cleaner. I know that; I haven’t allowed my fantasies to hop and skip down the ‘happily-ever-after’ path, keeping my focus and my appreciation on what I have gotten from him already. Cash.

And now, I’m taking this invitation as what it is: Sex, in a location less seedy than our VIP couch. Money, the amount seemingly up for discussion. With this man, I am willing to break my No Sex Rule, my body craving his touch — my bank account desperate for a cash infusion.

Conversation buzzes as we walk through the club, dancers eyes meeting mine with questions as we head down the hall that leads to nowhere but outside. Dancers don’t leave the club, don’t go anywhere with clients — a rule of Rick’s that evidently can be easily broken by a handful of green. I pause by the front door, reaching for Rick’s arm. “Rick, my purse.”

BlueEyes stops short of going out the door. “No,” he says with a short shake of his head. “No purse, no cell.”

“What?” I shoot Rick an alarmed look and he shifts uneasily.

The stranger speaks quickly. “She can get her stuff when we come back, if she chooses to come back.”

If I choose to come back?
This situation is moving from weird to weirder and I turn to the stranger and cross my arms. “I’m not going
anywhere
without my bag. And…” I add as an afterthought, “Rick will need to make a copy of your ID.”

Rick laughs nervously and the small smile on BlueEyes’ face drops. I stand my ground, my arms crossed over my bra top. It is so hard to look imposing when you are practically naked. Rick waves his hands in a panicky motion. “Look Candy, that isn’t necessary. I’m sure that-”

I cut him off with one glare. Turning back to the stranger, I raise one brow. “Are you comfortable with that? Because otherwise I’m going to need to decline your invitation.”

He glances at one of the men beside him, silent communication passing between them. Then he looks back to me, his eyes making a slow path up and down my body, communicating his thoughts as clear as day.
Am I worth it?
I fight the urge to fidget, to weaken, to do anything; I try to keep my stance and stare strong. But I want to take back my words, my financial situation pulling out a bat and knocking me upside the head. I need this opportunity, need this cash.

And, when it comes down to it - my body needs this man — in me, filling the gap that has sat vacant for too long. On top of me, his hands in my hair, mouth on my skin, his body brushing against mine as he dominates me with his cock. This man, with his breathtaking looks and padded wallet, could be my short-term salvation, satisfying both my body and my finances in one easy night. Instead, I may have just ruined the opportunity. My legs begin to tremble, the weight of my brash move weakening my resolve.

He turns to Rick with a terse nod. “Fine. Let her get her bag and you can copy my documentation in the meantime.”

A grin starts in my chest and pushes its happy, exuberant self through my throat and bursts out of my lips. I fight to hide it, dipping my head and turning, hurrying back down the dark hallway, back into the smoky bowels that are the Crystal Palace.

I am on a high, whispering the news excitedly to Jez, stuffing anything and everything I might need into my purse. At the front of the club, unknown to me, more bills are exchanged in lieu of identification between Rick and BlueEyes.

Security is a strange thing, a myth that the brain allows in exchange for a brief moment of peace. As I stride back down the hall, towards the frosted glass door that is the entrance, the security I feel is nothing but an illusion. Instead of heading towards salvation, I am delivering myself to the mouth of wolves, one in particular having very long teeth.