Chapter Eighteen
When he showed up at the nightclub, dressed in tight black jeans and one of the shirts she’d bought him when they’d gone on a ‘quick junket’ to Italy, the place was in full-throated party roar. He fended off plenty of admiring glances and a few overt passes while he waited at the private table he’d been directed to by the head bouncer. As he sipped his beer and people-watched, it became clear to him she wasn’t going to show, despite her having reserved this table and instructed he be seated at it.
When a woman who could have stepped right out of a high fashion photo shoot approached him, her full, reddened lips parted in a smile, he had an inkling what she had planned for him. The woman slid into a seat and poured herself a shot of the chilled vodka—Gayle’s hard liquor of choice. Sipping, she kept her gaze on him. When she crossed her long, tan, legs he allowed himself a full look at her. She had huge tits—something Gayle couldn’t lay claim to—a slim waist and legs that went on forever. She was hot as fuck, truth be told. And the fact of her—that he knew damn well what she was there for—made him shiver.
Gayle had done this once before and he’d happily played along. But he was not in the mood for her games tonight. He was sick and tired of being played like goddamned violin. “I’m sorry you wasted your time tonight. I hope she paid you well.” He drained his beer and got up, furious, and yet so eager to lay eyes on her he believed he could claim the honor of being most pussy-whipped idiot on the planet. “I’m leaving.”
“Wait,” the woman said, putting her hand on his thigh to stop him. “Settle down. Have another beer.”
“I don’t want another beer,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Okay. Let’s dance then.” She rose, letting her breasts brush against his arm. Her breath was warm in his ear. “I hear you’re a damn good dancer.” Her hand rested on his ass. He glared down at her, then took her arm and yanked her none-too-gently down the steps to the dance floor. She wanted a fucking show—he would, by God, give her one she’d never forget.
He turned to the girl and smiled at her. “What’s your name, hot stuff?”
“Kat,” she said, licking her lips and gyrating to the chest-thumping music.
“Nice,” he said, matching her movements. “Suits you,” he whispered in her ear before biting her earlobe once. “Show me what ya got, Kitty-Kat.”
She blushed, which made him horny. Which was a good thing, he figured, since he’d be performing with the lovely Kitty-Kat tonight, for an audience. After about an hour spent simulating sex masquerading as dancing, he was so revved he could’ve fucked Kat right on the dance floor.
“Come on,” he said, tugging her away from the sweaty scrum and heading for the private party area for part two of the night’s festivities. Fury at Gayle’s machinations mingled with the smoky cloud of lust he was floating through as he pushed people aside and ducked into the back room with its separate bar, its dark corners, its waiting audience.
Kat was as eager as he was to get down to business. He located his usual room and pressed her up against the wall, kissing her, groping her ass, her killer tits, all the while getting angrier. When she bit his lower lip and said, “Hey, hot stuff, look over there,” he let go of her and turned to find Gayle sitting in a lounge chair, holding a beer and smiling at them.
“You know what, fuck you. Fuck both of you.” He sighed. “Sorry, Kat. This isn’t your fault.” He kept his gaze on the woman dressed all in black, including those heels he loved for her to wear when he’d fuck her standing up, something he’d likely done in this very room. She sipped and kept her gaze neutral as he fumed and willed his cock to soften so he didn’t look like such a dork in front of her. “I am done playing games,” he said. “Done. You can take your dominatrix, bossy, rich-bitch bullshit and shove it up your ass. Excuse me,” he muttered under his breath as he shouldered his way past Kat. He’d made it all the way to the door between the private and the public parts of the nightclub when Gayle yelled his name. He ignored her and kept going. He was done with this. He might be nuts, but being this sort of kept sex toy was not what he wanted from her.
“Noah, hang on a second, please.” The tone of her voice—less pleading and disappointed in his refusal to perform and more honest frustration—made him freeze. But only for a few seconds. There was one way to put an end to this. He had to do it, as much as he didn’t want to.
He’d made it all the way home before true regret set in. What have I done? He’d spent so many days and weeks trying to finagle himself into the very position he had right now. God, I’m an idiot.
He unbuttoned his shirt, shed his shoes and grabbed two beers from his fridge before settling onto the couch with a late-season baseball game on the TV. “Screw this,” he said, downing the first beer fast and opening the second. “And screw her.” And he would, too, if she showed up at his door.
He woke with his face stuck to the arm rest and his neck bent at a painful angle. Wiping the dried spit off his cheek, he sat and tried to figure out where he was and what in the hell time it was. The TV was still on, blaring a mindless infomercial. All his lights were off, which made the room glow silvery blue from the screen. He reached for his phone on reflex and saw Gayle had sent one text, about an hour ago.
I’m sorry. Can we please talk? I’ll be at the Brew Corner tomorrow. Our usual table.
He groaned, got up and limped to the bedroom, deciding that to answer her would only make the inevitable worse.
* * * *
The next morning, he went to work, then hit the gym hard after. The solid two-hour cardio and weight regimen kept him focused away from the fact that Gayle hadn’t said another word to him via text—her preferred method of communication. The next day was Friday and he spent the bulk of it on the road with distributor sales reps, selling, glad-handing, the usual. He felt like an automaton. But it turned out to be a pretty fruitful day.
He went to the gym again, realizing he’d been looking forward to their usual Friday night spent at a fancy restaurant, drinking expensive cocktails, sharing a steak and conversation. To be followed by quality time at her place—something that always made him feel weird. But he never let it quell his need for her, which only got more intense every time they made love.
When he accepted she wasn’t going to ask him again, he sent her a text.
I need ice cream. Meet you at the usual place?
She didn’t reply. Figuring that the wanting ice cream part was true enough, he took a shower and headed out, hair still damp, brain spinning with his own stupidity. He missed her. And not just her body. He was, without a doubt, the weakest asshole on the planet.
Their usual place was a Dairy Queen near downtown. It was full old-school, with food and booths in addition to the usual air-bubble-riddled ice-cream-like products. He parked and got out, smiling at the gaggle of college student girls who eyeballed him, while checking for Gayle’s car. With a sigh, he headed inside, ordered his favorite—a cookie-dough Blizzard—and took a seat by the window. Some guy with a bald head and broad shoulders was one table over, working away at a banana split while he read something on his computer tablet. Noah nodded when the guy met his eyes, then looked out of the window, wondering how in the world he might salvage this thing with Gayle while somehow retaining his manhood at the same time. About halfway through the overly sweet garbage in his cup, he realized he might be willing to forgo the manhood part, just for a shot at talking to her again.
“You Stokes?” The bald dude was now standing at his table.
Noah glanced up at him, irritated at the interruption. “Yeah. Who’s asking?”
Baldie held out his massive paw of a hand. “Name’s Hettinger. Trent Hettinger.”
Noah shook his hand but tried to give off a ‘get the fuck away from me, I’m pining for my Cougar Mama’ vibe. It didn’t work. “Mind if I join you a second?”
Noah nodded and the guy slid into the booth across from him. “Are you the Stokes of Stokes Landscaping?”
“Yeah. Not that it matters anymore.” He took another bite, grimacing at the ersatz sweetness.
“Okay, so…” The guy punched something up on his tablet then turned the screen around so Noah could see it. He squinted at it, trying to figure out why this guy was showing him photos of his grandfather’s once-successful business.
“If you have this, you know why I’m sitting here, not running this business.” He shoved the tablet back across the table. “What’s your point?”
“I’m interested in buying it.”
Noah sipped from a cup of water, almost choking on it at the sound of that little news flash. “Buying it? It’s not for sale. I mean…the government owns it now—for the taxes and crap.”
Trent grinned at him and closed the tablet. He leaned on the table, his dark gaze intent. “I own several retail blocks here in GR, and one in Kalamazoo. I also have a couple of liquor stores and a coffee shop. But I’ve always wanted to get into landscaping. Those guys make a goddamned fortune, at least the ones I’ve been paying to handle my properties do.”
“Good for you. What does it have to do with me?” He got up and threw away the half-eaten Blizzard, stopping to refill his water and ponder this odd encounter. Standing, he hoped to relay the message he was done talking and had no desire to dredge up all the reasons Stokes Landscaping no longer existed.
Trent turned to face him, obviously not getting the message. “I want to get it out of hock and put you back in charge of it.”
Noah frowned. He wasn’t in the mood for fairy tales. “You can’t do that. I mean, it’ll take at least three quarters of a mil to pay off all the tax liens. And the damn place is a wreck. It’ll take another…oh…two-fifty at least to clean it up and get the equipment running again.”
“No problem,” Trent Hettinger claimed, sticking his hand out again. “I’m so happy to have you on board.”
“Whoa, dude, I never said…what? You can pay all that?”
“I can. And I’ve already started the process.”
Noah slid into his seat again, his knees suddenly weak. “How…how did you know where to find me?”
“We have a mutual friend.”
Noah groaned and dropped his head onto his hands.
“She must really like you a lot. And she knows I was looking to expand into landscaping, so she sent me the info and told me…” He shrugged, looking sheepish. “She told me you’d be here.”
“Great.” Noah rose, anger filling his chest and threatening to spill out of his mouth. “Good luck with it, Mr. Hettinger. You’ll need it.”
“Wait, Noah,” the guy said, as he was turning away. “I’m serious. This isn’t bullshit. I want to buy it and put you in charge.”
“Well, if you’ll pardon my French, fuck you,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat to the man. “And you can give Gayle the same message for me.”