Pieces of Him (32 page)

I stride down the brightly lit hallway feeling a dangerous combination of anger and fearlessness. All the while, I’m wondering why some people (particularly rich people) feel like they can get away with just about anything. I wonder why they think that there are no consequences for behaving badly. After the condition I found Macy in yesterday, I’m in the mood to make someone pay.

I didn’t come from money—never had anything handed to me on a silver platter—because I worked my ass off for my wealth. Were my methods unconventional? Sure. A little outside the boundaries of the law? Possibly—but I never, NEVER go out of my way to hurt people, and if my choices are wrong, if I’m destined for hell, then I’m positive that assholes like Conrad Roberts are going right along with me. On that thought, I steel my spine, cock my head to the side, and knock on the front door.

“Victoria, what are you doing here? How did you get up here?” he questions with a false look of astonishment on his face.

“Hello, Mr. Roberts. I’m sorry to have shown up unannounced. Your doorman must have been on break. May I come in? We need to talk,” I say pushing past him. He isn’t much of a man; he’s long-limbed and thin with absolutely no muscle tone. He combs his thinning brown hair over, making him appear years older than he is, and his skin is scarily pale. I can understand why he would use my services because he’s not the kind of man who has his choice of women. Rumor has it that his wife only married him for his money; her father, whose own business was failing, pushed her into it.

“How dare you show up at my apartment like this? What if my wife would have been here?”

I wave him off as if his statement is ridiculous. “Don’t you worry; I waited until I was sure that she was gone.”

His body tenses, and his face contorts in anger; clearly, Mr. Roberts needs to work on masking his emotions. “You did what? Have you been watching my house?”

“I have,” I confirm, giving him the sweetest smile I can muster. “I have, Mr. Roberts, because, unlike you, I actually abide by the terms of the contract that we entered into, the same one you signed.” This is where I start speaking to him as if though he was a goddamned toddler who I’m trying to reason with. “I would never abuse my clients’ trust in me; I would never ever make my clients doubt my integrity. You, on the other hand, crossed a line last night, and I came here to see that you understand what that means.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t? Hmm, that’s odd.”

“Can you just get to the reason why you’re here so that you can leave?”

“I received a very distressing phone call from one of my employees last night; the very same employee that I sent to see you yesterday. You see, when she called, she was clearly upset, frightened even, so I, being her employer, went to make sure that she was all right. Do you know what I found, Mr. Roberts?”

“I have no idea,” he answers, his tone annoyed. There’s no guilt on his face, no regret in his features, no remorse to be found anywhere on his body. He stands arrogantly, glaring at me as if I’m disturbing him, and it makes me angry. It makes me want to punch him in the frickin’ throat.

“I’ll tell you what I found,” I say, squaring my shoulders and wishing like hell that I had a baseball bat with me. “I found a girl, who just hours before was in perfect health, bloodied and bruised. Her wrists and ankles were red and sore from being bound to a bed against her will. I found a girl who was held that way for HOURS and used and abused by you until you got your fill.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“Are you going to tell me that’s not what happened?”

“What I’m saying is that she was a willing participant.”

“Really? She asked you to beat the shit out of her?”

“Some women like that sort of thing.”

“And some men get off on hurting girls; they get their kicks by taking a pretty girl and abusing her, making it so that she can’t defend herself. Some men are just that disgusting.”

“Miss Powell.”

“Do not even try to explain away your behavior; I really don’t want to hear it. What I came here for is to tell you that I am terminating you as a client. You will no longer be able to use the services my company offers.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can do whatever I want. It’s my company.”

“Fine, I’ll expect a refund.”

“You won’t be getting one; I’ll also be sending you a bill for Miss Madison’s physician charges.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Also, Mr. Roberts, I’d like to remind you that upon entering into our association, you did sign a non-disclosure agreement. Should violate that… well, let’s just say I’d advise you to adhere to it. I’d hate to have to enlighten your wife on your extracurricular activities.”

He grows even paler, if that’s possible, and I relish the look of defeat on his face. I wish it made it all better, wish it was enough to satisfy my need for payback, but it’s not. I make my way back to the front door, grabbing the knob before turning back.

“I almost forgot; there’s a little someone I’d like to introduce you to before I go,” I tell him, twisting the knob and opening the door. I don’t turn around, but I know Kyle is standing in the open doorway now. I can tell because I’m pretty sure by the look on Mr. Roberts’ face that he’s fighting the urge to soil himself. “This is Kyle; he’d just like to make sure you understood what we’ve spoken about today.”

“Victoria, there’s no need.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s just standard protocol. He won’t leave any bruises where they’re visible. You’ll be all right.” I toss him a brilliant smile, pat Kyle on the shoulder on my way out, and laugh inside, allowing myself to revel in the fact that he’s going to experience the same kind of pain that he inflicted on my girl last night. Visions of him begging and crying play out in my head, and for a moment, I wish I’d stayed behind to watch him get what he deserves.

I get off the elevator, thank the doorman again for turning a blind eye, and head out to the awaiting car.

“Are you headed home, Miss Powell?”

“No. Can you take me back to the office, Parker?”

“Sure thing.”

Leaning back in my seat, I let the events of the day wash over me, settling into my brain so that I can wrap my head around them. It’s days like these that I wonder if I’m in over my head, if I’m doing the right thing, or if I’m just as fucked-up as everyone else in this business. I’m not stupid, and I’m certainly not naïve. I know that from the outside looking in, there’s no right way to look at what I do for a living. I sell sex. There is no easy way to say that—in technical terms, I guess you could call me a madam, but I hate that shit. I’m a business owner, an entrepreneur, because the way I sell sex is not the norm. I don’t shuffle my girls around like cattle, allowing them to fuck two, and sometimes three, men on the same night. No. My girls have one client, one. That’s it, and they service only that client for as long as his contract lasts. I ensure the girls’ safety that way. I know most people would say that what I do is illegal, it’s wrong, immoral even, and maybe they’re right, but the way I see it is that without me, most of these girls would still be doing what they do. I make it easier for them, safer, and much more lucrative. I only deal with a certain type of clientele, the wealthy kind, and they pay a pretty penny for my services because I offer them beautiful disease- and drug-free women without the hassle of searching the streets for them or dealing with unsavory characters. It’s a win-win situation. I make sure these men are affluent, healthy, mentally stable, and I make certain to run background checks on each and every one of them. That being said, I’m only human, and occasionally, someone slips by me and falls through the cracks—someone like Conrad Roberts. Times like this make me wonder if what I’m doing is enough to protect these girls because even one incident like this is too many for me.

Please just let me get through this day,
I beg no one in particular. I close my eyes trying to relieve the tension that exists when my cell phone rings. The particular ringtone makes me tense even further; the last thing I need right now is to have another argument with him.

“Hi, baby,” I answer as sweetly as I possibly can; it’s my defense mechanism. I figure if I speak to him with affection, then he’ll return the favor. I’m wrong.

“Where are you, Victoria?”

“I just got out of a meeting, and I’m heading back to the office now,” I say bracing myself for impact. I don’t know why I deal with this shit. Probably because they are all the same—men…Every single one of them has a problem with how wealthy I am, how independent I am, and the hours I keep. They work their nine-to-fives, come home, and sit on their asses waiting for me to get home and cook dinner as if I’m supposed to earn a living and still perform the normal “housewife” duties. It drives me fucking crazy.

I don’t think he can help the disdain in his voice. “Late again, I see. I haven’t seen you since you left last night.”

“Collin, I don’t know what you want me to say. You know I have a job and people are counting on me to do it.”

“It’s a fucking holistic health business, Victoria. It’s not like you’re finding a cure for cancer or ending world hunger. I think business can survive without you for a few hours.”

So, the answer is NO, Collin doesn’t know the truth about my business. Very few people know the truth, and he’s not one of them. I guess it says a lot about the depth of our relationship if I can’t trust him enough to tell him the truth. It would take a special kind of man to be okay with my job, and I honestly don’t think Collin is that man. The sex is okay most days though, so I’ve stayed with him longer than I probably should have.

“Do not trivialize what I do. I would never do that shit to you.”

“You can’t. I’m home way more often than you are; you have no reason to complain.”

“If you’re so unhappy, then why do you stay with me?”

I honestly want to know the answer to this question, but his silence speaks volumes.

“It wouldn’t faze you at all if I packed my shit up right now and left, would it?”

“Not really, no,” I answer honestly. “You’re unhappy; I’m not changing, so you should do something about it. No one should live in a miserable state. Life is too short.”

“Can you honestly say that you’re happy with the state of our current relationship, Victoria?”

“It works for me, yes.”

There’s that pesky silence again. I blow out a huff of air and roll my eyes.

“Collin, I really have to go.”

“I’ll be gone by the time you get home tonight.”

Well, this sucks. As much as I know Collin’s not right for me, I’d much rather deal with him than the assholes I don’t know. I don’t have the time or desire to date right now. It’s a scary world we live in, and I’ve seen too much of it. Finding a normal man is not an easy task. “No need to rush. I’ll spend the night at the office.”

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that, right?”

“Good-bye, Collin.” I hang up the phone, and with that conversation, a shitty day just got even shittier. Welcome to my world.

Three Months Later

I struggle to fake another smile, forcing a giggle at another poorly executed joke. I look around at a sea of mostly familiar faces in the midst of yet another charity event hosted by people who have way too much money. Perhaps, if donating the five thousand per plate meal ticket went directly to the charity, nights like these wouldn’t be necessary. It just seems so insincere, another excuse for the wealthy to get together, to see and be seen, and I play along because my illegal company is hidden behind what appears to be a thriving legal one.

Thank goodness the champagne is flowing freely,
I think to myself as I grab another glass from a server passing by. I look at my assistant, Ivy, who looks equally as bored as I am. Leaning in, I whisper in her ear.

“Thanks for coming tonight. I couldn’t do another one of these alone.”

She gives me a smile in response. Ivy has been working with me from almost the beginning because finding people who I trust is difficult. Sure, they all sign NDAs, but Ivy is one of the few who I naturally trust. It’s been my experience that most people are not good; given the chance, they will hurt you at every turn, do what they have to do to get ahead in life, and not care about the carnage they leave behind. For this reason, I limit my interaction with people to just a few close friends; the few people who I know would have my back no matter what.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement and look up. Across the room, a woman pulls her arm away from her date just as a server passes by. She looks hurt, angry even. Unfortunately for her, she’s bumped into the server and his tray of champagne comes crashing down, the sound of breaking glass causing the majority of the room to go silent. As she hurries off, embarrassed I’m sure, her date runs after her. The waiter begins to pick up the broken pieces of glass and the chatter around me resumes. Just as I’m turning my attention back to Ivy and the group of associates standing around me, a man bends down to silently help the server with his cleanup. I don’t know why, but I can’t tear my eyes away from him. As if he can feel my eyes on him, he looks up and our gazes lock onto one another. My breath hitches, and I’m suddenly stuck—unable to move and unable to look away. Something passes between us, an unexplainable jolt of electricity that I cannot understand. His black suit is tailored to fit his lean body perfectly, and his unruly brown hair is styled in a short spiky mess on top of his head. For a minute, I imagine running my hands through that hair while he hovers over me in bed.
What the fuck am I thinking?