The Replacement (4 page)

All of my patience has just been thrown out the window. “You want to play this game?” I ask, disregarding my last drop of restraint. “Too bad, ’cause I’m not playing.”

And I mean it.

I need this job, and the last thing I’d ever want is to see the disappointment and disgust in Jay’s eyes when he hears the truth, but if he’s anything like the man I know him to be, he’ll hold Tim just as much responsible, if not more.

“Go on.” I jut my chin out at him. “I dare you to tell your brother when he walks through that door. I’ll be damned if I let you hold this over my head anymore. And if Jay finds out, Cheryl finds out, too. How will you get your weekly cheating fix then, huh? Who will you run around on? Not everyone will be as oblivious as she is, you jackass. Better start looking for a replacement.”

Tim gets in my face. He’s beet red and boiling as he hovers over me, drawing every eye in the room to our dispute. “That’s all you are, you slut—a replacement. Sloppy seconds and an in-between quickie for every guy in this town who’s looking to fill a hole.” He speaks through gritted teeth as he leans in closer. “All you’re good for is that hot little body. I bet you a hundred bucks you’ll be back at my doorstep by the end of next week, begging me to bend you over.”

I dig my fingers into his chest and push him back, fueling as much anger as I can into the shove. “At least I know what I am,” I spit back. “I don’t masquerade myself around this town, pretending to be something I’m not. Now walk out that door, Tim, before you make an even bigger idiot out of yourself.”

He shakes his head and swipes his car keys from the table, then turns for the exit, giving me one last glance. “By the end of the week,” he repeats, pushing the door open. I exhale when he’s gone, but I don’t have much time to gather my breath. Natalie and her boyfriend Nate are right behind me.

“Uh…Elise?” Natalie’s voice drifts over my shoulder. It’s timid and calm. “Are you okay?”

“Who was that asshole?” Nate asks. I turn to face them, and I’m mortified when I find each customer watching me intently.

“That was our boss’ brother,” Natalie answers for me, taking a hesitant step forward to hand me a clean napkin. It just hits me then that there are tears running down my cheeks. “Elise, can I get you anything? Is there something I can do?”

I use the napkin she’s handed me to dab at my eyes, quickly shaking my head to decline her offer. It’s sweet, but accepting anything from this girl would only open a door. One I want to keep tightly shut. “No thanks,” I say. “Please just never mention this again, okay? It never happened. That’s how you can help.” I look from her to Nate to make sure Nate realizes I’m including him in my request.

He nods and shifts his stance uncomfortably. “Oh, of course, yeah.”

“We won’t say a word,” Natalie replies, exchanging glances with Nate. They both back up to give me some space and I hear them whisper as Natalie shows Nate out the front door. Once he’s gone, she returns to her tables and apologizes for the scene and for the delay, and I sneak back to the bathroom to ride out the humiliation and to once again pull myself together, so I can make it through my shift. It looks like business might be slow today, but every little bit helps. My head needs to be in the game. I’m still $2,000 away from meeting my goal, and I’ll be damned if I let Tim—or anyone—get in the way.

CHAPTER 2

Bacon sizzles in a pan and I wait patiently for my toast, taking small sips of black coffee from my Eiffel Tower mug. Little pink and yellow flowers blossom around the sides of the tower, and cliché French sayings,
oh là là, c’est la vie
, dance around them, reminding me of where I’m headed.

Someday, I’ll visit Paris for myself.

Until then, I can only dream about my trip to France and live vicariously through the mug’s close proximity to the landmark I want to see standing right in front of me someday—tall, stoic, and elegant. I’ve been planning the trip since tenth grade. It is a luxury expense, one I’ve had to claw, scrimp, and save for over the years. I’ve never been able to explain my fascination with Francophone culture to anyone. Like a passion for teaching or healing the sick, it was just there one day, and since then, I’ve been unable to think about much else.

My mom gave me this mug when I graduated from high school. After my dad left, she didn’t have much money. Helping me get there wasn’t an option. She struggled, right up to the very end, when breast cancer took her life. She died alone, convinced that dad left her because she lost all her hair. It was tragic and seemingly delusional—just like my father—but I often wondered just how deluded the theory really was. My father was a material man, after all. Shallow to the bone. Appearance always mattered in his eyes. If it didn’t look good, then it wasn’t worth his time.

So, the mug was her little way of cheering me on. She wanted me to keep the dream alive, and after she passed, my desire to make it happen bloomed with a vengeance. Dad was well off, comfortable with his new wife in L.A.—a beautiful blonde actress, not much older than me—but asking him for even the pettiest of financial help was out of the question. He didn’t call, didn’t write. When mom went, he went with her, and it was better that way. I didn’t want to depend on his money, anyway. I’d much rather live in this tiny, outdated apartment, where I could at least sleep at night knowing I earned every dime that paid its rent.

My lips still at the mug as I will the toaster to spit out my wheat bread. The bread finally jumps and I slap it onto a plate, lathering it with jam and butter. I settle into my green armchair, the one with the tear in the left arm, nibbling on the toast while opening the paper. My pulse begins to race as I thumb closer and closer to the Sorry Secrets column. It’s my favorite column in the Gig Harbor Weekly. Much more entertaining than reading on a hard, impersonal e-reader device. I detest e-books. Give me an old-fashioned newspaper or paperback any day. Give me something tangible, something that gives me paper cuts and leaves my fingers dirty.

I unfold the page that beholds the column and scan each header, ready to pounce on the first one that catches my eye. The column is a collection of short confessions, submitted by readers, all residents of Gig Harbor. Some are downright laughable, while others are so sobering, they’re chilling. Most are anonymous, but every now and then, someone decides to be brave and leave a name. The why behind the reason people choose to write these confessions and send them in to a paper for the whole town to read still eludes me, but I find a sort of cleansing in it. I hadn’t gone to college long, but when I did, one of my first classes was basic psychology. I remember learning how simply writing down your thoughts or listing your source of anxiety is somehow cathartic. I imagine the sense of relief these people experience, submitting their deepest, darkest secrets. How it strips them of fear.

Once you’ve cut yourself open and dumped your insides out on the table, what can the world really threaten you with?

My attention latches onto a confession from a daughter to her mother, something about not really wanting to go to medical school. I’m vaguely interested. Before I can jump to the next header to see if it’s any juicier, the phone rings.

“Yeah?” I answer, holding the cell limp in my hand. I’m still restlessly searching the column for my fix.

“Hey, baby. It’s almost ten. You coming over?”

I recognize Christian’s voice immediately. It’s husky and authoritative, which usually sends my libido into overdrive, but today is my day off and all I want to do is curl up with my column and dive into a bag of peanut butter cups after breakfast.

“Can’t,” I say with a sigh. “Busy today.”

“It’s Monday.”

“I know what day it is.”

“It’s your day off.”

“Very good. You want a gold star for that one?”

“You know I love that smart mouth of yours. If you were here right now, I’d teach it a lesson. Don’t deny me, Elise. You know I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Well, today you’re going to have to, because I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’ll come to you.”

“No,” I say quickly, sitting up. The paper falls to my lap and Christian has my full attention now. “You can’t come here.”

“You do realize you’re going to have to let me come to your place someday, right?”

I laugh dryly. “You do realize that day will never come, right?”

“What are you so afraid of? You have a husband I don’t know about?” His question is full of coy regalement, but I’m not amused. Christian will never see my apartment. None of the men I sleep with ever do. I go to them. This is all on my terms.

“Where’s Kylie today?”

“Visiting some friends in Seattle. She won’t be back until late tonight. Come on, baby, let me come over and show you a good time. I’ll bring lunch.”

I almost choke on my coffee. I’ve grown used to his endearments, but now he wants to eat together? “Lunch?”

“Yeah, you know, that meal after breakfast and before dinner?”

“Christian…”

“Elise, relax. I’m not asking you to have my children. Surely, you can eat a meal with me after I fuck you senseless, yes?”

My earlier plans for binging on peanut butter cups are cast aside by his forwardness. Well, that and the fact that this week’s column is turning out to be a letdown. Warmth floods my inner thighs and I fold my legs underneath me in the chair, turning to gaze out the window. Christian is pretty damn delicious. I’d probably count him as my favorite, although Brad from the diner is a close runner up. Brad and I have had an understanding for the past three years now, since I began working at Stella’s. He’s low maintenance through and through, and he knows my body well. The conversation is always minimal, and he’s considerate. Sweet. Kind of like Christian.

I laugh at that thought, watching a blackbird zip past my window.

Christian is far from sweet. In bed, he’s as dominant as they come, and he’s as charming, persuasive, and seductive as the devil himself. There are times I almost forget about his wife, Kylie—almost. He’s that good.

“Okay,” I decide, wanting to see his face. “I’ll come to you. Give me an hour.”

“That’s my girl.”

“See ya.” I hang up and pull myself from the chair, ditching the paper and my mug for my laciest red lingerie. Christian loves me in red, and the day could use a little color. I wash up, curl my hair, apply some make up, and then I’m out the door.

***

What was meant to be a quickie and a bite to eat turned into an all-day romp. Not that I’m complaining. Christian is 30, fit, and maddeningly handsome, with dirty blonde hair and shocking blue eyes. What really gets me is his tan. We’re not exactly golden here in Gig Harbor, Washington, but Christian has this perpetual bronze glow. Not the orange, unnatural kind, but the kind that kisses his skin just enough to give him that beach-bum look. Not only is he first-rate man candy, he’s phenomenal in the sack. I don’t doubt he keeps his wife a very happy woman. Too bad she has to share.

We’re launching into another round on his bed, and I go to kick off my black peep toe stilettos, but he grabs my ankle and slides my leg up higher around his waist. “Leave them on,” he orders gruffly. My head floats back down to the pillow and I keep my hands relaxed above my head, next to my ears, just where he likes them. I let him do his thing, keeping quiet and rocking my hips up to match him thrust for thrust.

My gaze settles on the corner of the ceiling. It’s barren and lonely, and I think there are traces of a cob web hanging there, dusting from wall to wall. I don’t whimper or moan for another few minutes, knowing he only likes to hear me on command. “I know,” he says sympathetically. He gives me a dazed smile of approval. My obedience makes him happy, and that only serves to make the way he’s fucking me all the more satisfying. “You can control it, I know you can.”

I bite down hard on my lip, trying to give him what he wants. I’m not sure why I comply with his demands. Maybe because compared to the others, Christian is the most tolerable. Something about him makes me want to compromise. Whereas I need Tim to punish me, I need Christian to indulge me. “Christian,” I pant, feeling every spring in my body coil tightly.

“Soon.” He starts to pump harder, gathering my wrists above my head to pin them against the mattress. His waist is pushing, his force prodding me on as he nails me to the sheets. “Come on, baby, let me hear you.” His arctic eyes hone in on me, never straying from my face. Now that he’s given me permission, I let my moans pour from my lips. I can hear his cell ring from the nightstand, but I don’t dare let it burst the heady bubble I’m in. He feels too damn good and I’m way too close to be distracted.

“Shit,” he mumbles, closing his eyes to push out the intrusive ringing. My gaze falls down to his abdomen, firm and defined, rolling with each thrust. Each one is frantic now, and I know he’s close. I allow myself to whimper and my fingernails to dig into the palms of his hands. They’re still restraining me, holding my fists in a vise grip above my head. “Tell me you’re mine, Elise.”

The phone stops ringing and he keeps pushing, smashing me into the comforter, but I let my eyes drift shut and focus on absorbing all of the sensations instead of replying.

“Elise,” he barks, stabbing me with a sharp, measured jolt. “Say it.”