The Rider List: An Erotic Romance (2 page)

“Good.” He steps past me, out into the hallway, and I follow him into the large open room. The den takes up two-thirds of this space, the rest contains the kitchen. The entire side of this house is comprised of large windows, giving an incredible view of the beach here at the tip of the island.

He turns and leans against the kitchen counter, arms folded across his broad chest. He has a faint line of fine hair running down the middle of his chest, and it’s all I can do not to follow it with my eyes.

“So you’ve rented this entire place for yourself,” I say, looking at his face, trying to keep my eyes trained there and not drift back down to his stomach.

He nods. “I don’t need the space. I saw this unit on the website and I liked that it was at the tip of the island.”

“It’s a great view.”

“Beautiful.” As he says the word, he’s looking at me, his gaze raking down my body, then back up again, and I can tell when our eyes meet that he doesn’t care how blatantly obvious it is.

“So,” I say, trying to break the awkwardness that I’m now feeling, “I understand you’ll be here all summer. I guess you met Jeanine earlier. She’ll be here nights and weekends, I’ll be here weekdays. We’ll be your two concierges, so if there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. You can call the office or you can call either of us directly.” I write my number on the notepad that hangs on the refrigerator. I’m going through the motions of welcoming a guest, just like I always do, but this is no ordinary guest. “There’s a checklist here…” I open a drawer and take out the stack of paper. “And envelopes. You can fill one of these out and leave it on the doorstep.”

“I already looked at it,” he says, as I face him again. “I also have some particular things I like from time to time. I made my own list.”

“Yes, I got that. It’s in the office. Mostly vegetables. No meat?”

He shakes his head. “I’m having some meat shipped to me.”

That’s a first, but I let it go. “Well, I’ll be picking up those things today and dropping them off. What’s a good time for you?”

He raises his hand for the t-shirt that still rests on his shoulder and he smoothly maneuvers it over his head and puts it back on. “Anytime. If I don’t answer, just come in. I may not be here.”

For a guy who has been up for more than a day, he sure doesn’t look like it. “Anything else before I go?”

He shakes his head. “Not right now, but if I think of something I want…” His voice trails off and I see that he’s picked up the piece of paper with my number on it. “I’ll call you, Audrey.” The way he says my name, it’s almost like he’s trying it out, seeing if he likes saying it.

I like the way he says it, but I don’t let it show.

“Well, the rental company should be here to pick up your car this afternoon. I saw that in your file. If you need a ride anywhere during your stay, you can let us know whenever you need one.”

“Will it be you or someone else?”

I pause for a second. “Me, if it’s during the day. I don’t work nights.”

“Good then.”

Moving to the door, I open it and say goodbye one more time. He just smiles back. I’m back on the sidewalk, heading for the office, thinking I’ve just met an incredibly gorgeous, but also very cautious man. And eccentric wouldn’t even begin to describe it. Why is he having meat shipped to him?

The questions about discretion and trust and my age…also very weird. My mind immediately begins producing theories: maybe he’s on the run from something—a crime he’s committed, a business he’s wrecked, a trust-fund family he’s betrayed or, worse, an ex-wife he’s jilted.

Chapter Two

Evan

I’m not Adam Lewis. My name is Evan Crawford. I’m staying at this resort under an assumed name so I can get some much-needed privacy and deal with the fact that I’ve recently started to doubt the direction of my life.

I’m in a band called Tuesday’s Fault. I started the band ten years ago, and since day one I’ve been the songwriter in the group. I’m not the lead singer, but I play guitar and sing backup, and I write damn near every song we play.

But starting about a year ago, I began having trouble coming up with something new and fresh, and it was bugging the shit out of me.

I’d never had that problem before. Fucking writer’s block had hit me like a tornado, scattering not only my ideas but also my confidence as a songwriter. That wasn’t normal, at least not for me.

The stress and frustration built up, nobody else in the band was coming up with material, and all of this culminated about three weeks ago in Indianapolis.

That’s when I ended up in the hospital and got the diagnosis that pulled me off the tour. Luckily, we only had two more shows to play. A session guitarist stood in for me and the band finished the tour while I recuperated.

We were scheduled to take a two-week hiatus after that, and then get back in the studio. Which is right about now, only I’m not there. I’m here.

I’ve been to the Charleston, South Carolina, area a couple of times before, but that was always while I was on tour with the band. The stops were short, our free time limited, but we had managed to make it over to the nearby Isle of Palms once.

I’m from Colorado, a land-locked state, and like many other Coloradans, I had exactly zero experience with the beach. While I love the scenery in my home state and could have easily retreated to a quiet cabin somewhere away from civilization, I decided instead to seek solace beside the ocean.

The writer’s block and the health issue weren’t the only things weighing on my mind. I’ve become jaded by life on the road. City after city, same old stuff every night, to include the groupies—girls who were way too willing to go backstage and to our tour bus or our hotel rooms. Yes, that was one of the exciting perks of being a musician, at least it was early on in my career. But now it was becoming routine. Boring, actually.

Aside from being easy, they weren’t fulfilling my true sexual desires. Urges, cravings, certain needs that I had so far played out only in my mind.

I couldn’t risk doing any of that with girls I met on the tour. That doesn’t leave much time for easing a woman into what I want to do, and then there’s the very real possibility that I could be accused by a fan of something terrible. I’m no idiot—no matter how strong the desires, none of it was worth risking my career and savings.

I had to settle for what I consider bland sex. Good enough, sure, but not what I truly wanted.

So here I am at this Isle of Palms resort after spending the last two weeks traveling around, unsure of where I wanted to find some privacy, until I finally settled here.

There’s much more to all of this, but as I sit here on the deck looking out at the ocean, my thoughts are focused laser-like on Audrey Mitchell.

I knew someone was in the house the second I walked in off the beach. What I didn’t expect was to find that someone in the bedroom, and I didn’t expect it to be someone who looked like her.

Brunette hair that looked long enough to go to the middle of her back, though she had it pulled back into a little twist at the nape of her neck.

Her body was shapely, in a sort of athletic way but definitely not skinny. Olive complexion. She wore blue shorts that showed off her legs, and a white button-down blouse. Exactly what that other girl was wearing when I checked in during the early morning hours. But Audrey wore it much better than whatever-her-name-was.

It’s been a little over six months since I’ve had sex. The dry spell was self-imposed, sort of a New Year’s resolution. I’m a guy with a good amount of self-control, but I couldn’t help my body’s natural reaction with Audrey in my bedroom, den, and kitchen.

I looked at her intently enough to nearly memorize her face with those inviting eyes and easy smile, and her body with legs that I wanted wrapped around me and big tits I wanted my hands and mouth on.

If she somehow noticed my extreme interest, that would have been the least of my worries. What was important was that she didn’t recognize me.

Along with my name, I’ve altered my appearance over the last two weeks. The somewhat long hair is gone, which means the natural slight curls I get when it’s longer are gone, too.

I usually have a short beard that I keep cropped close, but it’s gone now in favor of completely clean-shaven. It may not sound like much, but it’s enough. Plus, I’m the guitarist, and no matter what anyone says, nobody in a band is more noticeable than the lead singer.

I have a tattoo that might make me more recognizable. It’s on my left shoulder, which is why I let the t-shirt hang over it when I saw Audrey. I don’t know if that would have been enough to give away my true identity, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

She clearly has no idea who I am. Perfect.

Audrey will be back sometime this afternoon to drop off the things I put on the rider list. I decide that I won’t be here when she does. This is the first time I’ve been around a woman who doesn’t see me through the prism of my fame. It’s intriguing to me. Almost like an experiment.

Yes, I’m a paying guest here at the resort and I’ve reserved the biggest place on the grounds, so she has to treat me a certain way. But I’ll break down that wall, somehow.

It was all I could do to push thoughts from my mind when she was here. I’m drawn to the details of a woman’s mouth. It’s often the first thing I notice. And this time there was something else. When Audrey smiles, a slight dimple forms on her chin.

Those big brown eyes of hers drew me in as well. I imagine them looking up at me as she wraps her lips around my cock.

The blowjobs I’ve had have always been quick and dirty. There aren’t many guys who would complain about that, but I desire more.

Among the many things I haven’t been able to let myself do to a woman over the years, one of them is taking the time to teach her exactly how I like it.

The more I think about this, the more I realize I don’t want to see her again today. The temptation will be torture. I’ll need to go out and find something to do. Maybe a really long walk on the beach, maybe stop in a small restaurant, have a beer and a bite to eat, check out the evening crowds along the strip.

I could try to rush things with Audrey, but where would the fun be in that? I have all summer to play with her, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.

Before I go out for the afternoon, I take a shower. With the towel wrapped around my waist, I walk into the bedroom. The air conditioner is blasting, my body awash in frigid air from the overhead vents, hardening my nipples and sending a chill down my spine.

I sit on the bed, and intend to reach for the suitcase to get some clothes.

But thoughts of Audrey claim my attention. I open the towel and…there’s no way I’m going to make it through the afternoon like this.

I lean back on the bed and let out a heavy, frustrated sigh as I conjure up images recorded in my mind from her being right here in this room earlier today. I close my eyes as my hand goes to my cock.

Chapter Three

Audrey

I get back to Bungalow A with the items from Adam’s rider list. I knock and get no answer.

He mentioned earlier that he might not be here and that I should just go in and drop the stuff off, so I put down the bags and reach into my pocket for the master key. The door opens before I get a chance to use my key and I look up to see him wearing jeans and a short-sleeve white linen fitted shirt that shows the contours of his chest.

“I didn’t think you were here,” I say.

“I was going out, but I changed my mind. Let me help you with these.” He bends down and picks up the bags, then stands and moves aside.

Stepping past him, I smell soap and shampoo. I glance up and he’s looking down at me, his lips pressed tightly together but forming a bit of a smile. It’s the closest I’ve been next to him and I realize he’s probably six-one or six-two.

He follows me to the kitchen. We’re placing the bags on the counter when he says, “Did you grow up around here?”

“Born and raised. I even stayed here for college, so I’ve never left this town. I mean, I’ve traveled a little, but never out of the country.”

“What did you study in college?” He pulls out a bag of peppermint candies he requested, unwraps one, and pops it into his mouth.

“Graphic design and marketing.” I stop and then quickly add, “But I’m also a photographer,” like I need to make sure he knows this. I’ve always been visually creative, and I wanted to major in art, but the practical side of me guided me toward the graphic design and marketing degree.

I’d get to use my creative skills and make money at the same time. It’s hard to live as a pure artist when your only real chance of fame and popularity comes after you die.

“Impressive.” He’s washing fruit in the sink but looks over his shoulder at me. “So why are you working here?”

“It hasn’t been easy to find a job in my field.” My answer comes out sounding normal, but my brain is severely distracted by the sight of this man—the way his shirt fits him perfectly, sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows; the way his jeans hang on his waist…

Stop.

“Even with two degrees?” he asks, and I get the feeling that he doesn’t know how hard it is when you’re just starting out. Maybe his wealth has created some distance between him and the reality of most people and their nine-to-five workday lives.

“Even with two degrees,” I say. “But I’m looking hard.”

“Does that mean if you find a job tomorrow, you won’t be around the rest of the summer?”

I hadn’t even thought of that because I’m not counting on finding a job so quickly and easily. “No, I plan to be here all summer.” Enough about me. I want to know something about him now.

“Why the Charleston area?”

“I’ve been here before, but it’s been a while. I didn’t plan to come here. It was kind of a last minute decision. I packed up that rental car about two weeks ago and just started driving.”

“I’d love to do that.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Long story. It’s just been a long time since I’ve been out of this city.”

He looks at me and nods. “It’s good to get away sometimes.”

I look down, not wanting to show how badly I wish I could leave, even for a few days.

“What would you be getting away from?” he asks.

“Another long story. What about you?”

“Work.”

“What do you do?” I ask him.

His answer comes quickly, no hesitation: “Nothing right now. And that’s exactly what I want to be doing. I’m taking a little break.” He’s unpacking one of the bags, placing some of the fruit that doesn’t need rinsing in a bowl, some in the refrigerator.

I’m standing here with my hands on the counter, not sure what to do with them, so I keep running them along the smooth countertop like I’m nervous or something, which I’m not. It’s the first time I’ve noticed the decoration hanging on the wall next to this counter. It’s seashells, glued together to make a sea turtle. Like a child, I reach up to touch it, and feel how delicate it is.

“I’d rather not talk about work,” he’s saying, and I snap out of my distraction.

“Sorry.”

“No, I brought it up.” And just as quickly, he changes the subject. “Anything I shouldn’t miss while I’m here?”

I rattle off a few things: historical sites, theaters downtown, museums. But he stops me.

“Those are in the brochure,” he says, looking at me now. “I mean, what do you recommend? What do you like to do?”

I move around to the other side of the counter, out of the kitchen, on the den side. He hasn’t exactly made me uncomfortable, but the move is reflexive, like I’m placing a barrier between us as he asks me about my private life.

“I, uh…well, honestly, I don’t have much of a social life these days.”

He stops what he’s doing and looks directly at me. “Why’s that?”

Jesus. I don’t really want to get into this, but I also don’t want to be rude to a guest. “When I’m not working, I watch my younger sister. My mom’s a nurse and works the night shift.” That should be enough to satisfy his question.

“You don’t have any free time? That’s not good.”

“I have some. Two nights, but that’s all, really.”

I reach into my pocket for my phone. I haven’t heard any alerts, but I need something else to focus on for a moment.

There’s something in the way he looks at me that makes me feel something I’ve never felt before. It’s the same as it was earlier today—he’s not shy about blatantly looking at my body—but now it’s like I can feel his eyes on me. It’s like his stare is something physical making contact with me.

Adam walks across the huge kitchen toward me, the counter between us. “Something to drink?”

“No, thanks.” I look back down at my phone, but watch him out of the corner of my eye as he starts opening cabinets. He finds glasses behind the second door, goes to the refrigerator and takes out the bottle of blueberry-pomegranate juice.

He’s filling the glass when he asks, “Do you date?”

Too personal. “I’m sorry?” I look up from my phone.

He walks back over to the counter. “Do you date? Boyfriend?”

God, he’s direct. Comfortably and coolly blunt, like he has a right to hear the answer. Is this really happening? He’s either coming on to me, or he’s really lonely and bored. Maybe both. Whatever the case, I’m starting to feel like I should leave.

I’m not overreacting; I’m not about to say he’s being inappropriate; it’s just that I like to keep my private life to myself, for one thing, and in addition to that, I don’t want to get too cozy with a guest. Especially this one—an attractive, wealthy man staying here by himself…I can only imagine how easily I could find myself entangled in what appears to be something inappropriate.

Thankfully, my phone rings. I look at the screen and see that it’s Jim.

“Sorry,” I say to him, as I make my way to the front door. “It’s the office. I have to run.”

. . . . .

Just before I leave work for the day, Jeanine arrives and I tell her about meeting Adam Lewis. She apologized for not telling me she’d already given him the key.

“Good thing he wasn’t coming out of the shower or something,” she says, darting her eyes back and forth, as if to not so subtly indicate that she’d like to catch him doing just that.

“Yeah, it was,” I say, and I almost bring up the questions he asked me but decide not to.

I bring her up to speed on the events of the day and she settles in for her night shift.

When I first started here, I worked the overnight shift, but only for two nights. Jim had wanted me to do it just for the experience. Which was good, because if the permanent position I had interviewed for had been an overnight shift, I wouldn’t have been able to work here at all.

I get home earlier than usual and start making dinner. Mom rushes out the door just as Sophie is coming in from a long, hard day at the pool and doing whatever else it is that girls her age do.

Sometimes I hear her talking to her friends and I’m glad I’m over ten years older than she is. I tell her dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. She mumbles something as she walks down the hall and I hear her bedroom door close.

I live at home with my mom and my eleven year-old sister, Sophie. Mom is a nurse who works the overnight shift Wednesdays through Sundays, which means I’m responsible for Sophie on those nights. So in a way, my day job of looking out for people continues when I get home.

But only for those nights. Monday and Tuesday nights are like my weekend.

I’m working this resort job because it was available after graduation. It’s not my dream job. I’m still hunting for that, or at least a ground-floor opportunity.

My social life right now consists of my best friend, Stacy, who happens to call as I’m cooking.

“Next Tuesday, you and me. And Trent, of course. Beers on the rooftop. No backing out.”

That’s her opening line. An order. I’m used to it. She’s only joking with that tone, and it’s part of who she is. Stacy moved here from New York when she was thirteen, and despite being in the South for nine years, she hasn’t lost a bit of her blunt attitude.

The accent is mostly gone, though. Her personality is a far cry from what I was used to, growing up—softer spoken females, slow and deliberate, congenial even when they probably shouldn’t be—but we’ve been best friends since the day she walked into our eighth grade homeroom and sat down next to me.

“Why would I back out?” I ask.

“You did last week.”

“I was tired. It was my, what…fourth day on the new job? I’m on my feet and running around all day. I don’t get to sit down all day like you do.”

Stacy is a paralegal. From what I’ve gathered, there’s a lot of reading and typing and paper-shuffling, which involves sitting down for the majority of the day.

“Don’t make my job sound so glamorous,” she says. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’d give anything to work at a beachside resort.”

“Mine isn’t so glamorous, either.” I tell her about the couple in Bungalow G who screwed like rabbits all week.

I want to tell her about Adam, but I can’t. It’s against company policy to talk about guests, and even though I’ve just told her about the couple in G, telling her about Adam would be different. Especially since he specifically asked me about discretion.

I open the oven and pull out the baked chicken, placing it on top of the stove. “I really need to get out and do something.”

“Yes, yes you do! Shit. Hang on a second.” I hear her saying something to Trent, her boyfriend, then she’s back. “Jesus, we’ve lived here two years and he still doesn’t know where we keep the potato peeler.”

“He’s peeling potatoes?”

“I’m making him do it. Anyway, you need to get out. And not just do something, but do some
one
.” This is standard bluntness for her. “Remember, you’re talking to your best friend. I know how long it’s been—”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me,” I say, cutting her short. I call down the hall to let Sophie know dinner is ready.

“I’m just saying….” Stacy’s voice trails off.

“Saying what?”

“You need to have some fun. Go on a date or something. Look, I’m going to make this happen.”

“Stace, really. Thanks, but no thanks. It’s the last thing I need in my life right now. I mean, between work, trying to find a job in the field I actually want to work in, and watching after Sophie, there’s so much going on.”

“What?” Sophie’s voice behind me.

I turn. “Nothing.”

Sophie rolls her eyes.

“I really didn’t mean it that way, Soph.” I pause for a minute and get no response from her, so I go back to Stacy. “Hey, I’m going to eat. Call you later.”

“You better, bitch.”

“Bye, bitch.”

I look over at Sophie and see that she’s laughing at how Stacy and I talk to each other.

“Wait a few years before you start calling your girlfriends names like that. Or at least don’t tell anyone you learned it from me.”

“Don’t worry,” she says.

“Okay.”

“Bitch.”

“Sophie…”

. . . . .

Later that night, I’m bored with everything that’s on Netflix and I don’t even bother checking the TV. Instead, I type “Adam Lewis” into Google search.

The results don’t even show up before I realize that’s not exactly a unique name. Sure enough, I get millions of hits. I narrow it down by adding different keywords for each time I run the search: “rich,” “business owner,” “CEO,” “investor.” Nothing comes back that could even remotely be him.

I change keywords: “wanted,” “fugitive.” I’m sort of kidding when I do this, and sort of not at the same time. Nothing alarming shows up.

Lastly, I type in: “Adam Lewis” and “trust fund baby.” Again, nothing.

So maybe he’s not some mega-wealthy guy after all, at least not anyone who would show up on the “Richest People In America” list (which I also checked).