We Were One Once Book 1 (4 page)

I’ve learned since then to
take better care of my toys, to not leave any lasting marks. New
owners are touchy on this point. They’ll pay top price for pristine
product, or nearly pristine.

And I’ve learned to not
shit where I eat too. I don’t mess with the women in my own circle
anymore. They don’t make for good product anyway—too needy, too
spoiled, no fun, no challenge.

I have other limitations.
No homeless, no one under eighteen, no mothers—it’s a short list,
but I’ve stuck with it. The homeless and underage are too weak, too
easy. The mother thing…well, whatever.

I move a little more into
the room. I smile at those I recognize, those that recognize me.
There are only a few clients here tonight. Only Troy brings his
toys out, but he’s never been married. He can parade whatever he
likes without taking a hit to his reputation. He knows he still has
to be inconspicuous though. You’d have to look closely to see that
Luanne isn’t the same as the other women here.

My clients have to meet
strict criteria too. Besides proving they’re able to be discreet,
they have to be known to me already or introduced to me by someone
that is. They have to be very specific on likes and dislikes. I
won’t hand my product off to a limp dick who can’t appreciate my
work. A firm hand is needed with my girls long after I’ve trained
them to accept it as their lot in life. Clients also have to be
willing to accept my golden rule—absolutely no interference in my
selection or training process.

In return, they get a fully
submissive, pliant, and trained to their tastes product to own and
use. There are no refunds, no returns, and no negotiations. I don’t
want or need to know what happens after payment, but I have no
doubt if there were a review site for this sort of shit, I’d have
five stars.

I head to a table near the
edge of the dance floor. “Peter, Craig, good to see you guys.” I
shake hands with two of the men at the table and nod to their
dates.

“What’s Batman doing out of
his cave tonight?” Craig stands to be next to me.

“Ha! Joke never gets old.” I
set my glass of wine down on their table and see how Peter’s
fiancée watches me. I banged her two years ago, right after she met
him. She’s been trying to get my attention again ever since. She
was okay, although a tad too enthusiastic. Her scent was…too
citrus. “You look nice, Stace.” It’s
my
running joke. I plan to fuck her on
their wedding night.

She blushes and smiles,
putting her hand closer to mine and trying for a sexy look, stupid
cunt. It’s what Peter deserves though. He’s an asshole
too.

I turn to the girl sitting
next to her, a blonde with her hair up. She has big ears, but other
than that she’s good looking. “Would you like to dance?” I can see
the look on Stacy’s face is almost as crushed as the hopeful one on
this girl’s. The blonde nods and stands quickly.

I like to celebrate after a
transaction. I like to fuck afterwards. After weeks or months of
training a new product, I like to enjoy the simple pleasure of a
fuckfest with a whore of my choosing. I look around as I take her
hand and lead us to the center of the dance floor; I’ll have my
pick tonight.

“My name’s Stacy too.” She
giggles. I hate girls that giggle. I have to unclench my fist
against her back, wondering how her giggle would sound if stopped
by a quick pop to her ribs. I smile more.

“Simon.”

“Oh, I know. You probably
don’t remember…we went to Stanford together.”

I keep my smile plastered
in place. “Of course. How’s your family doing?” I watch her face
fall a little. I know who she is and that her family was involved
in a few financial scams years back. I believe her brother may
still be fighting in court to stay out of jail. That should keep
her from giggling until I can get rid of her. Her perfume is
disgusting up close.

I glide us around the
floor, looking around for a better choice for my cock tonight. I
may just leave here and go to a club. The anonymous route is always
more my taste, and I can keep a lookout for my next product. I have
an order for a tall brunette with no ink. That’s harder to come by
these days.

I spot a short brunette in
a long red dress. I like red for the obvious reasons.

This one is bright red, no
pretending it’s trying for subtle or sophisticated. It’s a fuck me
color. And this girl’s hair is a wild, kinky curled mass around her
that covers her shoulders and obscures her profile, but her body is
on full display. There’s not much to her. She’s a little too thin,
too up and down, but I like how her hipbone sticks out. She’s
purposely standing to make her angles sharper, pushing her leg
through the long slit. She clearly makes no apologies for her body,
and she’s owning the two men standing next to her. They’re
practically sitting on their hind legs for her.

Her head leans back with a
laugh at something one of them said, and thank God it’s not a
fucking little girl giggle. It’s full throat and moaning, like she
just heard a dirty joke, and she’s making it dirtier by laughing at
it so openly. I imagine having my hand on her throat while she
laughs like that.

I watch her own hand travel
up her side and rest on her collarbone. I can’t see her face, but I
can see her arm angled out sharply and her talons glinting as she
plays her fingers against her creamy skin. I can feel my cock
twitch.

Congrats, Red. You’re about
to enjoy a night of pussy melting sex with yours truly. I thank
Stacy and turn away from her before she can say anything. I just
leave her on the floor. I’m known for being an asshole. It’s a
reputation I aim to keep, discreetly of course.

I circle around the red
dress and head to the bar opposite her. I don’t think I’ve fucked
her before, but I don’t usually go for seconds. It’s too messy. The
girl starts thinking she has a chance and then discretion is harder
to maintain. I need to make sure before making a move.

I get a drink and turn to
check her out more. I recognize both men by her sides. They’re
brothers, new money, small tech, and thankfully, not clients. One
brother keeps lifting his hand to brush her back but then drops it
just as quickly. She’s only slightly angled closer to him, only
slightly tilting her face more towards him. So they’ve fucked, but
he knows he’s not good enough for her. And so does she. Poor
bastard.

Not for the first time, I
think about the offer to teach a class. One of Grandfather’s
friends made a joke again over a card game a few months back,
saying how he wished I could teach his grandson a thing or two
about women. He’s a client, so I know he was speaking more about
the special training I give my girls. It’s unfortunate some men
just can’t stomach the necessary steps it takes to make a good girl
great.

I tilt my head back to
finish my drink and spit some of it out when I get my first good
look at Red’s face. It’s
her
. It’s
fucking
her. She’s here. How? What
the
fuck
?!

I brush away the
bartender’s hand and towel. “I’m fine.” I move away from the bar a
little, getting closer to the small group.

It’s definitely Grace. She
has the same dark eyes, same lips, but she’s no longer cold, no
longer distant. Everything is different—her hair, clothes,
makeup…the way she moves, stands, talks. She’s a fucking cat ready
to spring. Her eyes drag across the room and spot new
prey.

I can just barely hear her
at this distance. Even her voice is different. It’s almost the
same, but more…sultry. It’s not a word I use, but it’s all I can
think. Her halting voice is now a purr, low and deep and smooth.
I’m blown away.

I lost track of her fifteen
months ago. She disappeared completely and never returned to her
shitty apartment or job.

I had to scramble to find a
new product, but I obsessed about her. I tried to find out anything
I could about her. Discreetly. I came up with nothing.

I figured she was running
from her past and bolted to a new destination and identity. Or she
was one of the unidentified girls killed every day. Or she was on
to me and she ran. Most likely, it was the second
option.

But now she’s here, looking
like this, acting like this. Her. Here.

Seattle: Miles
Vanderson

Time teaches hard
lessons.

When Gillian first went
missing, I was sure that she was kidnapped, taken against her will.
The police, FBI, investigators were all convinced of the same
thing. As far as everyone knew, my stepsister was a sweet, innocent
girl caught up in a sadistic ransom plot. I made it well known that
I would pay any price to have her returned to me safely. Rewards
were offered and upped.

I was certain that Gillian
wouldn’t have left me of her own volition; but then no information
came. There was no ransom, no demands, no leads. That was my first
lesson, humility.

And that led to my
education with the harder lessons of patience, perseverance, and
composure. I learned quickly to not break down every time the phone
rang or when another search along the many nearby waterways didn’t
produce any clues. When I heard “no news is good news” over and
over or when enough time went by that the investigation shifted
from ransom to runaway, I learned to maintain my
equanimity.

I remained calm through the
many questions about Gillian’s home life, hobbies, and habits. I
endured the countless inquiries about her friends and potential
boyfriends, or really, the lack of both. I was composed even when
the investigation delved into my personal life. I stayed
tight-lipped when my staff and friends were pulled into
it.

When the investigation
stagnated quickly after the trail of money turned cold in Seattle,
that’s when the lessons were hardest.

Three long years I waited
to hear from her, to hear about her. I held on to hope for a long
time. I hoped that Gillian would come to her senses and return to
me on her own. It was a final lesson in foolishness.

It’s been three long years
of not knowing, of keeping my mask of composure on, and hiding the
rage I feel inside as it grows every day that she remains
missing.

San Francisco: Simon
Lamb

I watch Grace walk away
from the brothers. She heads towards the doors but stops at the
circle of men I saw her eyeing before. She’s smart. These are
better options—much older money, slightly older men. She picks the
weakest and moves in. It’s a good choice, I admit. She’d be at the
top of the food chain quickly with him.

I follow at a distance, not
within listening distance, but it’s not something I need to hear.
The conversation is obvious. Yes, I know I’m beautiful and
fuckable. Yes, I know I’m rich and that’s my best quality. Now,
let’s get down to when, where, and how much.

It’s the same no matter
who’s doing the talking…girl’s got pussy, how much are you willing
to give out to get in it. Most bastards don’t realize this until
they’re standing next to an altar. And they always wonder why the
chick isn’t as interested in sex afterwards. Because you already
paid the Goddamn price of admission, dumbass!

Red. Grace. She’s good.
She’s smooth. She doesn’t linger. She hints. She suggests. But she
moves on quickly.