We Were One Once Book 1 (5 page)

Men need to hunt. She
obviously understands this. She’s offering herself as prey. Not
easy prey. But willing.

Is this why she
disappeared? I found her when she was only taking a break in
between men?

No…no fucking way! She was
a small, sheltered, little girl, frozen behind expressionless
stares and never venturing to even touch another person. I watched
her for almost four weeks. She never said more than a few words
together unless it was about the fucking stars and alignment and
astro-fuck-shit. No way she was only pretending, laying
low.

I don’t know
this
Grace though. This
woman didn’t exist fifteen months ago. Grace was smart, but she was
weak, meek, and docile. She didn’t stand out, and she didn’t want
to. I chose her because she stood out trying so hard
not
to. And
I
wanted her. I wanted to
break through her indifferent stares.

I’d dropped off a product
near the grocery store that time I first saw her. I’d gone in
afterwards to pick up a bottle of champagne. I’d already text a
fuck for the night, but then I saw Grace and decided to keep an eye
on her. I tracked her. She was undeniably a perfect fit for my
training. I thought she’d be a small challenge, and she sort of fit
a new order I had back then.

This woman? She’s on a
Goddamn stage. She doesn’t have to do more than flick her hair a
little to get noticed. She’s unwavering, confident, and hot. She’s
fuck me at your own risk if you dare and if you can pay the price.
She’s definitely not suitable for my training. Well, maybe…except
now she’s in my circle. Sort of.

I watch her walk back to the
brother. He’s fucking trussed up dinner in her hands. She pats him
on the back and walks away with both brothers trailing behind. I
follow and watch her get in a limo outside. She’s clearly fucked
the driver before by the smile they share and maybe the brother? Or
maybe she’s only fucked
with
him?

I walk outside and take in
the cold air. What the fuck?!

Grace. Here. Like this?! I
can’t get my head around it.

San Francisco: Simon
Lamb

I wait for her outside her
address. It’s a step up from Chinatown, Grace. A doorman holds open
the glass door for her, and she barely brushes her tits against him
as she passes. It could’ve been an accident, but I can see the smug
half smile on her face as she puts her sunglasses on. He’s still
checking out her ass.

She’s in red again, a
little more subtle this time. Everything about her is polished and
expensive except her hair; it’s still wild and kinky.

Her strides are long for
her short legs. Heels clicking, ass shooting side to side—it’s a
runway walk. She’s bony like a model. That’s her job now, though
she’s too short to make it big. She has a few gigs with local
boutiques, a photographer that specializes in soft porn for book
covers, and a few legit magazine shoots.

I glance at my phone. I
have a few pics with her dark hair straight and sleek. I prefer her
like this though, like she’s been pumped with electricity. I smile.
I could get more than just her hair to stand up with a few
volts.

Supposedly, fifteen months
ago she was in the Riviera, sulking over a bad break up with some
underwear model or local politician’s boy. Maybe it was both if
rumors were true.

But I know she was in that
crappy Chinatown apartment, hiding. Why?

It doesn’t matter. She’s
now off limits. So why am I still watching her?

It’s pretty simple. No
girl’s ever gotten away from me.

San Francisco: Simon
Lamb

I keep my distance, but
Grace is easy to follow. I track her to a trendy fusion restaurant
and watch her sit with three other overly thin women. I decide to
wait at the bar; it’s close enough to their table to overhear most
of what she’d say.

It’s not close enough to
smell her though. I miss her smell. I kept one of her bras for a
while, thinking I’d choke her with it when I found her again. I
threw it away finally, giving up after six months of looking for
her. That and the smell no longer was hers.

The conversation at her
table is inane. It’s all fashion, fashion shoots, and fashion
fucks; but her voice stays low, deep. Her laugh is the same from
last night—hard, strong…sultry. The other women whine and giggle,
trying to outshine each other. Grace is steady, smooth. It’s almost
like she knows she’s being watched, and she’s trying to be extra
sexy while coming across like she’s not trying at all.

I glance again in her
direction. No, I’d bet my reputation as a top producer of fuck toys
that she has no idea she’s being watched.

I tune out their words,
pulling out my phone to look over investments, catch up on emails.
I even text my cousin about his visit next week. I occupy my mind
with the mindless shit of life.

I get up and throw extra
money on the counter without waiting for the bill when I hear the
women divvying up their check.

Keeping my back to the door
of the restaurant, I wait across the street but with a clear
sightline of her through a reflection on a storefront window. I
move with Grace as she walks but keep traffic and tourists between
us. She heads into a small shop with the other women.

I plan, I’m meticulous, but
I’m also a man of impulse and have learned to trust my inner voice
too, my gut. I don’t have a plan with Grace anymore anyway, so what
the hell?

I cross the street quickly,
ignoring the honk from oncoming traffic. I enter the low-music,
leather smelling store. Great. Shoes. Women’s shoes. Hard to look
inconspicuous in here.

Fuck it.

“Those will make your feet
look big.” I stand right next to Grace, tall against her short
frame. I actually look down my nose at her. Her startled look is
quick to disappear. She’s composed by the time she drags her eyes
up my body. I have an urge to swallow under her gaze. Nicely done,
Grace.

“Oh? Maybe that’s what I’m
going for.”

I laugh, “Some men
do
have a foot fetish.
Usually for the small variety though.”

“Some men? Or you?” She
hasn’t moved, still holding the heel in her right hand. She hasn’t
tried to put any distance between us. She’s all confidence and
poise. Just as I start to answer, she interrupts, taking my eyes
with hers back down her skin-tight jeans. “And I know I have nice
feet.” She lifts her head a little, not quite smiling with her
lips, only her eyes. “
You
like them, don’t you?”

I give her a full wolfish
smile, all teeth. Still, there’s no shaking her confidence. “Take
off your shoes.” I’m hard. I’m not a foot guy. I’ve had a few as
clients, and I’ve tried to understand the whole fetish shit. But
this is the first we’ve spoken; this is the first order I’ve given
Grace.

No change to her face or
body, and with hardly any movement at all, she slowly takes her
feet, one at a time, out of her shoes. She stays on tiptoes for a
moment longer, dark eyes still locked on mine. I watch her inch
lower, gracefully, down to her natural height.

I can’t get over how
different she is. I’d swear she’s a twin, a yin and yang, except I
know this
is
the
same girl. Even her smell is different though. It’s deeper,
stronger, like her voice. It’s still clean, but now there’s a hint
of something earthier, richer. I can’t put a name to it, but it’s
nice. It’s still all her, no disgusting fake perfume.

I give her a slow, smooth
charm smile this time, knowing it makes me more handsome, my blue
eyes more striking. I’ve been told this my whole life. I let my
eyes take their time traveling back down her body, all else
forgotten. “You
do
have nice feet.” She responds with a small frown to her
perfect brows, and I’m pleased to see her skin’s not frozen by
injections. She’s young, but that doesn’t stop most of the girls in
her line of work from overdoing the plastic shit. I enjoy seeing
the full extent of emotion on a woman’s face, especially pain. “We
should go somewhere more private, though, before I tell you to
remove anything else.”

Her laugh is the same as
yesterday—rich, long, deep. Her head is thrown back, lips full and
open, teeth parted, and pink tongue on display. She’s not faking
this laugh. There’s no forced effort, no attempt to make it more
feminine or lighter. She tosses the shoe in her hand onto an empty
chair and moves her hand to squeeze her own throat. She touches her
laugh just the way I want to.

I wait for her to quiet,
for her friends to come in closer to see what’s so funny. They’re
piranha circling fresh meat. I give each a tooth-filled smile
before landing my stare on her again.

She finally steps back to
get a good look at me. I know what she sees. I’m tall at 6’3”, in
very good shape, muscled and lean. It’s easy to see this, even in a
coat. I’m casual, but there’s my watch, my shoes; I obviously have
money. I could be a model but her direct opposite—my light blond to
her deep chestnut, my ice blue to her rich chocolate. Clean cut and
all American, I look innocent and sweet, impish and charming. I’ve
been told all this by countless women who learn how wrong they are
very quickly.

I give her time to think
these thoughts, watching her face play with each one. I answer her
friend’s questions while keeping my eyes locked on hers. “No, I
followed her in here to see if her voice is as nice as her ass.”
The friends laugh, but she doesn’t. Her eyebrow makes a perfect
arch, her hand still languidly tracing the line of her neck as she
decides what to make of me. She’s enjoying watching me track her
tiny movements. She’s used to controlling a man’s hunger for her,
feeding it. She likes pulling the strings.

“And?”

“Turn around.” She smiles
at my second order, but she slowly rises back onto her toes and
puts one foot in front of the other before turning slowly, lazily,
around to stop with her ass to me. “Nice.” Giggles and jokes from
the friends, but she only turns just as slowly to stop in front of
me again with a slight smile fluttering her lips.

I glance at my watch. “It’s
early, but let’s grab a drink.” I purposely don’t include her
friends in my look.