A Taste of Utopia Page 7

  Has a virgin pussy whipped my dick into submission? I shake off the line of thought.

  “Baby, if you make another sound like that I’ll have to take you again. You’re sore, I’m hungry, and we both need a shower. ” I gather her in my arms, so she is lying on top of me, and kiss the top of her head. “So hush.”

  She stretches and nuzzles into my chest making another lazy and quiet purr.

  “I’m warning you.”

  She raises her hand, and her index finger starts to draw loops on my chest.

  “Is this real?” she asks in that raspy voice of hers.

  “Pretty sure it is.” Unless it’s a utopian dream and I’ll wake up.

  “Are we insane?”

  “Pretty sure we are.”

  “Are we really married?”

  “Baby, I have the certificate that says so, and the bloody sheets to prove the consummation.”

  “We need to talk about it.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  Ignoring me, she slips off my lap and sits on the bed. Her hair falls over her shoulders, covering her breasts. I want to reach up and brush it away so it won’t obstruct my vision of her gorgeous tits. But her face is grave. She’s intent on having this conversation.

  However I’m not ready to address the damn white elephant sitting in the middle of the room, so with swift movements I stand, scoop her up and take her to the bathroom.

  “First things first: Shower, food, conversation.”

  “But—”

  I kiss her open lips midsentence.

  “In this order: shower, food, talk.”

  I place her on the marble floor. Inside the shower stall, I switch on the water, flip on all the jets, adjust the temperature, and say, “Get your gorgeous behind in.” I smack her ass as she steps into the stream. “I’ll order breakfast and will come back to shower with you,” I say, closing the door.

  After ordering breakfast, I fish in my wallet for another condom. I should have specified that a shower included wet, steamy, vertical sex.

  An urgent pounding at the door bursts the bubble that had been keeping us isolated from the world.

  “It can’t be room service. I just placed the order,” I mumble, putting on my pants, not bothering with a shirt.

  When I yank the door open, a fuming Chloe storms into the sitting room area.

  “What the fuck did you do to my friend?” She spews the words out in an angry little burst. Her nostrils are flared, and her eyes dart around the room, searching for Lottie. Her skimpy nightgown, raccoon eyes, and tangled hair tell me she rushed here.

  I’m taken back by her hostility. “Nothing that you didn’t pay me for,” I answer, irritated. The nerve she has to burst in, all righteous, acting as if I raped her friend. Wait, is this some sort of ploy to incriminate me?

  She holds her cell phone up toward me as if it were a loaded gun. “This! Tell me this isn’t true.”

  “If you care to exp—”

  “Did you fucking marry Lottie?”

  I blanch. “How the fuck do you know?”

  “Where is she?” Her eyes flash to the bedroom door.

  “Shower. Who told you?” Maybe Lottie called or texted her.

  “It’s all over Facebook, you asshole. Clear picture and bold letters.”

  She shoves the device in my face. I retrieve it from her, taking a closer look.

  The picture is the one Cher snaped. It frames our profile while we kiss. Elvis Presley behind us. Lottie’s left hand rests on my arm, the ostentatious ring and wedding band I put on her finger glint as if confirming our marriage.

  The caption, most likely written by Cher, reads: ‘Elvis just made it official. We’re married <3.’

  The picture has dozens of shares, hundreds of likes and an equal amount of comments.

  “Fuck,”

  “Yes, fuck her not marry her!” Chloe screams.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I return the device to her.

  “Well, you give me a virgin that would only have sex if she was married. What did you expect, sweetheart?” I know I’m coming across as a jackass. But my head’s spinning.

  “Wait! Does she even know I hired you? You didn’t tell her, did you?” she asks in an accusatory tone.

  “Tell her what?”

  “That you were her birthday present, that I hired you to fuck—wait what did you say? Who’s a virgin?”

  “What do you mean tell her? She doesn’t know? My directions said to act casual so this would go down as a casual date. Role-playing and shit. You’re fucking telling me she doesn’t know I’m an escort?” The conversation I had with Adriana runs through my mind. She never said anything about this.

  “No, no, no. Don’t turn this on me. I was crystal clear with your madam, or boss, or whoever the hell the owner of Tailored Companionship is.”

  “The hell you were crystal fucking clear. I was told to never, ever, mention I was an escort.”

  “Bullshit. I was clear. You were to flirt with her and then tell her I had hired you to give her twenty-one orgasms to make up for her asshole of an ex that didn’t make her come when they had sex. Of course, I trusted the institution to send a man with smarts and sensitivity. Someone to make it all smooth, and even a bit romantic. Hence,” she says, waving a hand around the room. “This room, and the flowers. Oh God, oh God!” She covers her face. “What have I done to my best friend?”

  “Shit. Fuck.” I pace the length of the room. Racing thoughts tumble and crash through my mind. What do I even care? It’s not like I know Lottie, or care about her.

  Fuck, whom am I kidding? I knew exactly what I was doing last night. I knew I wanted to fuck her more than I wanted my next breath. I knew I would have given my right kidney to make it happen. And since I’m being honest, I am aware that there was a connection between us, one inexistent with the hundreds of other women I fucked throughout my career.

  Accepting these truths is easy. However, what do I do with them? Where to go from here?

  I don’t have a clue. However, I know this much: I don’t want this crazy thing between us to end. Not yet. Not until I understand whatever the fuck this is.

  “You have to tell Lottie.”

  “The hell I do. I won’t tell her anything.”

  “Then I’ll tell.”

  “Fucking no you won’t.” I can’t bear to even imagine Lottie thinking what happened last night wasn’t real. Because, fuck me, it was as real as it gets. “You will get a refund. It will be as if this was indeed a casual date.”

  “I can’t lie to my best friend,” she says, sitting on the couch and holding her head between her hands.

  “Lie about what?” Lottie asks as she exits the bedroom. “Chloe, what’s going on? Why are you here?” She furrows her brow. Her eyes flick to me and back to her friend.

  With long steps, I cross the distance between us. “Nothing, baby.” I link my fingers with hers.

  Chloe stands up. “It’s just that—”

  “It’s on Facebook,” I interrupt Chloe.

  “What’s on Facebook?”

  “A picture of our wedding,” I say.

  “How? Did you post it?” Lottie looks at me.

  “No, my guess is that Cher posted after she snapped that pic of us. I recall her saying something about posts and I thought she meant you had notifications on your Facebook or something.”

  “Oh, my God. Mom.” She turns to me with startled eyes. They’re so worried it shatters my heart into a million small shards. “Where’s my phone?”

  I fish my jeans pocket for it and hand it to her.

  “Oh God, please let Mom not have seen this. Please, please, please,” she chants, switching on her device.

  “This doesn’t look good. Shit,” she says, staring at the phone’s screen.

  “What?” Chloe and I ask.

  “Twenty-eight missed calls.”

  I can see her fingers trembling as she opens her contact list.

  “Oh,” she says, her fac
e drooping like heated wax. “Home.” She points to the missed calls.

  She closes her eyes and inhales a deep breath. And for a moment, I feel sorry for putting her in this position. I have no family, no ties, no one to care about what I do. But in my eagerness to be with her, I acted like a selfish bastard, convincing her to marry me to satisfy my whim to have her.

  “I have to call her back. But what do I say? Oh God, just now . . .” She swallows hard. “That she has recovered.”

  I glance at Chloe, who mouths the word “cancer” back at me.

  Another pang of guilt surges through me. “Wait. Don’t call her yet.”

  “I have to. The sooner I call, the easier it’s going to be,” Lottie says.

  I pace the room, my hands pulling on my hair. “We need to strategize for damage control.”

  “I know how to do that. It’s called annulment, one, two, three, poof! It’s over. It’s erased from the records,” Chloe says.

  For a reason that escapes me, my heart stops only to restart with a jolt.

  “Oh yeah, and what about her mom?” I ask lamely.

  “She’ll get over it. C’mon, it’ll be less of a blow to deal with an annulment than to accept a marriage. Especially under this circumstance,” Chloe says with a sting in her voice.

  “Stop!” Lottie says. “The two of you need to stop this bickering.”

  “He’s not thinking straight. Listen to me, Lottie, we can have Dad’s attorney on it.”

  “Lottie’s a big girl, able to make decisions on her own,” I say, and turn to face Lottie. “We’ve got to figure out a way to make it less of a blow when you talk to your mom.”

  “There’s no way around it. Mom’s going to be devastated. I mean, who marries someone twenty minutes after they’ve met them? If only we’d dated for a while,” Lottie says.

  “That’s it,” I say, strolling back and stopping in front of Lottie. “You can tell her that we met a while back. No specifics with dates, places, etc. Just that we fell in love and eloped.”

  “But that’s a lie,” she says with tears brimming in her eyes. “To my mom . . .”

  “Argh. I hate to admit it, Lottie, but he’s right.” Chloe shoots another deadly stare at me. “I know you hate lying,” she says, approaching Lottie. “But think about it, honey. If you tell your mom you eloped with someone you’ve known for a while, it’ll be much easier for her to accept.” She brushes a tear away from Lottie’s cheek.

  I’m insanely jealous that I’m not the one touching Lottie’s face and consoling her. The realization is disturbing. I file it away to analyze later.

  “Think about your mom’s health, honey,” Chloe says gently after casting another glare at me.

  I put my arm around Lottie’s shoulder and turn her to face me. “Whatever you decide, I’ll back you up, all right?”

  “As if,” Chloe says under her breath.

  “Chloe, please,” Lottie says.

  “It’s his fault that this happened, Lottie.”

  “Please, Chloe, I don’t need the drama. I need my head clear so I can sound convincing when I talk to Mom.”

  Lottie turns to me and says, “I need to make this call in private.” She looks apologetically at Chloe and enters the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her.

  “I could sue your damn agency for this,” Chloe spits out.

  “Listen, just chill out okay? And besides, the last thing you want right now is for Lottie to find out you hired me. She’s upset enough.”

  “No, you listen to me. I made this mess for Lottie, and I’ll get her out from under your paws. How much?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How much do you want to leave her alone?”

  “How dare you insult me?”

  “It’s not like you’re not used to making a profit out of selling yourself.”

  My breath comes in pants, my hands ball into tight fists, and I say through clenched teeth, “Pay attention because I will not repeat myself. This. Is. Not. About. Money. Last night, something happened between Lottie and me. Something that I don’t expect you to understand because I don’t get it myself.”

  I feel the muscles in my jaw pulsing. “Now, you’re going to get a refund of what you paid, until then, shut your little brat mouth and let me figure this out with Lottie. Am I clear?”

  “You wish! The only way for me to stay out of this is if I’m dead.”

  “Fine, go ahead. Shout it to the four corners of the world what happened. Have it your way. Stomp on Lottie’s heart. Some friend you are.”

  The words have the desired effect. Chloe winces and her shoulders slump in defeat.

  “I, um, I guess you’re right. I hate to admit it, but I screwed up. Big time. Now I’m trying to use you as a scapegoat.”

  She walks to the window and is silent for a moment. When she turns back to face me, her eyes have changed. They are now full of genuine concern. “Do I have your word that you’ll only act in Lottie’s best interest? Even before your own?” she pleads in a small voice.

  I don’t have to think before I answer, “Of course.”

  We’re quiet after that, and for the life of me, I can’t stay mad at Chloe. Insulted yes, but not upset. She’s a good friend who played the fool by hiring an escort without clearing it with her friend first. Plus, I have my share of guilt. What was I thinking, proposing, and marrying someone I just met? Not to mention, a client?

  But, fuck me. I don’t regret one hasty decision from last night.

  After room service delivers a cart with breakfast, Lottie reappears. She is still wearing the fluffy hotel’s robe. Her hand clutches the phone, and her face is tired and weary.

  “So, how did it go?”

  “Better and worse than I expected,” she says and plops on the couch.

  “Mom is beside herself. She is elated. She said it was romantic and adventurous. She congratulated me. She even said there should be no worries on my part. She understands what it is to be madly in love.”

  “What did you tell her about us?” I ask.

  “I went with what you said. I lied. I told her we were dating casually for a while and decided to elope.”

  “What went wrong then?” Chloe asks.

  “Dad. He’s furious. He demanded to meet you. Today. He ordered us to get the first flight back home so he can officially meet you.” The worry in her eyes pierces through me.

  “I’ll do it.” I sit next to Lottie.

  “Well, I convinced him to wait,” she says.

  “Wait until when?” I ask.

  “I tried to convince Dad to wait until I’m back at school, but next week is our annual family vacation to St. Lucia where we have a beach house. My grandpa charters a plane, and we spend ten days there. Mom suggested you and I go together. Dad demanded.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “Would you even want to do this? I mean, you have your life. And this is my mess.” She casts her eyes on the phone clutched between her fingers. Her voice is so quiet and fragile.

  I hold her chin and force her to look at me. “Baby, we’re in this together, okay?”

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  And her eyes are so grateful, and pure, and beautiful that the only thing I can think of is to take her again. Bury myself deep into her and show her that I’m not doing anything out of obligation.

  We’re lost in each other’s gaze when Chloe clears her throat. “Uh-uh, I guess I’m going back to the penthouse. You’re coming, Lottie?”

  Lottie breaks her eye contact with me. “Yes. I mean. Go ahead. I need to change and stuff. I’ll meet you in a bit.”

  “Oh, okay. Yeah, sure.” She gets up. “Don’t be long.”

  She leaves the room without another word to me. Lottie notices it.

  “What’s up with her? I mean, she isn’t usually this bitchy.”

  “It’s all right. She’s just concerned about you. Any good friend would be.”

  “What now?” she asks with a deep
sigh.

  I know that she wants to talk. I’m not ready for a conversation.

  “Let’s have breakfast.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Try to eat a bit. And we can brainstorm about our situation.” I pull out a chair for her. “What would you like to drink?” I ask.

  “Orange juice, please.”

  “You okay?” I ask, pouring juice for both of us. She looks pale.

  “Yeah. It’s just . . . I’m overwhelmed, I guess. My life has had a heck of a turnaround in the last twelve hours.”

  “Are you . . . ?” I take a sip from the OJ. I want to ask the question without displaying any trace of insecurity. “Do you regret any of it?” I hold my breath waiting for an answer.

  “No.” She pauses and scrunches up her face. “Honestly, I don’t regret anything we did last night.” She hesitates and then adds, “I would do it all again.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “We’re strangers, Seth.” She furrows her brow. “This. All of it. It doesn’t make any sense. This isn’t the order that we do things.”

  “What’s wrong with it? Why does life have to follow a linear series of events?”

  “It’s beyond last night’s impulsive act. It’s what comes after that has me worried. We’re married, Seth. That’s serious. There’re logistics to consider. For instance, we live on opposite ends of the nation. God, it feels lame to think that far ahead when I don’t even know your favorite color.”

  “Fire.”

  “What?”

  “My favorite color is the color of fire.”

  “One day you’re going to tell me the reason behind that.” She nibbles a morsel of a blueberry muffin. I can see I’m losing her to common sense.

  “What animal are you most afraid of?” I ask.

  “What does that have to do with us?”

  “Just tell me. Better yet, what’s the most dangerous animal on the planet?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I hate snakes.”

  “So, you’re afraid of snakes. You think they’re terrifying, correct?”

  She nods, the frown still blooming across her features.

  “Well, according to researchers, the most dangerous animal on the planet is a seemly harmless mosquito.” I pause, take a bite of my veggie omelet, and watch a slew of thoughts cross her face. Boy, she’s expressive. Just like Zach.