Withdrawal （n.） – Scarlett
WITHDRAWAL (N.):
THE VOLUNTARY OR MANDATORY ACT OF REMOVING ONESELF, FUNDS, OR PARTICIPATION FROM A BINDING SITUATION, PROCEEDING, OR AGREEMENT.
SCARLETT
There’s a trail of ruby red bruises on the back of my neck and a collage of bite marks between my thighs.
They’re staring back at me as I gaze at myself in the mirror, reminding me of just how different my life was less than twenty-four hours ago. How my first time obliterated every fantasy I’d ever had and left me desperately yearning for more.
My nipples harden at the thought of Jameson sucking them between his lips, and my heart pangs at the thought that I may never experience his mouth again, so I close my robe and hope that will shut down the memories.
I hope he doesn’t hate me now…
Thanks to my father, I’m spending the night in the Waldorf Astoria since his meeting with Jameson lasted longer than expected. And also since he “doesn’t want to know” what type of hotel I booked for my “temporary” stay in this city.
We were supposed to get breakfast, then lunch, then dinner, but with midnight fast approaching, I’m sure I’ll be shuffled into his morning meeting plans.
Gently lowering myself onto the bed, I wince as my hips ache in the spot where Jameson roughly gripped them.
I pick up an annotated copy of Death of a Salesman and read through the wife’s lines for next week’s audition. Even though I’m sure there’s a huge chance I’ll choke again, I have to try.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Miss Hunter?” A familiar deep voice sounds from my suite’s door. “Miss Hunter?”
“Coming!” I slowly roll off the mattress—padding across the hardwood floor to open the door.
“Yes?” I answer.
My father’s right-hand man, Francis, is holding a white envelope in his hand. He’s been working under my father since the day I was born, and I learned long ago that he’s willing to throw me under the bus or snitch on me for anything if it means gaining more loyalty points from my dad.
“Your father wanted me to give you this,” he says. “It’s the formal reservation for breakfast tomorrow.”
“He could’ve just called or texted me…” I take it from him. “Is he still at that law firm?”
“Is there anything I can help you with this evening, Miss Hunter?” He deliberately avoids my question. “Perhaps preparing for your trip back to Harvard tomorrow afternoon?”
“No, thank you, Francis,” I say. “Is my father still at the law firm?”
“I’ve asked for the hotel to give you a courtesy wake-up call in the morning,” he says. “You know how your father feels about tardiness, so I suggest you get some rest.”
He walks away, leaving my question unanswered again.
The only reason I don’t slam the door shut is because the last time I did that, I had to publicly apologize to him in front of my family for “not respecting my place.”
Returning to the bed, I decide to take a chance on the meeting being over.
I pick up my phone and scroll down to Jameson’s name, letting out a breath before calling.
It rings once.
“Yes, Scarlett?” His deep voice comes over the line.
“Hi.”
“Hello.”
“Do you, uh—are you busy right now?”
“If I was, I wouldn’t have answered.” He pauses. “Are you calling to feed me another ambush of secrets? Layered lies?”
“No.” I swallow. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“About?”
“What happened last night, and also what happened today.”
“Last night, I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been, doing something I shouldn’t have done.” His voice is terse. “And today, my wrongdoing was made perfectly clear.”
“Jameson…”
“I believe that sums up everything perfectly, so—” He pauses. “So, if you don’t mind, Miss Hunter—daughter of Lucas Hunter, my top fucking client—I would like to return to what I was doing before you interrupted me.”
“So, you’re saying we’re done?” A pang hits my chest. “We’re over?”
“We never started, Miss Hunter.” His voice is even colder. “Do I need to send you an NDA, or can I actually trust you not to say anything about our highly inappropriate entanglement?”
“Stop talking to me like I’m one of your clients, Jameson.”
“My name is Mr. Tate to you, Miss Hunter.” Ice clanks against glass in his background. “And technically, you are a client…”
“I’ll call you tomorrow when you’re in a better mood,” I say. “Can you promise to answer?”
“No.”
“Jameson—”
“Best of luck with your acting career, college career, whatever fucking lie you’ll tell me next career,” he says. “I do previously recall telling you I don’t talk on the phone unless it’s about work.”
“That was before me.”
“Well, now it’s after you, too.” He ends the call without another word.