9. Brendan
CHAPTER 9
Brendan
W hen that Camille person told me it was customary to kick the next round of the interview process off over dinner, I was like yep, nope.
Hard fucking pass.
Sit-down meals are still my least favourite thing in the world.
For years and years before my diagnosis—which didn’t happen until I was fifteen—family dinner was an excruciating hour where I had to exert unbelievable mental effort to glue my arse to my chair when my entire nervous system was literally screaming at me to spring up and jump around the room.
I can still remember how scratchy the seat of the chairs at our dining table felt in the summer or after games when I was wearing shorts.
If mealtimes were excruciating for me, they were equally painful for my parents, who were constantly stressed out by my inability to sit still.
I inevitably caved to my impulses to get rid of all that nervous energy and jumped up, so I could spin or walk around and around and around the table or—the thing that pissed my parents off the most—bent myself over the backs of whatever fucking Chippendale chairs they had so I could lift my feet off and swing back and forth.
And, just as inevitably, Mum and Dad would go fucking nuclear.
I’ll admit that, twenty years or more on from my diagnosis, I’m still smug AF that they had to eat humble pie after the psychiatrist explained to them that forcing me to resist my body’s impulse to move and expend energy was both unhealthy and cruel.
They felt terrible about it, of course, but I still haven’t quite forgiven them for the yelling and the shaming and the punishments when I couldn’t “behave” at the dinner table like my brother and sister.
So no, I’m not partial to sit-down meals these days, funnily enough.
No amount of meds can get me over that lifelong trauma.
I have enough work dinners to attend, thanks very much.
I have no intention of ruining a perfectly good evening of sexy negotiations by sticking my arse down at a dinner table, no matter how attractive the view across from me.
Instead, I hook myself and Marlowe up with a private space at a new lounge bar and nightclub located, conveniently, in the basement of a hotel in Knightsbridge.
The hotel is the brand-new baby of one of my nemeses, Sovereign Structures, who are guilty of more than just wanky alliteration.
I don’t like them, and I’ve been dying for a hate-snoop.
This way, I can check them out and check Marlowe out before we move upstairs later.
If we move upstairs, that is.
The private room may be up to the job if it has a working lock and a sturdy sofa.
I make sure I get to the bar half an hour early.
I have to admit, it’s fucking gorgeous, with a black-and-bronze colour palette and plenty of marble and onyx.
The finish is impeccable, and they certainly haven’t skimped on the materials.
The layout is cool too.
They’ve dug out a double basement, allowing for a double-height main bar and club area with the VIP spaces dotted around on a mezzanine reachable via a show-stopping circular staircase.
These range from open-plan areas with couches and stools to more luxurious suites separated from the dance floor and main bar by a one-way mirror.
Their inhabitants get a clear view of the action below while being concealed from sight.
It is my intention to make full use of the fact that no one can see into our suite this evening.
When the time approaches for Marlowe to show up, I’m pacing like a caged tiger, all edgy anticipation and raging sex hormones, and trying to make my very long G&T last while I watch the bar below us fill up.
It’s a Thursday night, and plenty of finance bros are making their way over from the City so they can live it up tonight and nurse their hangovers on company time tomorrow.
Where the finance bros go, the hot gold-diggers follow.
The eye candy is excellent, the champagne corks are popping, and the DJ is cutting loose on sexy, sundowner-style beats.
None of those douchebags down there have as high a chance of scoring tonight as I do.
If I don’t fuck it up and scare her off, that is.
Apparently, the hiring process for her is unusual by Seraph’s standards.
My brother admitted to me over drinks recently that he viewed some very salacious photos of Athena at the agency’s offices before he moved forward with her.
As Marlowe is brand new to the agency, I haven’t had that luxury.
Camille has explained that she hasn’t had her photo shoot yet, but that I’m welcome to view other candidates’ “portfolios” if I decide not to hire her.
Whatever. I don’t need some porno photos to tell me what I already know.
Between what I’ve seen of Marlowe so far and the helpful assistance of my overactive imagination to fill in the gaps, I’m in no doubt as to the quality of what I’m buying.
B ang on time, a server ushers Marlowe into the suite, and holy fucking shit.
The woman is a knockout.
It seems even my imagination has its limits, because I’ve filled the spank bank this week with fantasies of taking that little pink work dress off her, but here she is, already half naked.
She’s my type on steroids.
Or maybe it’s that she’s my type with a bit of soul.
She has all the admittedly pretty stereotypical physical attributes I love—long blonde hair, perky tits, fantastic legs—but she’s classy.
Soulful. Interesting.
It’s in her delicate bone structure and her big brown eyes, and?—
She makes her way towards me, and my brain short-circuits.
While she doesn’t seem to be a natural on heels that high, the way that little gold dress clings to her willowy frame is spectacular.
I can feel the grin spreading across my face.
My evening just got a thousand times better.
‘Hi,’ she says, slightly breathlessly.
‘Evening.’ I flash that grin at her one more time as I stoop to kiss her on both cheeks.
She smells incredible—something floral and feminine, which suits her.
Her fragrant hair tickles my nose as I kiss her, and her skin is soft where I’ve laid my palm against her upper arm as we greet each other.
The hovering server takes our drink orders—a glass of Chablis for her and another long G&T for me.
‘Actually,’ I tell her.
‘Bring a bottle of Chablis and one of gin. I want ice buckets and tonic, too. Some still water, and a big mezze platter. That should do us.’
While I have no intention of drinking anywhere near a bottle of gin, I don’t want to give the server any reason to disturb us again.
I’m hoping Marlowe isn’t a flight risk, but I don’t want her getting skittish, either during what could (for her) be a sensitive conversation or once I finally get my hands on her.
Particularly the latter.
I stick my spare hand in my pocket, my fingers reaching out of habit for the spinner on my fidget toy.
‘I’m glad you said yes.
’
I really am. I thought the work-oriented interview went well, but Camille had previously made it very clear that if the candidate didn’t feel adequate chemistry, she was under no obligation to proceed to the next round.
As it turned out, she called me the following morning with a big fat yes from Marlowe, and I wasted no time setting up tonight’s rendezvous.
That gets me a smile.
‘Of course,’ she says, then blows out a shuddery breath that strikes me as involuntary.
‘You nervous?’ I ask, scrutinising her face.
She really is an extraordinarily beautiful woman, but she doesn’t give much away.
That’s okay.
If she wants me to work for it, I will.
Even if I’m paying through the nose for the privilege.
‘No, not at all,’ she says, far too quickly.
I raise a sceptical eyebrow.
‘If it helps, just think of it as a first date. A really slutty first date.’ I wink.
‘My absolute favourite kind.’
She presses her lips together like she’s trying not to laugh and blushes a little.
How a woman who’s intent on embarking on a career as a sex worker can have the whole bashful, virginal vibe going quite so effectively, I have zero clue, but clearly the universe is really into me, and I’m not going to question it.
Our drinks and mezze arrive quickly on a bar cart, our server making brisk work of setting the food up on the low table in the middle of the long, curved sofa and the drinks on the marble-topped bar area to one side of the space.
I go to hold the door open for her as she wheels the bar cart back out and subtly take a few hundred quid in cash from my pocket.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Anastasia, sir.’
‘Thanks for all your help, Anastasia. I’d appreciate it if you made sure we weren’t disturbed for the rest of the night.
’
Her eyes widen at the sight of the money.
‘Of course not, sir. Have a good evening.’
I shut and lock the door behind her.
That the owners of this place fitted their private suites with locks tells me they anticipated exactly the kinds of shenanigans that would go down in here.
Once that’s taken care of, I pour Marlowe a glass of perfectly chilled wine and take it over to her, openly looking her up and down as I do.
‘God, I can’t wait to touch you.
’
My meds may have worn off by this time of day—if I take them too late, it really affects my sleep—but I’m not sure all the Ritalin in the world could stop me from blurting that out.
It’s true. I’m a starving lion attempting to hold off while a juicy T-bone is dangled in front of me.
Not going to happen, mate.
She hesitates. She looks taken aback by my admission.
After all, she’s only been here a few minutes.
‘You can touch me if you want,’ she says, which doesn’t exactly smack of the enthusiastic consent I’m hoping for.
I tilt my head as I consider.
‘Maybe I’ll get to know you while we chat, remind us both what we’ve got in store.
Hmm?’
‘Sure,’ she says brightly.
I’m not convinced she’s anywhere near as desperate for this as I am, which means I’ll take great pleasure in watching her shed those layers of nerves and brittleness and whatever else is going on as she yields to the way I know I can make her feel.
I refill my drink and we take a seat next to each other in front of the excellent-looking mezze.
I adjust my position so I’m facing more towards her and glance down at her bare legs.
So smooth. So tantalising.
The hem of her already short dress has ridden up, and it wouldn’t take much at all to burrow under there and find nirvana.
‘Dig in.’ I hand her a side plate and take one for myself, populating it with some great-looking falafel and a decent dollop of hummus.
‘Want some?’
She nods, and I put a spoonful on her plate.
‘Do you have any preference on how we do this?’ I ask her.
‘Not really. This is my first Seraph audition,’ she confesses, which I obviously already knew.
Still, it gives me a kick that I’m her first client.
‘Have you done this before? Were you doing any sex work on the side while you were toiling away at the RA?’
She gives a little laugh.
‘Absolutely not. Um, Camille suggested we use this time to talk about logistics and, um, expectations. Yours and mine.’
‘That sounds very sensible,’ I say evenly.
‘Do you have any expectations, Marlowe?’
‘I—no. I—suppose I’d rather hear what yours are.
’
I nod my understanding as I bite into a falafel.
They’re fresh as fuck: perfectly crispy on the outside and soft and fluffy on the inside.
I swallow it down quickly and lay a palm on her thigh, just above her knee.
Her skin is so smooth and soft it could make a man weep.
‘This okay?’
She nods twice, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.
But more telling is the fact that her quad has tensed up under my hand.
‘Excellent. Well, I have a lot of expectations.’ I brush my thumb back and forth over her thigh, keeping my hand where it is.
‘Expectations that I’m going to work you hard, that you’re going to blow my mind—which I know you are—and that I’m hopefully going to blow yours.
Expectations that I’m going to use you to act out every filthy, depraved workplace fantasy I’ve ever, ever had, and that you’re single-handedly going to save me from the mind-numbing boredom of a desk job.
How does that sound?
’
She’s full-blown, deer-in-the-headlights stiff, her brown eyes wide with what looks like absolute terror, and I realise I may have shown my hand too quickly.
Or, more accurately, that I’ve thrown the entire fucking deck of cards at the poor girl.
Stupid move, Bren.
‘But we can work up to all that,’ I say hastily.
‘As far as I can see, the most important things are that we’ve both filled out our questionnaires, and that you give me your safeword, and that we use this evening to test the waters.
Basically, tonight’s about you taking me for a test drive so you can see if you can bear to work for me.
’
She takes a large slug of her wine before staring at me over the rim of the wineglass.
‘This is supposed to be my audition, not yours.’
I give her an easy laugh.
‘I think we both know that’s not true.
I’d hire you on the spot without getting any further than this.
’ I keep my thumb brushing over the skin of her thigh.
‘Nope, tonight is for you.’
The line has the desired effect—her shoulders drop a fraction, the death grip on her wineglass loosening slightly.
It's a move I've perfected over the years—the art of appearing generous, self-deprecating, while getting exactly what I want.
Classic Sullivan negotiation tactic.
But there's something about Marlowe that has me second-guessing my usual playbook. That first meeting at the RA, when my brain completely short-circuited... I can't afford a repeat performance of that epic fail.
If she walks away tonight, I'm back to Plain Elaine and my right hand for company.
She holds far more power here than she realises, so I’d better make my “pitch” count.
I jerk my head in the direction of the tinted glass overlooking the main bar. ‘Why don’t we head on over there so I can kick my audition off in style?’