36. Chapter 36
thirty-six
Boston
Mrs. Davis beams when I walk into the house after work tonight. “There he is.”
I seriously need to stop expecting her to be asleep. That woman never is. The house is bright, the lights shining overhead as Mrs. Davis waves from the couch, a glass of what appears to be white wine in her left hand.
“Come on over, Boston. I want to introduce you to my good friend, Rachel.”
I oblige and walk into the living room, careful not to step on the white area rug with my dirty work boots.
“Rach, this is Jake’s friend, Boston,” Mrs. Davis says.
Rachel looks a couple of years younger than her—just as done up, though. Perfect makeup, plumped lips, manicured nails. Her lashes and hair are curled within an inch of their life.
“Nice to meet you, Boston.” Rachel smiles brightly, reaching a hand out to me. I do a sort of long reach to shake it.
“Rachel and I play pickleball together,” Mrs. Davis tells me like that’s an important bit of information for me to be aware of.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“How was work tonight?” Mrs. Davis asks, then takes a sip of wine.
“Good. Busy, but good.” I’m eager to get out of my clothes, take a shower, and crawl into bed.
It’s been a long-ass day and I’m glad Mrs. Davis has her friend over.
Hopefully that means she won’t “need” me for anything.
Her husband left on business this morning—to Denver, I think—and with Jake in St. Paul this weekend, I braced myself for the inevitable.
Maybe Rachel’s presence affords me another night of peace.
“Where do you work, Boston?” Rachel asks, her body turned to me. I notice her attire—tight-fitting jeans, red heels, and a white blouse with several buttons undone.
“Uh, I—”
I don’t get anywhere before Mrs. Davis answers for me.
“Boston’s a busy little bee. He has like five different jobs.” She giggles, as if me killing myself working multiple minimum-wage jobs is somehow adorable.
“Oh, really?” Rachel asks, gaze pinned on me.
“Only three,” I say matter-of-factly.
She nods, her eyes roaming my body like she’s inspecting meat for quality. “And what do you do?”
“Nothing exciting, to be honest.”
She laughs lightly but waves me off. “Oh, don’t be coy.”
“I work at the gym, at AJ’s, and at Riverfront Sports Complex.” I press my lips together, that familiar feeling of inadequacy settling in my stomach.
“And which job are you coming from right now?” Rachel asks, tone neutral. Her eyes flit to my jeans.
“AJ’s.”
Mrs. Davis narrows her eyes. “You look tired, Boss.”
I nod. “It’s been a long day.”
That’s an understatement. Between getting up in the middle of the night to catch a ride share to the gym, working my morning shift, catching another ride share to AJ’s to get my car towed, spending two hours and a week’s paycheck replacing all four tires, and then working a full shift at AJ’s, I’m running on fumes.
Physically, sure.
But emotionally, too.
“Boston’s up before sunrise most mornings and then doesn’t get back until maybe ten-thirty at night or sometimes later. I can’t say I’ve ever met a twenty-year-old who’s this disciplined and hardworking,” Mrs. Davis says.
“That’s commendable, Boston,” Rachel says, nodding. “My kids are too spoiled to even think about getting a single part-time job.”
“Oh, it’s the same with Jake,” Mrs. Davis says. “I mean, prime example, right here: Jake’s spending the weekend with friends in St. Paul while his best friend just got done with work and is ready to turn in for the night because he has to get back up in only a few hours.”
She turns to me, her face softening. “Why don’t you go take a shower, Boston.”
I nod, then make my way out of the living room.
“Oof, you weren’t joking, Lexi. He’s exquisite,” Rachel’s voice slithers through the house when I’m halfway down the hallway.
I head to grab a fresh t-shirt and my sweats, then shower. I let the water run hot, trying to wash off the day, to shake the exhaustion. I can feel myself fading, my eyes drifting shut as I stand under the warm spray.
Only, my mind wanders right back to last night. To AJ’s. To Skye.
I hadn’t expected to see her there. Not after the night before.
Not after sticking my foot in my mouth. But then she walked into AJ’s.
They all did. And even though Archer’s presence dampened the moment a little, it wasn’t until Maya—another AJ’s waitress—opened her mouth that my evening really turned ugly.
One stupid comment about Skye spilling a drink on me and suddenly Archer was demanding explanations.
I close my eyes against the spray.
What keeps replaying isn’t the yelling. It’s not Archer trying to climb across the table at me or the threats he hurled my way while he marched out of the restaurant with Skye in tow.
It’s Skye. The way she looked—tiny, hands shaking around her menu. The same look my mom used to get whenever Eddie started raising his voice.
My jaw tightens at the memory.
Maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
Maybe I should’ve minded my own business.
But the second Archer started in on her, I couldn’t.
And apparently that decision cost me, because when my shift ended several hours later, all four of my tires were flat. Not just deflated. Not even stabbed.
Slashed.
Clean, three-inch cuts through the sidewalls. Hunting-knife kind of damage.
I didn’t need a Ph.D. to know Archer dropped Skye off at home and came back to leave me a message. To show me who’s boss.
I huff a humorless laugh.
Fifty bucks in ride shares.
Another hundred for the tow truck the next morning.
New tires? Eight hundred.
My little pissing match with Archer set me back almost a grand—money I had been saving to get my siblings out of the system. Money I sold my damn soul for.
Poof. Gone.
I turn off the shower, dry off, and pull on fresh clothes.
I’m halfway to my room when I hear Mrs. Davis. “Boston,” she calls.
I expel a quiet sigh but walk out to the living room.
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you come sit with us for a few minutes,” Mrs. Davis says, chipper. An empty wine bottle sits on the coffee table, and a second, already half-empty, rests beside it.
“I’m pretty tired, actually,” I say, but her expression makes it obvious this isn't really a request. So, I take the few steps, then lower myself onto the couch next to Mrs. Davis and across from Rachel.
“You want anything to drink?” Mrs. Davis motions toward the wine.
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
I’ve never been much of a drinker. I’d have one here and there when I was younger, usually at one of Jake’s parties, but that was years ago. Alcohol’s expensive. And what’s the point? I don’t have time to party, and I sure as hell don’t have people to party with.
I mean, there are Jake, Pacey, and Jonathan—and, fuck, I’m glad to have them back—but if anything has become clear since returning to Stillwater, it’s that our lives could hardly be more different.
They go to the gym while I work the front counter.
They meet up at AJ’s for dinner while I serve them.
They spend weekends at cabins and lake houses while I visit my mother in jail.
On my worst nights, when I can’t shut off my brain, I wonder if they only keep me around because they feel responsible for me. Especially Jake.
“Alright, well, it’s probably better anyways. My husband always has a difficult time performing when he drinks.” Mrs. Davis smirks, winking at her friend.
My stomach drops.
Wait…
Mrs. Davis sets her wine glass down, then slides her hand under the hem of my shirt. I go rigid.
She traces the lines of my stomach, moving up to my ribs, my chest. Her mouth is suddenly on my neck—hot and wet—while her hand slips lower and into my sweats.
“Mrs. Davis—” I start, tense.
Rachel’s eyes are glued to us, waiting, watching as she sips her wine. What the hell is happening? “I don’t think—”
Mrs. Davis moves her lips to mine, her tongue invading my mouth, silencing me.
“I’m going to have you right here, right now,” she whispers, her hand around my cock, stroking me like my body is hers to take. “Don’t worry about Rach,” she breathes. “She wants to watch.”
What?
No.
That wasn’t the fucking deal.
I shift, trying to pull away without upsetting Mrs. Davis too much. So much depends on my arrangement with her, but this—Rachel—was never part of the conversation. “No, that’s—”
Mrs. Davis puts a finger to my lips like I’m a disobedient child. “Shh, baby,” she hisses. “I promise the show won’t be for free. Rachel’s going to sweeten the pot a little bit. Consider this a bonus night.”
She lifts my shirt over my head, tosses it onto the floor, then kisses down my chest, grating her teeth over my nipple.
My breathing is erratic. God, this is all so fucking wrong.
It only gets worse when Rachel moves to sit in the unoccupied spot next to me, watching.
Then touching.
Mrs. Davis giggles. “Rach, if you’re playing, that bumps the cost.”
“I have cash,” Rachel breathes, her hand on my stomach. She leans in and licks my skin.
Every alarm in my brain is going off. I should get up. I should leave. I should have way more self-respect. But I go still. Cassie and Bronx. Cassie and Bronx.
Mrs. Davis pushes my sweatpants down my hips, then moves off the couch and lowers herself between my legs.
I’m silent, unmoving, as her mouth and Rachel’s hands consume me, switching off, doing with my body what they will, as if it’s merely an object, as if they’re not tearing down my self-worth, my dignity with every touch.
The women shed their clothes.
Mrs. Davis puts a condom on me, climbs onto my lap, and lowers herself with a gasp.
She does with me what she will—directing and controlling me like a puppeteer—while Rachel, no longer just an observer, touches and kisses whatever parts of me remain accessible to her.
I’ve never been touched by two women at once, never had a threesome. I’ve never degraded myself like this before.
I try to dissociate—to fade, to check out—but my mind won’t let me. It won’t give me that out.
When Mrs. Davis reaches her climax, she moans loudly, the sound reverberating off the walls.
“Fuck, Boston,” she sighs, then grins at her friend. “Try him,” she tells Rachel, whose eyes reflect lust, need.
Mrs. Davis replaces the condom, then trades places with Rachel and watches while Rachel straddles me. She hesitates, and for a moment I think she might not go through with it.
Maybe she had a change of heart? Decided this isn’t right.
But then she sinks onto me, hands on my shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there.
And all I can do is focus on the mission at hand: finish this.
Do your job.
Get it done.
Rachel begins to ride me, Mrs. Davis encouraging her friend like I’m not even here, like my body isn’t home to a heart and a soul.
After a few minutes, Mrs. Davis becomes impatient, ordering Rachel to get on all fours while I position myself behind her.
God, the fucking depravity.
And I’m part of all of this.
It doesn’t take long before Rachel comes, her body pulsing around me while Mrs. Davis cheers her on like it’s some athletic event.
For a second I’m hopeful that I can just call it and be done with this. I feel dirty, exhausted.
But I’m not lucky enough to be dismissed yet.
“One more for me,” Mrs. Davis breathes into my ear.
She taps Rachel’s butt, motions for her to move off the couch, then takes her place. “Come on, Boss. I want you to come for me.”
It takes another ten minutes and another position before she comes again, loud and messy. I just keep going—numb, exhausted—until the pressure in me finally snaps and I find release with a tired groan.
My body is hot and sweaty, my breathing hectic, like I just ran a fucking marathon. I sit back on my heels, eyes falling shut involuntarily.
Next to me, I hear the quiet, satisfied giggles of Mrs. Davis and Rachel. They evaluate my performance in hushed voices, like I’m nothing more than a body to be used for their pleasure.
“Jesus, Lexi, can we do that again?” Rachel whispers.
“Anytime. Just remember, if you play, that’s extra,” Mrs. Davis says casually.
I don’t want to do this again.
“I have six-hundred on me tonight. That good?” Rachel asks. I hear her rustling around though I still don’t open my eyes.
“That’s very generous, Rach. Boss can have four hundred of that.”
My eyes fly open, my brows drawing together.
Is she… pimping me out?
Taking money for her friend to fuck me?
And keeping a cut?
That’s the definition of pimping someone out, right?
“You know who’d like him? Stella,” Rachel says casually.
No fucking way.
“I’m not fucking another one of your friends,” I mutter, my voice cutting through the haze.
The silence that follows is loud.
Mrs. Davis steps toward me, a saccharine smile tugging at her mouth. She threads her fingers through my hair gently. “It’s okay, baby. You’re just tired. You should go to bed,” she murmurs, like that’s something she gets to decide.
I stand. Pull on my sweats. Then I snatch my shirt off the floor, though I don’t bother putting it on.
“Here you go, Boss,” Rachel says and presses a wad of folded bills into my palm. Her voice is warm, almost grateful. “You’re… thank you,” she adds, letting her eyes rake slowly over my chest.
I stare at the money in my hand. I don’t count it.
“I’ll leave your pay on the bathroom counter,” Mrs. Davis says softly.
I just nod.
And walk away.
I’m nothing more than a fucking transaction.