Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dark
Hey, I’ve got a joke for you…What do you get when you mix four men and five women, an endless supply of alcohol, and a naked waitstaff?
Hell.
Absolute Hell.
Sure, dinner was top-notch, fully catered with all the bells and whistles. It always is when Harold’s around. The women he hired for the weekend are big-breasted, smooth-snatched goddesses with grabby hands. I’ve had my cock stroked no less than a dozen times since dinner.
My dick can’t decide if he’s supposed to come out and play and show these women what he can do, or curl into my body and play dead. I’m on board with the latter, but given I’m the only sober fucker here, he’s grown more concerned.
Yeah.
Grown.
Against my will.
I adjust the towel around my waist to hide the evidence as Penelope chats with her father’s friends and Poppy decides it’s now a good time to join me.
We haven’t left the poolside all day.
The stars are out, and the ocean breeze is chilly, but Harold has that covered with the heat lamps scattered around.
The guy’s a professional. He’s thought of everything. Even if I hate the asshole, I respect his attention to detail.
Poppy, now topless, sits at the foot of my lounger and lays her hand on my knee.
“Mr. Drake,” she half-ass purrs with the help of all the wine Penelope plied her and every other woman with.
I dip my head in greeting. “Poppy.”
“Do you wanna swim?” She eyes the dark pool water, shimmering under the moonlight.
“No, thanks.”
“You haven’t gotten in the pool all day,” Poppy notes like she’s been paying attention to my every move. Then again, that’s why she’s here, is it not?
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Swimmin’ ain’t my thing.
” Unless it’s with my kids. But there’s no use in sharing personal information with her.
Besides Pen, nobody in this world knows I even have kids.
It’s safer for them that way. Safer for the people, too.
Given I’d end them if they so much as looked at my kids the wrong way or said the wrong thing. I don’t play when it comes to them.
Poppy peeks at my groin covered by the towel and licks her lips. “Mrs. Drake said I—”
“Don’t listen to anything she said.”
Poppy slides her hand up my thigh and teases the edge of the towel. “But I want to.”
“Want to what?”
Leaning in conspiratorially, Poppy tucks a strand of windswept hair behind her ear and whispers, “Fuck you.”
Not believing a goddamn word, I hmm. “I see. You.” I point to her. “Want to fuck me?” Then I point to my bare chest.
With her pupils straight up dilated, Poppy’s eyes round in that cute, innocent way that probably gets every man hard. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Her nose wrinkles. “What?”
“Why do you want to fuck me? Because my wife told you to? Because you’re bein’ paid to?” I think that’s a fair question, don’t you?
“Wait. What?” No longer emboldened, Poppy slides her hand back down to my knee.
“You’re being paid for this weekend. My wife wants you to ride my cock. She probably told you to climb onto my lap and seduce me, then what? Get me nice and hard for you?”
Poppy gasps.
“Is that what you were talkin’ about earlier?” Of course it was. They were palling around the poolside together like best friends. Penelope doesn’t do that. She doesn’t have friends. Not really. They’re all chess pieces she uses to her benefit, including me.
“I…”
I sit forward. “You what? You wanna fuck me because you wanna ride my dick? Since you already know what it looks like and tastes like… You want it… Why? Hmmm?”
Poppy flushes and stares down at her lap. “Mr. Drake.”
“Answer the question.”
“I…”
“You what?” I push harder than I should. Does it make me a prick? Probably. But I’m sick of these games. “Got taken advantage of by a rich bitch, who asked you to come here for the weekend to moan my name and put on a show for money? How much is she paying you?”
Poppy rips her hand into her lap and wrings her fingers together. “Mr. Drake.” My name is a plea upon her lips, and part of me knows I should feel bad, but I don’t.
“How much?”
“I…”
“Poppy.”
“Fifty thousand,” she whispers, staring at her lap.
“Right. She’s paying you fifty thousand dollars to pretend to want her husband, so it’ll make her daddy happy.”
“But you had me suck your dick. I… I don’t understand.” The sting of rejection drenches her broken words, and a small sliver of me feels sorry for her. I don’t know her story. That’s a lot of money for anyone. Desperation makes all of us do stupid shit. I can respect that.
“That was before I knew that’s part of your job description. Do you get a bonus every time I come down your throat?”
Her bottom lip trembles. “I… I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Poppy.
You’re a beautiful woman. You deserve better.
Fuck. So do I. I’m not in the mood to be used as a pawn this weekend, and I’m assuming you probably don’t really wanna fuck me either.
So, we’re gonna go inside together, raid the goddamn kitchen for whatever snacks they have, and we’re gonna go back to my room, where we’re gonna watch a movie on my phone, eat snacks in bed, and pretend we’re fucking. ”
Poppy’s head snaps up, and she stares at me like a deer in headlights, like she’s seeing me for the first time. “That’s…” She clears her throat and dashes a tear from her eye. “That sounds nice.” A soft smile ghosts her lips.
“Yeah. It sounds good to me, too.”
“But we’re supposed to stay here. Mrs. Drake said…” Poppy looks across the pool at my wife.
“Well, Mrs. Drake can go sit on a corncob. Maybe I want privacy to fuck my assistant.” I wink, and she flushes.
Reaching over, I pat her shoulder and flick my gaze at the house.
“How about you head up to my room? It’s the last door on the second floor.
Sober up a bit. Take a shower. Splash some water on your face.
Whatever you want. I’ll bring the snacks up. ”
Biting her bottom lip, Poppy nods repeatedly as if she’s committing this moment to memory before she stands, collects her things from her lounger, and goes inside.
I wait a moment so I don’t draw attention.
Thankfully, Penelope is too busy talking.
One of the men is getting a blowie in front of everyone, as one of the naked waitstaff pushes the woman’s head up and down to help her along.
It’s weird to think… This life used to be exciting. The sex. The alcohol. The zero fucks about what comes tomorrow. But somewhere along the way, it lost its appeal. I’ve changed. Perhaps not for the better, but that’s up for debate.
Once Poppy’s long gone, I unfold from the lounger, leave my towel behind, and skate the edge of the party to the back of the house, where I dip in through the glass kitchen door, hoping to go unnoticed.
“Oh. Hi.” A female gasps as I enter.
It’s Ava, Harold’s woman, barefoot, wearing a white, flowy dress, pouring champagne into flutes on a gold tray. Her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail.
Raising my hands in peace, I chuckle. “I’m a ghost. Pretend I’m not here.”
With a snicker, she continues to fill the glasses. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Well, you’re still upright, so I’ll consider that a win.” I check the pantry to see what they might have stashed.
“You hungry?” she asks.
“Truth?”
“Always.”
“I need some fuel before I meet my assistant upstairs…” I let the implication trail off, so she can report back to Harold that I’m not fucking off, I’m just fucking.
“Oh.”
I chuckle at her discomfort. “Yeah.”
“But… your wife.”
“She…” I wince, then try to formulate some explanation that doesn’t out Penelope and Poppy. Ava doesn’t want the truth. Not really. It’s far too much to stomach. Being the mistress of a rich man, who takes good care of her, is her reality. Not mine. Who am I to pop that fantasy bubble?
To break the sudden awkward silence, I clear my throat. “We have an open marriage.” Which isn’t a lie.
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know.”
I wave off her unease. “Most people don’t.”
She gestures to the tray of flutes. “I was gonna carry these out to share with everyone, but since you won’t be joining us, will you have your glass now?”
“Oh. Um. I…”
“I’m getting a promotion at work. I know it’s silly, but I wanted to celebrate.” Her tiny shrug is adorable.
Wanting to celebrate your promotion isn’t silly.
“Well, shit, yeah, okay,” I say, and Ava offers me a flute of bubbly and grins as I shoot it back. “Congrats.” I cheer to her with the empty glass, then carry it over to the sink.
“Thanks,” she whispers, then collects the tray. I open the back door so she can get through without an accident.
“Have a good night. Be safe,” I call as I shut the door in her stead.
The small smile she flashes me over her shoulder is sweet.
Turning on my heel, I raid the kitchen and fridge for snacks.
Once my arms are loaded down with all the junk food, bottles of water, and whatever else I think Poppy might want, I race up the stairs to my bedroom, where I find her passed out on the bed.
Chuckling at the sun catching up to her, as it did with my kids when they were growing up, I set the snacks on the couch and turn to go shower, but the world blurs and I trip. Landing on one knee, I catch myself on the edge of the bed.
“What the fuck?” I choke and wobble to get up, but stumble again. My legs give out entirely, and my body hits the floor with a heavy, painful thud. Twisting my head to the side at the last moment, I inhale a ragged lungful of air before my world dims and goes black.