Chapter 26
Callum
Aracely Diaz sits in a unique position. Not only does she manage Mariette’s, a destination stop for any tourist visiting our coast with its famous key lime confections and its down-home seafood dumped right onto newspaper-lined tables, but she handles Macon Jaeger’s schedule, coordinates the community goings-on, knows everyone, keeps the family aware of any problems in the Bay, and stays abreast of every maid, cook, server, and laborer crossing into St. Carmen every day for work.
In some sense, she has every single house in a ten-mile radius tapped.
Wanna know what the Millers’ daughter gets for an allowance?
Need to know what the Stevensons were fighting about last night?
Aracely will know, and if she doesn’t, she knows who does.
When something happens in the Bay, people call her. She’ll tell Krisjen or Macon.
She’s also young, beautiful, and close with everyone in that family. She went from Iron’s bed to Dallas’s before I even left for college, and there’s no way they haven’t fallen into bed together again in the years since.
Dallas’s eyes hold mine as they both sit across from me in the car. The glow from the streetlamps coasts across his face as we drive.
I could marry her.
After all, I don’t need a woman with money, and she’d be crazy to not entertain the prospect of her children having a better childhood than she did.
I just need someone who shares my goals, and I’m not convinced that Aracely is so committed to the Bay as she is having power and helping build something. I can give her that times ten.
“Did you pick out the outfit yourself?” I ask her.
She sits next to Dallas, her long legs crossed in a black schoolgirl skirt with a baggy black T-shirt with holes in it. High-heeled ankle boots with buckles shine against her glowing olive skin.
She doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t avoid my gaze, either. Her deep brown eyes watch me, toying. I know she speaks English.
The outfit isn’t fit for the Wolfe Room at all, but that’s the point. I’d texted Dallas instructions on the performance. She won’t be in those for long.
I’m just happy she agreed.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, and it’s true. Her complexion and makeup are flawless, her hair long and dark. “Although, you may find it difficult to run in heels.”
I drink my vodka as she looks to him, saying something with her eyes. I can imagine it’s If this goes badly, I’m killing you.
I smile to myself. Her temper is no secret, either. She’s like the male version of him.
“If you want this to be believable,” I add, “you should look at me. Not him.”
But she holds out her hand, her clutch purse sitting in her lap.
Right.
Dallas and I also came to an agreement in text that she was charging for this. Small price to pay for what I’ll come out of tonight with.
I pull out my phone. “You won’t want to worry about carrying a purse in there.” Tapping the app, I look at her. “Venmo?”
She replies, “561-555-9736.”
I punch in her phone number, tap her account, and send the cash. I tuck my phone away and finish my drink as we hit the dip at the beginning of the Fox Hill driveaway.
“No one touches me,” she states to both of us before settling on me. “If I want to touch you, I’ll let you know.”
We pull around the side of the field house, and I drop my glass in a holder. “As long as you don’t touch anyone else.”
It has to look like she’s here with me.
And she’s going to get naked.
The driver exits his seat and moves around the back of the car.
“Why did you agree to this?” I ask her.
Finally, she fixes a small smile on her face. “Know thy enemy.”
Maybe. Stories about the Wolfe Room abound and few outsiders gain access. I can understand the allure would be too great to resist.
The door opens, and I start to climb out.
But then she asks, “Why me?”
I pause and glance at her, but I just chuckle. She will find out.
I help her out of the car, Dallas following, and the three of us filter through the antechamber, putting up phones, wallets, and her clutch.
Letting her go first, I put myself in the middle as, one by one, we enter the dark, fog-filled room.
Slow, sexy beats hit my ears, couples appearing through the smoke, watching the girls on poles. Mrs. Allhouse rides a Sybian, a table full of men she still refuses to fuck enjoying the show that she’s willing to give them. Edward Templehof gets a lap dance; his wife watches.
I might tolerate this place more if they had anything for me. Like the sight of our new football coach on his knees for someone in a suit.
Aracely slowly takes her surroundings in, her gorgeous legs drifting one after the other as she absorbs the room, the music, and the view. I take in her, still confused about how I can appreciate the nice-looking, healthy, and fit body of a beautiful woman and have no desire to touch it.
Honestly, though, my life wouldn’t be easier if women did it for me. I’ll never fall in love and have to be tormented about missing out on business opportunities I could have if I would just bring my wife in here.
Men turn, their eyes climbing down her body, her poor-girl outfit too perfect with the show she puts on. Wide-eyed, with uncertain steps, she looks like a nice little street urchin we pulled out of a public school.
Jerome approaches ahead of us, dressed well in black suit and black shirt. His eyes are on me, but as he passes Aracely, his gaze locks on hers. “Hi,” he says, almost breathless.
He finds his way to my side, questions in his eyes.
Milo better not fucking be here.
An attendant holds open a curtain for us, and I gesture to Aracely. “Please.”
She heads inside, and I follow, “Lost in the Fire” playing throughout the Wolfe Room.
“Can I join you?” Jerome asks me.
But Dallas answers, “No.”
I hold back my snort.
We move to the couches, Dallas taking a seat across from me, and the curtain starts to close. I catch Jerome’s eyes and dart my gaze to the mirrors. Grinning, he takes off.
It’s perfect he’s here, and I want him to see.
Taking Aracely’s hand, I lead her up to the riser that I had brought in, in place of the table. “Up here.”
She positions herself on the circular disk in the center of the room, the two-way mirror in front of her.
“Do you see some clothes you like?” I ask her.
She lets her eyes wander over the rack in the corner and the table next to it, an array of dresses, skirts, shirts, and lingerie displayed about. The ladies who manage the Wolfe Room are good at accommodating strange requests.
Aracely nods, tipping her chin down with doe eyes looking up, shifting into the role she’s being paid for.
“You can keep anything you want,” I say clearly for whoever is listening. “But you have to try it on for us.”
Biting her bottom lip, she lifts her eyes to the clothes again.
I take a seat to her right as she steps off the riser and peruses her options, Dallas and I facing each other.
No tie tonight for him. No vest. Just a crisp white shirt, three buttons open.
His collarbone peeks out, a V of skin showing down his chest, and I can smell his signature scent.
I have no idea what it is, but it reminds me of the Ministry library.
Old paper, a rocks glass filled with bourbon, vanilla, and a hint of tobacco.
I won’t ask him what it’s called, because when I smell it, I want to believe it’s just him and that he’s near.
He stands up and moves to Aracely’s side, sliding his finger through some lingerie and picking for her.
Leading her back to the riser, he looks up at her. “You okay?” he whispers.
Her gaze lifts to the mirror, something in her expression like excitement.
“I think I might be,” she whispers to us.
Does she know Jerome’s watching her? Probably a few people, actually. My father has people he speaks to regularly. They’ll let him know what I’m up to.
I watch Dallas slide his hands up her skirt and pull down her black panties before holding out the lacy ones with shades of pale and dark pink. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she fits her legs through the openings and lets him pull them up.
He winks at her, and she quickly flips up her middle finger in his face.
My eye twitches as I watch their easy amusement with each other.
Smiling, he returns to the couch, and she removes her shirt, to my surprise, diving right into the role.
I inhale, hanging my arms over the back of the couch, watching her pose in the mirror.
Her tits sit plump and perky, giving her a slim, hourglass figure with her trim waist and slender shoulders.
Flipping her hair over to one side of her head, she turns, looking over her shoulder in the mirror as she brushes the skirt up her ass enough to check out the panties.
Her hands glide over her body, around her breasts, and down the inside of her thighs, and my gaze finds Dallas.
I watch him watch her. Slouching into the couch with one arm slung over the back, he lets his eyes trail over her, lingering on her chest and cocking his head.
His chest rises and falls, and I lower my gaze to his groin, picturing her on her knees in front of him. How many times has she blown him?
An attendant brings in a tray with glasses and opens a fresh bottle of vodka, handing a drink to Dallas, setting one on the table next to me, and leaving another for the girl.
Aracely cups her breasts, tilting her head in the mirror. Dallas takes a sip and lets out a whistle, finding my eyes. “You ain’t got nothing like her over here.”
I drink, hiding my smile. We don’t have anything like you, either.
He’s mine, and he’s going to know it tonight.
Aracely steps over to me, and I set my drink down, sitting up and running my hands up her legs. “Do you like it?” I ask, feeling the eyes behind the mirror watching us. Maybe it’s just Jerome, but I doubt it. People want to see what I’m like here.
I spin her around. “Bend over,” I say. “How does it feel?”