Chapter Thirty-Nine
What the hell is she doing here?
My hands ball into tight fists at my sides and I can all but feel the blood pressure soar in my veins, filling my ears with the sound of rushing blood. Is it really her or am I just imagining it? There’s no possible way. But as I angle my head to get a better look, I recognize the familiar curve of those dark eyebrows, that tiny mole just above her lip. My gut clenches with realization.
She’s lying naked in a bed of banana fronds and carefully crafted sushi. Her thick, shiny dark hair is arranged in a fan around her head, carefully out of the way of the food.
And she’s a fucking vision. A sensual goddess without imperfection.
And yet all I can think about right now are the heated, red thoughts accelerating in my mind like particles in a supercollider. Those memories, the humiliation. I don’t think I could ever forget what she did. Ayla Polat—the woman I wish I never laid eyes on, even though she was once a seemingly innocent girl. Once so brilliant. So full of promise.
And here she is now, nothing more than eye candy for the leering gazes of random businessmen whose eyes roam that expanse of smooth, glowing skin, the bare breasts tipped with strategically placed tiny bright pink flowers. How far she’s fallen.
At my shoulder, one suit whispers not so quietly to his friend how he wants to take those flowers off her tits with his chopsticks. The other wonders why the hell he’d want to use chopsticks when he could use his teeth and, with a slip of his tongue, “get a taste of that” himself. Their banter descends into even more base commentary as they progress towards her head. They both snicker, and I’m certain she can hear them, though she doesn’t react or even move.
It’s enough to turn my stomach.
And suddenly, despite having looked forward to eating top quality sushi, the best that the Bay Area can offer, I have no appetite.
Still, my eyes are glued to her. She lies so quietly, unmoving. Apparently well-practiced at what she does. And she’s flawless. Her golden-brown eyes stare blankly upward from an expressionless face. Will she see me if I come closer?
Will she recognize me if she does? And why do I care?
“Dom? You okay?”
I dart a glance toward the head of the serving table. Adam is standing very close to her head. And he’s just about the only one here not ogling her body. Her perfect body.
She’s so fucking beautiful. Still. After all these years. And even with those dark memories, those angry thoughts bouncing around inside my head, I can’t help but notice. Can’t help but fantasize touching my mouth to her beautiful, full lips.
I blink when Adam calls my name again, then peel my gaze away from that confusing vision before me.
“Huh?” I blurt.
Those amber eyes that could stare right through you with the cutting accuracy of a laser beam. Instead, they stare at the ceiling into nothingness, fringed by thick dark lashes, barely blinking. What must she be thinking as she overhears what is said around her? Is she humiliated? So much the better. I hope every second she has to lie there, she feels every bit of it.
That mind of hers, more stunning than her body, really...was it still?
And yet my eyes betray me, sliding down the expanse of those perfect breasts, the shapely hips, those long, curvy legs. I swallow. Hard.
Fuck this. And fuck her.
I turn and make a wide berth around the table to meet up with Adam on the other end.
He frowns with concern. “Is everything okay? You seemed kind of spooked back there.”
I shrug, shaking my head. Maybe that will help me shake off this feeling...like I’ve seen a fucking ghost. But that’s ridiculous. She’s a figure of the distant past. That of a trusting boy who no longer exists. The memory, the vision of Ayla haunts that boy. Not me.
“The model looks like someone I used to know,” I explain lamely, then move hastily to the table we’d chosen with a half-full plate.
We sit and somehow the next hour or so passes while I pick at my food and give Adam monosyllabic replies whenever he asks me something. He can tell something’s up. I can tell by the way he eyes my untouched plate without saying a word about it.
A few others try to approach and after a few attempts to exchange contacts with me, they give up. Thankfully.
I’m in no mood for this. I want the fuck out of here now. And yet the entire time I’m sitting here, I feel an almost uncontrollable desire to turn my head back toward the serving table and look at her again.
I succeed in resisting that urge, however. And half an eternity later, we wrap things up. By now, the model has been wheeled into the back. Of course, I know this because the first thing I do while standing up to button my coat is to turn and check.
“Are you still up for that shoot-’em-up?” Adam asks.
In reality, I’m not. I’d rather go home and brood in the dark and try my hardest to forget what I saw here.
“Sure.” I say, regardless. “Hold up a minute, will you? I’m just gonna give my compliments to the chef.”
I turn away from Adam’s frown and walk over to the cashier. I want to make sure this goes directly to her so I explain my predicament. I want to leave a tip but specify it goes to the sushi model. The cashier offers me an envelope.
I open my wallet, pull out all available cash on hand, around five hundred dollars, and stuff it into the envelope. I’m not above noticing how the cashier’s eyes bulge.
After sealing the envelope, I label the front to the “Sushi model” and then on the back, add a nice little note. It gives me a stab of heated satisfaction to write out the message.
I scan the room to see if the chef is still about, preferring to leave the thing in his hands, given the way the cashier was eyeing the hundred-dollar bills I’d stuffed in there. After asking a few questions, I’m directed to the kitchen door where I find him, just on the other side. There’s no sign of her anywhere and that’s a relief.
With a quick, jerky gesture, I hold the envelope out to the chef and spin, walking away without explanation. He’ll probably read the note meant for Ayla. I don’t really care.
The more eyeballs on it, the better, to increase her humiliation all the more.
To Ayla, the sushi model,
Here’s some pocket change. Go out and buy yourself a dress. If you’re going to bother selling your naked body for filthy lucre, you’d probably earn a lot more out on the street.
Just one tiny fraction of the payback she truly deserved, after everything she’d taken from me. Which got me thinking...maybe real payback was just what I needed to deliver.
And since she’d proven quite handily that she could be sold, so much the better.
My own thoughts began racing...and forming a plan. Payback, indeed.