Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
KIT
F or the next couple days, I sign out of the portal as a consort. I stay focused on research and scheduling time with each team member to learn how they’re liking their jobs.
It’s not a huge shock to find out they’re all pretty happy.
There’s some mild irritation around cheesy jargon, and for events like the Dirty Dancing Brunch, but overall, everyone seems content. I don’t observe anyone feeling coerced or treated like sex slaves. On the contrary: most consorts seem honored to do the work they’re performing.
Gratifying.
Fun.
Hot.
Fulfilling an important public service.
Those are some of the comments from an anonymous survey I launched at the start of this week. I’m not surprised, but I’m pleased.
About that, anyway.
Seeing Eve feels like rubbing a papercut with salt. I deliberately don’t check her activity in the portal, but sometimes I see her around. Yesterday morning at breakfast, she sat chatting with three or four women. I walked past without making eye contact, but I heard the word “threesome” and giggles.
A few minutes later, I got a request for a three-way next week. The guest requested both Sybil and me, so maybe Eve put in a good word.
I wish I looked forward to doing it. Instead, I feel…empty.
I’m still feeling that way as I arrive for my meeting with Ashton Holyfield. The tall, silent billionaire stands with his back to the room, eyes fixed on some unseen spot out the window. His wide-windowed office overlooks a private, palm-lined beach, where a smiling couple holds hands as they stroll on the sand.
I clear my throat. “Mr. Holyfield?”
He turns slowly to face me, eerie blue eyes slicing the space between us. “Dr. Plier. I trust your work is going well?”
Again with the Dr. Plier?
Holyfield frowns when I don’t respond right away. “Is something wrong?”
“Please, call me Topher or Christopher.” My voice sounds more brittle than I mean it to. “Sorry to keep pushing the issue, but in this role, I’m not Dr. Plier.” Since I already sound like a dick, I keep going. “My father was a world-renowned cardiologist. A really good man who died of a stroke last year. He’s Dr. Plier.”
It doesn’t make one lick of sense. I know that in theory. I have a damn doctorate. I’m Dr. Plier for most of my work.
But grief makes us weird sometimes.
“I see.” Something shifts in Holyfield’s eyes. “I’m familiar with gut-wrenching loss and I’m sorry. Truly. Please forgive me.”
“Already forgiven.” And now we’re off to an awkward start.
“Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. He’s dressed up in fucking Armani, with a black silk necktie fixed at his throat.
I thought I’d dressed nicely in a button-down shirt and dark chinos. This guy looks like he’s on his way to a formal ball. Folding his hands on the desk, he regards me with a cool stare. “I’ve read the daily updates, but I haven’t reviewed your initial report.”
“It’s not complete.” That will take another few weeks. “But my preliminary findings after speaking with three-dozen consorts, and reviewing data from an anonymous survey, plus calculating the?—”
“Are the consorts happy?”
Guess he’s eager for answers. “With everything except being called consorts.”
He frowns. “What would they rather be called?”
“No one offered suggestions.” Honestly, the consorts who said it seemed to be joking. “Between you and me, I doubt it’s an issue. They like to poke fun at the nomenclature, but it’s done with a certain fondness. They see Crystal Bliss as a comfortable place where they’re welcome to tease. Each other, themselves, the resort. Certain aspects of a rather… unconventional job.”
“I see.” He nods at the laptop in front of me. “Bring me up to speed.”
I spend a few minutes showing him tables and charts, explaining what I’ve observed and what’s still to come. There’s plenty more research to do, but Holyfield’s pleased with the progress I’ve made.
“And you enjoyed it yourself?”
I look up from the laptop. “Pardon?
“Serving as a consort. You found it…fulfilling?”
“Yes.” There’s a straightforward answer I’m hoping suffices.
But Ashton Holyfield just stares. He’s waiting for something. What, I’m not sure.
“I must admit,” he says finally, “it surprised me when you requested the hands-on experience. Not all research psychologists would have dedicated themselves quite so thoroughly to the job.”
“Yes, well…” I can’t tell from his tone if he’s judging. “I’ve found over the years that researching unconventional aspects of human behavior can require unconventional methods.”
“I see.” He studies my face. “Do you mind me asking how many guests you’ve enchanted in the full sense of the term?”
There’s the tiniest lift at the edge of his mouth. Maybe he’s also amused by the lingo.
I clear my throat. “I’ve done the Sunblock Bliss Au Deux experience, one private massage, a dinner with an add-on enchantment, one threesome with a guest and a female consort, and the Bubble of Trouble.”
“That wasn’t the question.” He stares in silence for a few beats. “I’m asking about number of guests you’ve had intercourse with at the resort, Dr.—”
“One.” What the hell is he driving at? “I’ve had sex with one guest.”
“I see.” There’s that thoughtful head tilt again. “In your professional opinion, do most consorts seek out more personal bonds with the guests? Recurring interactions and what have you.”
Why is he asking these questions? This feels intensely personal, and yet…I’m the one who requested to work as a consort. He didn’t put me in this role.
Might as well give him what he wants. “I think it’s common for consorts to seek out intimate and unique connections with individual guests. To find pleasure in their jobs based on those connections.”
“And would you say, in your professional opinion, that the nature of this job—the requisite need to be intimate with dozens, maybe hundreds of partners—can result in a failure to achieve long-term intimacy?”
“I’m not sure I fol?—”
“To be blunt, would a man who had meaningless, no-strings sex with copious partners find himself permanently incapable of being a good husband or father?”
What?
What in the actual, ever-loving hell?—
“No.” That’s an easy one. “I believe consorts of any gender can seek out deep, meaningful, monogamous—or ethically non-monogamous—connections in the future if that’s what they wish for.”
Ashton Holyfield nods stiffly, but his shoulders slump with something that looks like relief. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“May I ask why?”
He looks startled by the question. For a very long time, he presses his lips together. Just when I think he won’t answer, he does.
“This conversation is confidential, correct?”
“Absolutely.”
Holyfield looks out the window. “In a past life, Dr—er, Christopher —I made very poor choices with intimate relationships.” He sounds so sincere that it’s easy to ignore the near slip. “My frivolity in the past compromised my ability to establish a marriage and fatherhood. To be there for the people I loved.”
Damn.
I researched the man before coming here, but I had no idea Ashton Holyfield had been married. “That sounds painful.”
“Indeed.” He studies my face like he’s not sure whether to say more. “It was my fault, of course. I wasn’t honest and it cost me. Cost me everything in the long run.” The pain in his eyes becomes palpable and he glances away. “I don’t wish that fate on any of my employees. I’m sure you understand.”
I’m not sure I do, but I’m sensing he’s done with the sharing. “Of course.” I hesitate. “If it helps, I believe my time at Crystal Bliss has underscored my own ability to form meaningful connections that start from an intimate place.”
He gives me another long stare. “Would this be the lone guest you… enchanted ?”
“Yes.” Might as well be honest. “We, uh—knew each other before arriving here. Neither of us realized the other would be coming to Crystal Bliss, but we reconnected here.”
“And it was a satisfying experience for you both?”
Is he still focused on his own baggage, or something more? “Yes,” I say slowly. “I believe it was.”
“And there was mutual respect, pleasure, and connection?”
“Yes.” My heart squeezes tight as this icy-eyed man stares me down. “I believe so.”
“I see.” He studies me over the top of his desk. “Will you be seeing this woman—” He pauses. “This person after your time here has ended?”
“Woman,” I say. “And no.”
His eyes sear mine as he stares long enough for the silence to feel ominous. “With all due respect,” he says finally, “why the fuck not?”
* * *
My bizarre meeting with Holyfield leaves me feeling unsettled.
Unsettled and shitty for not being honest. Isn’t that at the crux of what Holyfield said?
“I wasn’t honest, and it cost me. Cost me everything in the long run.”
I haven’t been honest with myself about what I’m doing here. How I’ve struggled to shed this sense of Kit as the un-fun guy.
I haven’t been honest with my family, either.
Not with the mother who raised me, or the sisters who think I’m some kind of hero. Do I really believe they’d think less of me for coming here? For doing this cutting-edge research at a place devoted to women’s pleasure?
Back in my room, I pick up my Crystal Bliss pager. Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I scroll through the portal to see who Eve’s been dating.
There’s a lunch date with Jacques from Canada, but no specified add-on. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, and I wouldn’t judge one bit if it did.
There’s a spa day tomorrow, but she’s booked it with two other women. Sexual? Maybe. Good for her if it is. Same tidings if it’s not.
I scroll to the bottom, and there it is.
Eve’s booked a Sexy Seesaw for her final night here. I flip through the info, searching for details I don’t deserve to know.
Who did Eve pick for her final experience? Heart in my throat, I toggle to the consort preferences screen.
Logan.
Figures. He’s a good guy and he’ll treat her well. There’s no indication who he’s picked as the other guy, and it’s none of my damn business.
That’s not why I came to my room.
I put down the phone and go to my nightstand where I’ve stashed Miranda’s book. My ex-girlfriend’s face smiles up from the space beside her academic bio and details about her credentials. I make myself read that, braced to feel something, anything.
But all that gets through is a flicker of recognition. Not good or bad, just an awareness that I have a history with this person.
I open the book and flip to the opening chapter.
What makes relationships work?
“Not very original,” I mutter. But I keep reading.
Four hours later, I’m still reading.
I read all fucking night and into the morning, absorbing the words I’ve spent so long avoiding.
It turns out my ex has some wise things to say, and it’s backed up by data I gave her.
At a basic, primal level, human beings are wired to seek intimate, committed connections. When a partner rebuffs you—through betrayal, avoidance, or outright rejection—it’s easy to fear the fault might be yours. That if you’d only done more, if you’d only been more, things would turn out like you’d hoped. Is that what you think?
“Fuck you, Miranda,” I mutter.
But she’s not incorrect. That is what I’ve thought. I hate that she’s right, but she is.
Be sure the lessons you take from a failed relationship are the right ones. Don’t fall into the trap of focusing on your personal failures and seeing the end of a relationship as a reason to catalogue what you’re lacking. Instead, seize your chance to move forward with clarity. To pursue a connection more satisfying, more customized to what each member of a relationship needs.
The connection every single one of us deserves.
“Fuck me.” I slam the book shut, since I’ve already finished. I’ve only gone back to reread a few parts that I highlighted.
What Miranda describes is exactly what Eve has been doing here. She’s chasing her bliss, being open to finding the connections she deserves. In the face of her ex’s betrayal, she didn’t sit around worried she’s deficient in some way. She came to the Jilted Brides Honeymoon Club to grab bliss by the balls and reclaim her sense of identity. To open herself up to connection again.
And what did I do?
Kicked the damn door shut in her face. Acted like I knew better than Eve what she needs.
“I’m such an asshole.”
There’s somebody else who should hear that. Someone I trust to help yank my head from my butt.
Dialing her number, I wait for Camille to pick up.
“I’m an asshole,” I say when she answers.
My sister laughs. “Hello to you, too.” She sounds more relieved than surprised. “How are you holding up?”
Here goes nothing. “I’m working at a sex resort, studying sex workers by being one for a few weeks.”
“Oh. Um, wow.” There’s silence as she gathers her thoughts. “Do you, uh…want to start at the beginning?”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath and dive in. “I’m conducting research for the Jilted Brides Honeymoon Club. It’s a private Caribbean resort that needed a social psychologist to study employees’ mental health and well-being.”
“I see.” Camille lets those words linger. “And by some wild, crazy, coincidental, one-in-a-million chance, would this be Crystal Bliss Resort? The same exact place where my high school bestie just went?”
No shocker she figured it out.
“Swear to God, I didn’t know Eve would be here.”
“I believe you.” My sister sounds too understanding. “I take it the two of you hooked up again?”
“Yes.” God, I hate hurting my sister. “Please don’t hold it against Eve. She wanted to tell you, but?—”
“I’m not mad at Eve.” She sounds almost surprised by that. “I’m not even mad at you.”
“What are you feeling?”
“This isn’t about me, dear brother.” She’s using her shrink voice now. “You’re calling to tell me and I’m glad, but something else happened, didn’t it? You messed up somehow or?—”
“Eve must’ve called you?”
“No, actually. I just had a feeling.” She’s really busting out the shrink voice now. “Would you like me to take an educated guess at what happened?”
“Fine.” I’ll kill her if she nails this. Even as I think that, I’m guessing she will. My sister’s a fucking good shrink.
“Eve’s new belief that she’s opposed to marriage—a normal, expected trauma response to betrayal—crashed right up against your recent, grief-induced belief that traditional marriage is your path to happiness.” She keeps going before I can interrupt. “Since my big brother likes to believe he knows best how other people should run their lives, coupled with his completely understandable fear that there’s something innately wrong with him in the context of his intimate relationships, I’m going to guess that he, in his infinite wisdom, pushed Eve away from him and?—”
“Can we please stop talking about me in the third person?”
Camille chuckles. “Am I on the right track?”
“I hate you.”
“I am right.” She’s thrilled by my suffering, as all younger sisters would be. “Do I get bonus points if I acknowledge that Eve’s baggage around sex shame and wanting to feel normal might’ve triggered your urge to protect her from herself?”
It sucks when my sister’s so smart. “What do I do, Cam? I screwed up and told her she needs to move on. That she should sow her wild oats.”
“She does and she should,” Camille says matter-of-factly. “And she’s doing that quite well, from what I understand. Let me ask you something, Christopher.”
“God, not the full name.”
My sister ignores me. “Do you believe in a woman’s right to change and evolve as she lives her life? To believe strongly in one path, then alter her plans or her views as she grows? To decide for herself what’s healthy and feels good? What will ultimately lead to a satisfying life?”
“I hate when you get on your soapbox.” But she does have a point. “Yes, I believe that. For all women, not just Eve. Which reminds me?—”
“I’ve been too hard on Miranda?”
“Yep.” My turn to put on the shrink hat. “You took Dad’s death to heart like I did, but your coping mechanism involved enmeshing yourself in the family unit and lashing out at anyone you saw as a threat to that unit.”
“Ouch,” she muses. “Not that you’re wrong.”
“I’m not.” I’m not half bad at the shrink thing myself. “Miranda handled things poorly, cutting you off like she did, but people do what they have to in order to move forward.”
“I get that. I do.” She sighs. “I’ll have a talk with the others. Clara and Caitlynn and Christine and?—”
“Fuck, we have a lot of sisters.”
“Too many, sometimes.” She sighs again. “Maybe it’s time we pull our fangs out of Miranda. Stop using her as a scapegoat for our grief about Dad.”
“Progress,” I mutter. “Maybe we’ll all try it.”
“Look, Kit,” she says, and I’m glad we’ve gone back to Kit . “I’ve known Eve since we were fourteen. She’s got a kind heart and a clever mind and she deserves to find someone who supports her as she evolves into the woman I’ve watched her become this past week. That’s you,” she says, shocking the shit out of me. “Assuming you’re Massage Guy.”
“I’m Massage Guy?”
“Did you or did you not give my best friend a happy ending massage?”
This feels like a trap, but I answer her honestly. “Yes.”
“Then you’re the reason she’s happy, dumbass. The reason Eve sounds like the very best version of Eve lately.”
I’m not sure I believe that, but it feels good to hear it. “Thank you.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I summon the courage to say the rest. “I’m falling in love with your friend.”
“I’m not even a little surprised.”
“Really?” Because I kinda am.
“Yeah.” She’s quiet a moment. “It’s not the best timing, and I’ll kill you if you break her heart. I’ll also kill her if she breaks your heart?—”
“Can we quit with the killing, please?”
“Fine.” She takes a deep breath. “You’re both adults. Knowing you both like I do, I can see why you make sense together.”
“Thanks.” My throat pinches tight and I swallow. “You’re a pretty great sister, you know?”
“Of course I know.” She laughs. “Now go fuck my best friend senseless.”