Buy Me, Sir(15)

She closes the distance and pulls the cap from my head before I can  blink. She yanks my hairnet loose and tousles my hair, then tips her  head and pulls a face.

"You could be one of them, if you tried."

I shake my head, cheeks burning, and gather my hair back up. "You're being kind."

"I'm being honest. You could be one of them, but you'd need your head examined if you went in for that crazy shit."

The thought pricks.

Hope.

It's both beautiful and dangerous.

Like Alexander Henley himself.

"So what? I just rock on up at that tavern and put myself up for sale?" She laughs and I fold my arms. "What?"

I flinch as Brutus grumbles in the doorway, but he settles just fine.

"You think you just roll on up with your pussy on show and hope  Alexander Henley turns up for a good time? That really isn't how it  works, honey."

"So how does it work? Do you know?"

She grins at me, and then she tuts. "You really are batshit. Sonnie told me you would be."

"Sonnie knows me pretty well."

"Yeah, and I know Mr Henley pretty well for someone who's never  officially met the guy. And you will too." She vacuums before she says  anything else, being careful not to venture too near the resting Brutus.  I finish up the sink, wondering, thinking. Hoping.

One day in his place and I'm already going insane. More insane.

Christ help me. Sex toys, and prostitutes and hardcore pornography. I  haven't even seen his bedroom yet and I'm tumbling in deep.

Cindy finishes up and I squeeze out my sponge.

"Sonnie says you'll find a way to get to Harley's Tavern whether I help  you or not. She says it's only a matter of time. That once you set foot  in this place you'd be on some crazy mission. I may as well set you  straight, she said."         

     



 

"Sonnie's probably right," I admit, holding her stare.

"Is that why you're here? To get close to Alexander?"

Alexander.

I can't imagine being as close to him as she has for four years, and never even exchanging a simple hello.

The thought is unbearable. The torture of being so near and still so far.

I decide to be honest, and why not? She's leaving in a few days, and she  can help me, save me a bit of time that I'd otherwise spend finding all  this crap out for myself. "I'm here because I always wanted to get  close to him. This cleaning job was my best shot. My only shot. I met  him when I was at school, he did a presentation. I wanted to be a  lawyer."

She nods. "That's some kinda crush. You have real balls spelling that out for me. I admire that."

"So tell me," I push. "Tell me how I'd get to Harley's Tavern. Tell me how I'd get a shot, presuming I could be …  good enough … "

"You really want to know how to line yourself up as Alexander Henley's next hooker? For fucking real?"

"Please."

She smiles. "I'll point you in the right direction on one condition."

"What's that?"

She unplugs the vacuum. "On the condition you look through his browsing history first."

I nod. "And if that doesn't put me off?"

"If that doesn't put you off, you're even crazier than Sonnie says you are."

I picture Sonnie saying it and it makes me grin. "I might well be crazier than Sonnie said I am. A whole load crazier … "

"We'll find out," she says. "The TV room is through here."





Chapter Ten





Alexander



I didn't cheat on my wife. Not once in the entire decade we were  married. That may well surprise some, including her, but it's true.

I took my marriage vows seriously, for better or worse, and with that  came …  sacrifices. Sacrifices I was prepared to make for the sake of  having a family. A real family  –  not the pathetic excuse for one I'd  known growing up.

Just how many sacrifices I'd have to make didn't become entirely  apparent until after the rings were exchanged, when Claire dropped the  bombshell I imagine so many newlyweds are unexpectedly burnt by. But I  thought you'd change …  I thought things would be different, now we're …   married.

My wife Claire was a lot less keen on a rough anal pounding once that  band of gold was on her finger. She no longer felt the urge to sidle up  to me at social events and let me know how keen she was for later. My  wife Claire turned her nose up at my dirtier sexual advances.

Can't we just do it like normal people, Alex? I'm too tired for all that tonight, Alex.

Can you be quick, Alex?

I've got a headache, Alex.

And then we had our two beautiful boys.

Not now, Alex.

Not that, Alex.

Why do you have to be such a fucking pervert, Alex?

I had some choice answers for that question, but I digress.

My point is, I understand restraint. I'm capable of restraint. Or I was.

I'm determined I shall be again, which is why I walk into my office on  Monday morning with a steely determination to plough myself into my  caseload, and why my other phone is still at home on my bedside cabinet.

I'm done with Claude.

I'm done with paying for dirty sex.

I'm certainly done with this grotesque bargaining-waltz I'm obliged to  perform for the sake of sharing the same escort agency as my grubby  shit-stain of a father.

Cold turkey. It's the only fucking way.

And so it begins.

I tell Brenda she has free rein of my diary and focus back on my client  list like a rookie with a point to prove all over again. I organise  catch-ups with my key networking associates, reinforcing once again why  the industry not-so-affectionately labelled me the Puppet Master, and I  give my clients my absolute undivided attention. I manage to get three  driving offences thrown out of court in the first three days, and  convince the local authorities that prosecuting Mr Rand for cannabis  possession is a waste of both their resources and mine.

I scope out upcoming matches for Portsmouth football club, swallowing  down both my pride and my own preference for rugby to ensure I give my  boys a good time on our Sundays, and then order them a couple of shirts  to be delivered to Claire before I'll see them next.

I manage three days without jerking off to porn. Three nights of lying  in bed at night, wide awake with a raging hard on I refuse to fucking  finish.

Day four since shooting my load and I'm irritable and foul-tempered,  desperate to empty myself inside some dirty little bitch's asshole and  find some fucking relief.         

     



 

That's why I finally switch on the other phone. Not to go crawling back  to Claude and his seedy new meat auctions. I don't go in for the new  meat  –  virgins don't hold any special interest for me. Not only do they  not have a fucking clue what they're doing, they also have no fucking  clue what I'm doing. I'm not in the market for fucking up some naïve  little plaything, staring at me doe-eyed, in blissful ignorance as to  what exactly she's signed up for.

No. I switch on my other phone to re-engage with my other pastime. The  only thing that's ever been a semi-effective balm to soothe my  self-loathing.

It's a band-aid on a bullet wound, but hell, I need something.

Something more than this.

I call the number as soon as I'm safely back through my front door. My  cock is so fucking hard it actually hurts, my balls tight and aching, my  temples pounding for relief. It's Annabel who answers on the third  ring, and the warmth in her tone takes me aback.

"Ted! I was only talking about you yesterday! We've missed you."

I utter a load of bullshit apologies, tell her how I've been so busy,  travelling across the country selling stationery, a lie I made up on the  spot eighteen months ago and have upheld ever since. A conference, I  tell her. No rest for the wicked, trying to plug my wares to hit  targets. Boss is a ball-breaking wanker, blah, blah.

She tells me she understands. Tells me they hope I can come back soon.

I clear my throat and check my diary, and then I commit to coming back real soon.

"Tomorrow?!" she asks. "Wow, that's great! We could really do with the  help. Stacie's son is sick, we've barely had enough hands to get the  food prepped. You know what Fridays are like, Ted, always a nightmare."

I tell her I'll be there. Right on time.

And I will be.

I hang up and then feel a flash of concern.

It's been months since I last put on my incognito jeans and baseball  cap, and I haven't seen them since, which wouldn't be any reason for  alarm should I not have a new cleaner, and should new members of staff  not inevitably feel the need to deviate from just about everything their  predecessors did. I head upstairs to search through my dressing room,  and the crisis is averted as I find the clothes I'm looking for in the  odds and sods clothes drawer.

I'd say I'd almost forgotten I have a new cleaner, but that would be a  lie. There's no way I could forget about the new cleaner, because the  place looks impressively immaculate when I step through the door every  evening. The old cleaner was good, but the new cleaner is something  else, just as I'd hoped she would be.

The new cleaner turns the corner of my bed sheets back. An odd little  touch that makes the bed all the more inviting, even if I still can't  get to sleep at night.