Trophy Wife Read online

  Trophy Wife

  Alessandra Torre

  Contents

  Intro

  TO HAVE

  In case I die, call the cops on this asshole

  NATHAN

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  NATHAN

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  NATHAN

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  TO HOLD

  Life as a trophy wife? Piece of freaking cake.

  NATHAN

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  NATHAN

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  NATHAN

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  TILL DEATH

  “Please. Spank me again.”

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  NATHAN

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  DO US PART

  A woman’s desperation is most clearly spoken in a kiss.

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  NATHAN

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  NATHAN

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  EPILOGUE

  NOTE FROM AUTHOR

  About the Author

  Attachment A:

  Copyright © 2017 by Alessandra Torre

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Editor/Proofreader: Perla Calas

  Cover Design: Judi Perkins, Concierge Literary Designs & Photography

  Cover Photography: Perrywinkle Photography

  ISBN: 978-1-940941-90-5

  Dedicated to SueBee and Wendy

  Thank you for loving this story, from the very beginning.

  The lights have become a blanket of sorts. They wrap me in bright white warmth, a shield against the faces that stare, the eyes that follow my movement. I used to squint when they came on, would duck my head to avoid the glare. I stopped that habit when I saw the world behind the lights—a world I don’t want to see.

  * * *

  Two years ago, our manager decided to kill the lights. Their intense glare was exposing too many flaws – cellulite and flab not holding up well under stark spotlight scrutiny. I appealed to his better judgment, on my knees in his office, my hand on his cock. And so, in my case, the lights still blaze to life, bringing warmth, attention, and a glare of denial that blurs this world and allows me to picture another.

  * * *

  Now, I step on the dark stage, the cheap plastic of my platforms cutting painfully into the tops of my toes, every step bringing a pinch of pain. I keep my eyes down, following the flecks of silver on the unforgiving stage, waiting, exhaling a breath in controlled anticipation, my abs tightening.

  * * *

  The lights come to life and I have almost four minutes to escape.

  I

  TO HAVE

  In case I die, call the cops on this asshole

  NATHAN

  “Sir?”

  * * *

  Nathan turns toward the front seat, the Maybach’s interior dimly lighting the man’s features. “Give me a minute. I’m thinking.” He looks back at the building, the neon sign crooked across its side, the red glow painting the entire parking lot the color of blood. “You sure it’s her?”

  * * *

  Drew nods. “I’m sure. She’s a perfect match for her driver’s license photo. Gorgeous girl.”

  * * *

  He chews on the inside of his cheek, considering.

  * * *

  “You should go in. See her yourself.”

  * * *

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should just go back to Utah. Look at that waitress again.”

  * * *

  “You hated the waitress.”

  * * *

  “At least she had her clothes on.” He presses on the window control, the dark tinted glass smoothly rolling up, the glow of the sign diminishing. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  * * *

  Flipping open the folder on his lap, he turns on the interior light, glancing down at the image staring out at him, framed by the Florida driver's license. Candace Tapers. Blonde hair and a bright smile that didn’t match the seedy strip club they were leaving. He closes the folder, her smile haunting him from behind the leather portfolio.

  * * *

  A stripper. What the fuck had he gotten into?

  CHAPTER 1

  Six hours later.

  * * *

  My flip-flops smack through the front door and I kick them off as soon as I cross the cheap metal threshold. I drop my purse on the round kitchen table and pull it open, my fingers diving inside and pulling out cash, folded, stinky dollar bills, their edges worn, skin limp. I flatten the bills on the table, stacking them as I count, praying fervently, that it will be enough. I need at least three hundred dollars. My fingers stop moving and I run out of bills. $112. I sigh, counting out an even hundred and putting it in my wallet to deposit in the bank.

  * * *

  A belch sounds from behind me and I tighten, stuffing the bills into my purse. I grab my jacket and glance over my shoulder. “Hey Dibs.” I flash a smile at the overweight man who stands in the doorway, his hairy chest exposed, baggy grey pajama pants sagging underneath his large belly. “Didn’t think you’d be up this late.”

  * * *

  He doesn’t respond, his eyes trailing over my sweatpants and t-shirt, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Surprised you’re just now getting back. It’s almost five in the morning. You were babysitting?”

  * * *

  “Parents had a late night,” I say, moving around him, swallowing a shudder at the stench of cigarette smoke and body odor.

  * * *

  “You know rent’s due.”

  * * *

  “I’ll get it to you tomorrow. I’m going to the bank in the morning.” I open the door to my room, and step inside, closing it quickly behind me, hoping that he won’t press the issue, won’t pound on the thin door. I feel the vibration of his footsteps, his heavy weight moving to my door. There is a moment of pause, then the continuation of steps down the hall. I relax, gently locking the handle and dropping my purse on the floor.

  * * *

  My room reeks of Dibs, his musty smells contrasting with the sunny scents I try to flood the room with. He’s definitely been in here, doing godknowswhat. I want to shower, need to stand under hot water and rinse off the smell of the club, one of strangers, heavy perfume, and sm
oke. But the thought of a chance meeting in the hall with only a towel between me and Dibs… I decide to skip the shower and undress, pulling on a long sleep shirt and soft pajama pants. I crawl into bed quietly, listening for sounds in the house, hoping for the drone of Dib’s snoring, praying that my tired muscles will bring me to a quick sleep.

  * * *

  Sleep doesn’t come. I stare at the wall for over an hour, trying to occupy my mind with anything but numbers. The low balance in my bank account. The high balance on my credit cards. My dismal credit score. At least tonight was a good night. I didn’t do anything that makes me close my eyes in shame, or curl into a ball and weep into my pillow. I danced and flirted, nothing more, nothing less. My purse is lighter for it, but at least I can sleep guilt-free. Except I’m not. I’m lying in bed and watching dawn tickle the edges of my blinds, my stress keeping sleep at bay.

  * * *

  Poor Planning. If I ever have a book, that’s going to be the title of it. I had a worry-free childhood that led to a diamond-studded high school career, which led to an I-don’t-care-about-grades college experience, which concluded with a useless graduation ceremony and a useless degree proudly framed and promptly stuck into a cardboard box in my parents’ garage. I celebrated my college graduation in high style, entering the Real World with a wallet full of fresh credit cards and a new profile on Monster.com. I was ready to find a job and live life as an adult.

  * * *

  One year later, I came to the conclusion that no one wants to hire an event planner with no experience, a questionable GPA, and no references, no matter how cute her Betsey Johnson dress is, or how knowledgeable she is about the local party scene. My credit cards were maxed out, I was three weeks late on my rent, and I was desperate. I worked at Best Buy for a few weeks, the job offer graciously offered by a drinking buddy, but the monthly income didn’t come close to covering my credit card minimum payments. So I drove twenty minutes outside of town and stopped in the parking lot of Sammy’s, a strip club located on the county line, and the only option for local men and drunk tourists.

  * * *

  That was three years ago, and I sat in the parking lot for forty-five minutes before I found the courage to walk in. Looking back, I wish I’d just driven off. Fuck the fact that it doubled my Best Buy income. Best Buy never led to blowjobs just before rent deadlines or married assholes trying to slip their fingers past my g-string.

  * * *

  I have no great excuses for how my life has turned out. It was a simple case of poor planning. Laziness. A year of living it up, courtesy of Capital One and Jennifer Garner’s damn ads promising double miles.

  * * *

  I close my eyes, and sometime around dawn, sleep finally arrives.

  CHAPTER 2

  My rent’s salvation walks through the front doors at 9 p.m. I am moving through tables, my eyes dancing over prospects, when a firm hand grips my elbow, hot pink nails digging into my skin. “Look alive, Candy. Rick’s looking for you.”

  * * *

  I glance back, carefully prying Jez’s talons out of my arm. “Fuck Rick.” Yes, fuck Rick and his suggestive offer of a double shift. My desperation must be showing, something I need to get a handle on, ASAP. If there is anything our boss loves, it’s taking advantage of his harem in our times of need.

  * * *

  “Candy.” Rick’s voice cuts through the thump of the music and I roll my eyes, turning to face him.

  * * *

  “Yep?” I drawl, smiling for the benefit of the middle-aged man who passes, his eyes lingering across my gold-dusted cleavage.

  * * *

  “We’ve got a high-roller requesting you.” He pulls at my arm, not allowing me an option, and I stumble forward, my heels catching as I hop and skip to keep up with him.

  * * *

  “What the hell? Slow down!” I hiss at him, narrowly missing the sharp edge of a table as he drags me along.

  * * *

  “The guy’s up in VIP. He’s waiting for you.” Rick practically sprints forward, as if this “high roller” is moments away from disappearing. I fight the urge to laugh. The guy probably asked for sparkling water and Rick thought him fancy. Our club is an establishment for truckers and minivan driving tourist dads; anybody with any taste or money took their plane to New Orleans or Atlanta if they wanted high quality girls.

  * * *

  “I’m telling you, this guy is loaded. He already ordered a bottle of champagne—you know that bottle of Dom we keep in the back? Plus, he has private security and came in a limo.” Rick practically pants with excitement, his mouth so close I can smell the hamburger he had for dinner, his hand still pulling me along.

  * * *

  I allow myself a speck of excitement. This guy does sound loaded. Maybe this night will be different. Maybe I will actually meet someone worthwhile, someone who doesn’t try to haggle over the price of a lap dance, or who will try and cop a free feel. We round the corner and Rick pulls back the curtain that encloses the VIP section. He steps aside and I move forward and into the dimly-lit space.

  * * *

  It’s hard to put a diamond in the garbage, but our VIP room is a gas station trash can and this man is a Harry Winston diamond. My eyes skip over the empty center stage, over the empty black couches, their cushions ripped and saggy, and hone in on the man.

  * * *

  He dominates a center couch, his back against the leather, his arms draped out like wings on a plane, a lit cigar glowing from his right hand. Behind the couch, two men stand, their features hidden by the shadows, their silhouetted builds impressive. His security. From the end of the cigar, smoke drifts, a smoky trail across the man’s face, his smug smile widening as I approach. I take the final step, my heel dragging along the bumpy carpet before stopping. This close, I can see his eyes. Bright blue, vivid and turquoise, the sort that matches Caribbean waters and the neon glow of my bedside clock. Will I be staring at it tonight? Will this man ask something of me that will cause guilt-fueled-insomnia?

  * * *

  I mask my apprehension, holding my posture straight, tits out, stomach in, a smile across my face. “You asked for me?”

  * * *

  He brings the cigar to his lips, taking a slow drag on it, his eyes taking a slow and unapologetic tour down my body. I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. His eyes flit to the pole, then back to my face.

  * * *

  “Dance.”

  * * *

  A one-word asshole. I almost prefer them, the type that issue orders and shut the hell up. Better them than the romancers, the ones who fawn over you while detailing updates about every part of their lives. I nod, glancing at Rick, who steps back, toward the hall.

  * * *

  “I’ll turn on the system and load your playlist.” Rick does a ridiculous little forward bow toward the stranger, who ignores him, his eyes now trained on my face.

  * * *

  I shift my weight and clasp my hands behind me, my knuckles brushing against my ass, the Brazilian thong barely covering anything. I should have worn the sparkly back corset tonight, the set much nicer than this one—a bikini missing half of its sequins and faded from too many washes. “How’s your night going?”

  * * *

  The only movement comes from the fingers of his right hand, the cigar rolling slightly.

  * * *

  I let out a breath and step back, turning to the stage. Fine. Fuck small talk. I can wait in the back of the stage until the music comes on. It can’t take more than a minute, not with the haste Rick seems to be assigning to this jackass.

  * * *

  “Why are you doing this?”

  * * *

  Five words that stop me, his tone one which doesn’t allow for avoidance. I turn back to face him, the answer falling out quickly. “Student loans. Credit card debt.”

  * * *

  I used to lie. It’s the most common question from clients, followed closely by whether my breasts are re
al. I used to tell a detailed sob story about a sick mother and her medical bills. Clients ate it up and my G-string filled with their sweaty, sympathetic bills. Then my mom died. My dad got sick. Karma laughed, and I ditched the lies. They were unbelievable anyway. I can’t even cover my own bills, much less contribute anything to my dad’s care.

  * * *

  The man doesn’t respond to my comment, his cigar lifting to his mouth, obscuring some of that beautiful face. There is a crackle of a speaker and then the lights come on, the spotlights cutting through the room, the barren stage now pooled in color. I turn, grateful for the distraction, and move quickly to the stairs, my steps growing more confident as I climb the wooden rungs and stride onto the stage, the first DMX beat hitting hard in the moment that I grab the cool metal pole and swing into the air.