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He kisses the space between my breasts. “Let’s see if every part of you lives up to my imagination,” he breathes, reaching behind me and having trouble with the clasp of my bra. I lean back and unclip it for him. He slowly pushes down the black lace straps and I pull my arms free, letting the material fall between our bodies, exposing my breasts to him. His eyes on me are that of a man who is admiring a priceless painting, and my nipples pull hard and taut at the scrutiny.
“Worth every fucking penny,” he groans, running a thumb tentatively over the nub and smiling when my body involuntarily shivers, the skin around my nipple pulling tight. His hands are gentle yet clumsy, moving over my body with wonder as he cups and pulls at my breasts, watching, almost mesmerized, by the way my body reacts to him.
I push the hair from his forehead, run my fingers through it, and grab onto a fistful, giving a tug. He groans against my breast and pulls me further into him, gripping my hips as I grind against him, but there is nothing to relieve the building ache.
He’s not hard. I let out a disappointed sigh.
“Shit,” he says with frustration, and releases my hips.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
He leans his head against my chest, letting out a defeated breath.
“It’s okay.”
He pushes me off him and then falls back onto the bed, covering his eyes with his forearm as if to block out some nonexistent light. I sit on the edge of the bed next to him.
“It’s not okay,” he says. “Nothing is fucking okay.”
“Darren…” I try to think of something to make him feel better. With the amount of whiskey he’s consumed, I’d be surprised if he could perform.
He lifts his hips to pull the wallet from his pocket. “Just leave,” he says. “Just take your fucking money,” he yells and tosses his wallet on the bed next to me, cash spilling out.
“You don’t have to pay me,” I explain. “We didn’t do anything.”
“Jesus, do I have to be reminded?!”
“No, but I don’t want to take money from you.”
“A hooker with a heart of gold, how novel.”
I glare at him. “Whatever cash you have is fine,” I say, angrily.
“It’s dangerous carrying that amount of cash in Vegas.” He reminds me. “Besides, there’s not enough.”
“This is plenty.” I try to grab the cash but he places his hand over it, piercing me with a challenging glare.
“I might be a fuckup and a shitty son,” he says with deep regret, “but I always pay my debts.”
Usually the agency takes care of payment, but this is different. I don’t want to take money from him, but I hand him my phone anyway because of his persistence. If he knew why I was really here, it wouldn’t end so amicably. “You can transfer it here.” I tap on the account information.
Unexpectedly, he reaches over me to grab a laptop from the end of the bed.
“Don’t have a phone, remember?”
I think maybe he’ll be too drunk to execute the transaction, but then he hands my phone back to me and there’s a large sum that’s been deposited into my bank account. I feel sick, but I swallow it down.
Darren leans against the wall and covers his eyes with his forearm again, grabbing the whiskey bottle and slowly letting it pull him under its spell. At this rate, I’m afraid he might not wake up if he passes out.
I slide off the bed, kick off my heels, and pad into the living room, surveying the damage and wondering how Alistair is faring, only for a second, before making my way to the bar. The mini fridge is still full of tiny bottles of water, and I grab a couple, taking them back into the bedroom with me.
Darren is still on the bed, but now he’s curled into the fetal position, the whiskey bottle tipped over next to him, his breathing even and soft. There wasn’t enough left in it to make a mess, but there’s still a small puddle seeping into the sheets. I take it from his limp hand and he makes only a small noise of protest as I set the two bottles of water next to the whiskey on the nightstand in the darkened room.
I contemplate leaving, like he told me to, like he wants me to, but when I look over at him, so vulnerable, alone, and looking so much like his father—I can’t. So I slide back on the bed and lean against the headboard. It’s one in the morning and I should be tired, but I’m not. I never got a chance to process the news that Senator Kerry Walker is dead. It doesn’t seem real. I allow myself a few selfish memories that only bring me shame.
Darren rolls over and grabs onto my leg, inching his way up the bed until he drops his head into my lap. I’m not even sure he remembers who I am until he mumbles, “You’re still here.”
He’s a grown man, but at this moment he looks more like a little boy, his head nestled on my lap, the softs waves of his hair dusting the tops of my thighs. I don’t think I’ve ever felt young, and here, with him in my lap, I feel so much older.
