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I don’t have time for mumbo fucking jumbo.
I take my meetings. I scan through reams of court paperwork. I threaten people with the full weight of the legal power invested in me, calling in shitty back-hand favours behind the scenes to ensure a favourable outcome for my asshole clients. Just another week of the same old grind with the same old people lying through their teeth about the same old things, as though I haven’t heard every excuse for piss poor behaviour a thousand times before.
Sweet little Amy should sit in my seat for a week – that would be ample enough opportunity to rethink her career goals.
Maybe a week in my shoes would make the prospect of selling me her pussy on an ongoing basis a more preferable option.
I’ve been thinking about it, of course – contemplating the likelihood of a repeat performance.
I’m not one for holding my breath, having paid her enough money to set her up for the long haul, and I’m certainly not one to expose myself to the embarrassment of a thanks but no thanks.
No. If she wants to barter a deal then Claude will be in touch. That’s his job – just a standard middle-man peddling pussy for sale.
But when he calls me from his off the record mobile on Friday evening, catching me on my way across town to cook up soup with that pissing gemstone of hers right back in my pocket, the rush in my chest is anything but fucking standard.MelissaAlmost a week, that’s how long it took for me to hear a peep from Claude Finch.
I figured I’d been substandard, that maybe Mr Henley had reported back I really wasn’t as good as the other women on offer.
I’d told myself that was okay, that at least I’d had him, even just once, but I’d been fooling myself.
Being back in his house Monday morning was nothing but beautiful torture, deep breaths against his pillow nothing but fuel to my despair.
The notes stopped. The gifts stopped.
Everything stopped.
I smiled thinly as I dished up meals for the homeless on Wednesday evening, and faked my laughter while I played with Joseph at dinner time.
I even tried my best to hide my despair from Dean, settling down for coffee and TV at night with a shrug of the shoulders in answer to every question he asked about my day.
And then it had come – a call from number unknown on Dean’s phone on Thursday evening. Someone asking for Amy, and there he was, Claude Finch, his voice clipped and professional, asking whether I’d be interested in relisting my item for general sale.
My reply was instant enough that Dean raised his eyebrows across the room. Yes, please. Yes!
And so I’d trekked across the city on Friday lunchtime to renegotiate the small print. I used the main entrance this time, and there was no lamplight in his back office, no video cameras demanding a performance, just Claude in his pinstripe suit, asking me to sign more paperwork.
I didn’t even think to ask about money. The only question out of my mouth was whether I’d be assigned to Mr Brown again.
Mr Brown will get first refusal, Claude told me. Standard practice.
I’d nodded. Smiled. Tried to keep my cool, even though my knees were knocking under the desk.
Three grand an evening, that’s what Claude offered, and I’d stared mute, trying to gather my dropped jaw from the floor.
The money was insane – dwarfing my monthly cleaning salary in just one evening, so much for a poker face – the overwhelm was written all over me.
“Yes. Thank you!” My words tumbled out before Claude could rethink his offer.
“I’ll be in touch with Mr Brown. Please keep your weekends clear, he prefers a Saturday evening.”
And so I waited.
I scrubbed his kitchen until my fingers were sore. Pressed his clothes to perfection and hung them so neatly in his dressing room.
I took Brutus on an extra-long walk and gave him an extra fish treat.
I replenished the orchids before I left for the weekend.
And then I went home to Joe and Dean.Alexander“I’ve had a lot of interest,” Claude tells me with greedy eyes. The man is like a pig in shit, leaning back in his chair with a grin on his face as he tells me he’s contemplating another auction for Amy’s next appearance.
“Fuck the fucking auction,” I snap. The very fact I’m in his fucking saleroom at close to midnight on a Friday evening – dressed in fucking denim in my haste to get this shit negotiated – tells him everything he needs to know.
The slimy cunt has me over a barrel, and we both know it.
He offers me a whisky from his desk drawer. I wave it away. “Exclusivity is going to cost.”
My stare is ice-cold, practiced and pointed from years in court. “Don’t dick me about, Claude. I’m open to negotiation.”
