“No, no, no, can’t afford it. That bill will set me back.” Emerald-green eyes, fanned by dark, long lashes, open for a fleeting moment, then close once again.
“Cadence, talk to me. I need to know who to call if you won’t go to the hospital.” My hand is still on hers, the other hovering above her face, worried about where to touch her.
“No one here,” she mutters, no longer giving me those green eyes. She’s almost in a slumber-like mood, and that’s when I know I’m going to have to make a call. If she won’t go to the hospital because of money, I’ll bring a doctor here, make sure she’s alright, stay with her until she’s better, then make sure she’s home safe and sound.
“Alright, you stay there.” I let her hand go, seeing as it’s almost limp in my own, and stand back up. Can’t use my desk phone, not like it matters. The number I need is saved in my cell phone, and with any luck, I won’t have my brother to deal with to make me break another phone. I grab my phone and call the doctor I have saved in my phone for when I’m feeling under the weather, refusing to miss a day of work even if that means getting an IV infusion at home to start my day. And with what I pay Doctor Hodges, he’ll make house calls no matter the time of day or night.
“Mr. Martinez, how may I assist you?” He answers the phone on the second ring, prompt as ever, but also because he’s paid more from me than any insurance company would.
“I have a woman who slipped and fell.” I walk back towards her, wanting to keep a close eye on her. “She hit her head on the bookcase in my office while twisting an ankle.”
“Is she coherent? Any bleeding?” Doctor Hodges asks.
“In and out of coherency, stating she can’t afford a hospital. Breathing seems fine. No bleeding, though.” My hand picks hers up again, two fingers going to her pulse. “There’s a pulse, too. Is this normal for her to be like this?”
“Could be a concussion. I won’t know until I’m able to see her and make an assessment. Your house or office? She should be fine to move if she’s breathing and has a normal pulse and will talk when spoken to.” Never in my life have I brought a woman to my penthouse. It’s not something I’ve thought about doing, but the minute Hodges is spotted, the press will be here, and that’s not what I need.
“House, if she’s okay for me to pick up and carry?” There’s no other way around it.
“I’d say so. I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes. Same as last time, I assume?” He’s asking about the access code to the elevator that is used for personnel to use instead of the front doors.
“Yes, please. Thanks, Doctor Hodges,” I respond before hanging up the phone, pocketing it then spotting her black purse. I could go through the contents, see if Cadence is carrying any sort of identification or a phone to call her next of kin, let them deal with the fallout, give them a few hundred grand to keep this under the rug. There’s something about that idea that has me doing the complete opposite. I grab her purse and place it over my shoulder, looking like the inherent fool I’m turning out to be tonight. Ba-fucking-humbug to this holiday season, not to mention a birthday I don’t even want to celebrate, one that I know won’t go unnoticed come tomorrow. I bend down and scoop her weightless form in my arms, one under the nape of her neck, the other under the bend of her knees, lifting her up. And the damn woman does the least of what I expect. Her arms loop around my shoulders as her head sinks into the crook of my shoulder, as much as one can in this position.
“Cadence, don’t get too comfortable.” She may be pretty, but that doesn’t negate the fact that she’s either a hooker or an escort. Telling that to my dick is a whole other story for the time being.
ELEVEN
Cadence
I wake up slowly,unaware of where I am and what happened. My head is pounding, and my ankle is killing me at the slightest of movements. It’s like I went ten rounds with Mike Tyson even though I know that’s not the case. My eyes that attempted to open seem to droop shut once again. For one, I absolutely know I’m not in my own bed. These sheets, blankets, and pillows. It’s luxurious, the softest of the soft, nothing like mine. I bought my bedding in a bag at a discount store when it was closing down, the closeout giving me a good eighty percent off. I didn’t mind that it went with nothing in my small studio apartment, where you can see the queen-size bed when you walk through the front door. The lilac color fabric with a damask style print was the very last of its kind, and it was also what I could afford. I lift my eyelids again, telling myself to stop floating around in a mindless sensation where I’m in some kind ofCandy Landwhen I should be shoving the blankets off my body and getting out of what I can now see is an upscale home since, you know, my eyes are wide open now. The sun is shining through the window, revealing a view that doesn’t have to tell you how many floors you’re up; it shows you. The city scape that is Los Angeles is at your fingertips, well, almost. That might be exaggerating. It just appears and seems that way. The white walls, gray curtains that must be hung for looks instead of to cut the sun out, the wood flooring, and plush green chair in the corner are only the beginning.
“Time to get up and face the day, Cadence.” I lift the sheets and look down at my body, inventorying my clothes. I’m still in my dress, though it’s rucked up so high that the hem is up to my lower stomach, panties on full display, and there’s no way I’ll step out of this bed without fixing that, no matter the pain in my head and ankle. That’s when I notice, as I attempt to shimmy the dress down without making a huge fuss with all the aches, pains, and more than from likely bruising.
I toss the sheets back and slowly sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “Jesus, this is a huge bed.” My feet don’t even touch the ground. My ankle is swollen, blue in color and double the size it normally is, and I know it’s going to suck to walk on. That’s okay, though, because every single moment of embarrassment, of Santiago’s anger, and the feeling of helplessness will not keep me in what I’m assuming is his house. I have to salvage this in some way, and not for the money. Screw that. I’ll go work at McDonald’sif necessary to succeed in my dream.
I stand, gingerly, favoring my left foot. Driving is going to be impossible until the swelling goes down. Wearing my heels is completely out of the question, which isn’t too much of a big deal seeing as how I’ll be hanging up my job withDates for Hire.Been there, done that, currently dealing with the aftermath. Thankfully, there’s an open door revealing a bathroom, and that’s good, too, since my bladder is telling me it’s time to take care of business. I hobble along, keeping my moaning and groaning to a minimum, scared to wake the bear, so to speak. I’ll have to do that, but I’d at least like to know what my current state is, maybe empty my bladder, wash my hands and face before I face the consequences of my actions. Ten thousand dollars for a date should have been a red flag. Stupid me for thinking making a quick buck wouldn’t have any repercussions. I finally make it to the bathroom and flip the light switch. A scream leaves my throat, hand slapping over my mouth, which jars my head, hurting it further. “Maybe I did fight Mike Tyson last night.” I scoot closer until my pelvis hits the vanity, fingers pressing beneath my eye, which is black, going around to the top, with my arm lifted up. That’s when I see the bruises along the outside, too. Add that in to my ankle, and I’m more bruised than not. “Forget Mike Tyson. You’ve been run over by a Mack Truck, Cadence.” No use to keep pressing, hurting myself further, or stewing over the fact that I look like the mess I obviously am. I wobble again until I take care the rest of my business, following it up with washing my hands and using the soap on the counter to wash my face. I don’t see any toothpaste, so this is as good as it’s going to get. I just wish I were wearing something else and could walk better, or have a coat of armor to take on Santiago Martinez, though I’m not sure even that would help.
TWELVE
Santiago
The three hoursI worked out in my home gym, heavy rock music blaring through the speakers of the room I had kitted out. The double insulation between the walls as well as the padding hanging on the ones that aren’t obscured by a mirror. It helped keep the noise to a minimum, allowing the woman who is set up in my spare room to sleep. True to his word, Doctor Hodges met me at my place. I’d barely gotten Cadence settled, my hands pulling down the dress so as not to reveal more skin to the doctor than necessary. Even if I should have done it for myself, touching her, even minutely, was not easy. I tried to keep it to a bare minimum since she was half-asleep, an unwilling partner to say the least, and I’d never do something that would make her feel uncomfortable.
It did nothing to keep my cock from staying hard for the entirety of the time Doctor Hodges assessed her. He informed me that she sustained a mild concussion. Rest was the most he could do for her unless nausea, vomiting, or memory loss presented itself. He left shortly after delivering the news, and with nothing else to go on, I became someone I’ve never known myself to be, which included sitting in the chair the interior designer set up when she had her way in not only the office but also my penthouse. I stayed there all night, in her room, her hair spread against the pillow, her soft and subtle scent permeating the air. It kept me on high alert. Not because I was worried she’d end up hurt worse than she already was; it was for another reason altogether, one I’m not sure I’ve got the energy to even think about at this point. One thing is for sure, though: I won’t ever let the interior designer touch my office space ever again. My home is fine the way it is. The office, I didn’t give much of a say as long as it was streamlined, didn’t look out of date, but that doesn’t mean the rug Cadence tripped on won’t be thrown out the second I know without a doubt she’s okay.
My mouth salivates from the few glimpses I got of her in my office when her legs were practically spread open, in my car when she was moaning. Only it was probably due to pain, and not the good kind of pain either. Replaying mortgage rates, football stats, or visualizing the multitude of ways I was going to kill my brother didn’t help. My back is on the bench, shirt off, arms raised above my head, ready to lift the bar with weights on each side in an attempt to keep my cock from throbbing. Not that it’s doing any good. The last image is permanently seared into my head, though. She kicked the sheets off her, apparently getting hot with the early morning sun shining through the open windows. I didn’t close the curtains, afraid I’d fall asleep and not know if she woke up disoriented. That came to an abrupt stop at about six o’clock this morning. Her dress was up to the midsection of her stomach, legs open, hand lying on her lower abdomen, fingers so close the edge of her lace panties, I was up and out of my chair, getting a closer look even though I know I shouldn’t. In that moment, I was more like my brother than I cared to admit. As I smelled the sweetness that was Cadence, I knocked myself out of my reverie in case she came awake and saw me leering over her prone body.
I moved as fast as I could and tore off the remainder of my suit. I could have taken my cock out, fisted it, and jacked off at that very moment. The reason I didn’t besides being a glutton for punishment is that it didn’t sit right with me, not if she was willingly giving herself to me for money. What I can’t wrap my head around is why, after the two hours I put into my workout, my hands have dropped from the barbell above my head and are moving to my naked chest as I visualize Cadence’s hands being mine. Green hopeful eyes appear between my spread legs, full red-stained lips, and I watch as the tips of her fingers slide down, touching every muscle along the way until it’s those red-painted nails of hers pulling at the waistband of my sweatpants. My head goes back. I’m thankful for the bench as the thought of Cadence takes over even though it’s my hand palming my cock, thumb gliding over the tip, taking the pre-cum to use as lube.
“Fuck.” My eyes close on their own accord, keeping the fantasy rolling through, wishing it were wetness from her mouth or her cunt. I move my hand from root to top, twisting it along the way. If Cadence were here and shit weren’t the way it currently is, her injured, me worried she’d sell herself to anyone other than now me, I’d talk to Cadence the entire time, telling her, showing her, teaching her exactly what I want and expect from the woman who’s decided to consume a man who only ever wanted to chase after the dollar. Those thoughts are gone. I’m fucked in the head salivating over a woman I’ll never have. That doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy the fantasy of her eyes glued to mine, those lips of hers surrounding the tip of my cock as she slowly suckles it, tongue on the underside tracing the vein when she finally slides down the length, unable to take me balls deep without choking. Further proving to me that when she tried to tell me something, that maybe it’s what I wanted to hear after all. My hips thrust up, hand gripping myself tighter, feeling the sensation that I’m about to come all over my naked chest, wishing it were Cadence’s face, tits, or pussy I was spraying my cum all over.
“I’m so fucking fucked,” I tell my weight room, chest heaving, sweat consuming my body. There’s no way I’m going to let Cadence walk out of here without hearing what she has to say.
THIRTEEN
Cadence
All of thebravado I talked myself up to has fallen to the wayside, the reason for that being, when you wobble down the hallway, taking in the masterpiece of a home such as this, it’s downright eye opening. I washed my face, albeit as gently as I could, which still didn’t help the bruising, and I’m sure it will be impossible to hide with makeup come Monday morning. I attempt to use my bad foot, holding on to the wall for purchase, cringing inside because walls are not meant for handrails. Even after washing my hands, oils will most definitely leave handprints if you’re not careful. Which is near impossible because the slightest pressure on my ankle has me breathing through some wicked pain, heightening my headache, and has me crying out in pain a few steps in.