Chapter 14: Olivia
I’m back.
The text message lights up my phone on Friday morning and my stomach plummets. Somehow I gather up the self-control to leave my phone in the kitchen while I shower, dress, and get ready for the day.
When I finally text Davis back, thirty minutes have passed and he’s none the wiser that I’ve spent the last four days wishing I could see his stupid, handsome face in-person while simultaneously being relieved that I didn’t have to see his stupid, handsome face in-person.
Davis: Tonight. Seven. You’re sleeping over, so bring what you need.
I hate myself. I want to hate myself. Maybe I don’t hate myself? I don’t know. All I know is that the last time I went to this man’s apartment, he treated me like trash. He treated me worse than trash actually, because it seems pretty unlikely that he jizzes on and insults his trash before he takes it out. But that’s just a hunch.
Despite that, I’ve touched myself to the thought of it almost every night this week, wishing that Davis were there in my bed with me. I’ve fixated on the smooth outlines of his sculpted, bare chest, and rubbed my fingertips together as I recalled the feeling of the coarse hair on his thighs. I’ve even replayed his words in my head, wishing that they weren’t the very thing that put me over the edge into climax.
“Such a good little whore.”
Knowing that it’ll annoy him, I don’t acknowledge his messages. I just throw a load of laundry into the machine and finish up my morning routine, almost missing another text from Davis in the process.
Davis: We’re going out, so don’t wear an outfit that makes it too glaringly obvious that you’re my whore, Olivia.
Asshole.
That beautiful, horrible asshole.
I adjust the thin fabric of my burgundy dress. It’s a cheap number I got at Target, I think, but I’m not sure. It’s definitely not nice enough to wear to dinner with a guy like Davis, but it’s the best that I can do in a pinch. After all, when I packed my suitcase for the summer, I opted for business casual—not escort casual.
When he opens the door to his apartment, I undergo a moment of self-loathing because I can’t help but widen my eyes. He’s wearing an impeccably tailored jacket and a button-down shirt that should normally be unremarkable, but he just looks so unbelievably smart in everything he puts on his body. Naturally, that leaves me gawking at him like a fangirl, despite the fact that I regularly see this man wearing suits so well that he could make Tom Ford himself camp outside of his apartment with a boom box, playing “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel.
He doesn’t say a word. He simply dips into the hallway and pulls me towards him for a deep, unyielding kiss that leaves me breathless when we part. It’s Davis’s way of saying that he missed me, I assume. When I gingerly dab at the corner of my lip with my fingertip, it’s my way of saying that I missed him as well.
“I’ll take that,” he offers as he removes my overnight bag from my shoulder and ventures deeper into the apartment. He doesn’t ask me to follow, so I don’t. I wait by the entrance and watch him disappear down the dim, teal hallway, where he turns left into what I assume is his bedroom. Then again, I’ve never been in his bedroom, so I can’t be certain. Davis has only deemed me good enough to defile in his living room.
“The car’s downstairs,” he announces as he appears once more. “Are you ready?”
“I could eat.”
To my surprise, Davis gives me a sharp scowl as he motions for me to step into the hallway again. “Why? Are you not eating enough?”
“What? I’m eating plenty.”
“You’re sure?” he continues as he calls the elevator and simultaneously assesses me with scrutiny like he’s trying to decide if he should believe me. “Because if this is about money…”
“Relax, Davis. Not everything is about money,” I say for the very first time in my life. The last time I felt that way, I was nine and my dad was putting on his horrible camouflage baseball cap as he went out for cigarettes. That was the last time we saw him, and I remember sitting on the couch a week later and trying to shush baby Charlie as he wailed only slightly louder than my mother, who was in her bedroom wailing as well. I didn’t blame her. If my husband had walked out on me six-months postpartum, leaving everything behind except for that hideous baseball cap, I probably would have wailed too.
Davis lets out a small sigh and his attention lingers in my direction for a few more beats before we walk into the elevator. “You’d tell me, right?”
His question takes me by surprise, but I refuse to show it. I simply say, “Of course I would. I’m contractually bound to be honest with you.”
The elevator comes to a stop in the building’s lobby, and it’s a much-needed respite from the growing tension between us. That respite is short-lived, however. Within another a minute, Davis and I are in the backseat of a black SUV, sitting in silence as New York passes us outside.