Trophy Wife (The Dumont Diaries, #0.5-5)
Alessandra Torre
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 smoke. 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.