After letting the shower rinse away the day’s aggravation, I dress and head to the dining room for dinner. The ladies trickle in one by one, quietly taking seats around the grand table. They’re all still here. Eleven women desperate to reconnect with the men they hope to be tied to until death. The men that promised to move heaven and earth in exchange for their promise of commitment. The men who have broken their vows to sate sexual deviances and feed their egos.
The women are silent as we’re served the first course. Hardly anyone touches the starter of foie gras, elaborately dressed with poached apple in a fig reduction. Not even the scrape of silver against china echoes through the vast space.
I chew slowly, surveying the eleven, perfectly poised women from the head of the table. All are determined to avoid eye contact, as they pretend to nibble their salads and numb their nerves with wine.
“So…” I start, drawing their reluctant eyes. “When was the last time any of you masturbated?”
A symphony of coughs and gasps coax my mouth into a satisfied grin. This group should be fun.
“Excuse me?” one sneers, after downing her red wine. A server moves to grace her with a refill of velvety courage, knowing she’ll need it.
“Did I stutter? Or do you not know what it means to masturbate?”
“What? I know what…” she cringes, flustered, and shakes her head in embarrassment. “…masturbating is. Why do you feel the need to ask such crude, inappropriate questions?”
I examine the striking redhead still glaring at me, her cherry lips tight with irritation. Her too large, almost animated, eyes narrow in abhorrence, burning right through me with unspoken judgment. Even with her face twisted into a scowl, she’s stunning. Not overly done up or glamorous. She’s old Hollywood beautiful, yet there’s something fresh and simple about her.
I frown, because that type of beauty is too much for this place. Yet, it’s not enough for the world that she lives in.
Allison Elliot-Carr. Daughter of Richard Elliot, owner and CEO of one of the largest investment banks in the world. Her husband, Evan Carr, is a trust fund baby from an influential, political family, and her father’s golden boy. He’s also a pretty boy, philandering bastard with no qualms about f*ck
ing anything in Manolos from Miami to Manhattan. Of course, that tidbit of information is not publicized. It’s my job to know these things. To get inside their heads. To expose their darkest secrets and make them confront them with unrelenting honesty.
Allison purses her lips and shakes her head, her mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “You like this, don’t you? Humiliating us? Making us feel flawed and defective? As if we are the cause of our less-than-perfect marriages? We’re responsible for the way the tabloids rip us to shreds? You don’t know me. You don’t know any of us. Yet, you think you can help us? Please. I call bullshit.”
I set down my silverware and dab my mouth with a linen napkin before giving her a knowing smirk. “Bullshit?”
“Yeah, complete bullshit. I mean, who the hell do you think you are?”
A smile slowly spreads my lips. I imagine licking my chops as a lion would before devouring a graceful, delicate gazelle. “I am Justice Drake,” I state smugly without apology. It’s a promise and an omen, gift-wrapped in two little words.
“Well, Justice Drake... you, my friend, are a bullshit artist. You know nothing about our situations. There’s no magic, cure-all remedy for our marriages. But you wouldn’t know that because you don’t know a damn thing about us. You’re not a part of our world. Hell, you probably do your research on Page Six or TMZ.” With a wave of thoroughbred arrogance, she settles back into her chair and sips her red wine, her blue, doe eyes trained on my impassive guise.
Mimicking her actions, I ease back into my own seat and steeple my fingers in front of my chin, elbows propped on the arms of the high-back chair. A beat passes as my gaze delves into hers, unearthing traces of pain, embarrassment and anger– feelings she’s been taught to hide in the face of the public. Still, no amount of MAC or Maybelline can mask the undeniable hell etched into her ivory skin.