See me, p.1
See Me, page 1
SEE ME
Pauline Allan
www.loose-id.com
See Me
Copyright © March 2012 by Pauline Allan
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
eISBN 978-1-61118-779-3
Editor: Larke Butler
Cover Artist: Mina Carter
Printed in the United States of America
Published by
Loose Id LLC
PO Box 809
San Francisco CA 94104-0809
www.loose-id.com
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning
This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
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Chapter One
Sean watched another raindrop slide down the cracked windshield of the 1987 extended cab. “Get your shit together, Drennan,” he said while opening the last stick of gum from the green package. “You’re such a pussy.”
Before shoving the minty piece in his mouth, he pulled on the visor. The last thing he really wanted to do was look in a mirror, knowing the reflection was going to reveal he’d landed on his ass. Rock bottom. Under the rock. Below the slugs and facedown in the goddamn mud.
Yep, sure as shit, the face staring back knew the truth. The cleanly shaven cheeks and newly buzzed cut couldn’t hide the fact he’d been in bed the last three days, thinking about nothing. Okay, thinking about every-fucking-thing. Sean ran his fingertips through the short spikes on his head. The cut wasn’t the greatest. It’d have to do. He looked down at his hands, studying the scars on his knuckles. Too many memories. Ms. Evelyn, his first foster mom, had showed him how to buzz his hair. At least his fucked-up head was able to hold on to one good memory.
Sean’s stomach growled. The thought of Ms. Evelyn’s mac n’ cheese made his gut ache. When Sean was eleven, every Thursday a bowl of the cheesy goodness would be waiting for him at the table. The two other boys Ms. Evelyn kept always wanted Chef Boyardee, but not Sean. She’d make a small batch of homemade pasta with cheese just for him. And after only six months, the special Thursday lunches stopped. So did Ms. Evelyn’s heart. At twelve, he didn’t understand what a heart attack meant. It meant another move, another foster home. Fuck that memory.
Sean scrubbed his palm over his face. Jesus, he just wanted to scrub the shit out of his head—all of it. A new start to bury the bad one. The cell in his pocket vibrated. He pressed the flashing Talk button. “Hello.”
“Sean?” The guy from the gym was on the other end of the line.
Sean picked up the glossy business card from the passenger seat. The naked man and woman on the front were tangled in a heated embrace. The slender woman was wearing a brightly colored Mardi Gras mask. The man had his hand on her ass with his face buried in her neck. He flipped it over. Fantasy Emporium… You’re one click away from pleasure. “Yeah, this is Sean.”
“This is Ron Carlone.” Silence. “From the gym?”
“Hey, man.”
“I was just wondering if you were still interested in coming by for that interview we talked about. I may have misunderstood, but I thought we agreed on two o’clock?”
Sean glanced at the dash. The green numbers on the cassette-radio player read 2:27. Shit! He’d been sitting in the parking lot for over half an hour. Can you fuck this up any more, dumbass?
“Oh, man. I’m sorry. I’m almost there.” He looked out past the spattering downpour to the three-story warehouse in front of him. “Traffic.”
“Sure, man, understandable. Come by whenever you can. Abigail’s waiting. I’ll keep her occupied until you get here.”
“Thanks.” Sean stuffed the phone into the back pocket of his dress slacks and shoved the piece of gum in his mouth. He could do this. He could fuck for money, on camera, for the whole world to see. It wasn’t like he had that one particular person in his life who would accuse him of cheating or being a disappointment or a huge goddamn letdown. Worst case scenario, yet another suit sitting behind a desk wouldn’t want to hire him.
Then an opportunity like no other came crashing down on him courtesy of Ron, the big guy who’d asked him to spar at the gym. He’d been so charismatic Sean had a hard time turning him down when he’d asked to throw a few punches. Sean hadn’t been in the ring for years. Oh, he’d fought. For his food, his privacy. For his life. Part of his probation prohibited him from stepping behind the ropes, but that was finished. He’d done his time, both in and out of the system.
He’d taken only a second to think it through. He wanted to step behind the ropes, feel that adrenaline of taking a punch, dealing it back. Other guys at the gym asked him to spar all the time. He figured he just looked like a hardcore type of guy, like he could take a hit. They were fucking right, but he had always turned them down. He had a hard fist, never lost a fight. Not even the one that landed his ass in the pen.
He took Ron up on his offer and, to this moment, still didn’t regret it. Sean didn’t throw a punch. Took it to the face and ribs with equal parts laughs and grunts. After, they both sat on the bench in the locker room talking shop about working out and boxing while they’d unlaced their gloves.
Ron was tall, muscular, probably Italian, and definitely gay. The glances hadn’t gone unnoticed in the shower. Sean couldn’t care less about the long stares, the slight smiles. He got it from the women too. Whether he was at the gym or the grocery store, they all stared.
Sean didn’t care if they looked. The skinny women came up to flirt; the not-so-skinny women gave him a sly glance and ran the other way. Why did they always do that? He’d stand there like an idiot watching their swaying asses hightail it away from him. God, he loved those round asses more than anything.
Once, he even got up enough nerve to ask a woman in the coffee shop near his apartment for her number. The woman tugged her purse over her huge tits and looked nervously to the friend standing beside her. The friend told her to go ahead, but she didn’t. She just asked if he was sure it was her number he wanted and not her friend’s. After he tried to convince her it was her number he wanted, she told him to stop making fun of her, snatched her mocha latte, and left him standing by the counter. After that, he never asked for another number—from any woman.
Sean folded the cuffs on his dress shirt and straightened his tie—again. Savannah was a balmy eighty-seven degrees, and he was sporting long sleeves. He fussed with the cuffs again, trying to cover the black marks on his forearms. He didn’t want to have the tattoo removed. Point was he liked it. The business world might not, but it was him, a part of his past and a reminder for his future. There was no way he would’ve been able to wear a suit jacket on a day as hot as this one. Trade-off was he had to roll the cuffs just so, hoping the edges of the tat weren’t too noticeable.
The interview was for a porn studio, for Christ’s sake, he thought. He wasn’t going into another résumé-laden, old-boy’s-club interview for assistant financial advisor. Or chief of accounts. Or CPA. Nope, not even a bachelor’s degree in business could get his foot in the door with his record.
The creak of the driver’s side door made him smile. Cracked windshield, rusty door hinges, something he finally owned—priceless. The rain had slowed to a constant mist of spattering drops. He stood next to the door for far too long. Thank God he wore a wifebeater under the white dress shirt. By the time he grew balls, he’d be soaked through.
“Get up you fucking deadbeat! Get your ass off the fucking mat! Afraid of a little blood, pussy? Get your fucking ass up!”
He could turn around and go back to his apartment, call Stan, and see when he was going to be able to use another construction crew member. He could go back on unemployment and search for yet another, “We appreciate you coming by. You’ll be hearing from us.” The phone never rang.
He glanced in the back of the truck bed. The tools he’d bought off Stan, the foreman, were still locked in the long silver box. He was grateful for the job, a job that required no references, no credit checks, and no questions about his past. Stan was a good guy. One of the only ones Sean had met so far in his twenty-seven years. The way he saw it, there were bastards and assholes—oh, and con men. Stan was none of the above. He couldn’t help it when the business went under. Stan felt awful letting all the guys go. The economy sucked, and the small construction firm couldn’t handle the housing crisis.
He ran his hand through the short tips of his dark hair
He slammed the truck door as he looked for a place to throw his gum away. Not spotting a trash can, he opened the door again and crumpled it in a piece of paper in the door pocket. One quick glance over the property left him no real clues as to where he was, if this was even the right building. There was no sign. No flag to designate this as an establishment of sin. It looked more like something out of a Nine Inch Nails video. More like a fight-club spot.
He tucked the tails of his shirt into the waistband of his slacks. God, it was fucking hot out. The drizzle did nothing to cool the sticky air. Ron had said three-story warehouse, new windows, old, brick building. The ancient industrial structure towering over him fit the description. He scanned the building, his gaze landing on a door at the far right. A simple metal door was all that separated him from spinning in his past or selling his soul for a shot at a decent future.
He wiped the mist from his face, toed a strayed rock, and turned back toward his truck. Stopped, turned again.
Fuck it! No soul left anyways.
* * * *
Abigail poured a steady stream of water into the potted violet on the windowsill. “What is he doing out there? He’s been sitting in that truck for like twenty minutes.”
Ron, Abigail’s assistant slash one and only friend, gathered the appointment calendar and headed toward the window. “It’s a big decision, Abs. Give him a minute. It’s not every day someone hits you up at the gym and asks you to star in a porn film.”
She tipped her head toward the book in his arms. “You gave him my card, right? Check it again. Are you sure he said two o’clock? I mean, if he decides to bolt, I’m up shit creek without a paddle. You said he was skittish. Hell’s fire, you said you’ve never even seen him talk to anyone at the gym. I need him. I trust your judgment, and if he’s anything like you say, we have to do anything to get him. It’s hard enough finding guys in this area. I’m tired of flying them in. This order has been open for three weeks because we don’t have the right guy for the part. You sure he’s tattooed all the way up his arm? I mean, it has to be all the way up and over the shoulder. And he’s hung, right?” She motioned to the crotch of her jeans. “I mean like really well-endowed down there.”
“Yup, here it is. He said two o’clock.” Ron pointed to the box dated June 2. “And yes, worrywart. I’ve seen the guy buck naked, and he’s tatted with some kind of black tribal stuff. I told you he fits the client’s request perfectly…even down there.”
Abigail tapped her fingertip against the window. Her breath fogged the glass as she squished her nose against the warm pane. “Please, please. Please get out of the truck.”
“Let me call him. Abs, you have to back up, or he’s going to see you.”
She kept her gaze glued to the white truck sitting in the front parking lot. She needed this guy. The client was from Germany. She couldn’t help but smile. Italy, Spain, Ireland, England, and now Germany. Her little company that started out as a way for her to relieve her own tension had grown into an international phenomenon. “He can’t see me through the rain. Can he?” She spun around. “Oh, shit! What if he can see me, and he doesn’t want to come in because I’m watching him? Shit, shit! Ron, do something!”
Ron set the book on the metal desk. “Sit down. You’re getting your underwear in a twist again. Damn, I can’t convince the stud to come in and babysit your nerves at the same time. Now stop biting your nails and keep your mouth shut.”
She plopped down into the black office chair and took two deep breaths. She owed him at least the courtesy of being less annoying. Ron had been a good friend—scratch that, a great friend. Through the nightly phone calls and panic attacks, he was there, soothing her without pushing for too much information. He’d been there four years ago when she’d arrived at Westside High in Macon, the terribly shy “new girl” who always sat alone in the teacher’s lounge. Until the day Ron sat down beside her and shared his PB&J. It made Abigail feel much better when Ron confessed he was gay. His muscular size didn’t seem quite so frightening after he shared his secret.
Ron even came to her apartment when she was let go because she’d called off work on too many occasions. It was easier to call in sick than to tell the front office she just couldn’t get out of bed, that she was afraid to leave her apartment because her ex-husband could be waiting by her car or around any corner, for that matter.
The first two years after the divorce were spent in such a grip of fear that leaving her small apartment made her insides shake and wasn’t an option.
Eventually, the courage to live outweighed the despair to die, and she gathered what little guts she had and went for a walk, the threats from her ex still lingering in her ears. After so long spent running, she wore down. The cravings to satisfy her needs were too great to be ignored any longer. She had to figure out how to find pleasure in a secret way, in case her ex was watching.
She wanted to see romance, kissing, touching, all the things her usual videos lacked. Out of necessity, she hired two students from the university to star in a personalized adult film, for her eyes only. Then, after joining a few online chat groups, she discovered she wasn’t alone. There were others out there like her. Once she realized their needs were as great as her own, she started an online adult-film site for customized videos.
Ron was supportive when she told him her idea. Matter of fact, he was so excited he quit his history teaching gig and hired himself. The day Abigail had turned her first $1,000 profit, which was the first day they opened the online site, they celebrated over enchiladas and margaritas.
“Okay, see, I’m calm. I’m not moving. Will you call him now?” she asked.
Ron gave her a sickly sweet smile. “Yes, boss lady.” He tapped the touchscreen on his cell phone.
Abigail zoned out Ron as she shifted her frazzled nerves to the three ledgers spread out on the desk. Thomas O’Reilly had been her business advisor for over two years. And for over two years, she hadn’t been able to understand the jargon coming out of his mouth. Somehow she seemed to always have money to purchase new set supplies and catering for the performers, but he never quite knew how to make her understand the complicated world of her finances. She was starting to question if he understood it himself.
The taxes were paid, and the performers were compensated. She guessed that was enough.
What had started as a necessity for her personal needs had grown into a lucrative, successful empire.
“Come by whenever you can,” Ron said before shoving the phone back into his pocket.
“Well? Well, what did he say? Tell me!”
Ron’s husky laugh always slowed the frantic cadence of her heart. “God, you’re so impatient. He’s caught in traffic.”
Abigail pressed her brows tight. “What? I thought he was in the parking lot.”
“He is. He sounds nervous. Give him a minute. He’s a thinker. He’s turned down every other guy who’s asked him to step into the ring at the gym. Why he took me up on the offer still baffles me.”
“Maybe he’s gay?”
“No way, every guy in there has tried to get a piece of him. He barely says two words to anybody. I’ve got his application stuff ready. If he works out, let me know before he leaves so I can set up his appointment with Dr. Johnston.”
Abigail scrolled the tiny arrow on the computer to the mail tab and double clicked. “He kind of sounds like a jerk. He’s probably one of those gym rats who only likes skinny girls. Oh God, Ron, what if he does only like skinny girls? The client asked for Sasha, and she’s got hips on her. Are you sure about him?”
