Total pages in book: 189
Estimated words: 174749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
ONE.
That’s how many other people know about my dilemma. Remember Yasmine? From Scorcher's? Figures that she should be the one I go to with all my troubles. But believe it or not, ever since I left, she and I have been getting close. We meet up for coffee or go to yoga together now on a regular basis. I’m happy to spend time with her because she understands the problems I’m facing.
“I think you need to tell Arsen what’s going on,” Yasmine advises me one afternoon after yoga. I had come to yoga after an appointment with Client 5 where I literally shook and convulsed as my fingers on my clit brought me to a mind-numbing orgasm. “You can’t keep going on like this. You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”
“I know,” I agree with her. “But it’s already been so long I don't know how I get out of the hole I’m already in.”
“The longer you stay silent, the deeper that hole gets to climb out from though, babe,” Yasmine says and I know she’s right.
The only problem isn’t sitting with Arsen or Henry. It’s sitting with me.
TWELVE.
That’s how many hours ago I texted Arsen, telling him that I needed to see him. He seemed okay and we made plans to meet at the Central Park Boathouse.
I got there before him and ordered a dirty martini from the bar in the Main Lounge, looking at the Lake in Central Park as it surrounded the veranda of the Boathouse outside.
I’m sitting here now, as I see Arsen approach. He must have entered the park from the 81stStreet entrance to the Park. I can hear a piano from the far corner of the Lounge and I wonder if this will be the last time that we have together at the Boathouse.
Arsen comes up to me and comes over to kiss me but I shy away. He takes a step back and looks at me with concern.
“What's going on?” Arsen asks, and I wonder if he can imagine what I’m about to tell him.
My Dad always says to rip a band-aid off as quickly as you can instead of prolonging the misery. And if I’m going to do this, I might as well get it over with. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I look at Arsen.
“I love you,” I say to him, and look at his eyes.
To say that there is surprise going through them is an understatement. What he doesn't understand is why I look so sick.
“Well, Ash, I lo…” I don’t let Arsen finish because I don't want him to say something that he’s going to have to take away so I interrupt him.
“But I also think I’m falling in love with someone else,” I say. I pause to give him a moment.
“Oh,” Arsen says after a moment. “Well, fuck.”
Despite myself I allow a brief smile. It wouldn’t be Arsen without an Fbomb.
“Who is it?” Arsen asks. “Anyone I know?”
I close my eyes and sigh to myself. This is the hard part.
“I don’t think so,” I say to him. “It’s going to sound silly Arsen, but it’s someone I work with.”
“But you work as a phone-“ Arsen starts but then lowers his voice. “As a phone sex operator. You don't work with anyone except for the people that call you.”
I look at him, hoping he understands. After a moment of matching my gaze, it dawns on him. “Oh,” he says. “You’re falling for a person that’s calling you?”
I nod. A single tear starts to form in my right eye.
“I’ve been talking to him for some time now and he’s single too,” I say, rushing the words out. “He lives in New York City also and he’s in real estate.”
Arsen looks at me like I just slapped him with a glove. His eyes are stricken. I can't imagine what he must be going through right now. How betrayed he must be feeling. I take a sip of my drink.
“Does he go by the name of King Henry?” Arsen asks.
What the fuck?
I don't think neither of us notice as my martini glass drops to the floor.
ARSEN
“
D
oes he go by the name King Henry?” I ask with a smirk and Ashley freezes in time. It’s like her muscles seize up, and not the good kind of seizing like when I make her cum. This is the bad kind, as if she's having a fucking stroke.
The martini glass falls to the ground, the olives from her drink rolling toward my shoe. I’m vaguely aware of the elderly couple next to us at the bar turning to look at us.
“Oh my God,” Ashley whispers. Whisper is a strong fucking word actually. It’s more like she croaks it out, like her mouth has just gone dry. Her skin is starting to look pale and I can see her eyes widen and narrow, as if she’s trying to figure something out.