Relationships are for the weak. Those individuals who have a problem being just that … individuals, people who can’t fathom standing on their own two feet and not being defined by another human being.
I’m not, nor have I ever been, one of those people.
I’m me. Nothing more, nothing less. You can take it or leave it, but usually, they take it. And I proudly give it. Every. Last. Inch.
Companionship only lasts as long as it takes me to leave my card on the counter as I’m leaving before she wakes up.
My name’s Dexter MacFadden. What’s your number?
Prologue
–
This isn’t the
first time I’ve woken up in a stranger’s bed, lying next to a woman I don’t
recognize, in a city I can’t remember.
Ibiza? Paris? London?
The only thing I know for sure is that I’m in Europe somewhere.
Quietly exiting
the bed, I search around on the floor for my pants and shirt. Looking over my shoulder, the same scene
that’s played before me so many times is no different—gorgeous woman, half
covered by a sheet, hair perfectly mussed and her arm draped where I was just
warming her sheets. I could probably
wake her and judge by her accent where I am, but then I’d actually have to
engage in conversation with her and I’d rather slip out into the early morning
light.
Being only a
mediocre partner, I’ll never know who she is, nor will she know me. It kind of works out good this way, though. No need for awkward goodbyes, uncomfortable
calls and broken promises of meeting up again sometime.
I crack the
bedroom door, fully clothed, ready to make my escape into the night when the
woman starts moving. Slowly taking my
hand off the handle and holding my breath, I wait for her to roll away, facing
the opposite wall and giving me a glimpse of her tight, pert ass and reminding
me what made me want to fuck her to begin with.
When I’m safely
on the other side of the door, I pause at the breakfast bar in the
kitchen. Pulling out my cell, I text my
driver with the GPS coordinates and request him to pick me up as soon as
possible. His reply is almost immediate. Spotting my jacket and shoes next to the
sofa, I throw them on and pull a business card from the breast pocket.
Just because I
don’t want to have the awkward conversation about where our ‘relationship’ is
heading, that doesn’t mean someone
won’t speak with her. My system—the one
I’ve developed over the years—works flawlessly.
I’m a callous prick, but they know that going in; they just think
they’ll be the one to save me from my
foolish ways.
Writing a
number four on the back of the card, I leave it on the counter and slip out the
front door without a second thought.
See, this is
how it will go. The unknown brunette
will wake up in a few hours from her orgasm-induced coma and notice me
missing. The first thing she’ll do is
check the bathroom. When she realizes
I’m not in there, she’ll make her way to the kitchen, undoubtedly thinking
she’s cured whatever she assumes is wrong with me and I’m cooking her
breakfast. Her shoulders will slump and
the smile will fade as she comes to the conclusion that I’m already gone. Then she’ll see the business card and all
hope will be restored.
She’ll call the
number while practicing her sexy, husky, bedroom voice. As my answering service comes across the
line, she’ll ask to speak with me.
She’ll be told that I’m on location for a job and am unavailable to
speak with at the current time, and then be asked to give the number on the
back of the card. She’ll flip over the
card, see the four and tell the person on the other end of the line, who in
turn recites a very specific script.
“Ma’am, I’d first like to thank you for calling. Dex will be quite busy for the next few
months to come, traveling for business.” That
part isn’t a lie. Being one of the most
sought after photographers in the world, I’m in high demand and spend a great
deal of my time shooting across the globe. “We’d like to thank you on his behalf for the
enjoyable evening, and if Dex is ever in this part of (enter country, state or
province here) he’ll attempt to contact you.”
However, for any woman ranking under a seven, the service doesn’t
actually collect any of their information for me to contact them again. It’s more to keep me safe from the
crazies—the women that think because they spread their legs, they’re entitled
to a next meeting. For these women, the six
and unders, it’s a way of pacifying them so I don’t get stalked down and harassed.
These women
usually get pretty irritated when they can’t speak directly to me. I’ve instructed the calling service to have
no problems terminating the call and blocking the number from ever being able
to call again.
Of course, with
the array of women I entertain, nearly all of them feel used by this
emotionless encounter and end up going through the typical stages of
grief. There will be loads of anger,
frustration, denial and then finally acceptance that she was a one night stand
and will certainly move on with her life.
Sure, I’ve burned a bridge with this woman, but if all I wanted to begin
with was a night of casual sex and she wasn’t even that great at it, why would
I need to contact her in the future?
And just like
that I’m onto the next country, girl and potential blow off. Now, this isn’t saying that if the woman is
absolutely phenomenal I won’t see her again.
There’s a whole other script if I give the woman a seven or higher. Those girls, the seven to ten range, get a
more special treatment. The answering
service will take all of their information, catalogue them for me by area and
store them in my version of a little black book. If and when I’m around again, I’ll call them
up for another round or three in the bedroom.
I guess there
could be better ways to enjoy a one night stand, but this works. With my career and status, it pays to be
discrete about these kinds of encounters.
The less they know about me, the better, which is why I usually keep
them to one night, unless I need a good lay if I’m ever in the area again. It’s callous, yes, but it could be worse—I
could demean them by making these women sign some sort of non-disclosure
agreement in lieu of a night with me. I
choose to let them live out whatever fantasy they’re having before I burst
their bubble. See? I am a gentleman.
As I push my
way through the lobby doors—and by the concierge’s accent, I’ve determined I’m
somewhere in Italy—my car pulls up to the curb.
I slink into the backseat as he heads off to my hotel.
“Have a good
night, Sir?” Nicholas asks as he weaves through traffic.
“Four,” I
simply reply, rubbing my temples as I wish away the headache and sore muscles
that always come after a night of excessive drinking and bedroom acrobatics.
“Another one
bite your dick?” he chuckles, eyeing me through the rearview mirror.
“No,” I
laugh. “This one insisted on calling me
daddy in her annoying baby voice. If she
would’ve just kept my cock in her mouth, she could’ve been a seven, no doubt. I don’t understand what it is with women
these days—nobody wants to hear a woman speak like a five-year-old, especially
when I’m trying to put my dick in her ass.”
Nicholas wipes
away his tears of laughter and raises the partition. Shaking my head, I grab the bottle of aspirin
he keeps supplied for me and swallow a couple dry.
I lower the
glass just a crack, not even enough for our eyes to connect in the mirror. “How
long are we here?”
“Based on your
schedule, we’re in Milan until the end of the week, a few days in Paris and
then home.”
“Alright, wake me when we arrive at the hotel.” Resting my head on the plush leather headrest
behind me, I drift off in a peaceful slumber.
God knows I didn’t get any last night.
Ashley
Suzanne is a married mother of three little boys as well as a daughter, aunt,
sister, best friend, birth mother, blogger, book whore and author. Ashley is a native to the suburbs of Detroit,
with most of her family living in Kentucky and New York.
You can
usually find Ashley sitting in bed, with her laptop, playing on Facebook,
pretending to write, entering giveaways (she’s also a swag whore) or on a
football field with her oldest son, Tyler.
Yep, not only is she a football fan, she’s a football mom!
When she’s
reading, it’s typically something to do with romance, contemporary being her
favorite genre. She’s a total fan-girl
over a few authors; Pamela Ann, SE Hall, Madeline Sheehan, Jasinda Wilder, Maya
Banks, CM Stunich, Nicole Jacquelyn and Riley Rhea to name a few.
Ashley has
no pets, unless you count her children and she is a little OCD. Her favorite color is pink. Her favorite drink is cherry vodka and coke
and double chocolate brownies are a must.
Other Works
by Ashley Suzanne (all available on Amazon, BN, iTunes, Kobo and Smashwords)
(Book One: The Destined Series)
(Book One 1/2: The Destined Series)
(Book Two: The Destined Series)
(Book Three: The Destined Series)
(Book Four: The Destined Series)
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