Contractual Read online

  Table of Contents

  Contractual

  Copyright

  Other Titles by Alice Tribue

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  About the author

  Acknowledgements

  (Wrecked and Ruined)

  Excerpt from Unspeakable Truths

  Contractual

  By

  Alice Tribue

  Published by AMT Publishing

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

  Photos licensed from Dreamstime

  Cover Designed by Louisa Maggio for LM Creations

  Editing by Jenny Carlsrud Sims for Editing4Indies

  Formatting by CP Smith

  Translation of Love (Of Love #1)

  Desperation of Love (Of Love #2)

  Shelter You

  Unspeakable Truths

  To my family for always supporting this dream. I love you very much.

  To Whitney for helping me get to the finish line with this one.

  To Stephanie for helping me mold Jackson and Sage.

  Jackson-

  Long legs straddle my lap, causing me to lean back in my chair. Perfectly manicured hands graze my bare abdomen as they travel upward and hook around my neck. Her scent…something floral, which was once appealing to me, infiltrates my senses, triggering a flashback of a rather volatile romp in the bedroom that happened not even half an hour ago. Thin lips kiss me just above my jaw and a mass of platinum blond hair blocks the view of my dimly lit computer screen.

  “Enough, Cecily.” I dig my fingers in her tiny waist and firmly push until she dislodges her mouth from my face. She looks up at me with a sullen face, a fake pout intended to make me feel bad, intended to make me weak.

  “Are you sure that you don’t want me to stay, Jackson? I haven’t seen you in quite some time. I’ve missed you, darling.”

  I lean back against the cool leather chair and fight the urge to roll my eyes at her. “Why must we play this tedious game every single time?”

  “What game?” She plays the part of the dumb blonde very well, too well, trying to use every trick in the book, every tool in her arsenal, to get me caught up in her web.

  “The game where you pretend that this is more than what it is; that we are more than what we are.”

  “I know what we are, Jackson. I’m perfectly aware of what. We. Are,” she says with a sigh. “Still, I can’t help but hope that when all is said and done, that when you get tired of the meaningless encounters and the empty sexual trysts, you’ll realize that it was me…that I was the one who lasted, the only one who you kept coming back to.”

  “I come back, Cecily, because despite the fact that you are just like every other gold digger I’ve ever met, you suck the best cock and always take it exactly how I want to give it to you. And if the reason you do that is because you think that it will make me one day want you to stay for more than just a few hours, then by all means keep believing that because if you should someday get a clue, I would miss the feel of your expert mouth on my dick.”

  For a brief moment, she lets her mask fall, appearing more like an angry cobra waiting to strike—wanting to draw her fangs and fill me with her venom—but I have to hand it to her, she recovers quickly. Tilting her head, she gives me a sad smile and shrugs her shoulders.

  “If you’re trying to hurt me, Jackson, you’ve succeeded. I’ll go, but I’ll wait. Until next time, darling.” She places one last kiss on my lips before pushing to her feet, grabbing her designer clutch and exiting my apartment. The clicking sound of the door as she leaves brings me a strange sense of relief. I stare disinterested at the computer screen detailing the coming week’s slew of conference calls, presentations, and meetings.

  That’s what my life consists of; that’s all I have the time or desire to focus on. In my world, there is no room for emotional entanglements because there is too much at stake. Too much that can be lost if the wrong person gets their hands on what’s mine. Greed is what fuels most of the women who take up space in my bed—women like Cecily. They’re all looking to be the one…the one who makes me want to take a chance on a real relationship. To that, I say fuck no. I’ve worked too hard to amass the fortune that I have, the business I have, to throw it away on a money grubbing social climber. Romantic love is not a concept that I’m familiar with or interested in familiarizing myself with. Love is for the weak, everyday people looking for soul mates, a partner to witness their life. There’s nothing in my life that I wish for someone else to witness.

  I prefer to get my fill and then move on. That’s how I operate, and that’s the extent of my relationships. Finding women isn’t the hard part—no… getting rid of them is the part that has become increasingly more difficult. With every passing day, I grow more and more tired of the begging, the crying, and the pleading for more. I grow tired of the empty promises that they make. I wasn’t lying to Cecily earlier; her exceptional talent in bed is the only reason that I continue to entertain her.

  The fact remains that she, even with all of her talents, is not enough to keep my attention. I grow bored with her in the same way that I do with every other woman I encounter. I glance out the expanse of windows that line my office. The skyline illuminates the darkness and makes the city feel colder, making me feel colder. Something needs to change; the women who I allow to occupy my time need to change. I have to find a way to simplify the process to find the kind of woman who knows exactly what I want and expects nothing more. There must be a way in a city of this magnitude to find women like this. Perhaps it’s time for me to broaden my horizons, lower my criteria, even, in order to find a different breed of women.

  I’m only human, just a man, and in order to perform my duties, to run an empire and keep the kind of schedule that I keep, I need to relieve the stress that is constantly mounting, the pressure that threatens my sanity day after day. The only way I can do that is by fucking my way through it. The release I need, the only thing that works. That might make me an asshole, might even make me a bastard, but I don’t care. It’s not my concern what they think of me after I’ve finished with them. I never lie, and I never make promises that I can’t keep. This is my life—whether you agree or disagree, approve or not, it makes no difference. They can play the victim, act like they’ve been wronged, but they’re all the same… social climbers looking for me to take them from rags to riches. It’s never going to happen.

  Sage-

  The eviction notice on my door when I got home tonight wasn’t unforeseen. I guess I had just hoped that I’d have more time to come up with the back rent, more time to formulate a survival plan. Working at a collections agency for barely over minimum w
age isn’t exactly cutting it, and the irony of working at a collections agency when I’m severely in debt is not lost on me. Believe me, I chuckle about it almost every day.

  I moved to New York from a small town in Indiana a little over a year ago. I never really had big city dreams or anything like that—I would have been content anywhere, really, but my asshole ex-boyfriend decided to make the move with his young daughter, Maddie, from a previous relationship. A little girl who I’d grown to love and think of as my own so, like the idiot I am, I followed him here. We struggled those first few months but still managed to make ends meet when we were living together. I was almost happy back then, almost… almost because I think a part of me had known, had always known, that he was wrong for me. It just took me walking in on him fucking one of our neighbors in our bed to make me acknowledge it as truth.

  I try not to focus on it or let it control my life now that he’s gone. I kicked him out promptly after his little performance, stripped the sheets off the mattress, and washed my hands of him. I still see the fucking neighbor from time to time, but killing her isn’t an option, so I mostly just try to avoid the bitch. I think what hurt the most was losing Maddie—when he left and took her with him, it felt like someone had literally ripped my heart out of my chest. I still feel like that sometimes. That was seven months ago. Seven long, hard months of me trying to forget, of blowing through my savings, of using every spare dime I had just trying to keep my head afloat, stay above water, and make ends meet. Failure is not an option; it can’t be an option, not for me.

  Every night, I scour the newspapers and Internet for new jobs, better jobs, hoping to find something that will at least help me break even. But every day, I find that my failure is imminent because even though it’s not an option for me, the universe clearly disagrees. I’m days away from being on the street and that would lead me right back to the place that I so badly wanted to get away from. The search tonight is looking just as dismal as every other night, the jobs I’d qualify for offering less of an hourly wage than I make now and the jobs that would actually make a difference for my bank account would never give me a second glance. Frustration starts to set in and I’m just about to call it quits for the night when I spot an ad for a massage therapist that catches my attention. I studied massage therapy a long time ago, and though I never pursued it, I’m sure it wouldn’t take me long to remember the basics.

  Masseuse wanted (Manhattan)

  SPA in Manhattan is looking for women for massage (with or without experience). Must have a positive attitude and be very motivated to make money.

  Call: 718-309-2579

  I jot down the contact information and make a mental note to call them in the morning. This seems easy enough and the money is almost too good to be true. I’d be stupid not to at least attempt it.

  ***

  I called the number from the ad I found last night first thing this morning. The woman I spoke to was pleasant enough but not very forthcoming. She explained that she had several positions available and that I would need to come down to her office and meet her in person to get all of the job specifications. Luckily, she had availability to see me today, so I left work just a few minutes early in order to get from Brooklyn to Midtown Manhattan in time. The frost in the air as I ascend from the subway platform stings my nose. New York is cold, fast paced, and nothing like what I’m used to. It’s taken me quite some time to learn the ropes, and I find that there are times when I still feel lost here. It’s hard not to feel that way in a city of this size. It doesn’t mean that I don’t like it here. I do… I’d just like it a lot more if I could survive here, if I could actually afford to pay my rent.

  I sit in the waiting room of a lavish office space running through possible interview questions in my head. My thoughts are scattered as I take a look around the space. The walls are a light shade of beige with one lone red accent wall; I’d think it wouldn’t fit the space, but it does. It draws you in, giving the room a sense of warmth. After reading the ad, I had imagined that I’d be going to some sort of day spa, but I just assume that the main office must be housed at a separate location. The receptionist who checked me in looked like she stepped out of a lingerie catalog. Long, lean, blond, and beautiful, she said very little, and after a few minutes, she disappeared leaving me alone with my thoughts and making me even more nervous. I’ve never been great at interviews; they terrify me. I mean, how do you answer when someone asks you what your weaknesses are? Should I tell her the truth? Who would be honest about their flaws?

  Another statuesque blonde appears, strutting down the hall as if she were on a catwalk in Milan. Everything about her screams class and everything about her makes me look pathetic and plain. Her clothing and make-up are flawless, and she walks toward me with impeccable posture—her shoulders back, head held high—clearly confident in her own skin. Her large blue eyes take me in. She gives me a once-over, scanning me from head to toe, but her face is unreadable. I can’t tell if she’s disgusted or impressed with me, but as she comes to stand in front of me, she gives me a warm smile.

  “Sage?”

  I quickly stand and take her outstretched hand. “Yes. I’m Sage.”

  “Wonderful. I’m Victoria,” she greets cheerfully.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Did you find us all right?”

  I look around the space one last time. “Yes, fine. I think I was just expecting to come to a day spa.”

  She nods but never addresses my concern. “Come with me. We’ll talk in my office, and I’ll explain the position to you.”

  I grab my purse from the chair beside me and follow her down the hall to the very last office.

  “Have a seat,” she directs, and I waste no time doing as she says, while at the same time taking in the room. It’s larger than any office I’ve ever been in, again beige with a red accent wall. Red must be a personal preference of hers; there are hints of the color everywhere. The floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a stunning view of the city, not the kind of view you get from a cramped apartment in Brooklyn.

  “So, Sage, tell me a little bit about yourself.”

  I take a deep breath and think about how to answer this question. How much of myself do I reveal to this woman? Nothing but bad choices and mistakes on my part seem to fill the majority of my life. “Well, I’m twenty-seven years old, and I have my associate’s degree in liberal arts. I did study massage therapy a few years ago, though I never took the test for my certification.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sure that I can pick it up again rather quickly,” I interject, trying to defend my lack of qualifications before she rejects me. “Your ad states that no experience is necessary.”

  “Sage, would you mind undoing a few buttons on your blouse?” she asks very casually.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Buttons. Would you mind undoing a few?”

  I hesitate, surely showing the confusion on my face. Then I realize that, from the looks of this office, this is an upscale spa and appearances are probably important. I guess showing her a little bit of skin isn’t going to kill me. I take a breath and undo the first few buttons on my blouse, letting it fall open.

  “One more,” she instructs me with a finger pointed toward the next button.

  It sounds more like an order than a request, which rubs me the wrong way. But I undo the button anyway, reminding myself that I’m one paycheck away from being homeless. I look up at her, my heart beating a mile a minute. I don’t understand why she makes me so nervous. This is just an interview—granted, it’s a strange interview, but it’s an interview nonetheless. I undo the last button as requested then move my hands to rest on my lap. She takes a brief look at my chest seemingly unimpressed, glances up at me with a barely there smile, and nods.

  “Thank you, Sage. You can button up again.”

  I quickly refasten the buttons and do my best to retain my composure. I give her the warmest smile I can muster. “So, how far, exactly, is
the spa from here?” I question, in a feeble attempt to try to get this interview back on track.

  She tilts her head, the plastic smile never leaving her face. “Do you wear make-up every day?” she asks, completely ignoring my previous question.

  “Uh, yes, I wear minimal make-up.”

  “And your hair? Is that shade of brown your natural hair color?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She fingers a strand of her own hair, twirling it around her finger. “Would you ever consider dyeing it, red or blond maybe?”

  My level of discomfort skyrockets and I tell myself that I should get up and get the hell out of here, but I politely answer her anyway. “I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

  “Wonderful.” She places her arms on the desk and leans into them, cutting the space between us. “You’re very pretty… Innocent,” she says, almost as if she’s telling me a secret.

  “Thank you. That’s very nice of you.”

  She runs her finger slowly across her lips, looking at me with careful consideration. After some time, she sits back in her chair and crosses her long legs. “Do you shave or wax regularly?”

  “I’m sorry, I just don’t see…”

  “This job is all about appearances, Sage. We only hire individuals who take pride in themselves, who can present themselves in a certain manner, while at the same time representing us in such a way that reflects class and allure… a certain degree of unattainability.”

  I take her words in, and it makes sense. People come to spas for pampering, the royal treatment. You wouldn’t want someone with a sloppy appearance to take care of you. “I understand. I don’t really wax, but I do shave regularly.”

  “All right, then. How good would you say you are with your hands?”

  Finally, a question that makes sense. “Well, like I said, I do have some massage experience.”