We Were One Once Book 1 Read online

  After all these years, though, Spencer has a lead. It’s a miniscule speck of information that follows her from Seattle to San Francisco, but it’s something. It’s more than I’ve had in a long time. It’s hope.

  I turn to the car window and see my tired reflection in the dark storm. I look older than my 26 years. It’s the suit. It’s that and the small lines around my dark eyes, the determined set to my mouth and strong jawline, the dark hair kept so short it fades into the darkness of my reflection. I know I have the look of a man of power beyond his years. I’ve had women tell me it’s sexy, that I’m handsome with how powerful I look. I have the Vanderson build. I’m masculine and athletic, not hulking, not bulky, but lithe and muscular. Looking down at my hands holding firm to my knees, I see the strength. I’ll need all of it to get through the next few weeks. It’ll help me to hold on to that hope.

  “Traffic should get moving here soon, Mr. Vanderson.” I only nod at my driver’s interruption to my thoughts.

  San Francisco: Simon Lamb

  The buzz from the lit sign right outside her window stops. I look at my watch in the weak light; it’s 5:37 a.m.

  Hmm. Grace didn’t come back. I lift myself from her bed to sit with my shoes on the stained tile floor. Hmm. She starts work at 9:00 a.m. I decide to wait here for a few more hours.

  It’s dangerous to do this in the morning, but I’ve done it before. I prefer the cover of night, but for Grace, I’ll make an exception.

  And I’ll make her pay for it. I smile, getting up to help myself to a bowl of cereal.

  Parking on a hill, I grab my cap again from the passenger seat. I hate this part of the city almost as much as I hate Chinatown. My body revolts against the press of people. Their smells all mingle.

  My anger from this morning is increasing again with each step down the street. Grace never showed.

  At least in this area, I don’t stand out. I do, but it’s because these fuckers think I’m one of them. Or they hope I am. Two twinks smile at me as I pass under the large rainbow flag. Their scrawny shoulders and high voices resemble teenage boys, but they’re in their twenties. I growl at them and probably just made their cocks stiff.

  I slow down as I near the storefront around the corner. It’s a small shop, full of shit twinks would love—tiny t-shirts, porn, collars and leashes, a few hardcore bondage pieces. There’s always a gagging display of incense too.

  I was surprised to see that this is where she works, surprised for a lot of reasons. She’s shy for one. I’ve not heard Grace speak to a stranger unless it’s in this shop, and then it’s only to ask and answer as part of her job. She barely makes eye contact. Maybe she’s a wanna-be mufflicker? No, I don’t think so. She doesn’t act any differently around other chicks. Everybody’s off limits with Grace.

  I liked that from the beginning. I don’t think she’s a virgin. That’d be too much to hope. I’m not dumb enough to believe that shit in this day. She’s young, maybe 20, but I don’t buy that she’s that innocent. She’s never been anything but shy and quiet in the four weeks I’ve watched her though. No men. No women. No one.

  So, the fact that she works around the sex shit was surprising enough, but then there’s the astrology crap too. She helps out with the front sometimes, but mostly she runs a table in the back doing astrological charting. She’ll tell your past, present, or future using a computer. She’s popular and apparently accurate according to the idiots that eat that shit up.

  As I open the door, I can hear a guy complaining that he can’t get his reading for this weekend. I have to take a deep breath against the assault of incense burning.

  “Well, where is she? Will she be in by lunch?” The guy looks conventional enough; he’s clean cut, wearing a suit and tie. I’ve seen him in here on weekends with bareass leather chaps and a collar. Grace puts paper towels down for him, but she never makes a face or even acts like it’s different. She treats everyone the same—cold and distant.

  No one gets past the blank looks and unemotional eyes of my girl.

  I liked that from the beginning too. It’s what drew me to her. I want to see those dark eyes open wide with emotion, specifically from pain and fear.

  “Sorry, Ed. She’s never late. I don’t even have a phone number for Grace to contact her. Do you want me to call you as soon as she comes in? I’m sure she can have a reading ready for you pretty quickly…” The owner’s a white-haired hippy type. He would’ve been a twink back in his day, but now he settles for being one of the proud survivors of the ‘80’s. He and his partner act fatherly with Grace, but she never acts like she notices. They get the same cold treatment as everybody else.

  Shit. She’s not here either.

  I don’t make eye contact, just turn back around and walk out the door.

  My anger is percolating again. I’m going to have to decide. Stay around here in this cesspool of too many people, all a little too interested in a guy like me, or go back to her place.

  I decide her place is the safest bet.

  Fog is just starting to recede over the hill behind the flag as I head back up to my car.

  Grace never shows. I lost her.

  San Francisco: Simon Lamb

  “Mr. Lamb?” I turn around and see a beautiful pair of tits, topped off with a set of puffed up lips and cheekbones and dyed bleached blonde hair. There’s a lingering of strong perfume in the air. She tries to smile at me, showing off her perfect teeth. The one I broke has been fixed to match the others nicely.

  “Luanne. You look different.” She’s uncomfortable. Her face has a slight sheen over all the makeup. I can smell her subtle change too. Fear gives an acidic wash over her clinging floral perfume. The panels of her long black dress shake against the floor, and she holds a glass of champagne with too tight a grip.

  She lowers her head. “My Master is waiting.” Luanne turns, and I watch her walk a little. I wait for her to turn around.

  The lobby isn’t crowded. Most of the people are in the main ballroom by now, but Luanne still attracts stares from hungry men. Troy, her Master, likes to keep his toys in shape. He also prefers a Barbie-type and makes over any girl that doesn’t fit this image right away. Luanne was already close, but I can see the implants and fillers she’s gotten since I finished her training. She’s nearing the end of her time as one of Troy’s favorites. He keeps his girls though, never brokers them again anyway.

  I beckon her with my index finger to come back to where I stand. Her face changes. The small amount of fear from a moment ago is replaced by a full dose. It’s been two years, but she hasn’t forgotten what I did to her, what I’m capable of doing to her still. She wears a mask of seduction, though, as she returns to face me.

  “Tell Troy to come himself. By himself.” As she moves to turn again, I grab her wrist with hardly any pressure. It’s like a hot poker to her skin. She jerks and freezes. Her mask is back in place before she looks up at me though. I do good work. “Forget something?”

  One tear moves from the inside of her left eye down her cheek. She shakes her head slightly before lowering it, deeper this time, and her voice shakes. “May I go, Sir?”

  “Yes, Luanne.” But I don’t let her hand go. I bring it up to my lips and give it a soft kiss, barely touching her. She’s not mine anymore, but I like the saltiness of her skin. I lick my lips as she quickly walks away, wiping her face and smoothing her dress. Her head stays down until she reaches the doors to the ballroom.

  I head into the noise of the ballroom too while waiting for Troy. The room is busy. There’s round tables for dining, a large dance floor in the front with a band, side tables for wine tastings, and bars everywhere. It’s not my sort of thing. I prefer a quiet spot for my deals.

  I stay on the edge away from people as much as possible, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I feel a hand on my shoulder, slapping hard. I turn slowly to my left to look down on Troy. Luanne is standing several feet away with one of his men; her chin is lowered almost to he
r chest.

  “Simon! It’s always good to see you, my friend. It’s like Christmas when you’re around!” Troy is loud. Stupid. I move my champagne glass from my left hand to my right. I grab his neck and squeeze with my free hand.

  “Ya wanna be discreet, Troy?” I apply just a bit more pressure. “My business requires discretion, as you know…so if you can’t be…tell me, friend, and we’ll end our dealings now.” I want to spit his powder smell out of my mouth.

  I know I can crush his windpipe, even with my weaker hand. He has one moment to answer correctly before he’s unable to do so. I’ll leave his ass choking and coughing right here. And I’ll up my fee.

  “Yes…discre…” I let go of his throat and push him against the empty bar we’re near. He chokes and holds his throat but manages to look like he’s adjusting his tie instead. I grin.

  “Do you want your product?”

  He looks around nervously. “You brought her here?”

  I nod. “In the car around the corner.” I smile a little more, showing a little teeth this time. “The valet is keeping an eye on her.”

  Troy laughs. “Perfect.” He turns to the man standing by Luanne and snaps his fingers. He whispers in his ear but turns to me with a question. “Still driving the same?” I grin in answer. “Go fetch and wait in my car with my new toy,” he finishes commanding his bodyguard.

  When the man leaves, Troy reaches in his pocket for his phone. He busily pushes in a few codes, swipes a few screens, then puts his phone away with a smug smile. My own phone vibrates silently in my pocket. With the transaction complete, I nod and turn to leave.

  “You’re not staying for the wine auction, Simon? My family has a special vintage I think you’d appreciate…”

  I turn back and grin again, showing a little of the hardness I’m known for. Troy’s face drops, and a wary pinch takes over his features. “Sure, I always like to support a good charity.” I head to the nearest bar. Troy leads Luanne back to his table without another glance at me.

  The point to socializing like this is lost on me. Dressing up, throwing money around to act like a big shot—I don’t get it. I have money. I was born with it. Generations of my family haven’t had to work for anything. I can have whatever I want, whatever money will buy. And believe me, that’s everything.

  It’s why I do the work I do; I like to challenge myself. I smile into my glass of wine. That’s a lie. I do it because I fucking enjoy it.

  Looking around here at all these women dressed up, led around by pencil pricked assholes, I know they think they own the world if they’re beautiful, young, and even a little intelligent. They think they’re secure, tottering around on heels and gliding overly inflated lips across teeth overly whitened.

  My first challenge was one of these women. She was a daughter to my grandfather’s friend and six years older than me, give or take. I was a horny sixteen year old she thought to teach. I taught her to cry for me. I left my scars on her, inside and out. I owned her for the rest of her miserable little life. She killed herself before her wedding night. I guess she didn’t think her father’s choice of mate would appreciate seeing my initials carved into her skin.

  I’ve learned since then to take better care of my toys, to not leave any lasting marks. New owners are touchy on this point. They’ll pay top price for pristine product, or nearly pristine.

  And I’ve learned to not shit where I eat too. I don’t mess with the women in my own circle anymore. They don’t make for good product anyway—too needy, too spoiled, no fun, no challenge.

  I have other limitations. No homeless, no one under eighteen, no mothers—it’s a short list, but I’ve stuck with it. The homeless and underage are too weak, too easy. The mother thing…well, whatever.

  I move a little more into the room. I smile at those I recognize, those that recognize me. There are only a few clients here tonight. Only Troy brings his toys out, but he’s never been married. He can parade whatever he likes without taking a hit to his reputation. He knows he still has to be inconspicuous though. You’d have to look closely to see that Luanne isn’t the same as the other women here.

  My clients have to meet strict criteria too. Besides proving they’re able to be discreet, they have to be known to me already or introduced to me by someone that is. They have to be very specific on likes and dislikes. I won’t hand my product off to a limp dick who can’t appreciate my work. A firm hand is needed with my girls long after I’ve trained them to accept it as their lot in life. Clients also have to be willing to accept my golden rule—absolutely no interference in my selection or training process.

  In return, they get a fully submissive, pliant, and trained to their tastes product to own and use. There are no refunds, no returns, and no negotiations. I don’t want or need to know what happens after payment, but I have no doubt if there were a review site for this sort of shit, I’d have five stars.

  I head to a table near the edge of the dance floor. “Peter, Craig, good to see you guys.” I shake hands with two of the men at the table and nod to their dates.

  “What’s Batman doing out of his cave tonight?” Craig stands to be next to me.

  “Ha! Joke never gets old.” I set my glass of wine down on their table and see how Peter’s fiancée watches me. I banged her two years ago, right after she met him. She’s been trying to get my attention again ever since. She was okay, although a tad too enthusiastic. Her scent was…too citrus. “You look nice, Stace.” It’s my running joke. I plan to fuck her on their wedding night.

  She blushes and smiles, putting her hand closer to mine and trying for a sexy look, stupid cunt. It’s what Peter deserves though. He’s an asshole too.

  I turn to the girl sitting next to her, a blonde with her hair up. She has big ears, but other than that she’s good looking. “Would you like to dance?” I can see the look on Stacy’s face is almost as crushed as the hopeful one on this girl’s. The blonde nods and stands quickly.

  I like to celebrate after a transaction. I like to fuck afterwards. After weeks or months of training a new product, I like to enjoy the simple pleasure of a fuckfest with a whore of my choosing. I look around as I take her hand and lead us to the center of the dance floor; I’ll have my pick tonight.

  “My name’s Stacy too.” She giggles. I hate girls that giggle. I have to unclench my fist against her back, wondering how her giggle would sound if stopped by a quick pop to her ribs. I smile more.

  “Simon.”

  “Oh, I know. You probably don’t remember…we went to Stanford together.”

  I keep my smile plastered in place. “Of course. How’s your family doing?” I watch her face fall a little. I know who she is and that her family was involved in a few financial scams years back. I believe her brother may still be fighting in court to stay out of jail. That should keep her from giggling until I can get rid of her. Her perfume is disgusting up close.

  I glide us around the floor, looking around for a better choice for my cock tonight. I may just leave here and go to a club. The anonymous route is always more my taste, and I can keep a lookout for my next product. I have an order for a tall brunette with no ink. That’s harder to come by these days.

  I spot a short brunette in a long red dress. I like red for the obvious reasons.

  This one is bright red, no pretending it’s trying for subtle or sophisticated. It’s a fuck me color. And this girl’s hair is a wild, kinky curled mass around her that covers her shoulders and obscures her profile, but her body is on full display. There’s not much to her. She’s a little too thin, too up and down, but I like how her hipbone sticks out. She’s purposely standing to make her angles sharper, pushing her leg through the long slit. She clearly makes no apologies for her body, and she’s owning the two men standing next to her. They’re practically sitting on their hind legs for her.

  Her head leans back with a laugh at something one of them said, and thank God it’s not a fucking little girl giggle. It’s full throat and moaning, lik
e she just heard a dirty joke, and she’s making it dirtier by laughing at it so openly. I imagine having my hand on her throat while she laughs like that.

  I watch her own hand travel up her side and rest on her collarbone. I can’t see her face, but I can see her arm angled out sharply and her talons glinting as she plays her fingers against her creamy skin. I can feel my cock twitch.

  Congrats, Red. You’re about to enjoy a night of pussy melting sex with yours truly. I thank Stacy and turn away from her before she can say anything. I just leave her on the floor. I’m known for being an asshole. It’s a reputation I aim to keep, discreetly of course.

  I circle around the red dress and head to the bar opposite her. I don’t think I’ve fucked her before, but I don’t usually go for seconds. It’s too messy. The girl starts thinking she has a chance and then discretion is harder to maintain. I need to make sure before making a move.

  I get a drink and turn to check her out more. I recognize both men by her sides. They’re brothers, new money, small tech, and thankfully, not clients. One brother keeps lifting his hand to brush her back but then drops it just as quickly. She’s only slightly angled closer to him, only slightly tilting her face more towards him. So they’ve fucked, but he knows he’s not good enough for her. And so does she. Poor bastard.

  Not for the first time, I think about the offer to teach a class. One of Grandfather’s friends made a joke again over a card game a few months back, saying how he wished I could teach his grandson a thing or two about women. He’s a client, so I know he was speaking more about the special training I give my girls. It’s unfortunate some men just can’t stomach the necessary steps it takes to make a good girl great.

  I tilt my head back to finish my drink and spit some of it out when I get my first good look at Red’s face. It’s her. It’s fucking her. She’s here. How? What the fuck?!