Destined To Fall

Prologue

Ten years earlier.

I pull a fifty-dollar bill out of the thousands I have stuffed in my black clutch and hand it to the cab driver before getting out, telling him to keep the fifteen-odd in change. Who does that? Me now, apparently.

I’ve had a stupid grin plastered on my face since I woke up in a rock god’s hotel suite this morning, but the thought of having to drag my deliciously aching body up the three flights of stairs to my apartment has it slipping. 

Moaning and groaning my way up, memories of last night and early this morning play on repeat, making it all the harder to climb the stairs in my six-inch heels without tripping and falling to my untimely death. Man, what a way to go out, though.

Marcus freaking Vein! 

Finally making it to my apartment door, I burst through it a little winded and scream for my roommate and best friend.

Laura! Oh my gawd, you won’t believe the night I’ve had. Best. Birthday. Gift. Ever. I continue talking to empty air as I kick off my shoes, slamming the door closed behind me, and collapse on our worn-out, overly-loved couch. I swear, if you’re in the shower, I’m busting in and telling you all the juice whether you’re naked or not, because I cannot wait! Just as soon as I can drag my ass up. Lord, I hurt everywhere. Laughing to myself, I frown when I’m met with only silence. Laura?

I’m pulling my phone out to text her when I hear the creak of the floorboards. My head swivels toward the sound, the grin plastering back on my face falls before it even sticks.

It’s not Laura who walks out of my bedroom to greet me, it’s my mother. Ever the predictable snooty Boston housewife, she’s dressed to kill in Dolce & Gabbana. The ivory formfitting pantsuit accentuates the copper tones in her honey-red hair, the carbon copy to my own, immaculately arranged in her staple chignon.

My head spins, and I seriously question if I’m having a bad trip. God, is this a dream? No, a nightmare. But it started so well.

Yet another walk of shame, I see. Some things will never change.

What the hell are you doing here? Wait. How are you even here? I never told you where I live.

No. You didn’t. Her tone is sharp, and the sound stirs the long forgotten memories I’d been suppressing these past sixteen odd months. I had to find out from Jessica’s mother, of all things, Vivienne.

My ex-best friend?

That insufferable woman had the audacity to gloat. My daughter, living in… She trails off, her gray-green eyes the mirror to mine take in the tiny space I call home. Her nose actually turns up with distaste at what she sees.

The cracked, sagging, brown leather couch I’m still sprawled on. The chipped coffee table littered with schoolbooks and mismatched coffee mugs, and the threadbare blue rug that’s seen better decades.

Her left eye twitches, and I can practically see the need to pull out the disinfectant I know she carries in the four thousand dollar clutch she’s death-gripping like a life raft. The entire contents of this apartment cost less than that bag, and I still wouldn’t change my choices.

Do I miss the designer brands I’d been lavished with since birth instead of shopping at Walmart and Goodwill? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. It wasn’t so much the label and the class of it all. I couldn’t care less about that bullshit, but I miss the way they feel on bare skin, how they last longer if cared for and fit all the better. I think of the money burning a hole in my clutch and beam internally.

I will always have expensive tastes, developed and cultivated from infancy. It’s a hard curse to break, but I refuse to have her look down on our meager possessions. We scrimped and saved and scrounged every single thing in this apartment ourselves, and I love it, if for no other reason than she had nothing to do with it. I’m surviving without my parents’ guilt-laden, strings-attached money.

In order for me to tell you, Mother, we would have to be talking. And last time I checked, we haven’t said or texted a single syllable since I refused to do your bidding and left that house you call home. So no, you didn’t know where I live, and that’s how it was meant to stay. Her cheeks pinch, and her lips thin. I’d like you to leave.

I struggle to my feet and take the few steps to the door, opening it wide, ready to kick my mother out, only to find Laura standing on the other side, coffees in hand. The sheepish grin overtaking her mouth makes me want to slam the door shut in her face.

I’m sorry, she mouths quickly before barging past, like she can read my intentions, and shoves a coffee in my hand. I begrudgingly take a sip and mutter a thanks, finding she splurged and got me a double caramel macchiato. Oh, she knows she’s in the doghouse.

Mrs. Carmichael, your no fat, no foam, double shot, flat white. She hands the offensive drink to my mother and then addresses the room. I’ll be in my room with headphones on… then attempts to make a quick getaway before I stop her in her tracks.

Sit. Staaay. Good bitch. She glares at me for that. We have words to exchange, you and I. Mother and I, on the other hand, do not. She’s leaving. There’s the door. Don’t let it hit you on the way out. I wouldn’t want the stain of my poverty to ruin your Dolce pants. I point to the still-open door and stare her down.

How dare you dismiss me. I am your mother. Do you have any idea of the effort I went to by coming here, of all places?

Here, of all places, is my home, and you stopped being my mother a long time ago. You are not welcome, regardless of whatever effort you think you put in. I don’t even care why you bothered. Get. Out.

She turns up her nose and stomps to the door, as only someone as elegant and refined as Clarissa Carmichael can. Pausing in the doorway, she turns to glare at me.

I refuse to watch any daughter of mine live like this. You are wasting all that we’ve given you, all that we’ve sacrificed. Sacrificed! The woman hasn’t gone without a day in her life! Your father insisted you’d use that brain he was determined to cultivate and see sense and come home. I, however, knew you’d get bored with living in squalor and come crawling back with your tail between your legs. I’m about to blow when I feel Laura’s hand brush against the back of mine. Though I admit, I thought it would have been sooner than this, but when the day comes, and mark my words, child, it will come, do not come knocking on our door. That window has well and truly closed.

And with those lovely parting words, she walks out the door, and out of my life for good. I’m not sure how long I stand there staring at the door, but by the time I remember I have a coffee in my hands, it’s stone cold. I turn to find Laura, still standing behind me, waiting, watching, being.

So, big night, huh?

I could question her about why she’d let my mother in, knowing all she knows, or I could take the out she’s offering. With the reminder of Marcus, all thoughts of my mother crumble to ash, and my grin returns.

For the next thirty minutes I tell her every glorious detail. Before I even finish the last of the juicy bits, she’s blushing like a schoolgirl and fanning her face.

How did you manage walking up all those stairs after all that pounding? She laughs at her own joke, and I shake my head, smirking.

Saving the icing on the sex cake, I take my clutch and dump the contents all over her lap.

Oh my farking fuck. Did you rob a bank this morning? What the hell?

Nope, I’m not that clever.

You are, but that’s beside the point. Vi, this is what, thousands?

Five, to be exact. Well, minus the fifty I gave the cabby.

"Holy fuck. Marcus paid you? For having sex with him? I knew you were a hot piece of ass, Vi, but fuck me. Five grand! I can’t…wait, I thought you said he knew you weren’t a pro…" She trails off, still dumbfounded.

I’m going to make all our problems disappear. I’m grinning so wide I’m about to split my face open.

Oh yeah, how? By knocking yourself up and marrying the rock god?

God, no. I’m going to do what I do best and get paid a fucking fortune for it. 

Laura raises an eyebrow, not following. 

I’m going to be a high-class escort.

Chapter One

My scream rents the air, ricocheting around the penthouse suite, drowning out the frantic thundering of my pulse and my ragged panting. 

I lean back, my hands pressed to my chest as my heart all but jumps out of my body with how fast it’s racing. 

God, we were on form. I laugh to myself, rolling off. 

In my drunken, sex-hazed state, I roll to the wrong side and straight off the bed and onto the floor with an undignified thud, no doubt bruising my derriere in the process. The bemused face that greets me over the edge of the bed says nothing but titters lightly, looking as if he’s about to pass out any second. 

Freshed and dressed, I am about to walk out the suite door when Antony stops me.

I’m staying further. I will require you longer.

I’ll check my schedule. 

I’ve cleared it with Laura already.

Of course you have. I snort, shaking my head, and walk out of the suite.

The ride home is a drunken blur, and I fall into my apartment, cursing and cringing when my front door smashes against the wall. Still muttering to myself, I kick off my pretty torture devices and whimper as they clatter to the floor, the door slamming closed with a loud, reverberating bang. 

Argh. My head, you moron!

It’s always the same when Antony comes to town, and I never learn, leaving my liver to take one—or six—for the team on more nights than I care to count. The filthy—in more ways than one—rich, Italian-born businessman and I met over five years ago at an invite-only function in New York. It was a hell of a feat to get one of those prestigious little gold cards, yet I was dreading going. The nerves were going to kill me, but I needed to be there, so Laura, now my manager-slash-personal organizer extraordinaire, insisted. A smorgasbord of potential clients ripe for the taking was not something I could pass up. 

It turned out to be the biggest snooze-fest. A pap smear with a ninety-year-old doctor would have been more stimulating than that soiree—that was until the most alluring man in the room singled me out.

Antony cut to the chase—I’ve always loved that in a man—coming up behind me at the bar to whisper in my ear. His thick Italian accent sent shivers down my spine as he said the four magic words.

I must have you.

Easiest in I’d ever had, but I worked it for all I was worth. Turning my head to meet his golden-brown gaze, my body slowly followed suit as I crossed my leg, parting the side slit further. My emerald silk gown moved across my skin like butter, revealing a sizable amount of skin. Antony’s eyes zeroed in on my bare thigh, as intended, and I closed the deal with four of my own magical little words no man with lust blazing in his eyes and more money than sense could resist. 

You couldn’t afford me.

It was really that simple. The rest, an affluent history. Now, every time Antony’s in Boston, which is more and more frequently since I moved back six or so months ago, for whatever business he’s into—I don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell—he insists I block out a week for him and him alone. The evenings are always his, but I’m allowed a little more liberty during the day, unless required for show-pony duties. I’m happy to comply, mostly. 

Continuing to dance to my own drunk beat, I make my way through my opulent foyer, the silence that always greets me a little louder than normal tonight, but I ignore it, as usual. My head throbs in time with my heavy footfalls as I enter the kitchen in search of my standard AAPP (Attempted Alcohol Poisoning Prevention). 

I’m sure there’s some rule about hangovers. Don’t they only kill you once you pass out and then regain consciousness? Apparently not, because somehow at three a.m., I’m still roaring drunk and dying at the same time.

Lucky me.

The blinking red light on my answering machine catches my eye as I open my all-but-empty fridge, squinting painfully against the fluorescent light trying to blind me. I pull out a bottle of H20 from the fridge with one hand and take the mini drugstore worth of pills off the top of it with the other, gently closing the door with my hip. Progress. 

Not-so-elegantly, I sprawl across my countertop and jab the play button with the water bottle. On the rare occasion I get a message, usually it’s emails. I save this wonderful task for Laura, but I’m too inebriated to remember the reason why.

You. Have. One. New. Message. 

I squint at the disjointed, robotic voice as it comes through the speakerphone.

Received. On the. Four—teenth. Of. June. At. Twelve, oh, Three. A.M. Where was I at twelve? Oh…yeah.

Hi, this is Maxwell Thatcher. Maxwell? We met tonight, and you slipped me your, ah, business card. You told me you were just what I needed? 

Ooooh. The tightly wound guy who couldn’t take his eyes off me. He was appealing in that older, distinguished way, with thick, perfectly kept salt-and-pepper hair. There was no mistaking that he needed to let go and live a little. So rigid and tense, so…something. I couldn’t put my finger on it. While Antony was preoccupied, I slid him a card—not my usual MO, but what the hell, bourbon makes me everyone’s friend.

You might be right. I’d like to set up a meeting at my office for tomorrow, if possible. I’d like to discuss a few things. His office? He sounds too business…too out of his element. It makes me smile. I love fresh meat. You can call my secretary on— Shit. Pen. 

I slide off the counter, my nylon-covered feet slipping on the polished concrete floor, and pull out all the kitchen drawers, completely missing the phone number being rattled off. Well, fuck.

Clearly, I’m too inebriated to function tonight—or is it this morning now? Whichever it is, I need a shower and meds. I swallow two ibuprofen, chasing them down with half the bottle of water, and stumble my way to my bedroom. I collapse face-first on the king-size bed and moan into the thick, plush comforter. So soft and fluffy…

I startle awake to a loud screeching noise piercing my eardrums, vaguely aware that I must have dozed off at some point. I blink rapidly, the sun pouring through my open blinds, and roll over to look at the digital display. Squinting, I manage to focus enough to read 9:06 a.m. on the clock and shuffle up the bed to smash it. 

The screeching continues, and it dawns on me that it’s not an alarm but the landline. Fucksticks.

I fall out of bed, staggering to my feet as I slip and slide my way to the kitchen, pulling my nylons off as I go. I pick up the phone just as the answering machine takes the call.

Hello—

Hi, you’ve dialed Vivienne—

Ah, shit.

"—I’m currently tied up at the moment—" I hammer at the buttons until my pre-recorded message stops.

Sorry about that. Damn it, it’s the business phone. How can I be of service? Argh. And that is why I don’t answer the damn thing.

"Ah…not a problem. Is this Miss…Vivienne?" The timid woman’s voice comes through the other end.

Yes?

This is Mr. Thatcher’s secretary. 

Thatcher?…Thatcher…Oh!

From Maximum—.

Maxwell Thatcher? 

Yes, the very one. One moment, please. 

I’m put on hold before I have a chance to respond. I groan and stretch out my neck, my muscles still lethargic and stiff after a night of hard drinking and even harder sex. The annoying hold music makes my head throb, and I debate making food or going back to sleep after this. Sleep wins out, and I head back to bed, awkwardly stripping off last night’s clothes with the phone pressed between my ear and shoulder.

Vivienne? I startle, almost dropping the thing. Hello?

I scramble with the handset, almost taking my ear off in my haste. Maxwell, I puff. Hi. You’re in early.

Yes, well, no rest for the wicked.

I know that all too well.

Thank you for taking my call so early.

You did seem rather insistent on my machine.

He chuckles, the sound coming out forced.

Relax, Maxwell. I’m very easy to handle. Oh, I’m so punny. What can I do for you?  He takes a deep breath in and drags it out before continuing. In relief or resignation, I can’t tell. I believe you have a particular skill set I would like to hire. 

Just the one? I’m listening.

I’d like to go into further detail in person, if you are available to come to my office. His inflection is nervous, anxious even. Something makes me think this will not be a straight-cut arrangement. My curiosity has the better of me, and I find myself agreeing to his office meeting. 

I can be there at twelve, I state, flicking my eyes to the digital display on the landline. Still time for a nap.

Perfect. I’ll patch you through to my secretary, and she can give you directions. Until later, Vivienne.

The hold music kicks in again, and I fight the urge to hang up and crawl under the covers, foregoing the information.

Miss Vivienne?

Mmmh? The struggle to keep my eyes open is real.

I can forward the directions straight to your cell, if you would like.

Oh, yes. That would be stellar. Thank you. I rattle off my cell number, and after a few pleasantries, we end the call. 

I set two alarms and bury myself in the warmth of my bed, the cream satin sheets and comforter enveloping me in a warm hug, and fall asleep moments later.

With only minutes to spare, my cab pulls up outside Maxwell’s building, the tall, uninviting monstrosity awaiting me like a dentist’s chair. Something about office buildings and cubicles makes me uncomfortable. I think it’s the thought of ending up in a mundane nine-to-five that sucks the life out of you day in and day out. I’ve been a wild animal for far too long to be caged now.

With a deep breath, I push my way through the glass doors off to the side, avoiding the revolving ones at all costs. They give me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. I shudder just looking at them. They’ve given me anxiety since I was little.

I step into an elevator, only to have to get out again. There are thirty-five floors, and I haven’t a clue which one I need. Cursing under my breath, I rush to the security desk to ask, hoping I don’t have to lose more time by trying to fish out my cell and risk the contents of my clutch ending up on the floor. I’d hastily dumped it inside and shoved the pile of makeup I’d used in the cab on top.

Excuse me, sir?

The security guard looks up from the array of screens in front of him and gives me a curt smile.

I’m looking for Maxwell Thatcher. You don’t happen to know which floor he’s on?

Of course, everyone knows Mr. Thatcher. He’s on Twenty-first floor, ma’am.

Wonderful, have a great day.

My finger repeatedly jabs the up button and my shoe taps impatiently as I wait for an elevator to come down. After remembering more of last night, I wonder why Maxwell needs a meeting first. I can’t shake the feeling this isn’t my regular thing. He seemed unlike any of my normal clients, even in the light of day, and I’m now questioning what made me give him my card. For once, I might not be able to deliver, or truthfully, know if I want to play. Though that’s a little rich coming from me. I get paid to be, to do, not to think. I’m the arm candy of the ridiculously rich, the dirty secret of the filthily inclined, and the wet dream incarnate of the politically incorrect. What aren’t I up for?

The ding breaks my train of thought, and I step forward without looking up and walk tits-first into large, masculine hands.

Jesus! The hands tense, then move at lightning speed from my breasts to my upper arms, steadying our collision. 

I’m about to snigger when I look up at startled, piercing blue eyes the color of a deep summer sky, inches from my own and fixed on me. The raw intensity in their depths has my laugh dying before it can make a sound.

I—wow. I’m sorry, are you okay? he asks, and I stare for a beat too long.

Fine, I recover. You were very gentle. A satisfying pink tinges Mr. Grabby-Hand’s embarrassed face. It’ll take a lot more than that to rattle my cage, though. 

He chuckles and removes his firm grip, trailing his fingers down my bare arms an inch before dropping them to his sides. 

And, uh, usually at least a drink first. To my surprise, it comes out a little breathy. I don’t make a habit of handing out free passes. I wink, regaining my wits.

I step around him into the elevator and press my floor when he turns around, planting himself between the closing doors, stopping their progress. So, how about that drink, then?

Some other time. 

He grins wider but makes no move to release the doors, or me, from his gaze. Damn, what a gaze. He’s cute, I’ll admit. Not your traditional kind—his nose is a little big by model standards—but that boy-next-door kind. With hypnotizing blue eyes, thick dirty-blond hair, and just enough scruff on his jaw to give him that manly feel. I have a feeling without it, he’d look twenty. With it, he looks about twenty-six. 

There’s a little cocktail bar just next door that does a mean menu. The least I can do is buy your breasts a drink. Maybe lunch? 

I laugh. How can I not? My eyes drop to his polished Ted Bakers and trail up the fitted black jeans he’s paired with a tailored dark charcoal suit jacket and tie, then back to his amused face. My lip twitches, and my curiosity stirs. 

Okay. Now, can you let me go?

He steps out of the door’s path, and the corners of his lush mouth twitch with what I can only gather is satisfaction. It almost radiates out of him. 

One hour. In the lobby? His brow quirks, waiting for my response, and I nod as the doors close. Wait. He thrusts his hands between the doors again, making them bounce open a second time. I don’t know your name.

Vivienne.

Vivienne, he repeats, and I get a full-face smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and his whole face beams as the doors close. 

Well, damn.

It takes seventeen floors before it clicks that I might have just agreed to go on a date? With a guy. With your everyday, I-work-in-an-office, Joe kind of guy. One that groped me, nonetheless, and I don’t even know his name. I shake my head at myself. I’ve done far stupider things in life and probably worse.

Chapter Two

We’ll start off slow. It’ll be fine. 

God, what am I getting myself into?

I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been sitting in Maxwell’s office while we discussed my skills and how he wants to utilize them. I scoffed in his face until he convinced me otherwise, but then nerves got the better of him, and now I find myself doing the convincing.

All right. So, when can we start? Tomorrow night? Oh, no. What was I thinking. I have the annual charity auction. Saturday? 

I’ll have to check my schedule. His face falls, and I respond before thinking. Yes, fine. Shit. Antony. I forgot he extended our agreement. I don’t relish the thought of having to rearrange. He won’t be pleased, but the lost, almost hopeless, look on Maxwell’s face twists something inside me. Why I’m making it my problem, I have no clue. I’ll make it work. Have a few drinks beforehand to relax, hmm? 

His relief is evident as he gives me a small smile, and I know I’ve done the right thing, whatever that is. I can have a car collect you. What time?

Seven.

Okay.

Okay. 

Leaning over his desk, I spot my business card and scrawl my address on the back of it with a stray pen, then hand it back.

I don’t typically give that to clients, so whatever you do, don’t lose it or pass it around. I give him a pointed look, and he agrees, putting it in his wallet before dropping it in the top drawer of his desk. Well then, I’ll be on my way. I’ll see you Saturday. Don’t be late.

Oh, I’ll walk you out. He rises as I do, but I wave him off.

No need. I won’t get lost or cause any trouble. I wink, making Maxwell chuckle. 

Until Saturday, then.

I let myself out and smile politely at his stuffy secretary on my way past, wondering if she knows or suspects what I do for a living. I bet she’d pitch a fit. Especially if she knew I make more in a