His Mistress

By Lauren Short

There are some things money can't buy. Or are there? In 2300, in a world of capitalism, there are those few who can buy anything their heart desires. Cynthia Délave has it all. Beauty, power and money; her world knows no bounds. James O'Sea has never seen how the other half lives. A teacher, who was raised by his elderly grandparents, he has no idea how the world of the rich and powerful operates, and he has enough problems of his own. When James is dragged into Cynthia's world, he finds his morals, identity, and the thin hold he now has on his once explosive temper, pushed to the limit. Cynthia is only interested in the power she has over James. But soon, James sees another side to the seemingly calculating and callous Cynthia, and he finds himself being ever more drawn to this mysterious woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Torrid Books
• Release date: Jul 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781633555914

Book preview

James

I know it ain’t gonna be a good day. As soon as I roll over, my head pounding and my mouth dry, I just know. No day can possibly be a good one when you wake up hung over like a son of a bitch and aching all over.

I groan and move over in bed and connect with something soft and warm. Another person, more precisely, the blonde from the previous night—Kirstin, Kristy? Maybe it’s Kathy. I don’t remember at all. Oh, Jesus, she’s lying in my bed, naked as a babe, the sheet low on her hips, allowing her rather plastic-looking fake breasts to thrust skyward. I moan loudly; my head is banging.

Turning back over, I glance at my old, beaten up alarm clock. It reads seven-thirty, which means I’m already an hour late for work.

SHIT! My voice sounds scratched and raw. I jump outta bed, completely nude. The blonde bolts up in the bed and looks around her, obviously wondering where she is. She spots me and visibly relaxes. At least one of us remembers the other, I think to myself. I’m real sorry, I tell her, but I gotta go to work. Eggs and breakfast things are in the refrigerator, you are welcome to help yourself.

She looks confused and still half asleep, though I’m pretty sure she got the point.

I hastily head for the shower, groaning as the hot water hits me. I was in for it when I got to work; I knew that. This is the third time in two weeks I've been late, and Headmistress Eleanor Axel will probably tear a strip out of my hide. That’s if she doesn’t fire me first.

Shit, shit, shit. The mantra keeps playing over in my mind. I quickly dress, shoving on the dark trousers and crumpled white shirt I’d worn yesterday, and I practically charge out of my apartment, leaving the blonde behind.

As I turn the corner of the stairs, I come face to face with Mrs. Idaho, the little old dear who lives next door. She gasps in surprise at my sudden appearance and drops the small loaf of bread she was holding and it lands on the stairs with a dull thump.

I’m real sorry, ma’am, I tell her, bending down to retrieve the loaf. She gives me a knowing little smile, causing the wrinkles around her eyes to deepen. She reminds me so much of my own nana, the woman who raised me.

Late again, James? Her amusement is obvious. Mrs. Idaho and I actually have a lot in common, her poison being sherry—which she keeps behind her cereal boxes, though she doesn’t think I know this little fact—and mine being whiskey, which I long ago stopped hiding anywhere.

I smile a kind of sheepish grin and continue down the stairs. The bright sunshine hits me square in the face as I leave the building and I grunt in annoyance. Glancing to my left, I realise I must have parked on the double yellow line the night before, and some MF has clamped my car.

DAMMIT! I practically roar. It is not going to be a good day.

* * * *

I sit with my head in my hands as the last of the students rush out into the hallway, the sound of the bell still ringing in my ears. Perfect mix, Goddammit—a whiskey hangover, teenagers, and chiming bells. I feel like my head is going to explode. Someone up there hates my ass.

Headmistress Axel chewed me out in front of half the staff when I arrived that morning; apparently it is my last warning. I either shape up or she is going to ship my drunken butt out.

I groan as the second bell, signalling the start of lunch, drills into my head like an electric buzz saw. F.M.L, that’s what the kids are saying nowadays, isn’t it? Though they think someone as old as twenty-four can’t possibly know what that means, I’m practically ancient to a bunch of fourteen-year-olds.

Just as the bell quiets and I begin to take a sweet sigh of relief, my cell multi-phone starts to blare. Fucking perfect. The only people who call my cell are women I’ve given my multi-phone number to whilst as drunk as a hobo, or my grandparents, and they usually only call to nag my sorry ass.

Flipping it open, I hold the small cell to my ear. James O’Sea.

Where in Jesus are you? It’s my grandfather; he never bothers with small talk, his voice is deep and course and loud. I been calling your Goddamn apartment all damn day.

Rolling my eyes at his tone, I pinch the bridge of my nose with my finger and thumb; I can feel a migraine coming on, dammit. My grandfather is bedridden, the cancer eating away at his liver but he still calls me once a week to cuss me out. Pap, I’m at work, and can you please lower your voice?

I hear him chuckle on the other end of the line. My grandfather used to be in the navy and he’s what I like to think of as a typical old seadog—tattoos on his wrinkly old forearms, weather beaten face; likes his whiskey, too. He’s a bit of a cliché, I guess.

You been at the cough mixture again, ay? Doing a bit of boozing?

I groan in response. Look, old man, I have the hangover from hell, my boss is riding my ass, my car’s been clamped, now did you call just to discuss my budding alcoholism or is there a point to this conversation?

I can practically hear him grinning. Alright, keep your panties on, Betty; yeah there is a reason for me calling you; your father’s dead.

And just like that, like someone had just snapped their fingers, the day changes from stinkingly bad to bizarre.

My father? I thought he was already dead? I switch the multi-phone from my left ear to my right.

Pap coughs and I hear his chest rattle. Nah, that’s just what your mama told you cuz she didn’t want him knowing about you; he wasn’t the most noble of men, is all I’ll say. I wasn’t gonna tell you, but your grandma says you’re a grown man and had a right to know and well… you know what she’s like, she would nag me till I told you.

I can then hear Gran in the background, giving him an earful for that last comment. She sure is a spitfire, my grandma, even at eighty years of age.

Alright, alright woman, grandpa mutters. Your grandma also says to let you know the funeral is in three days, at St. Mary’s Church, on Parker Street.

I raise an eyebrow at that as I realize the address isn’t far from here.

Well, that’s my job done. Again I wouldn’t have told you, but your Gran says it’s your decision whether or not you go, and I s’pose she’s right. Anyway boy, I’m off; the game’s on.

Barely registering what he’s saying, I nod. Okay, Pap, see you Sunday.

See you Sunday, boy.

So the father I have never known and had damn well thought was already six feet under, is dead. It is a surprise, that phone call from Pap, but then it woulda been, wouldn’t it? Someone you love just rings you outta the blue and tells you your father, who you thought was dead ever since you could understand what death was, has been alive all these years, but has finally kicked the bucket.

Honest to Jesus Christ, I have no idea what to think or feel; most of the time I’m blind drunk anyway, and don’t have to feel a damn thing, but right now I’m sober, well mostly, and I’m trying to work through a scramble of thoughts that are invading my brain.

What kinda son of a bitch leaves a woman with a kid to raise alone? A poor woman at that: no money, no prospects, no husband and a baby. But then Pap always told me my so-called Dad didn’t know about me, hadn’t even known my mom was pregnant.

Had this guy I got half my damn DNA from really been that bad a character? I have no clue. I was never told a thing about the guy. Even Grams and Pap never mentioned him, not once in my whole sorry life was I told a thing about the man.

I’m really stumped right now. I can’t grieve over a stranger, someone I never met and can’t even picture in my mind. I feel sorry for the poor guy, I mean he is dead, and I feel sorry for the dude’s family, people who grieve his loss, but that’s about it.

Even if the guy did give me half his DNA, even if I did share blood with him, how can I feel something for someone who’s never existed for me? Again pity, compassion, sympathy—hell, yes, I feel that, but grief, grief isn’t showing its face. When my Mom passed away, God bless her, I thought the grief was ripping me in two. I was a kid, but I knew grief then, the torrent of sorrow, anger and confusion. It was like my whole life was ripped from me and really it was.

We lived with Grandpa and Grandma all my life; it was Mom, Grams, Pap and me from the day I was born, so they were there to guide me when I lost my mom, but it just isn’t the same. I adored my mom; she was a perfect Angel in my child’s eyes and no one was able to replace her.

Grams and Pap did their best by me, but being a kid and thinking I was an orphan wasn’t easy. I never got over my mom’s death, I guess, maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be drinking myself cockeye every damn night.

I have to make a decision on whether to go to his funeral. I don’t even know his name and wasn’t invited. I mean, would I want to go even if I was invited? A part of me doesn’t want to; I want to pretend I never got that multi-phone call. I mean, isn’t life hard enough, why complicate things? But another part of me is curious, wonders what that half of my family is like. What about my paternal grandparents? Will they be there? Maybe my father was married, or got some other woman pregnant. Maybe I have brothers and sisters.

You know what they say, curiosity kills the cat, so if I were a cat, I’d be at risk of joining my father in a hole six feet under.

* * * *

As I stand looking at the grave of the father I never knew, a strange feeling overtakes me, a sort of pity. There are not many people here, just a woman who actually came to spit on the grave—nice—and two other men, one in an expensive looking coat and jeans and the other in a poorly fitting morning suit.

The guy in the badly made suit sidles up to me. How did you know him? he asks.

The question seems odd; what the hell do I say? I don’t know him? He is the dude who had a one-nighter with my ma and oops, I popped out nine months later. The last one seems a bit personal, or maybe I should say, piss off you nosy SOB and mind your own business, but I don’t. Instead I shrug nonchalantly. I guess he was my father, though I never knew him.

The guy’s eyebrows shoot up to meet his hairline; and he studies me for a second. You don’t look like him.

I glance at him. He’s all small and wiry, dark hair and a rather prominent nose. If this dude’s a relative of my father’s, if this is what his side of the family look like, then this guy’s right. I don’t look anything like my father, thank sweet merciful heaven.

Giving him a slight, amused smile, I shrug again. My grandfather always says I look like my mom.

The guy returns the smile and gives me a respectful, quick nod of his head before he leaves me. Weird little dude. But I soon forget him as I continue to stare down at the cold grey slab, showing the last resting place of the man who’s DNA I share.

Edwardo Lorentz. The gravestone states simply his name, the year of his birth and this year, 2300, the year of his death. Well, at least I now know his name, and how old he was when he died. He was only fifty-one; that’s nothing nowadays. People are living well into their hundreds. My father was only middle-aged and on the young side of it, at that. How did he come to die at such a young age? I wonder. Was it an incurable disease—there weren’t too many of those around these days—or did he have some kind of accident? Why was I pondering this; I also wondered why I cared? People die every day.

I was only six when my mom died in a car accident. Some asshole gets behind the wheel after a few hits of crack. The guy is completely out of his head when he spins his car off the road, killing my mom and an elderly man as well as himself. I am so young I barely understand what death means.

To this day I still distinctly remember her, all golden blonde hair, golden blonde skin and sweet smiles—a real all-American girl. I also remember asking her about my dad—who he is and where he is—and I can remember her telling me he’s dead with that wretched look on her face. At the time I thought she was sad because of his death, and I don’t want to be the cause of putting that expression on her lovely face, so I don’t ask about him again.

When she died and her parents took me on as their own, I never really thought about him again, too grief-stricken from losing the mother I always adored. I suppose I am still grieving her death, even eighteen damn years later. That’s probably why I haven’t thought about him, until now. Pap says he was immoral, and mom didn’t want him to know I exist. I wonder what kind of asshole he was for her to hide my very existence from him.

I suppose now, with him dead and buried, these are questions I’ll never find the answers to. With that thought, I turn and walk away from the grave, not really knowing why I came in the first place.

Cynthia

I raise an eyebrow at Joseph, contemplating what I have just been told.

"Interesting, and where exactly did you