Needing Her

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One - 1

  Chapter Two - Early 1990's

  Chapter Three - 3

  Chapter Four - 4

  Chapter Five - 5

  Chapter Six - 6

  Chapter Seven - 7

  Chapter Eight - 8

  Chapter Nine - 9

  Chapter Ten - 10

  Chapter Eleven - 11

  Chapter Twelve - 12

  Chapter Thirteen - 13

  Chapter Fourteen - 14

  Chapter Fifteen - 15

  Chapter Sixteen - 16

  Chapter Seventeen - 17

  Chapter Eighteen - 18

  Chapter Nineteen - 19

  Chapter Twenty - 20

  Chapter Twenty-One - 21

  Chapter Twenty-Two - 22

  Chapter Twenty-Three - 23

  Chapter Twenty-Four - 24

  Chapter Twenty-Five - 25

  Chapter Twenty-Six - 26

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - 27

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - 28

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - 29

  Chapter Thirty - Thirty-Six Hours Later

  Needing Her

  By Allie Everhart

  Needing Her

  By Allie Everhart

  Copyright © 2015 Allie Everhart

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Waltham Publishing, LLC

  Cover Design by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, things, and events are fictitious, and any similarities to real persons (live or dead), things, or events are coincidental and not intended by the author. Brand names of products mentioned in this book are used for reference only and the author acknowledges that any trademarks and product names are the property of their respective owners.

  The author holds exclusive rights to this work and unauthorized duplication is prohibited. No part of this book is to be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1

  PEARCE

  The limo drives through a part of New Haven I’ve never been to before. Police sirens are going off in the distance and I see nothing but old brick buildings with windows that are either shattered or boarded up with cardboard. Graffiti covers almost every surface; benches, billboards, traffic signs. We pass a woman pushing a shopping cart filled with cardboard boxes and ratty blankets. Her hair is wiry and matted and it looks like she hasn’t showered in weeks.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask my father.

  He has a slight smile on his face. “You’ll see.”

  I don’t like it when he smiles. When other people smile, it’s good. It means they’re happy. But when my father smiles, it’s either because he’s in public and has to comply with the rules of proper social interaction, or it means something bad’s going to happen. Since I’m the only person in the back of the limo, there’s no need for him to smile. Which means he’s up to something.

  My stomach knots and my muscles tense. I don’t know what he’s planning to do, but he took me here for a reason. And I know it’s not good.

  I look at him sitting across from me. “Tell me what we’re doing here.”

  He points out the side window. “You see those people? The two men and the woman?”

  He’s pointing to some homeless people, dressed in ragged clothes, their skin sweaty from the sweltering August heat and humidity. The woman is sifting through a trash can, and the two men are talking closely, likely doing some kind of drug deal.

  “What about them?” I ask.

  His gaze remains out the window as we pass by more homeless people. “They’re dregs of society. The remnants that bring us all down. Taking up space and resources. Straining our economy by their dependence on our government.” His gaze returns to me. “And yet they serve a purpose. They allow people like us to look good in the eyes of the masses. We donate money to the shelters. Fund job programs. Host charity events. And in return, we’re put on a pedestal for our good deeds.”

  I’m getting more nervous as he talks. Something’s about to happen. Something bad.

  “Tell me what we’re doing. Please, Father. Just tell me.”

  We’re sitting at a stoplight and he watches as a homeless man carrying a duffle bag crosses the street. “They serve another purpose. One that I’m about to show you.”

  “I want to get out of here,” I say. “Let’s go home.”

  “We will.” His eyes are still on the man crossing the street. “But first we must accomplish our mission.”

  “Which is what?” My heart’s pumping fast, my hand gripping the seat.

  My father looks at me. “Relax, son. It gets easier each time.”

  “What gets easier? Please, just tell me what we’re doing here.”

  My father reaches up and lightly taps on the glass that separates us from the driver. The limo slows down as we pass a homeless shelter. It’s evening and people are lined up out front, likely waiting to get a meal. Our driver makes a right-hand turn down an alley. And then he stops, but leaves the limo running.

  “It’s time, Pearce.” My father gives me a full smile now, but his eyes are dark, almost black. I watch him reach into a compartment in the side of the limo. He pulls out a handgun with a silencer attached.

  My heart pumps harder, fear prickling the back of my neck. “Father, what are you doing?”

  He doesn’t answer. He presses the button to lower the window. I look out and see a man with his back to us, urinating on the side of the building. His gray hair is spiked up all different directions and he has on torn jeans spattered with mud, and a dingy white t-shirt covered in stains.

  I flick my eyes back to my father and see the gun pointed at the man. And then, as if in slow motion, I watch my father’s hand depress the trigger and then release.

  “No!” I hear myself yell.

  But it’s too late. The gun already went off. The sound it made was just a blunt pop instead of the loud, echoing cry that it would’ve been without the silencer attached. I shift my eyes to the man standing by the building, but his body is now crumpled on the ground, the back of his shirt displaying a circle of blood that’s growing outward from the hole made by the bullet that went through his back and straight to his heart.

  My view is disrupted when the tinted glass from the window rises. I feel the limo pulling away. I slowly turn to look at my father. The gun is put away and he’s pouring himself a glass of scotch.

  He looks at me, a smile still on his face. “And that, my son, is what it means to be a Kensington.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Early 1990's

  PEARCE

  I bolt up in bed, my bare chest slick with sweat, my heart pumping hard and fast. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them and see the artwork across from my bed, the dark wood dresser just beneath it. And then the sound of Beethoven fills the room. It’s my alarm going off.

  I squeeze my eyes shut again and rub my forehead. It was just a dream, or more like a nightmare. I haven’t thought about that day for years. But yesterday, on my way to meet a client, I was sitting at a stoplight and looked to my right and saw a homeless man urinating on the side of a building and the memory of that day came flooding back.

  I was 16 when that happened, and after that day, my life changed. I changed. My father said that was my first step in becoming a man. Little did I know back then that my remaining steps to manhood would be even worse than what happened that day. And that I wouldn’t have a choice in the matter.

  My life has been planned for me since the day I was born. Probably even before I was born. And so far, I’ve followed the plan. Resisting it got me nowhere. Even if I was somehow able to escape
this life, I’m not sure what I would do. This is the only life I know. I wouldn’t even know how to live as a normal person. A person who just goes about their daily life without all these secrets. Without knowing they’ve killed for nothing more than to prove a point. To show you’re a man. A member. A Kensington.

  “Shut it off,” a voice mumbles beside me. “It’s too early.”

  I turn to find a woman next to me in bed. She’s facing me, her long blond hair spread out over the pillow. Her eyes are closed and she’s smiling.

  “Shut off the alarm and get over here,” she says, her hand moving up my leg, heading to my crotch. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

  Anger swells inside me. What the hell is she still doing here? I don’t allow women to spend the night. It’s not just their rule. It’s my rule. But apparently I broke it last night. I’d had too much to drink and must’ve fallen asleep and this woman took it upon herself to sleep in my bed.

  I take her hand off me. “You need to leave. I have to get to work.”

  She flips the covers back, exposing her naked body. “Can’t you be late to work?”

  My eyes drift over her. She’s gorgeous. Large breasts, flat stomach, long legs, golden tan skin. She could easily be a model. That body could sell most anything. Clothing. Perfume. Purses. Shoes. She’s the type of woman other women would kill to look like. I’m not sure how much of her is real. I know she’s had at least some work done to look that way. Her breasts are definitely fake, but whoever did them did an excellent job. They look natural. It’s the feel that gave them away.

  “I can’t be late,” I tell her as I get out of bed. “I need to get ready. You can use the guest bathroom if you’d like.”

  She’s staring at my naked body and it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like feeling exposed. My life is all about covering things up. Secrets. Lies. The truth about who I am and what I do. I turn away from her and go to my closet to get my robe.

  “Don’t cover up,” I hear her say. “A body like that needs to be on display. Tall. Muscular.” She pauses. “Well-endowed.”

  I ignore her compliments. I know she only says them because she’s supposed to. I’m sure she says the same thing to the members who are old and out of shape.

  I put my robe on and turn back to find her in front of me. Naked. Her hand sneaks under my robe, just below my waist, moving downward. “Come on. Just one more time?”

  She starts stroking me, showing off her skills. And she definitely has skills in this area. Then again, she does this all the time so she has plenty of practice in knowing how to please a man, physically. If she wasn’t good at it, they wouldn’t keep her on staff.

  I don’t know this girl’s name but she works for us. For the organization, the secret group I’m part of. A small but select group of rich, powerful men who control the world. Or at least that’s what we like to think.

  “Doesn’t that feel good?” she whispers, her soft hand still stroking me.

  My shoulders relax and I tip my head back. “Yes.”

  The organization hires girls like this to take care of the members’ needs. Most of the members have arranged marriages so wives are nothing more than display objects. They take their place on the arms of their husbands at high society events or whenever people are watching. Then behind closed doors, both husband and wife lead their separate lives, fulfilling their needs outside the marital bed. But the majority of the men don’t have time to go find a woman to sleep with, at least not the right woman. We can’t choose some random woman at a bar. We have to be careful. When you’re rich and powerful, you trust no one, especially a woman you just met.

  So to make things easier on us, women are provided as a benefit to membership. The women are screened, both mentally and physically, to ensure they’re suitable for the job. The pool of candidates includes beautiful women of all races and nationalities. Some would say they’re high-end call girls but we call them associates. It’s a code word we can use in everyday conversation without anyone knowing what we’re talking about. Only the members know and it’s become somewhat of an inside joke. I’m having drinks with one of my associates tonight. We all know what it means. Even the wives know.

  Unlike the associates, the wives are one of us. They have the right name, the right education, the right lineage. Most have fathers or brothers who are members. That’s why they’re paired up with us. They know their place. They know their purpose. And most are happy to accept their role, even though it means a life in a loveless marriage.

  “God, you feel good,” I hear her say as she grinds into me, her legs straddling me.

  I wasn’t going to do this, but she got me started and now we’re back in bed so she can finish me off. Her breasts are bouncing over my face but I close my eyes and try to imagine myself somewhere else. With someone I care about. Someone I feel something for. I don’t know why I do it. Why I imagine these things I’ll never have. I’m not even sure real love exists. If it does, I know I’ll never experience it.

  This is my future. A woman like this. Someone I don’t know. Someone who’s more than happy to get me off, but doesn’t give a damn about me. She’s just doing a job. And tomorrow night, she’ll be doing it to someone else.

  It’ll be like this for the rest of my life. I’ll always be with women like her, even if I’m forced to get married again.

  My wife was chosen for me when I was 22. She was also 22 and had just graduated from Vassar with a degree in Russian Literature. I had just graduated from Yale with a degree in Finance. Neither one of us wanted to get married but we were young and obedient and did as we were told.

  Her name was Kristina and she had dreams of spending her twenties traveling overseas, not playing the role of Pearce Kensington’s wife. And I had no desire to play the role of her husband. My sole focus was to attend graduate school at Harvard and learn as much as possible so I could someday prove to my father that I was better at running our company than he was.

  After Kristina and I got married in what was a ridiculously over-the-topic summer wedding, attended by six hundred of our parents’ closest friends, we moved to Boston and I attended Harvard and began working on my MBA. As with other couples who had arranged marriages, Kristina and I led separate lives. She spent her time either reading or partaking in high-end charity events, trying to establish her place as a socialite. And I went to school and spent my free time going out with my classmates, some of whom were also members of the organization.

  My marriage to Kristina was not even close to being real. She and I only had sex one time, on our wedding night. We thought we should at least try, given that we were husband and wife. But it was awkward and uncomfortable and ended with us both deciding to never do it again. I had zero attraction to her. She’s average height with shoulder-length reddish blond hair that she always pulled back behind her head and pinned up in a style that made her look much older than she was. She didn’t like the outdoors or any kind of physical activity, preferring to stay inside and read, a lifestyle that wasn’t kind to her body. Her skin was pale and she was very thin with almost no muscle tone.

  The marriage ended a year later, after Kristina admitted she was a lesbian. I suspected she was when I first met her, but she didn’t tell anyone until ten months into our marriage. The members didn’t think Kristina would be able to adequately fake being my wife, given her sexual preference, and therefore allowed us to get a divorce. It was the best news I’d had in years. Kristina was a nice enough girl, but I was relieved to be out of the marriage, and so was she.

  I never want to get married again but I know they’ll force me to. Being a bachelor isn’t accepted in my world. Not just among my wealthy friends but also in my business life. Someday I’ll be CEO of Kensington Chemical and our clients and business partners are more likely to trust a CEO with a stable married life than a single bachelor. And I need someone to accompany me to social events.

  But since my divorce almost two years ago, I haven’t been set up with
anyone. I think they want me to be more settled in my career before they push me into another marriage. Or maybe they think it’s too soon. My world is all about appearances and it would look better if I waited a few years before getting married again.

  After my divorce from Kristina, I completed my MBA, then returned to Connecticut to work for Kensington Chemical under the direction of my father, the CEO. I’m now 25 and have spent the past year working at the company, learning the business.

  My mind returns to the woman on top of me who’s doing what she’s trained to do. My body instinctively tenses up as I get my release, then relaxes as I come down from it. She moves herself off me and lies back on the bed.

  “You’re not going to tell them, are you?” she asks.

  “You shouldn’t have done it.” I get out of bed, putting my robe back on. “You know the rules. No sleeping over.”

  She sits up on her knees, pleading with me. “I had too much to drink. I was tired. I fell asleep. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. And I tried to make it up to you this morning by—”

  “I didn’t ask for that. And as for the alcohol, it’s your job to limit yourself so things like this don’t happen.”

  She nods and looks down at the bed.

  I feel bad for her. She’s young and beautiful and yet somehow got stuck doing this job. I wonder how long ago she was recruited. Recruitment can be done by any of the members, although I haven’t done it myself. The way it works is that a member will see a beautiful young woman and offer to make her dreams come true for a price. For some of these girls, the dream is to become a model or an actress. Others just want large sums of money to spend as they please.

  Whatever the dream, the price is that they have to take care of the members’ physical needs. I’m sure this girl doesn’t want to be doing this. But now she can’t get out. She’ll never be out. When her looks fade, making her undesirable to the members, she’ll still be monitored to make sure she never reveals our secrets.