Praise (Salacious Players Club #1)(81)

Tears prick the back of my eyes as I read through each one. There are also six missed calls and a few voicemails that I don’t have the heart to listen to. He’s right—I do need time. I need to come down from the Emerson Grant high, so I can think clearly. Maybe some space will help me figure out what I really want.

There’s not one from Beau—which is surprising. No scathing judgment. No invasive questioning. He just disappeared from my life. Probably better that way. I don’t even know what I would say to him.

Just then a new text pops up, and I stare at it for a moment before realizing who it is.

Hey kiddo. Hope you’re doing okay.

We had a photographer at opening night. These pictures won’t be published online, but I thought you might like to see this one.

Garrett. I can tell just by the tone and the way he called me kiddo. Not that he’s called me that before. But he’s just that playful. Beneath his first text is a photo. It’s taken in the dim club. The people around us are blurred, but Emerson and I are in the middle. My gold and blue dress is pressed against his sapphire suit. We’re on the dance floor, and while I’m looking away at something, Emerson’s eyes are focused on my face. There’s a warm, adoring expression in his features. A hint of a smile that reaches his green eyes.

It’s hard to look at. It’s no secret that Emerson thinks I’m beautiful, but there has to be more in a relationship than that. And definitely more than being called a ‘good girl’ because I give good head or kneel at his side like I’m supposed to as his sub. Does Emerson see more than that in me?

Tossing my phone down, I let out a cry of frustration. I wish I could trust my own judgment. If I knew anything about love and relationships, I could actually find the right guy, but I don’t. I’m just a naive, desperate girl that craves a ridiculous amount of praise and attention and is stupid enough to do anything for it.

But that’s not Emerson’s fault. That’s mine.





RULE #33: THE TRUTH HURTS LIKE A BITCH.





Emerson





I once loved that my desk faces hers. I could watch her profile as she worked, admiring the slope of her nose and the way she bit her lip while typing or rested her head on her desk at the end of the day. Now, the desk is painfully empty.

And it’s all my fault.

The day Beau found us, he didn’t even bother to stay and yell at me. We’re just back to the silent treatment again, and I really wish he would have let me have it while he was here. I’d rather my son yell at me instead of ignore me.

I’ve practically worn out the digits on my phone screen, texting both of them. I try to spend most of my days at the club now, but even there, her memory haunts me. Garrett tells me not to give up, to give them both time, but I don’t know how long I can do this.

I want them both, and maybe that’s selfish and unrealistic, but I don’t fucking care anymore.

Today I’m stuck at my desk. It’s been two weeks since she left, and I have no plans to replace her anytime soon. Or ever. Garrett, Maggie, and Hunter have been trying to cheer me, and I hate being cheered up. Right now I want to wallow in my pity, knowing that I may never see her or speak to her again.

And that’s it for me. I don’t want another sub or another girlfriend. Charlotte is about as replaceable as Beau, which means not at all.

I find myself tracing the lines on my palm, remembering how she said I had a long heart line, how I’d have great love in my life. Have I turned into the world’s biggest sap? Apparently.

A knock on the door breaks my attention from my hand. It’s probably a delivery or Maggie bringing me something. Still, I rush to answer it and let out a sigh of relief when I find my son on the porch, waiting for me.

“Beau,” I say quietly.

He only looks me in the eye briefly before averting his gaze. “I want to know more. I can’t stop thinking about it, and I want to know what really happened between you two.”

I force myself to swallow down my nerves. “Of course. Come in.”

We find a place to sit in the front room, and I offer him a drink or food, but he shakes his head. His knee is bouncing as he stares at the floor. Bracing myself for what might be the hardest conversation of my life, I take a seat across from him. “Ask me anything.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

My jaw clenches. “Yes.”

His lips tighten, and his clenched jaw mirrors mine. “The whole time?”

“No, just recently.”

“Did you hurt her?” he asks in a vitriolic tone.

“Never. I would never hurt her.” My answer is confident and certain. I know what he’s thinking…that I manipulated her into sleeping with me. That I played a power role over her and forced her into something she didn’t want. I’m one-hundred-percent confident that that’s not what happened.

“Did you take her to the club?”

Tension looms over us as he brings up the club, the very catalyst to his disdain for me. My son refuses to believe that I’m not some sleazy pervert because I’ve given people a place to express their sexual needs safely. I wish I could make him see, but it’s not exactly a comfortable conversation between father and son.

“Yes, I did.”

He shakes his head. “She’s not like that. You’ve spent all this time corrupting her. No wonder she wants you and not me. “