Visions. Part 3

It was inspiration. Her inspiration.

Chapter Three.

Paige grumbled at her reflection in the mirror and started the hair dryer. Nothing had gone right this morning. First, she'd made the mistake of putting the throw rug back on the kitchen floor after she fed His Highness. He'd been waiting for her just outside her bedroom door when she awoke, ears back, head low, staring at her with those piercing green eyes like she could be the subst.i.tute for his breakfast. That she only had two seconds to decide which entree he would be dining on.

Today she was in no mood to play by his rules. To torture him a bit longer, simply because it was expected of her to cater to his aggressiveness, she'd bypa.s.sed his food bowl and made her morning coffee while singing the Eagles tune "Heartache Tonight." He hated that. Either the Eagles, or her voice, she wasn't sure, but it gave her pleasure to cause him discomfort. Besides, wasn't it true that misery loved company? Wasn't that what she'd endured last night? Pure misery? At the hands of a professional. At the hands of a woman who should have worked her body into ch.o.r.eographed moans.

Instead, the b.i.t.c.h had blown on her crotch. Who the h.e.l.l did that? Why the c.r.a.p had Paige been cursed to find her?

She s.h.i.+vered at the memory, positive she was never finding off-the-chain s.e.x again. She should give up now and save herself the humiliation. G.o.d knew she had found every horrible specimen of bad lover already. Or so she'd thought. Amy had trumped them all.

The blow-dryer made a crackling noise, and then the aroma of burning wires drifted through the air just before a small flame shot from the vent.

"Ah, s.h.i.+t!" She jerked the plug from the outlet and threw the dryer in the sink. Smoke drifted from the slots. "Just f.u.c.king great!"

She glanced back in the mirror. Her hair was a complete frizzed-out mess on one side, still soaking wet and plastered to her head on the other. Not to mention she had some kind of black soot on her white blouse now.

"Perfect." She went back to her closet and dug out a new s.h.i.+rt. When she turned to throw the s.h.i.+rt in the hamper, Damien was perched in her doorway. "What? Came to witness my s.h.i.+tty morning?"

He hissed at her and darted from the room.

"Stupid cat." Paige pulled her hair into a ponytail, grabbed her purse and car keys, then headed for the door. She was almost out into the morning suns.h.i.+ne when she realized she had forgotten her coffee.

There was no way she could function any further without that d.a.m.n coffee. One of her employees would surely suffer if not.

She stepped into the kitchen, reached for the mug, and felt the distinct softness beneath her high-heeled pump. With her teeth ground tight, she glanced down. That evil cat had puked in the middle of the floor.

"Damien!" She hopped on one foot and pulled off the shoe, then dropped it in the kitchen sink. "You're dead meat!"

Hobbling on one bare foot, she charged into the living room. "Where are you, you evil orange mongrel?" She lifted the skirt of one end table where he usually curled for his morning nap. It was empty. "Come out, come out, wherever you are. Ms. Paige is going to put you in a nice comfy room." She lifted the opposite skirt. It was empty as well. "A room complete with metal bars and a paradise view of my f.u.c.king closet walls!"

She stormed into her bedroom, kicked off her other shoe, and dropped beside the bed to look beneath. Damien was backed against the wall. He hissed and swatted at her. "Get your furry a.s.s out from under there!"

Paige reached under as far as she could but only managed to pin her shoulder against the metal frame. Pain shot down her arm to her fingertips. She growled back and gave him a hard stare. "This ain't over, b.i.t.c.h."

Damien responded with a quick spit and another swat.

Ten minutes later, Paige was finally on the highway, travel mug secured between her legs, headed to work. There, she could dance away this bundle of angry emotions. There, she could sweat out this frustration that surely stemmed from an unforgettable night of the worst s.e.x she'd had the misfortune to encounter.

She was positive she'd experienced the absolute worst before last night. She was so wrong.

What now? A lifetime of perfecting the art of masturbation? Wasn't that pretty much what she was doing now? Buying toys, then blogging about their success or failure?

A pop sounded from beneath the car and then the steering wheel jerked from her grasp. Paige slammed the brake, grabbed the wheel, and skidded sideways off the road.

When seconds pa.s.sed by without any further squealing, she opened her eyes to see she was facing the wrong way.

"Holy s.h.i.+t!" She took in several calming breaths, her heart thundering in her chest, then opened the door, eager to put her feet on solid ground so her head would stop spinning.

She turned in the seat and liquid pooled between her thighs. She was now wearing her coffee. "Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?"

Paige slowly pushed out of the car. Liquid ran down her slacks and dripped onto the concrete. "Great. Just great." Paige kicked the lid off the road and heard the distinct sound of propeller blades in the distance.

She didn't have to look to know that it was Galveston's billionaire, Mayson Montgomery. A woman who could wipe the s.h.i.+t from her a.s.s with hundred dollar bills.

Paige couldn't stand the woman. With good reason.

Back in elementary school, the b.i.t.c.h had shoved her into the park fountain for no good d.a.m.n reason. She'd been minding her own business, simply writing in her diary, when Mayson and her posse of little rich kids had approached.

She'd watched those kids for months, strolling through the park like their fathers had built the d.a.m.n place. She didn't like them. Had no reason to. She wasn't rich like they were, and their stares and snickers proved she'd never be part of their little nose-to-the-sky group. Not that she'd wanted to be. They were sn.o.bby, more important than everyone else around them. They were rude with bully behavior.

From simply observing them, Paige had thought Mayson different from the others. She hadn't been as verbal as the rest. She was wrong. Mayson had been worse than all of them.

The helicopter drew closer. Paige s.h.i.+elded her eyes to the morning glare to see the ugly blue tin can. What was it like to own a mansion? To own a helicopter or a private jet? What could it possibly feel like to own a tropical island? That's what the rumors stated. That she flew off on a whim to paradise in the ocean, where men and women catered to her ridiculous orders.

Normally, Paige wouldn't succ.u.mb to such grapevine tidbits, but her flight pattern seemed to say most of what she'd heard was true. What other reason would a billionaire have to fly away for days, weeks, even months at a time?

The thought made her snarl as the metal contraption closed the distance.

She wouldn't know what it was like to have money. She'd never had it. After witnessing what money turned people into, she never wanted it. It turned people into stingy monsters. Turned them into egotistical maniacs who thought themselves better than Paige's kind. The moneyless kind.

While Paige was walking two miles to the local high school, Ms. High and Mighty was being chauffeured to her private school. While Paige was studying hard to pa.s.s every test, Silver Spoon had a room full of tutors. While Paige's grandmother was struggling to put food on the table, and begging G.o.d not to let the cancer win the battle before Paige moved away to college, that bully of a rich b.i.t.c.h was being a socialite and catering multi-thousand-dollar parties for her la-di-da friends.

Paige had danced for their kind. Stripped for their kind. Been ridiculed and mocked by their kind.

Mayson's kind.

Paige shook away the thoughts and concentrated on the problem at hand. The flat tire. "What now, Paige?"

The helicopter drew closer. The sound penetrated through the earth and shook the very ground beneath her. Sand blew all around her.

Aggravated, she threw her arm in the air and shot a bird. It was a petty move, but she couldn't help herself. Mayson might be one of her biggest charity donors, but that didn't make her respectful. How easy was it for her receptionist to cut a yearly check? Not like Mayson had to break a sweat digging out the checkbook.

The helicopter moved away, and Paige got busy dragging the tire, lug wrench, and jack from the trunk. If there was one thing her grandmother had taught her, it was never to be too prissy to get dirty. All good deeds came from hard work.

She was right. Paige had worked her a.s.s to the bone to earn everything she had in life. Now she was enjoying the benefits from those long, stressful nights.

Of course, she wasn't living in a mansion and she'd never own a jet or private island, but she had her self-respect. That was far more than a woman like Mayson Montgomery could say.

But with that kind of money, she could buy everyone's respect. b.i.t.c.h.

A state trooper, old enough to be her grandfather, pulled alongside her car. "Hear there's a damsel in distress?" He tipped his hat at her.

Paige stood and wiped her hands on her s.h.i.+rt. Great. Now she needed to change her entire outfit. "No damsel here, but I do have a car in distress. Mind if I borrow your gun for a second so I can put us both out of our misery?"

The trooper let out a hearty laugh. "Miss Montgomery called in for you. Said you might need a.s.sistance. Good woman, that Mayson. Known her since she was knee high to a gra.s.shopper. Came from good folk, too. Me and her granddaddy go way back. The good ol' days."

Paige inwardly growled. The last thing she wanted to hear was this good ol' boy retelling stories about another fat bank account. All of Galveston knew her family came from money, that they handed it down like outgrown clothing.

Paige turned back to the tire. "Thanks, Officer. I'm just about done here. I'll be on my way in two shakes."

She'd rather bake in the sun for the next three hours than take charity from that woman.

Mayson parked her truck several blocks from the designated spot Eric had chosen for their night out, feeling refreshed after a long nap in her soft king-size bed followed by a long-overdue hot shower. Although the powerful spray had beat the fatigue and tension from her muscles, she still wasn't ready for a night on the town. She'd attempted to beg off, reminding him that jet lag was a real thing, that she could use more than a catnap, but he wouldn't hear her excuses, said she needed a beer and some t.i.ts. Which translated for Eric as pitchers of beer and strippers.

She adored him. Had for many years. They'd met as soph.o.m.ores in college, found out they both came from money, that both had parents who wouldn't give them an unearned dime, and became fast friends.

Mayson's parents had instilled in her that earning respect meant more than throwing money around, that it was earned through good deeds and hard work. They refused to let her walk through life like royalty.

After years of friends.h.i.+p, there was no other person who deserved the t.i.tle of chief coordinator for her disaster relief program more than Eric. He was the backbone of the entire organization.

Mayson texted him to say she had arrived, then got out of the truck. From the mixed crowd gathered along the sidewalk farther down the block, it looked like the club he had chosen was well known.

She'd heard a strip joint had opened a year or two back but hadn't had the time to venture inside. Her career seemed to swallow all of her free time. A fact she needed to alter if she was ever going to settle down.

Mayson stuffed her hands in her pockets and started walking, taking in the stores along the path. She missed the late-night strolls through town as much as she missed walking barefoot on the beach. Not to mention that she owned several of the little storefront shops and needed to personally check in on them.

Her father had insisted putting all her eggs in one basket was boring and one-minded. He was right. She enjoyed owning a little piece of her community, even if time only allowed her to keep tabs on them through emails and monthly expense reports.

She made a mental promise to pay each one a visit over the next week. The ice cream shop, a lingerie store, as well as a little wine shop. It was a fun mixture, or so she'd told herself when she decided to purchase them, and she needed to get more involved with them instead of handing down the responsibilities to managers.

Eric texted to say he was on the way, so Mayson found an empty spot beneath the neon club sign to wait.

Visions. She liked the name. A lot, in fact. It was simple and elegant. It also happened to be the pa.s.sword used the night she'd ventured into a masked s.e.x party for the first time in New Orleans. She'd met her equal that night. Then, stupidly, she'd let her slip away.

Mayson thought of her often. Wondered what her name was. Where she'd come from. She'd missed the sound of her as soon as she quietly slipped out of the hotel room all those years ago. Her heavy breathing, those tranquil moans, her cries of release. Every sound had been a genuine reaction to Mayson's touch. Not forced like some women she'd been with. Her mystery woman had been authentic. Her cries hadn't been fabricated for show. Everything about their night had been incredible and unforgettable.

The woman had curled around her fingers, urged her deeper, arched when Mayson obliged.

Her insides tightened with the memory.

One day, she'd find someone just like her. This time, she'd never let her walk away. She'd grab hold with everything she had and refuse to let loose.

She studied the groups of men and women gathered at the entrance, then let her gaze wander over her surroundings. Large globe lights flanked the double doors, and a red carpet had been laid from one edge of the building to the other. So far, this club didn't resemble any she'd ever gone to.

Then she spotted a woman sitting on a bench beneath a semicircle of dogwood trees that were heavy with pink blooms. If not for her starched white s.h.i.+rt, Mayson could have easily overlooked her. A charcoal gray Fedora was tilted down over her eyes.

Tanned legs were curled beneath her and a pair of black stilettos lay in the gra.s.s like an afterthought.

Mayson stepped closer, willed under the arch of branches by the red-tipped nails strumming across the keyboard of her cell phone. Or the flat of her stomach visible beneath her sheer s.h.i.+rt. Mayson wasn't sure why. She only knew that she needed to get closer.

She shuffled her feet in the gra.s.s, but the woman only had eyes for her cellular device. Her fingers continued to wave across the keyboard.

Mayson felt a tiny tinge of jealousy. She wanted a little of this woman's attention. Wanted to see her eyes. To see if her facial beauty matched those delicious curves.

She noticed the woman was wearing s.h.i.+ny black shorts. The ensemble almost looked like a costume. On another woman, the black sequined bra visible beneath the s.h.i.+rt would have looked trashy. On this woman, it looked cla.s.sy and elegant.

Mayson wanted to see more. Dammit. Why wouldn't she look up?

She needed her to. She craved the sight of her.

Mayson stepped closer still and cleared her throat.

The woman didn't lose hold of her infatuation with that d.a.m.n phone.

"You ready?" Eric asked from behind her.

Mayson refused to look away, positive the sound of a male voice would clip the woman's infatuation with the phone.

The beauty's fingers continued their steady strum.

Mayson hesitantly backed out from under the trees, willing the woman to glance her way, to lose her grip on the d.a.m.n obvious book she was writing.

Even when Eric pulled her through the front doors, the woman hadn't s.h.i.+fted from her position.

Light music filled the room as Eric guided them to a table close to the stage. She was shocked to see how posh the place was. Black high-top tables and chairs dominated the center of the grand room. Booths with black leather and pale blond wood lined the walls.

Her gaze moved farther, to the stage set up close by. Three silver poles separated the platform. There would be a feast of flesh from all angles of the room no matter where you were sitting.

Eric motioned for a waitress and eyed Mayson. "The usual?"

Mayson simply nodded as the waitress approached wearing a royal blue mid-thigh miniskirt with a loose tan blouse that dipped below full cleavage. They ordered a pitcher and both watched a nice curvy a.s.s sashay away.

"There's more where that came from," Eric announced with a wink.

But even the sight of female flesh couldn't stop Mayson from thinking about the woman on the bench. She prayed she would come inside. Or just come. Around her tongue.

Jesus. How long had it been since she had s.e.x? Months? Longer? She was long overdue for a romantic night that ended with someone crying her name.

The waitress reappeared with their order and Mayson dropped a twenty on her tray, then waved away the change.

She glanced around the club. Almost all tables and booths were filled. A few couples snuggled against the walls closest to the bar, all attention on the stage.

Her phone vibrated against her hip. Though she didn't want to invade her fun time with business, habit made her pull it free from the clip to inspect.

X had blogged.

She smiled, turned the phone to Eric, who was also an avid reader, and opened the link, excited and curious to read about X's newest adventure, or lousy lay, whichever it might be tonight.