LaClaire Touch

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Derrick

  Brooke

  Connect with the author

  Also by Dori Lavelle

  LaClaire Touch

  An after hours novel

  Dori Lavelle

  Contents

  1. Derrick

  2. Brooke

  3. Derrick

  4. Brooke

  5. Derrick

  6. Brooke

  7. Derrick

  8. Brooke

  9. Derrick

  10. Derrick

  11. Brooke

  12. Derrick

  13. Brooke

  14. Derrick

  15. Brooke

  16. Derrick

  17. Brooke

  18. Brooke

  19. Derrick

  20. Brooke

  21. Derrick

  22. Brooke

  23. Derrick

  24. Derrick

  25. Brooke

  26. Brooke

  27. Derrick

  Epilogue

  Connect with the author

  Also by Dori Lavelle

  Copyright © 2017 by Dori Lavelle

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  1

  Derrick

  I dive into the pool head first. The moment my body slices through the sparkling liquid, I catch my breath. The water is cool enough to shock my system and warm enough to help me adjust quickly to the temperature.

  Holding my breath, I count the seconds. My body inches closer to the point where the urge to inhale is strongest, the point where there’s too much carbon dioxide in my lungs and not enough oxygen, the point right before drowning is meant to start. Only then do I come back up, breaking through the surface of the water, gasping for the chlorine-scented air.

  “One of these days you’ll do something that’s going to kill you.” Bryant stands at the French doors leading to the private pool area of Lance’s condo, observing me, hands in the pockets of his khaki pants, emerald eyes narrowed.

  Ignoring him, I pull in several more breaths to replace the oxygen my lungs lost. I rise from the pool, my body vibrating with life. Water slides down my body, running from my hair down my back, as I approach one of the four cushioned chaise lounge chairs.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I grab one of the folded engraved LaClaire towels from the lounger and hold it to my face, inhaling the fresh smell of fabric softener. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to know if you didn’t get out of the water just now, you could have drowned.” He shoves a lock of hair from his forehead. “For a moment there I was tempted to dive in after you, but I figured you might be playing one of your crazy games again. You’ve been playing them since mom and dad died.”

  Teeth gritted, I ruffle my hair with the towel and sink into one of the chairs, adrenaline surging through my veins.

  Mom and dad died in a plane crash seven years ago. No one survived. One day they were there, the next they were gone.

  I glare at Bryant. “Is Liam keeping you and Grace up that much at night?”

  Liam Lance LaClaire is my six-month-old nephew, Bryant’s son, named after our disabled brother, Lance, who also happens to be Bryant’s twin brother. Bryant and Lance are the eldest of all five of us.

  Adopted at the age of three, my genes may be different from theirs but my adoptive family never once made me feel less of a LaClaire.

  At the age of two, I made national news when I was found—by a nun—sitting near a church dumpster, in Newburyport, with a note attached to my T-shirt that read “unwanted kid”. I made headlines a second time the following year, when one of the wealthiest families in the world adopted me.

  Turns out the joke is on the person who left me by the dumpster. I was wanted after all. Unlike some adoptive kids, I never felt the urge to look for my biological parents. As far as I’m concerned, if anyone is unwanted, it’s them.

  “What does Liam have to do with anything?”

  “You can’t be getting enough sleep if you’re coming up with such crazy accusations.”

  “You know I’m right.” Bryant sits down on the lounger next to mine. “I’ve been watching you for a while. You’ve been in town for three weeks and your whole body tells me you’re dying to go off on another one off your adventures.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I rake a hand through my damp hair. “Lance needs all of us right now.”

  Lance had a major operation four weeks ago. After several failed treatments over the years, the experimental treatment he recently underwent was one we had buried the most hope in. The one we’d wished would allow him to walk again. To give him his life back. To be by his side, all four of us have put our travels on hold. But fate, the bitch, had dangled the carrot in front of him before snatching it away.

  The treatment was a failure which left Lance even more depressed, to the point he refuses to talk to any of us, preferring to lock himself in his room. All he does in there is sit in his high-tech wheelchair, gazing out the window. When he does lie down, the ceiling is his point of interest. Getting him to eat, sleep, or exercise is a constant struggle.

  “Look,” Bryant says. “I know staying in one place for close to a month is torture to you. Maybe you should leave town. Go somewhere to get your adrenaline kick. It’s not as if Lance wants us to be here anyway. Maybe we should listen and give him his space.”

  “You know he doesn’t mean to push us away. He’s just too fucking proud to admit he needs us.”

  “Maybe he is.” Bryant reaches for a bottle of water on the glass table next to him. He takes a swig and puts it back down. “But this was a major disappointment for him and I think he needs time to come to terms with all of it. Anyway, I had a talk with him last night.” He rubs his green eyes, tired. “He’s staying in Boston.”

  “How the hell did you convince him to do that?” I rake the fingers of both hands through my hair and link them at the back of my head. “Last I heard he was thinking of returning to Cabo as soon as Dr. Drew gives him permission to fly.”

  “I had a small talk with the doctor. Since Lance won’t listen to us, he might listen to him.”

  “You mean you manipulated the situation?” I grab a water bottle and twist off the cap. “Being in paradise could help him start painting again.”

  Before the treatment, Lance used to spend a lot of time at our family villa in Mexico. He claims being there inspires him to paint, even though he hasn’t painted in months. He’s the creative one of all of us, with paintings hanging in major galleries around the world, earning him a fortune—in addition to the billions our parents left behind. Money he can’t fully enjoy.

  “He can paint right here. There’s no way we can let him stay by himself in Mexico. He should be here, where Grace and I can stop by to check up on him.” Bryant stretches out his legs on the lounge chair before crossing them at the ankles. “But I don’t see why you guys can’t go and live your lives. We all have to make the best of the situation.”

  I let out a breath. “You’re right, it’s best he remains where he is.” I stand, careful not to slip on the wet tiles. “You know something? I still find it hard to believe that you’ve settled down. How do you not crave to travel all the time like you used to?”

  The tension melts from Bryant’s face. “Little brother, when you find what you’re looking for, you don’t feel the need to go searching anymore.” Bryant gets to his feet as well. “I want to be where Grace and Liam are. They’re
my home. Maybe one day you’ll find that in someone.”

  “Yeah, dream on. There’s no way I’d give my life up for some woman.”

  “If there’s one thing I learned, it’s to never say never.” His eyes are gazing into mine but his thoughts seem far away as he thinks of his family. “When you find the right one, everything changes, man. Everything.” He walks over to the door. “I’m talking from experience. But you’re twenty-four only once. Live your life as you like, but please be careful not to kill yourself doing something too crazy.”

  The way Bryant talks sometimes makes him sound like someone much older than his thirty-one years. I want to tease him about it but I let it go.

  “Where are you off to?” I ask instead. “Let’s enjoy a drink and watch the sunset.”

  “I promised Grace I’d be home early to spend some time with them before Liam goes to bed.” He turns to face me. “Do me a favor, will you?”

  “Sure. What do you want?”

  “If you decide to leave, let me know where you’re going. Don’t just disappear and call us from some random country.”

  “Spain.” I stride toward him, bare feet padding against the tile.

  “What about Spain?”

  “That’s where I’m headed next. I’ll be flying out early tomorrow morning.”

  “What’s luring you to Spain?” Bryant’s brows meet in the middle.

  “Bulls and red flags, baby.”

  “Of course.” Bryant doesn’t crack a smile. “The bull running festival in Pamplona. Doesn’t it take place around this time of year?” He shakes his head. “I don’t get how you can think it’s fun to be chased around by angry bulls.”

  “You don’t need to understand, big brother. Different things float different people’s boats.”

  “Fine. Go and get the boredom out of your system but come back in one piece.”

  I grin. “Of course. That’s not an option.”

  As Bryant leaves, I don’t tell him there’s something I have to do first, a stop I need to make before I head to the airport in the morning. Another activity that makes me feel alive. The thought of my dick buried inside the hot pussy of some chick already sends my pulse racing. It’s the best kind of foreplay before I head off to play with danger.

  2

  Brooke

  With unsteady hands, I glide the smooth crimson lipstick across my bottom lip as warm sweat pools into my armpits. I hold my breath before releasing. In a stuffy room filled with the smells of sweat, perfume, and hairspray, fresh air is hard to come by.

  You have to do this. You have no choice.

  “Beautiful, as always.” My boss, Hector Cross—or my pimp as some would call him—pops his head around the door, grinning with approval. He’s a boulder of a man with a ponytail at the back of his head, who always gravitates toward black dress pants and one of his multi-colored Hawaiian shirts. Several of the top shirt buttons are open, giving me a view of his curly chest hairs, which look damp with sweat. Buried in the salt and pepper hair, is a small golden cross that hangs from a slim chain around his neck.

  I don’t say a word as I replace the cap of the lipstick and pick up the tube of mascara from the dresser. Since my lashes are already long by nature, the only thing they require is a little more thickness and definition to make my amber eyes pop.

  “You should look excited. You have the white room today.” Hector comes to stand behind me. His sweat and musky cologne overwhelm me as he raises his arms to place his large, warm hands on my shoulders. “Other girls would kill for the opportunities I give you. You do know that, right?” Hector switches on the small radio on one end of the dresser. Pop music spills into the room.

  My chin hits my chest. “Thank you, Hector. I’m sorry. I’m just tired.” I raise my head again and push my shoulders back. “Who am I getting?”

  “Some kind of investment banker. So treat him well. Make him come back for more.”

  I move away from Hector, getting to my feet. His hands fall to his sides. What I really wanted to do was shake him off me, but he’s my boss and even though he’s in a business some consider to be disgusting, he treats us well. He treats me well. I started working for him a year ago. Two months ago, he informed me that I was ready to be meeting the needs of the white room clients.

  The Mirage has many color-coded rooms, depending on how much money clients are willing to cough up. The white room is as good as it gets, the room where all the important people go, the ones with the fat wallets. The ones who press large tips into our hands. Hector lets us keep our tips, which I appreciate.

  “What do I call him?” I push two pins into my jet black hair wig to hold it in place.

  “He calls himself Dr. Stud.”

  I raise an eyebrow but don’t comment. I’ve heard worse names.

  Only Hector knows a client’s true identity. All we get are the names they choose to be called for the night. Of course, we sometimes have public figures walking through the door and we recognize them the moment we see their faces but we have to pretend we don’t know who they are. On the other side of the coin, Hector also keeps our legal identities anonymous. My name at The Mirage is Ruby.

  I clear my throat. “Dr. Stud it is.” I glance back in the mirror and watch as Hector heads for the door.

  “Do a great job again tonight, then go home to get some rest. I’ll try to get more jobs in the white room for you tomorrow.”

  When I started working at The Mirage, I was a nervous wreck and Hector completely made me feel comfortable, telling me I didn’t have to be ashamed about what I was about to do because there are so many girls like me. I told him I’m only in it for the money and as soon as I pay off half my debts, I’m out.

  “That’s what they always say,” he’d said. “But most never leave.”

  “Trust me, I won’t be one of those girls,” I’d promised. Every day that I come to work, I remind myself of that promise.

  Once Hector is gone, I sink back onto the stool. My heart refuses to settle, so I stand again and approach the wall lined with our lockers. I open mine and reach in for my purse, rummaging inside until I locate the envelope. One of the many bills that keep me awake at night. It helps me focus, reminds me why I’m doing this. I have pressing bills to pay and I want to save up to get my GED and go to college immediately after. Things happened to me in the past, but I’d be damned if they stop me from becoming the person I want to be. My dream is to become a psychologist one day, to help people with mental illnesses, people like my mother.

  Mom died when I was eleven, driven to suicide by the depression she had fought for as long as I’d known her. Selling my body is the fastest way for me to make more money. The jobs I managed to land before The Mirage didn’t bring in enough money to enable me to both pay my bills as well as save up for college.

  I slide the envelope back into my purse and leave the dressing room, wearing nothing but a wine red padded bra, black panties, and a fake smile. My heart slams against my chest at the same time the heels of my stilettos come into contact with the worn-out wooden floor.

  I reach the end of the hallway and inhale deeply to calm my nerves. My body responds by pushing bile up my throat, repelling the concentration of sweet perfumes, body odor, and sex impregnating the air. My hand hovers over the door handle for a moment before it comes into contact with the metal. I adjust my smile and push open the door.

  Staying true to its name, the white room is splashed in various shades of white. Lily white flowing curtains spilling to the thick, eggshell carpet, and a massive round bed in the middle of the room covered in ivory silk. A round mirror is planted on the ceiling above the bed. White candles flicker in various corners of the room and a fresh bouquet of white calla lilies sits at the small table by the window. The room smells of flowers, burning candles, and cologne.

  Dr. Stud’s tall lanky body is positioned in the middle of the bed, his crooked smile bright as his gaze roams the length of my body. His clothes are draped on a leather armc
hair leaning against one wall. An expensive suit, shiny custom-made shoes and a cobalt blue shirt stand out against the white furniture.

  “Hector was right. You’re one of the best looking girls here.” He runs a hand down his naked chest. The man has no hair whatsoever on his pale body. The way it’s glistening in the candlelight, I wouldn’t be surprised if he waxes himself.

  “Thank you, babe.” I perch on the edge of the bed, cross my shapely legs, and twist to face him. “Which of your wishes do you want to come true tonight?” Every word I say to him sounds foreign and unnatural on my tongue but this is not about my comfort. It’s about how what I say makes him feel.

  “You’re a firecracker, aren’t you? My kind of girl.” He rests himself on one elbow, runs a thick tongue across his bottom lip. “My wish is for you to suck my toes one by one, slowly.”

  All kinds of men come to us with strange fetishes, but do I have a choice? Ignoring the turn of my stomach, I suck it up and position myself at his feet, my knees sinking into the carpet. The smell of sweat hides beneath several layers of his cologne.

  He flops onto his back with a contented sigh as I slide his salty, big toe into my mouth. My body heaves but I swallow down my disgust. Making noises to fool him into thinking I’m enjoying myself, I make my way from one salty toe to the next until I reach the small one. I move on to the next foot and give it the same treatment.

  “That’s right, baby, suck me good.” He’s obviously enjoying this as much as I’m hating it. A strong urge to bite one of his toes fills me.

  “What’s your name?” he asks, cutting through my thoughts.

  One of his toes pops out of my mouth when I raise my head. “I’m whatever you want to call me, babe.”

  “How about little cunt? Sound good to you?”

  My body jerks but not enough for him to notice. I’ve been called a lot of names in the last year. I should be used to this. “If that’s what you . . . what you want.” I lower my head again, continue my job from hell.