Chapter 58
The inside of the stretch limo smelled like leather and Richard's scotch and the white floral perfume they'd sprayed all over Brett on the plane.
Brett slid in on shaking legs, the white silk robe gaping open over the push-up bra and garter belt, the six-inch white Louboutins catching on the carpet. He kept his eyes down, staring at the red soles of his shoes, at his white-tipped toes in the sheer stockings, anywhere but at the man waiting for him.
Richard didn't speak at first. He just looked. His blue eyes — Lance's eyes, but colder, crueler — traveled slowly from Brett's freshly curled blonde hair, down his made-up face, over the swell of his breasts pushed up in the white lace bra, over the flat plane of his stomach, over the garter straps biting into thighs that were already losing their softness without estrogen.
Brett felt every inch of that look like a hand.
"Close the door," Richard said quietly.
The driver closed it. The locks clicked.
The limo pulled away from the private terminal, smooth and silent, and Brett's heart hammered so hard he was sure Richard could see it beating under the lace.
Richard reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a small white velvet box.
Brett's breath hitched. For one insane second he thought — a ring? — then hated himself for the hope.
Richard opened it.
Inside, on white satin, lay a choker. Not jewelry. Not the pearl comb from his wedding. A wide white satin band, bridal-looking from a distance, with a small platinum ring in the front. And hanging from that ring, in tiny cursive script etched into the metal, two words.
slutty tramp
Brett's stomach turned over.
"Lift your hair," Richard ordered.
Brett didn't move. He couldn't. He sat frozen in his wedding lingerie, his hands fisted in the silk robe, his made-up face pale under the spray tan.
"Brett," Richard said, using his real name like a weapon, his voice still soft, still controlled. "I told you to submit. Lift. Your. Hair."
Slowly, with hands that shook so violently he could barely grip the soft waves, Brett lifted his honey blonde hair off his neck, exposing the long, pale column of his throat.
Richard leaned forward, the scent of scotch stronger now, and fastened the choker around Brett's neck. The satin was soft, but the click of the tiny clasp sounded like a cell door.
It sat heavy and tight, the platinum ring cold against Brett's pulse. The words slutty tramp rested right in the hollow of his throat, where Lance used to kiss him and whisper "my beautiful wife."
Brett almost left.
His hand flew to the door handle, his body screaming to run, to get out of the limo in his stockings and heels and run barefoot across the tarmac back to Lance.
He almost screamed.
The sound built in his chest, a raw, animal sob of humiliation and terror, ready to tear out of his cherry-red lips.
He almost vomited.
The bile rose hot and sour, burning the back of his throat, his stomach heaving under the tight garter belt.
Instead, Richard cupped his jaw in one large, manicured hand, his thumb stroking over Brett's painted cheekbone, his blue eyes locked on Brett's terrified ones.
"First order of the day," Richard said, his voice low and intimate and absolute. "Kiss me, bitch."
The word bitch landed like a slap. Not pet. Not Brielle. Bitch.
Brett's eyes filled, tears spilling instantly, black mascara tracking down his perfectly contoured cheeks in ruinous streaks. His whole body trembled in the white silk robe, in the lingerie that felt foreign and wrong on a body that was already shifting back toward male without hormones, in the choker that labeled him exactly what Richard believed he was.
He thought of Lance at home, trusting, waiting, thinking his wife was with a girlfriend.
He thought of the five-million-dollar check in the folder on Richard's plane.
He thought of the empty vial of estrogen in their bathroom trash in Kalispell, and the way his own breasts now felt like "girl parts" that didn't belong to him anymore, and the way his mind was going flat and male and distant.
He thought of his wedding ring, sitting in a black velvet pouch in Mara's pocket.
And then, because he had sold himself for twenty-four hours, because he had said "Yes, Sir," because he had nowhere left to run, Brett leaned forward.
He closed his eyes. He parted his cherry-red lips. And he took Richard's tongue.
Richard kissed him like he owned him — hard and deep and claiming, one hand fisted in Brett's freshly curled hair, the other sliding inside the white silk robe to palm Brett's breast through the push-up bra, squeezing the tender, shrinking tissue until Brett whimpered into his mouth.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a conquest.
Brett tasted scotch and power and his own tears, and he hated himself with every second his tongue moved against Richard's, with every broken little sound he couldn't hold back, with every inch his body betrayed him by not pulling away.
When Richard finally let him up for air, Brett was sobbing openly, his makeup ruined, his lipstick smeared, the white choker with slutty tramp in cursive digging into his throat with every ragged breath.
Richard smiled against his wet cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear only to smear it further.
"Good girl," Richard whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Twenty-three hours and fifty-eight minutes to go, pet."
The limo turned onto the highway, carrying Brett away from the airport, away from Lance, away from the last piece of the man who'd walked down the aisle in Chantilly lace.
Brett sat in his white wedding lingerie, wearing another man's collar, his husband's ring gone from his finger, and stared out the tinted window at Montana blurring past, and wondered how much more of himself he would have to kill before morning.…