André opened the car door for Emily, and closed it after she got in. With a graceful stride, (that Paul decided he didn’t think looked graceful at all, in fact, it looked prissy), the Frenchman said goodbye and got into the driver seat. Emily waved at Paul through the passenger window, as they drove away.
Impotent and confused, Paul stared after them. Was she safe with that guy? Why hadn’t he stopped her? He should have done something.
What am I thinking? I don’t want Emily. I’ve never wanted her like that, he told himself, burning with rage. Fine by me. To hell with Emily, or Candy or whoever the fuck she is. I’ll just go have sex with Marilyn.
But he didn’t want to, really. His cock didn’t even twitch at the thought.
Margo stopped to ask him something and Paul was forced to deal with a few issues on the floor, before he could escape. His fists were tightly clenched the whole time. The anger that smoldered inside of him only increased with every minute that passed. By the time he returned to his office, he was in a towering rage.
Pacing up and down his father’s office, Paul was consumed by the most violent and confused emotions he had ever experienced. The target of all this building fury kept changing. He was furious with himself for being duped, for wanting Emily, for allowing himself to get so worked up over her, and for being jealous.
And he was furious with Emily for tricking him. How dare she say she’s sorry for what she did, and then just run off with that rich, smarmy bastard?
It dawned on him that his greatest anger just then, was directed toward the unknown Dom. Who did he think he was anyway? Paul knew that he would feel better if he could just take the French pussy by the throat and choke the life out of him.
Paul told himself that he was better off to be rid of Emily. Let the cradle snatching bastard have her. Jesus, he’d been conflicted about sleeping with a woman he’d thought of like a sister. But that bastard Chevalier, he may as well be Emily’s father!
In the back of his mind, Paul knew that this was an exaggeration and justification of his misplaced rage. However, an angry man rarely stops to let facts get in the way of his fury.
All of these emotions and impulses culminated in an overwhelming surge of violence that couldn't be held inside. With sudden and uncontrollable wrath, Paul growled, "Fuck this shit!" Then he swept his arm quickly and violently across his workspace, knocking the computer, keyboard, monitor, and a host of other paraphernalia and supplies off the desk.
It made an extraordinarily satisfying crash when it hit the floor. This brief and violent outburst gave him slight satisfaction, yet the pleasure of such wanton destruction didn’t last. Guilt slipped in for such unjustified waste, but hell. The equipment was old crap anyway. It needed replacing.
Paul’s mind moved back toward vengeance, but this time, not toward André fucking Chevalier. Suddenly, he realized, that more than anything, he wanted to discipline that wicked sub.
Paul imagined putting Emily over his knee and spanking her senseless. He burned to punish her until she was really sorry. Detailed images of how he would correct her, poured through his mind. Somehow, after that, she’d end up on her knees, sobbing and begging. Shamelessly, pleading for his forgiveness.
Well, she wouldn’t get it.
Letting her off easy, and showing mercy didn’t figure into these pleasing mental images. The woman would have to work for his forgiveness. Instead he’d fist that soft, short hair of hers and fuck her mouth until he came. This appealing and complex vengeance fantasy soothed him… right until he remembered that he didn’t want her.
Shit.
After an hour or so, his anger burned itself out, and his mind began to rationalize his behavior. Emily had taken pictures of him, had stalked him, and seduced him through a carefully choreographed web of lies. She couldn’t be trusted. Paul thought of Emily as being too young, but clearly, she was no longer a child. She was a grown woman.
The phone rang, dragging him out of his black mood.
“Hello? Is this Paul Jarman?”
“Yes.”
“This is Lawrence Abercrombie, with ‘Whipple, Long and Young,’ attorneys at law. I’m your father’s lawyer. You called about making an appointment.”
“Yes.”
“Will tomorrow, at four o’clock be convenient for you?”
“That’s fine.”
“Mr. Jarman, I have detailed instructions from your father in the event of illness, death or disability. I understand that you’ve taken over the helm of his business?”
“Yes.”
“Your father left a letter explaining his Will, yet you’re only allowed to read this letter after his demise. As he is physically unfit at this time to manage his business, I am, however, allowed to impart one specific detail over the phone.”
“Really? That sounds peculiar.”
“I’m not at liberty to express my opinion on this matter. I have been instructed to tell you, indeed to show you, your father’s Will. I’ll give you a copy of it at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“He’s not dead.”
“Yes, but he is currently incapacitated. I regret to inform you, Mr. Jarman, that your father has cut you out of his Last Will and Testament. You have no entitlement toward his business, his bank accounts or his personal property, including his home.”
Paul’s mind reeled over this final knockout blow.
At least twenty questions came into his mind, as well as a hundred irrelevant comments. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. No words came. Paul frowned and for one profound instant, thought that maybe he was drunk or dreaming. Finally, one question surfaced, the most important question he could consider.
“Who is the beneficiary of my father’s Will?” Paul said, his detached and emotionless voice echoing in his ears.
“A woman named Emily Malone.”
Chapter 36. Stalking
Paul’s thoughts were spinning. Nothing made any sense. Stunned, he sat down heavily on the leather chair, attempting to gather his wits.
Marilyn’s nasty comment about Emily, originally instantly dismissed, now echoed in his ears: ‘I honestly think that she’s trying to get in good with your dad. I think she’s got him to change his Will. She looks innocent, but she’s really sneaky underneath all that. I’m just saying, I don’t trust her.’
Emily had always been kind, sweet and caring. Could three years change a person that much? Make them totally self-centered? Seeing her worrying and crying over his father, she was either an Academy Award actress, or genuine.
I don’t know who Emily is anymore, he thought. She’s transformed physically, from a girl to a woman. Maybe she’s different on the inside, as well.
The Emily Paul knew throughout their childhood, would never even consider going after his father’s money. Her relationship with Tom was based on her caring nature. She quit school to look after her mother, for Christ’s sake. These things are not the actions that a selfish person would take.
Yes, she came to Cabo San Lucas, intentionally planning to deceive him in order to experience one night of sex. That, he understood, after reading her email. Paul knew about obsession, himself. He knew Emily had a crush on him, he’d even rejected her. But he never had any idea how completely Emily had fallen for him.
But going after his dad’s money? Marilyn? Sure. But Emily?
No. I could never believe that of her.
His mind reflected over the various emails they had sent back and forth between Candy and himself. All that time he’d been communicating with Emily.
That last knockout blow from the lawyer had sobered him, somehow. After one loses everything, what do they have left?
What was valuable in life? A job? A home? Financial security? Health? Family? Paul had seen interviews of people who were homeless due to fire. One by one, they said it was just ‘stuff’ and they still had their wife, their kids, or whatever.
Even with the life-changing losses they suffered, they appeared inexplic
ably liberated. Freed by the sudden certainty of what was truly important.
I’ve lost my dad, my job, my home, my childhood friend, and the woman I was falling in love with.
It certainly did change his outlook. And what was valuable in his life? Everything came back to Emily. Could she have deliberately done this?
No. I know Emily, he thought.
It was a mind-blowing revelation. Sister, lover, best friend. Regardless of whatever he’d been to her, and whatever he was now, Paul really knew Emily better than anyone else in the whole wide world.
Maybe this was all because of the Frenchman. Was the cradle robber exerting undue influence? Was it Chevalier that was after his dad’s money? Perhaps he convinced Emily that if she stole away the family fortune, then Paul would marry her?
He was grasping at straws but at least that made some sort of sense. Emily still wanted him, he was certain of that. Such passionate, long term fixations don’t go just away overnight. But would she stoop to going after his dad’s money?
Even with the Frenchman pushing her, it still seemed unbelievable.
Women are untrustworthy, Paul reminded himself. They say one thing and mean another. It’s better to be single. Yet even now, that didn’t seem to apply to Emily.
So many emotionally charged subjects. His father, his father’s Will, Emily and her sexy alter ego, Candy – not to mention the fact that Emily was out with a Dom who planned to train her to orgasm on command.
It was all too much to deal with.
He called his friend, Jai, and left him a message to call him back. Jai was on vacation in a big way. There was no telling where he was, or what he was up to. Jai would get back to him later.
Paul soon found himself outside of the Devil’s Lake Holiday Inn, not even sure how he’d gotten there. He was looking for André Chevalier, and looking for a fight. His temper, and his overpowering rage had built to alarming proportions.
The target of his fury now had one focus, and one focus alone: André Chevalier.
Chevalier wasn’t an old man, sick in the hospital like his father; nor was he a woman, younger than himself. At least Chevalier, money grubbing, cradle robbing bastard that he was, could take his punishing blows. Paul wanted to beat him into the ground, to pulverize the bastard, and make him bleed, beg and weep. Maybe if he brought Chevalier to his knees, he would feel better.
When he checked inside the hotel, the Frenchman could not be found. Paul resolved to wait for him. The bastard would come here eventually. Until then, he decided to remain in a secluded grassy area, where he had a clear view of the front door to the Inn.
Unfortunately, Paul could only imagine what Emily and the Frenchman were up to. Bastard! The thought added fuel to his fury, and filled him with dread and nausea.
After an hour of wretched reflection, he was cold and hungry, and his anger had dwindled to embers. Life had no meaning, or purpose. What was the point? If Chevalier didn’t arrive soon, Paul resolved to go to the nearest bar and get totally wasted.
“Do you wait for me, mon ami?”
At the sound of that accent, the embers of Paul’s anger flared to life instantly and with a vengeance. His body heated like a furnace and his vision blurred with rage. For the last few days he’d felt confused, ill-tempered, and miserable.
Right now he finally had a target for all of his angst.
“You bastard!” Paul snarled. He turned and threw a clenched fist toward André’s face, without taking the time to get into a fighting stance.
André ducked, dodging the blow by a narrow margin. As Paul moved forward with the momentum of his fist, André, reacting swiftly, landed a solid left punch to his ribs.
Paul grunted, then turned toward him with maniacal grin spread across his face. The Frenchman’s blow hurt, and something about that pain was exquisitely satisfying. Yes, he thought. This is just what I need.
“You are jealous, Monsieur? Is that what angers you?”
“No, I’m not jealous,” he snapped back at him, his fury taking over. “Emily’s a lying, greedy bitch. You can have her. In fact, all women are untrustworthy bitches. They lie and cheat and will nail anything that moves.” Paul knew that he was spouting bullshit, but it felt good to be angry with the whole world.
“Perhaps it is just that she prefers the company of a man, rather than the childish little boy.”
Enraged, Paul lunged at him, this time throwing a heavy right punch. André leaned back and easily evaded the blow, but he wasn’t ready for the next one. A sweeping left hook landed mercilessly, and Paul felt a satisfying thud as his fist crunched into the side of André’s head.
Paul turned toward his opponent, expecting to see him crumbling to the ground.
Instead, he saw André’s fist a scant second before it smashed into his face knocking him backwards and onto his ass.
“You are strong, mon ami, but I fear strength is not all that is required when in a fight. Finesse and intelligence are two pugilistic attributes of which you are sadly lacking.”
Enraged, Paul leapt to his feet, oblivious to the blood already flowing from his nose.
With anger burning through him, he advanced, this time more warily. Paul had boxed for a couple of years, and he was starting to perceive that his adversary had some experience, too.
Well, we’ll see who has no finesse, he thought, I’m going to tear this fucker apart!
Paul feinted with a left jab, then an overhand right, before a strong punch to the body found its mark just below André’s ribs. He heard André grunt as the hit landed, but he didn’t let up. Again and again, Paul threw punches at his opponent, bashing and pummeling him in a flurry of strikes.
Paul totally let go. All of his energy, all of his pent up rage was unleashed. Exhilarated, a primal, animal euphoria overcame him. All he wanted to do was smash and kill.
In his blind fury, Paul didn’t notice that very few of his strikes were actually doing damage. André was deflecting or evading most of his attacks, turning one way, then another, so the full force of Paul’s onslaught was being dissipated.
Suddenly, André sidestepped, and Paul’s fist hit nothing but air.
Even through a rage induced haze, a part of Paul’s brain registered that whatever was about to happen next was going to hurt.
And it really did.
Chapter 37. Ouch
Crack!
André’s elbow crashed into the side of Paul’s face, cutting him open just below his eye socket. A vicious uppercut followed almost immediately after, but Paul’s training kicked in, and he managed to take the impact on his forearms rather than his chin.
Still keeping his guard up, Paul stepped back to put some space between himself and his adversary. Sweating and exhausted, both men were weakening under this exertion. Breathing heavily, and virtually panting, they circled one another, getting back their wind.
“When you say, ‘Women are untrustworthy bitches. They lie and cheat and will nail anything that moves.’ Do you know what I hear from your lips? Listen now, for I shall tell you. I hear you speak these words: ‘I am an untrustworthy bastard. I lie and cheat and nail anything that moves.’”
Paul lunged at him. “Fuck you!”
“Oui, it is true. You speak of yourself.”
Paul’s straight left slammed into André’s nose, snapping his head back. Before André could recover, Paul changed his target and landed a series of punches to André’s abdomen, crushing the air right out of him. As André struggled to protect himself, Paul switched back, hitting André in the face with a lightning fast series of hooks and uppercuts.
Paul had the upper hand now, and nothing was going to stop him from destroying this man that he hated, the perceived source of his pain.
An incomprehensible string of French expletives came from his enemy as he slammed punch after punch into André. Many were still being blocked, but more than enough punishing blows were getting through the guard of the resolute Frenchman to cause damage.
; Just when Paul was certain that the battle was almost over, and his enemy couldn’t take much more, something unexpected happened.
André crouched down, shot forward, and grabbed both of Paul’s legs, lifting him into the air. “Mon ami,” he said with a grunt of effort. “I think that perhaps, I have had enough of your punches, for the moment. We shall change the game a little, no?”
André slammed Paul to the ground, lying flat on his back. The soft grass stopped the impact from crippling him, but the air was still crushed from his lungs. While Paul was still reeling, André nimbly scrambled on top, sitting down heavily on his chest.
Paul feebly attempted to throw punches at his assailant, but with André on top of him, his blows lacked any power. André batted them away easily.
“No, no, mon ami! That is not good! You will never be able to hurt me like that! I see that perhaps you have trained to box, but you have not learned what it is to wrestle, no? To box is very well, but a man must also know how to fight from the ground.”
Unheeding of anything the Frenchman said, Paul continued his ineffective assault on the enemy sitting upon his chest.
“Ah, eh bien! And still, you do not listen to me! I think perhaps I shall stop these arms from moving, until you are ready to talk.”
With that, André grabbed Paul’s arm, and then André spun gracefully onto his back. He locked one leg over Paul’s neck, and the other under his spine. Straightening Paul’s arm, André pulled it until it was fully extended, painfully hyper-extended in fact.
“Bon! And so, you perceive that I simply arch my back, et viola! I apply as much or as little force to your most vulnerable and sensitive elbow joint as I wish,” André explained calmly, despite panting with exertion as much as Paul was.
Just then, it seemed to Paul that the Frenchman wanted to apply a serious amount of force!
“Arrrrgggh!” cried Paul as André overstretched his elbow, almost to breaking.