Coming Undone (Club Voyeur Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Other books by Holland Kohl

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  About the Author

  Behind my Mask Preview

  Chapter One

  Other books by Holland Kohl

  Club Voyeur Series

  Coming Undone

  Coming Together

  The Blood and Envy Series

  Behind my Mask

  Under my Skin

  Inside my Heart

  Coming Undone (Club Voyeur #1)

  Holland Kohl

  Copyright © 2016 by Holland Kohl

  Cover Design by Kari March Designs

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The copyright laws of the United States of America protect this book. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  Chapter 1

  “There’s nothing worse than a delayed flight to paradise.” I groaned and nudged my empty glass toward the bartender.

  Clad in last year’s skinny jeans that were more saggy than fitted and a black Ramones t-shirt, the bartender refilled my mimosa at a pace that matched his internal slow jam. He had the air of a waiter at an upscale restaurant, instead of a bartender at a place that served the Artery Clogger. In the little time we spent together, he drove my workaholic, type A ass, crazy.

  I took a sip of my drink and smiled at Skinny Jeans. It’s good. Now get the fuck out of my face.

  He arched an eyebrow. His fingers lazily tapped out the beat of some song only he knew.

  He wanted a tip, and I wanted to biff him in the head. We don’t always get what we want boys and girls. I rolled my eyes and glared at him until he got my drift and marched down the bar to pat down another customer for spare change. I would tip him, just not every time he got around to refilling my drink, which would probably be often. It was the day before the biggest interview of my life and I was stuck in an airport waiting for the fog to clear.

  If the weather could have just fucking cooperated, I would be reclining in business class mentally rehearsing for my interview. Instead, I was drinking my weight in watered down champagne and orange juice.

  Fuck you inclement weather!

  I gave JFK Airport and the weather gods the middle finger and a few other obscene gestures picked up from living in one of the most culturally diverse cities in the world.

  I loved cursing people out and flipping them off… in my head anyway. I mastered the art of sayings things like, “I understand your point,” and, “You’re right, my mistake,” all the while thinking, “Go fuck yourself,” or, “Eat shit and die.” I’m a real estate agent in Manhattan, which pretty much makes me a pro at dealing with difficult people and impossible situations.

  “World famine, nuclear war, hang nails, frizzy hair, fake orgasms, limp penises…” Marlowe, my best friend since forever, interrupted my pity party with a strange laundry list. She was a pro at saying provocative things to get attention.

  I stifled a giggle and scanned the room to make sure Marlowe’s potty-mouth hadn’t corrupted any young children. “Famine and limp penises? Marlowe, what the hell are you talking about and what could those two things possibly have in common?” I whisper yelled.

  “I’m just listing things worse than a delayed flight.” She quirked a mischievous grin and threatened, “I can go on.”

  I shook my head and chewed on the little red straw in my mimosa. “No need. Point taken.” God only knew what she could say next.

  “Come on Eva. This isn’t so bad, is it? We have fruity drinks and the bartender has a cute butt.” She wiggled her eyebrows and shouted loud enough for half of the bar to hear, including the bartender who looked like he was going to give himself a high five. Discretion was not Marlowe’s thing. Neither was restraint. I wouldn’t be surprised if she copped a feel of said butt before boarding the flight.

  “You have a point…about limp penises being virtually worthless.” I grinned and continued, “and you know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than sipping mimosas with my bestie. But, I completely disagree about the bartender. His butt is like two small apples wrapped in cellophane. And his legs, well, call me picky, but I’m just not into men who look better in skinny jeans than I do.”

  Or men who wax their body hair.

  Men who are indecisive.

  Men who live at home with their mothers.

  Men who lie.

  Men who are married.

  The list goes on.

  “Eva, picky is not the word for you.” Marlowe cocked an eyebrow and gave me her sassy tough love look. “No man could satisfy your list of prerequisites. That’s why you haven’t been laid in years. Every time I set you up on a date with someone, you have a million reasons why they’re not right for you.”

  “Come on,” I balked. “You’ve set me up with some doozies over the years.”

  “Like who?” Marlowe crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, throwing down the gauntlet.

  I accepted her challenge.

  Where to begin?

  I took another drink. I could go on for hours and didn’t want to get parched. “Let’s see. Where to start?” I drummed my fingers on the bar. “There was the stockbroker, who I like to refer to as Mr. Argument. He wanted to argue about everything, including things that were completely subjective, like which dessert tasted better and why the Mets deserved to win the World Series more than the Yankees.”

  “Okay. I can see how constant arguing might get annoying,” Marlowe admitted. “But, maybe he was amazing in bed, which would have totally made up for what he was lacking in the personality department. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Because you never let anyone get that far.”

  “Mar, why would I sleep with someone I couldn’t stand?”

  “Where do you think you are?” Marlowe’s eyes widened. “Practically everyone we know is fucking somebody they can’t stand.”

  I thought about all of our friends. She had a point. “Go on.” I took another drink and waited to hear my best friend dispel all of my preconceived notions about sex and love, or at least try to.

  “When people first start dating, they like each other and the sex is usually great. Everything is new and exciting.” Marlowe presented her treatise like it was fact.

  So far, so good. I nodded my head in agreement. It had been a few years, but I remembered the feeling.

  “But when people date long enough, like all of our coupled friends, they begin to hate each other. After awhile the only thing they have left in their relationship, the glue that holds them together, is good sex. So it doesn’t matter if you like the person from the beginning, because even if you do, you’re just going to end up hating them anyway. The only thing that matters in a relationship is the sex.” Marlowe winked and finished the remainder of her mimosa. “Am I right or what?”

  “So, you think I should have had sex with the dog walker who still lived at home with his Mom?” I poked a big gaping hole in her theory.

  “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with living with a parent in these tough economic times.”

  “They shared a studio apartment and,” I started giggling. “It’s so wrong. So wr
ong.”

  “What?” Marlowe grabbed my arm, her eyes widened as her grip tightened.

  “When he took me back to his place, I only saw one bed.” I snickered. “Bed sharing at thirty-five.”

  “Ouch. Sorry about that one. Not something I wanted to know about the man who walks my Nicki twice a day.” Marlowe liberally applied hand sanitizer like it would wash away the visual of her dog walker sharing a bed with his Mom. “Okay, I don’t blame you for not sharing your cookie with the dog walker.”

  “It’s a cookie now?” I asked, feeling totally out of the pop culture loop.

  “Would you rather me call it something technical, like V-A-G-I-N-A?”

  “No, you’re not a gynecologist.” I drummed my fingertips on my bottom lip. “I suppose cookie is fine.”

  Marlowe held up her empty drink and winked at the bartender.

  “Okay where were we?” Nobody could waylay a conversation like Marlowe.

  “We were just discussing all of the awesome men I’ve set you up with over the years.” She smiled and batted her eyelashes innocently.

  “Okay. I’m going to need a drum roll before we discuss my favorite blind date of all time.”

  Marlowe grinned and sputtered a few times before finally getting out a solid, “d-d-d-d-d-d-d.”

  “Andrew McCall, aka The Big Cheese. He smelled like dirty socks and Gouda, a deadly combination. During our date, I seriously contemplated making a drugstore run to get Vick’s Vapor Rub to put under my nose. I hear that’s what medical students use during human dissection. Should I have fucked him, you know, just to see if he was good in bed?”

  “Okay, you’ve said enough. My theory needs some refinement. In my defense, I never actually met the Big Cheese in person. Thank God.” Marlowe opened the little umbrella from her drink and twirled it between her fingers. “Maybe the blind dates weren’t all prince charming material, but there had to be one or two quality guys in the bunch.”

  I picked at my fingernails guiltily. There were a few guys I genuinely liked. I just wasn’t ready for a relationship at the time. I felt like a jerk for never going on a second date with anyone she set me up with, but I wouldn’t apologize for having high standards. Those standards became forged in steel two years ago when I had my heart shattered into a million little pieces.

  Instead of reminding Marlowe of the moment that officially killed my trust in men, I deflected. “You know I’ve been too busy at work to date. If we didn’t work together and you weren’t always dragging my ass out for drinks, I would have no social life to speak of.”

  “Eva, you have got to prioritize your life or you’re going to grow old and gray and have a million regrets. You need to start putting yourself first and your job third or fourth.”

  “What’s second?”

  Marlowe pointed at herself and looked at me like I just grew another head. “Duh, me of course. I’ve only been your best friend since the third grade. And as your BFF, I’m making it my personal mission to help you start living your life again. First order of business, I’m going to find you a hot piece in St. John this week.”

  “We’re not going to St. John on vacation. We’re going to the Kohler-Phillips real estate conference, remember?”

  My reminder fell on deaf ears. Skinny Jeans had Marlowe’s full attention, whispering something in her ear.

  Marlowe grinned at me and hopped out of her chair. “Watch my purse,” she mouthed, before walking around the bar. Holding hands with Skinny Jeans, they disappeared behind a door with an, Employees Only, sign.

  A true modern woman, Marlowe found enjoyment with all types of men. She refused to be slut-shamed and made no apologies for her frequent extracurricular activities. I wished I could be more like her - live a little, let go of my fears and lower my fences. For the past two years, all of my efforts had fallen flat.

  With my primary source of distraction doing God knows what, all of my insecurities held court in my mind. I knew how to sell real estate and had proven myself in New York City, one of the most competitive markets in the world, but did I have what it took to be the Executive Vice President of the new Paris office? Most days, I didn’t think so.

  The interview had been moved ahead by over a month to accommodate Monsieur Sauvage’s busy schedule. I used every spare second to study up on all things French, but I needed more time to learn the nuances of each arrondissement. I wasn’t a fly by the seat of my pants type of person. I didn’t follow my instincts. I prepared. Studied. Learned everything I could about my clients, the market, and the real estate. Without adequate time to get ready, all bets were off.

  I sighed into my drink and massaged my temples. I needed something stronger than a mimosa to ease my nerves. Signaling the new bartender, I ordered Lagavulin single malt. I took it neat. No ice. No water. I wasn’t in the habit of consuming scotch in the morning, or hanging out in airport bars for that matter, today was a day of exceptions.

  “Great things come to those who wait.” I swished the scotch around. The amber liquid coated the interior of the tumbler before sliding down the sides to pool at the bottom. Closing my eyes, I imagined starting over in Paris. It brought a smile to my face and eased my nerves.

  After draining the entire tumbler of scotch, I scanned the room trying to locate the bartender for another drink. A man brazenly watched me from across the bar. How did I not notice you earlier? His jet-black hair matched his eyes, which were unashamedly fixated on me. He could rival any male model with his roman nose and strong chiseled jawline, but something about the glint in his eyes and his self-assured posture screamed master of the universe. He was either an executive or self-employed, I would bet my job on it.

  Why was he looking at me?

  Insecurity trickled into my brain like insidious tendrils of smoke wafting up from an all-consuming fire. I had a decent level of self-esteem and spent a fair amount of time on my appearance, a must in the real estate world, but I knew we weren’t in the same league. Dark Eyes could date supermodels. I was more the girl next-door type. Besides, he would only end up breaking my heart and casting me aside for a better model when he was through with me. Not that I would let him near my heart, but still, he wasn’t to be trusted.

  I looked over my shoulder expecting to see a gorgeous blonde standing directly behind me.

  No blonde, or anyone else for that matter. The place had less than five customers.

  Why was he looking at me? A small, yet triumphant smile came out of nowhere and found a home on my lips. I bit my lower lip and tried to hide my mounting excitement. All efforts were futile. Even though I believed that my self worth came from within and couldn’t be bestowed by any man, getting eye fucked by Dark Eyes felt damn good. There was no way around it.

  I fiddled with my empty tumbler and surreptitiously peeked at him. He was laughing… at me?

  My eyes darted back to the tumbler.

  The bartender must have had ESP. She appeared out of nowhere and chose the perfect moment to refill my scotch. I took a quick sip and peeked at Dark Eyes again. My breath caught in my throat as our eyes met. The way he looked at me made me feel like he was thumbing through the pages of my life story. I didn’t want to be read. The last time I let someone in, he ruined me and damaged my ability to trust all men in the process. Two years of therapy later and I was still fucked up. The only difference was that now I had a cadre of psychological terms to describe my fear of getting close to someone. I looked away from Dark Eyes, fortifying my defenses.

  It would take more than a pretty face to get me to let my guard down.

  My phone was almost out of battery, so I fumbled through my purse trying to find a book or something to take my mind off from Dark Eyes. I came up empty handed. Because I couldn’t resist, or maybe I didn’t want to, my eyes darted back to him.

  Dark Eyes nodded, regarding me with amusement.

  You don’t have to marry him or anything. There’s no harm in a little flirting.

  Marlowe hijacked my sub-consc
ience and danced around my brain with a red cape and pitchfork. In a moment of weakness, fueled by Marlowe’s relentless quest to find me a man and the liquid courage that came with too many drinks, I looked directly at Dark Eyes and raised my glass in a silent toast.

  He raised his glass and nodded at me. Mirth lit up his features adding to his charm. He drank the rest of his drink in one gulp. I could imagine that sensuous mouth opening to drink me.

  I followed suit and finished my drink. Now what? I was a novice and he played in the major leagues. I fiddled with my charm bracelet and prayed Marlowe would come out of the closet to rescue me before I made a complete fool of myself.

  Blake Williams, my biggest competitor for the Paris job, provided a not-so-welcome answer to my prayer. “Miss Stone, what are you doing here?” He feigned surprise and plopped his fat ass down in Marlowe’s chair. He leaned forward, invading my personal space big time. The combination of his fetid breath and body odor made my stomach churn. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and disappeared into his unibrow.

  Gross.

  I fought the urge to cover my mouth and retch into my hand.

  Working in real estate, I had dealt with my fair share of misogynistic assholes. Blake was the biggest asshole of them all.

  At the annual Christmas party last year, he cornered me under the mistletoe and tried to do more than kiss me. I shuddered at the thought of his pudgy little hands grabbing my ass while slurring, “Come-on baby you know you want this.” His advance ended quickly. My jujitsu training took over and I kneed him in the balls without a second thought. I was willing to overlook the incident and write it off as too much to drink, but ever since that night Blake has had it in for me. Instead of being ashamed or apologizing, he started a smear campaign against me at the office.

  Keeping my emotions hidden, I countered, “I’m actually surprised to see you Blake. Taking your wife and kid on a vacation?” Part of me thought he would feel some guilt for his behavior in light of his marital status.