Barefoot Beach Box Set

Chapter 10: Christopher Sunday

Chapter 10: Christopher Sunday

June 7. I was putting the final formatting touches to a hundred and ninety-six-page novella called Rotunda, a bitter and tragic love story between two men by a French author named Jacques Versailles. A printing lot of three hundred copies was to be processed the following week. Each copy was to be signed and numbered by the writer. The pages were gold-gilded and the leather was imported from Europe. The end product, like the other TBP titles that had paid my bills, was going to be fabulous. Each copy would sell at $175.00. And the author would do a private reading following the tome’s release date in the middle of September. Again, TBP was to create a rare masterpiece and increase my bank account.

Vivian entered my office at approximately noontime. She sported an ear to ear grin that reminded me of a toothpaste commercial, a respectable business suit the color of midnight blue, and hair pulled up into a seductive and rather tight bun. “Mr. Shawford, there is a Mr. Christopher Sunday here to see you.”

The gaze I shared with her was of surprise, I was sure. My schedule was clear of any meetings, but that didn’t mean I wanted to have a sit-down with Christopher, since he was the last person I believed would request to see me, and unexpectedly.

My history with Christopher James Sunday was not at all a rainbow of splendid hues. Instead, Christopher and I had almost murdered each other while being boyfriends some three years before, fighting over the most trivial matters. The underwear model was drop dead handsome (even out of his clothes) and was not at all easy to get along with. He had light brown hair, topaz blue eyes, a narrow and sharp-sloped nose, and a corded neck. His ears were tiny and the man's eyebrows were shaped like thin rainbows. After eight months of ridiculous confrontations, rage based on self-induced jealousy, and alcoholism, our romance ended. No, it wasn’t at all pretty living with him for that short period of time, but like a drug in pill form it was potent with many side effects. In truth, Mr. Sunday was dangerous, irritating, and formidable on various levels. One could have easily proclaimed him a terrorist at heart, without compassion, somewhat demonic, and unneeded in anyone’s everyday life.

“Mr. Shawford,” Vivian said, gaining my attention. “Would you like to speak with Mr. Sunday?”

No, of course not. The man was horrible. Yes, he was sexy as hell, good looking, and knew how to use his c**k, but he was a lunatic in my opinion. I remembered the pain his actions had brought me. Christopher was vile, charming, mean-spirited, attractive, obnoxiously rude, and desirous. Why would I ever want to speak with him when I loathed the man, even if I did once love him?

Just as I was about to shake my head, insisting that I was not willing to have a brief and uncomfortable meeting with the underwear model, he appeared over my secretary’s right shoulder, beamed his handsome smile, and said, “Ian, how are you? How long has it been?”

Not to my surprise, he squeaked past Vivian and made his way inside my office. Once there, he sat in the chair across from the desk, grinned, and said, “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

I consumed his midsection again and decided his jockish shorts were far too snug against his package, and the summertime T-shirt against his chest was purchased in the boy’s department at a local department store.

Thereafter, I politely waved Vivian away. She closed the door and scuttled off, returning to her duties at her desk in the lobby. My attention was then drawn to my ex-boyfriend and his nauseating presence. “Christopher, make this worth my time” I said, which was curt, to the point, and not at all kind.

He chuckled in a rather cryptic way and said, “When have I not made something worth your time?” He spread his legs ever so slightly and adjusted the goods between his thighs with his right hand.

My mind recalled his d**k when it was hard and how he ground it against my bottom. Frankly, he was an asshole, but I was not about to sit across from him and deny that he didn’t know how to use his massive d**k. Not only was his c**k long but it was also thick: a whole two inches wide and lined with pulsating blue-red veins of delight. Feeling uncomfortable and nervous, I licked my lips and said, “What are you here for?”

“I’m glad you asked.” He drew his right palm up and over his plated chest, teasing me. Then he said, “I understand you know Brayden York, the realtor who lives in bungalow twenty-two. Is this true?”

I nodded. “Get this over with, Christopher. Make this short and sweet. Our gig ended a long time ago.” Caution was always necessary when it came to the man. No one, including me, really knew the full extent of his dangerous methods. He had the potential of loving me and backstabbing me all at the same time. No matter how big his c**k was, and how chaotically good it inflicted my rear, I had to be careful with the model, or end up being labeled foolish.

He said, “I’ve obviously stung you. Never did I think I was a hornet.”

I was nice and didn’t reply with a derogatory comment. My day was mediocre in tone and I didn’t want him to ruin it. Instead of coming across as being a d**k, I said, “I do know Brayden.”

He cleared his throat, blinked a few times, was semi-drunk by the smell of him, and asked, “Are you two f*****g?”

I shook my head. “No. Not that that is any of your business if we were.”

“You were never one to kiss and tell. Such an utter pity. I do admit that I was the fun one while we were together.”

I rolled my eyes, growing perturbed by his nerve-cutting comments, and asked, “Why do you want to know if I’m acquainted with Brayden?”

“I’m thinking of putting my bungalow up for sale. To my knowledge, Mr. York is buying up such properties left and right.”

I nodded, pleased that he had finally gotten to the point of his visit. “You’re right. He is.”

“And I was hoping you could tell him how interested I am in wanting to use his services.”

What I knew about Christopher was simple: he used people (particularly men) to his advantage and then kicked the gentlemen out of his life, gaining whatever he wanted from them. I translated his last comment in the most elementary format: he wanted to sleep with Brayden York to get the highest price for his bungalow; seduction was his goal; unlimited power over the realtor was necessary.

“He’s quite busy,” I said, lying, having no clue how occupied Brayden really was regarding his business schedule, but knew that Christopher’s antics were unethical. “Maybe you should think about going with a different realtor. I'm sure Brayden's plate is full.”

Christopher coughed into his left fist. Then he grinned like a bad boy (rounded cheeks, lifted lips, gleaming teeth) and said, “I rather like Mr. York, and I’m sure you know why.”

I did know why. Brayden was a good catch, just as Ging had said. And Christopher wasn’t stupid, knowing he could take advantage of the young man to get exactly what he wanted. In truth, if Christopher had to blackmail Brayden he would, since the model was not beneath lying, cheating, and stealing in his everyday life.

“Christopher, I'll give you one of Brayden’s business cards and suggest you call him yourself. I shouldn’t be placed in the middle.”

“I respect that, Ian. Thank you for your honesty,” he said, which more or less translated as: I’ve found out that the two of you aren’t f*****g around, which means I can plant my talons into the realtor’s shoulders and overpower him.

“Are we done here now?”

He stood, grabbed his d**k through its fabric, gave the prize a gentle squeeze, and readjusted himself. Then he said, “Something tells me we’re just getting things started between us, Ian.”

I wanted to ask him what he meant by his statement, but he had already walked out of my office, waving goodbye and having an air about himself that screamed of menace. As quickly as the man arrived, he was now gone, which was like every relationship he had shared with any guy in his life after he selfishly obtained what he wanted from them.