Easy Virtue by Mia Asher
Are you ready for Blaire?
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Love is selfish...
My name is Blaire.
I'm the bad girl.
The other woman.
The one who never gets
the guy in the end.
I'm the gold digger.
The bitch.
The one no one roots for.
The one you love to hate.
I hate myself too...
Everyone has a story. Are
you ready for mine?
With champagne and caviar
inundating my every sense, I slither through the light wooden floors of the Lila
Acheson Wallace Wing in The Met. As I walk, I pretend to admire the expensive
jewelry being showcased tonight by a famous designer whose name I can’t
remember. A multicolored diamond butterfly sparkles to my left and a cobra made
out of black stones glistens to my right. Rows upon rows of precious gems twinkle
under the soft lights of the room, flooding the space between the walls with
the glow of a thousand stars. Furtive glances. Secrets gossiped. Beauty
criticized. Lofty music fills the atmosphere as the über rich mingle and
pretend to like each other, yet you can almost taste their conceit and derision
for one another in the air.
This
is Walker’s world, and I love it.
Standing
across the room, where the crowd is thinner and the music fainter, I spot
Walker’s blond head in the corner of the room, talking to a group of his
colleagues and their wives. He looks polished and worth every penny of his
trust fund in his sleek black tuxedo, perfectly starched white shirt and black
bowtie. His long golden hair parted to the side shines like the sun. He is
truly flawless.
I
smile because it’s hard to picture that this is the same guy who likes to snort
coke off my tits as he fucks me while hardcore porn plays in the background. He
looks untouchable and so cool, but his searching eyes, scanning the crowd for
me give him up. He’s wondering where I am. He did tell me not to go too far,
after all. Soon after we arrived at the party, I gave him some space to talk to
his friends and do his thing while I did mine. I hate clingy people, so I avoid
being one.
I
grab a third flute of champagne from a passing waiter, and try to decide which
of the different displays to check out first when my eyes land on a spectacular
piece of jewelry. On a bed of black silk, similar to my hair color, lies an
extravagant necklace made of diamonds and rubies—a small heaven within one’s
reach as long as you can afford the price.
I
bridge the space between the glass protecting the necklace and me until it’s
within my reach, fighting the urge to touch the cool surface. As if under a
spell, I observe how the rows of diamonds embedded in platinum form leaves and
thorns. At its center is a rose made out of red diamonds almost as big as my
palm.
I
feel someone walk up and stand next to me, but I don’t give him or her a second
thought as I continue to admire the way the light hits the gems, making them
shine.
“Beautiful,
isn’t it?”
His
voice is smooth and commanding, dripping absolute power. I keep my eyes locked
on the display. Call it sixth sense, but somehow I know that under no
circumstance should I make eye contact with the stranger who speaks like the
ruler of the world.
“Yes,”
I say simply.
“I
wonder how much it is?” the man asks.
“I
don’t think it matters … I highly doubt anyone can afford it.”
He
chuckles, and the sound is more delicious than his voice. Lusher. “Oh, but I
can.”
I
smile at his self-assurance. I love cocky assholes. “I still doubt it.”
“You
shouldn’t. I only speak the truth,” he retorts coolly. His voice is nonchalant
yet his words leave no room for disbelief—a demand and a statement all in one.
Suddenly,
the noises of the room become distant. People talking and laughing amongst
friends and the orchestra playing all fade away until all I hear is him
speaking.
And
at this moment, that is all that matters.
“The
truth is very subjective, sir.”
“The
truth may be subjective but money isn’t. Money can buy anything.”
His
answer is like an electroshock, jumpstarting my brain from a champagne-induced
haze. My pulse begins to accelerate, excitement making it hard to take a deep
breath. Don’t look at him … don’t.
“Oh
really,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. He’s right, though.
“Of
course. I believe everything,” he pauses, “and everyone has a price.”
Curiosity
winning the battle against curiosity, I turn to face him, and what a fucking
big mistake that is. When our eyes meet, I feel incapacitated of all sense and
movement. The sight of him takes my breath away. This man gives the term “lust
at first sight” a whole new meaning.
In my short twenty-three years, I’ve
been with extremely handsome men, perfect even, but to classify the man
standing next to me in any kind of category would be a disservice to him, and
not really fair to the others. Longish, light brown hair wildly framing his
face, vacant eyes the color of dollar bills, a slightly crooked nose, and a
mouth that begs to be buried deep within your thighs. His beauty is as harsh as
it is stunningly perfect. Dressed in a simple black tuxedo and unbuttoned white
shirt, the man exudes innate virility and grace, reminding me of a black
panther stalking his prey. And just like a panther, it’s the pure raw and
powerful energy emanating from within him that I find most attractive. Because
just by standing next to him, I get the sense that his word is always the last
spoken and his wishes the first ones to be fulfilled. He doesn’t ask, he
demands. He doesn’t hope, he expects.
He’s quiet for a moment; his uncanny
eyes hold me captive as though they are baring my soul to him and I hate it. I
tighten my hold on the crystal flute. I want to look away, but I can’t. The way
he’s staring at me makes me want to squirm.
“I
wonder … do you have one?” he asks softly before turning to examine the piece
of jewelry once more.
“A
what?” I ask, momentarily stunned.
He
smiles. “A price.”
“For
the right amount … I just might,” I say quietly, my heart beating so fast it
feels as though it wants out of my chest. As soon as the words leave my mouth,
there’s no shock coursing down my body, no rolling waves of shame pulling me
down for having said that to a complete stranger—nothing.
And
why should there be? I am who I am.
I’m
staring at his profile, waiting for him to acknowledge my answer, when a breeze
of cool air floats past us, making me shiver. About to chase the goose bumps on
my arm with my hand, I watch as he slowly turns to look at me, catching me
staring at him. Time stands still as I watch him raise his large tanned hand
and touch my bare shoulder, his fingertips lightly grazing the temporary small
bumps covering it. Then he smiles as if he knows that my skin is tingling from
his scalding touch, and looks away.
“I
thought so.”
We
remain standing next to each other for another minute or so, the distance
between us almost nonexistent. It would be so easy to reach out and hold his
hand. The sound of an incoming call breaks the silence, bringing us back to
reality.
He
takes his cell phone out of the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket and ignores
the call after noting the name of the caller. He lifts his gaze to meet my own.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s
okay. I should go … I’m here with someone,” I reply, not really wanting to
leave him just yet.
“Yes,
that’s probably a good idea.”
I
frown. He didn’t have to be quite so blunt. The stranger extends a hand toward
me, holding something in his fingers.
“Here
… ”
I
open my hand as I feel the edges of what I assume is his business card poke the
skin of my palm. “What’s this?” I ask stupidly.
“My
business card, of course.”
“Obviously
… but why?”
He
smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s just say that I’m an interested
buyer.”
And
then he’s gone.
He
turns and walks away from me, disappearing into a sea of colorful gowns and
black suits. As the sounds of the party infiltrate my ears once more, I lower
my gaze to stare at the simple cream-colored card in my hand. Its simplistic
and elegant design draws attention to the name printed in bold black letters on
the paper.
Lawrence
Rothschild.
I
smile and let my fingertips trail his name. It depends on what you’re willing
to pay, Mr. Rothschild.
Published by Mia Asher
Copyright © 2013 by Mia
Asher
Causing pain to others when I’m suffering soothes me.
In honesty, I should have a bone to pick with Mia Asher. I wasn't aware Easy Virtue contained and a triangle (of sorts) and relationship overlapping (to some degree). I don't enjoy reading about those subjects. That is, I don't usually enjoy reading about those subjects.
In this case the author has managed to not only make me enjoy them but has written it in a way that for me personally, it almost takes a back seat to what has to me one of the most interesting and complicated characters I've read about in a while; Blaire White.
So am I calculating? Yes, completely. I’m a gold digger, but I’m also smart. Love fades … or it’s selfish … or unkind … but a diamond, a diamond will last forever.
She has no qualms in manipulating whom ever she needs to get what she wants.
Although it's the material possessions she reveres, in truth I believe it's the validation she needs; she almost interprets it as her own form of justice. Having been the outcast in her younger years, her appearance which once made her a target for bullies is now her most valuable asset. She plays to her strengths and any moments of weakness are quickly quashed by her fear of returning to or having nothing.
However, fear isn’t a bad thing. Because fear prevents me from getting hurt over and over again—from being careless with my emotions.
I can't help but ponder on how much of herself she's had to sacrifice for her need to be on top. Is she even even capable of love? It's seems so, but in true Blaire style her actions serve to dissuade me. As much as I believe she may want to move forward emotionally, she is also the enemy of her own progress. As much as I think I dislike her, I pity her. She's a victim of her own self doubt and need for acceptance wrapped up in a hard beautiful shell and I can't wait for it to crack.
Love is selfish. Love is unkind. Love hurts.
My name is Mia Asher.
I'm a writer, a hopeless romantic, a wanderer, a dreamer, a cynic, and a believer. And, oh yes…I might be a bit crazy - but who isn't?
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