4. Willow

Islide inside my inner-city apartment, my back against the door as it closes, slipping off the designer heels that were just not made to be worn for that number of hours. I’m lucky. My parking space costs more a year than a lot of people’s rent, and although the apartment is mine and in my name, it was absolutely not bought and paid for by me. Instead, it was a gift from my parents for graduating.

I’m Willow Rutherford. The only daughter of Senator Rutherford. I almost never announce my last name because it makes a room go silent when I do, and I’ve never felt comfortable with it. My brothers have no issues, they dine on it every single chance they get and then some. Maybe the problem is that I’m more like my grandmother, perhaps because of the time I spent studying outside the US. Or maybe it’s just a switch in my brain that causes me to shudder at the thought of having to use the name Rutherford to get somewhere in life.

Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful. I know my privilege. I’m under no illusions about the opportunities it gives me: my career, my apartment, and even my looks, due to the nose I had straightened at sixteen.

I don’t undervalue it, but and I certainly don’t see it as a right.

The privilege causes a distance, though, between me and my family. A coldness we have all grown to accept, and this has been made harder because I am the only girl of five. My parents’ one hope for a daddy’s girl, or the best friend my mom always wanted in a daughter. We tried, repeatedly, but their values were so different from my own. I was consistently disappointed by both of them, so I worked on creating distance between us.

It was a transition. I spent less time at the enormous family estate and more time taking a quick lunch. Accepting a drop-off with a smile. Checking in by phone rather than meeting up for dinner. Time, patience, and politeness have been the real key to cementing the relationship we have now, though there have been times when the boundaries have been crossed.

I drop my keys into the bowl and start to peel off my clothing as I meander my way through my apartment, opening the fridge to disappointment because the health-kick me did the shopping this week. As I sip on cold water and snack on some low-everything bar that certainly isn’t giving me the sugar rush I crave, I think about her. The dark haired dancer from the club.

I have experimented with my sexuality, as most girls do at an all-girls boarding school. Being overseas gave me the freedom to explore and the reassurance that my parents were not likely to hear about it on the ivy league social grapevine.

But I had never experienced a reaction like that--not just to a woman, but to anyone.

My brief sexual dalliances with girls began and ended in boarding school. Once I returned to the States, I was hyper-focused on studying and didn’t think about dating at all. However, my mother had other ideas and every so often I would cave and date the next preppy “Good future husband and father to my children” that she chose for me, but I had a three-month rule. Anything more than three months and expectations became solid. You were on a path.

So as soon as those ninety days were over, I gracefully excused myself from the man’s life with the promise that it wasn’t him, it was me. (Spoiler: It was him. They were all awful.) I told him I hoped he would find all he was looking for in life. (That was a lie, too, because I couldn’t have cared less.)

And that had been my dating life to date. Sex-wise I’m not a nun. I occasionally hook up with guys who are not Rutherford-approved, but who satisfy an ache. Or else a vibrating variety of pleasure I keep tucked away for rainy days. But I have never looked at a woman, not really, the way I had found myself looking at her.

It wasn’t just the fact she was the sexiest woman I had ever seen. It was the way she held herself like she didn’t care if she was or wasn’t sexy to anyone else, only that she felt it. And that, in turn, made me feel it. That made my body ache for her in ways I had only begun to imagine.

I had wanted to step up on that stage and touch her, taste her, devour her. Not just her body, but her thoughts, her mind, her story.

Is it because the nature of what she does is designed to create desire and arousal? It can’t just be that, because I saw a number of dancers that night who held no interest for me.

Just her. She was exquisite, in every way. My body had felt alive with desire when I watched her dance. I hadn’t been able to look away for a second as she threw herself around the pole, quickly then slowly, as though she was making love to the pole itself. I wanted her to ride my face in the way her lovely long thighs rode that pole.

Her body was almost impossibly beautiful. She looked too perfect to be real, as though she had been made artificially--although there was nothing to suggest cosmetic surgery. Her breasts were big, full, and round and and they swayed in a way that suggested they were real. Her waist was tiny and then her hips flared out into a beautiful feminine hourglass shape, topped off by her beautiful beautiful ass--as full and round and peachy as any I had ever seen.

Her eyes were this incredible dark blue like none I had ever seen before. She fixed her gaze on me a couple of times as she danced and we had a moment, just a moment where time froze and I thought we had a connection. I thought I could see into her soul for a split second--and then it was gone.

I wanted more.

I want more.

When she rolled her tiny panties down I couldn’t draw my gaze away. I felt my mouth watering as I looked at her pussy. I felt bereft as the room went dark and the sight of her body was taken away from me.

As I come back to the present moment and put the water away, I shake my head. I make my way to bed, knowing full well that I will not sleep properly again until I know more about her. I can’t get her out of my head.

“Thanks for being a good sport last night, Wills.” Simon is leaning over the edge of my booth at a respectable distance, but with a low enough voice to not be overheard. “I know it isn’t always the easiest situation we put you in around here . . . but you know, good that you make the effort. It makes a difference. Right or wrong, they respect you more for it. Hope you didn’t spend too much.” He finishes with a smile and I return it softly.

“No problem. The reports you wanted are on your desk, and I also finished the project analysis Jeff was asking about the other day. I know you don’t need it right now, but I thought it might help with the meeting tomorrow if you had the outline for the diversification plans.”

Simon’s eyebrows raise slightly and I see the wheels in motion as he begins to nod. “Actually, that could be really helpful in pushing the budget in the right direction.” He gives the top of my desk a little tap. “Thanks, Wills. I don’t know what we would do without you.” He is already gone, half in his office, head in the meeting tomorrow—exactly where it should be and not thinking about my strip club spending.

I go to the gym after work. Not because I want to work out at all, but so I can get rid of some excited energy and soak under the shower after. Then change into something more appropriate for my evening plans.

Generally, I imagine women in strip clubs want to stand out and be noticed. Be seen. I do not. So I go for dark pants, a black shirt, my hair up, and subtle sweeps of makeup. I take the same spot at the bar as the previous night and the waitress gives me a warm smile before sliding me the same drink from the night before. I see all too clearly how this could begin a habit.

It fills a desire so effortlessly. Except . . . I’m not one of the desperate men in here. I know what I want and I know how to get it. Well, mostly.

“How do I get a dance? Private?” I ask, sounding confident.

The waitress doesn’t even blink, simply leans forward. “With a specific girl?”

I nod, and I know she knows which one without me saying a word. I must have been more obvious than I thought. Her head nods to the side. “Take your drink to the second booth. Get comfortable, pay the amount on the account in there. Private dance is all yours.”

I take my drink, standing slowly but walking with the confidence I don’t really feel. I have written my name and number on a piece of paper and wrapped it around a bundle of cash. Money is easy for me. Getting what I want with it is also easy for me. I’m still a Rutherford; let’s not forget.

It will be her choice if she calls later or not. I promise myself I won’t come back if she doesn’t. And with this thought, I slip inside my booth and pay my dues.