Page 28 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CYRUS

I’m so fucked.

The thought splices through Cyrus’ head when those elevator doors close, leaving him standing there in his apartment by his lonesome. It’s quieter in Alana’s absence, too much so. The echoes of shared laughter still bounce around the walls, soft and warm and bright. And it’s abnormal, the twinge it leaves behind.

Then again, nothing about this morning has been normal.

Cyrus takes pride in his mission to spend however long necessary to care for his lovers, to clean them up, make sure they come down safely, especially on nights where they’d been particularly aggressive. There was never a rush in that department—aftercare was the most important facet of his business, after all. And while he always made it a priority to ensure the people he was involved with were taken care of, clientele or otherwise, they knew the expectation. If he brought them back to the apartment, they were gone before sunrise. And if he found himself at their place, well, it was the same deal unless they paid for overnight service. On the rare occasion that deal was broken, folks were heading for the door not long after they woke up. There was no breakfast made together, no playful banter, or unplanned oral sex while the world caught fire around them. Literally.

A long sigh seeps out from Cyrus, and he shakes his head and makes his way to the kitchen, where he’s greeted by his scorched cast iron sitting in the sink. It mocks him, all those charred bits of unrecognizable veggies that will be hell to scrape off later. He ought to be ashamed of himself, really. One look into those soft brown eyes, and he’d fallen so far from reality that nothing had existed other than him and Alana. He still feels the lingering warmth of her lips as she traced kisses down the length of his body, or when her mouth curled around him. More than that, there’s a pleasant sensation radiating from where she slid her hands against the side of his face when she held him. Her smile had been so kind, more kind than anything he’s been met with in a good long while.

She looked at him like she wanted to protect him from the world.

Something tells him she would, too. Chest puffed out, standing in front of him like a knight in shining armor, ready to fight off thunderstorms and anything else that came her way.

It’s cute. Endearing, even.

He can’t stand it.

Gods, if they had ended up fucking on that counter, he’s certain he would have struggled to keep from knotting her.

Cyrus digs the heels of his palms into his eyes with a groan. This isn’t his first rodeo, and Alana is far from being his first attractive client. He’s got a plethora of experience under his belt, men and women alike. Which means he’s well accustomed to having a handle on himself during those nights where the person who hired him is actually his type. And goddamn, Alana had checked off all his boxes.

Her soft, plush frame. Those big doe eyes and tight curls. That one cluster of blonde eyelashes that were lighter than the other. He could spend all day admiring the unique beauty of it, if she’d let him.

But Cyrus knows better than to entertain any inclination of interest. He might be in the business of pleasure, but he had rules. Rules he’s followed without issue for several years. The first and most imperative one being: never get too attached. Sex is sex. It’s easy to navigate, and any strings just complicate things. It’s better for everyone involved if feelings end once everyone goes their separate ways. More often than not, most folks bore very little complaint in that regard. There may be the occasional occurrences where someone attempts to coax him; a lingering touch that felt a bit too promising, a playful smile meant to persuade him into their offer of meeting up for drinks, or maybe something as scandalous as dinner. It’s tempting each time it happens, but Cyrus always declines. He declines, because

at the end of the day, he knows his place. But with Alana…

The way she looked at him, the way she touched him. It’s like he mattered outside of the desire he was fulfilling for her. And that is dangerous. Cyrus grabs his phone and the screen lights up with Alana’s contact. Bright as day, with that little heart next to her name. That stupid, traitorous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, this time more permanently etched. His thumb hovers over her profile, hesitating over the message button. He could send her a text?Something silly, casual.

Just as quickly as he types one, he deletes it and places his phone face down on the counter. It’s a fight not to toss it off the roof. This part has never been so hard. A quick message thanking someone for their time, along with the remaining invoice he fully expected them to pay, is usually how things ended.

Cyrus rolls his eyes and glances at the aftermath of the passing storm. There’s a wet shimmer left on the roads, shining under the rays of sunlight seeping through the parting clouds.

There’s a rainbow on the horizon, too, colorful and bright like the giggles he can’t get out of his head. Taking another breath, Cyrus grabs his phone and retypes his earlier message.

Had a good time, Darlin. Drive safe.

Quick, simple, professional. Once it’s sent, he pockets the device, then places his hands on his hips.

He really, really needs that damn drink.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CYRUS

Sitting some few miles out from the city is Cyrus’ ranch, nestled on several acres of private land that stretch for miles. Rolling hills and dense forest surround it, with beautiful snow-capped mountains far in the distance. In the winter, that snow finds its way north where it blankets everything in sheets of white. A pain in the ass to shovel off the driveway, but it turns the property into a scene straight out of a postcard—a hallmark for any Christmas. Which makes it worth it, in Cyrus’ humble opinion.

It’s late summer now, though. Lush greenery and wildflowers can be found at every turn. Cyrus is careful of them as he drives his truck along the unpaved road that leads up to the house. He parks under the awning, right behind his brother’s rusted old pickup. The same one he’s begged him to replace for who knows how long. The sight of it prompts a heavy eye roll.

It isn’t unlike his brother to stop by unannounced; he likes to check on the animals when Cyrus is gone and see how he’s holding up out there by himself. He likes to say it’s because Cyrus needs the company, or something along those lines. But in actuality, Cyrus is certain it’s just a well-orchestrated excuse to raid his fridge. Two growing girls who ate him out of house and home meant that Cyrus’ kitchen was often his brother’s solace. On more than one occasion, he’s caught him tearing into a rotisserie chicken with his bare hands as if it’d been his first uninterrupted meal in the last five years.

Kicking off his shoes at the front of the door, Cyrus hangs his jacket and ventures through the entryway, where unread stacks of mail and old family photos sit on an old wooden dresser against the wall. Images of his parents, mostly, or old childhood memories that he can’t bring himself to stare at for too long. Candles decorate the area, along with dried cempasúchil whose vibrant orange petals make his heart squeeze. He breezes past them, snatching the old mail on his way to the kitchen.

Water bill, electric, gas.