Burning Offer (Trevor's Harem #1) (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

Of course, there’s come all up my back. It’s like he was saving up and did it on purpose, by the looks of things. I had to slide sideways through the door then back along the wall and into the ladies’ room to see it. There was a pair of sandaled feet in one of the stalls when I entered, so right now she’s probably wondering what I’m doing in here considering I didn’t rattle the toilet paper to wipe the seat and probably seem to be hanging out. But whatever. If strange thoughts from some girl in a bathroom are the worst thing I’m facing, I’ll count myself lucky.
 

I lower my straps and rotate the tight dress so I can see the back. Which is significantly fucked up. I wait out my bathroom roommate and then the one after that until I can finally come out and use the sink to clean off what I can. That shit dries white like deodorant, so I have limited time. Plus, I can only check my hair by feel, and part of me is sure I’ve got a big loogie hiding back there like Ben Stiller in
There’s Something About Mary
.

So I compose myself, rush with my we back to the coatroom, and steal someone’s jacket — one with a hood, for good measure. What the hell; it’s not the first time I’ve had to steal for survival, though these are decidedly different circumstances.
 

I scan the club before leaving to verify what I’d already been certain was true: my mystery man, having duly fucked his conquest, has got the hell out of Dodge.

Jesus. I don’t know how to feel about any of this. Everything is a horrible soup. I suppose I should feel used and humiliated, but this is my first one-night stand — assuming ten minutes in the alley counts as a night. I’m too confused to feel anything dire; it mostly has the aura of a dream because everything is so surreal. And holy shit if I’m not still a little horny — if (and add this to the list of things I’d never admit) cutting through public with evidence on my back somehow gives me an exhibitionist thrill.

I reach my car, sure everyone has been watching the entire time and has seen everything. I strip the coat, toss it onto the adjacent car’s hood, then text Abigail my regrets, telling her that I felt suddenly sick. She’ll forgive me. She knows how I am.
 

Although right now I’m wondering if anyone knows me at all.
 

Then the chills hit. It’s cool outside and I’ve got a few spots on my back from bathroom water, but I’m shivering far beyond what seems warranted. I key the engine, and soon it’s hot enough to run the heater, so I blast the heat, rubbing my arms for warmth, trying to curl up. But it doesn’t help. I have to let the moment pass, and only then do I drive home, eerily certain that Brandon will be waiting with crossed and judgmental arms.
 

But no one’s there. Of course. The gig was nearly an hour’s drive from my place in Inferno, so by now it’s after midnight. Only the kitchen light is on, the way I leave it, and the place is a graveyard.
 

I close the door and lock it. I take a shower then stopper the sink and soak my dress with some stain stick and detergent. I’m shit with laundry and domestic stuff and would have made some sexist a horrible 1950s housewife. Maybe the come will lift right out. Or maybe I’m ruining it. I don’t have the energy to care.
 

Once safely in bed, my eyes fall on the phone across the room. I’m one of the few people I know who has a hardline instead of just a cell, but of course that’s necessary for my secret source of income. There’s a hands-free headset beside the phone. I usually wear it so I can amuse myself while talking dirty to the men who call me. Only once was I glad to be hands-free for a different reason.
 

Alexander
.
 

How did he find me? Another sleazeball who called my service and wanted me to coach him through rubbing one out. I only remembered him because he’d somehow pushed all my buttons — buttons, in fact, that I was surprised to find. I didn’t mean to get aroused while working, but on that night it had just happened. And I remembered his name the same as his voice. The voice I’m still, even now, hearing like a whisper in my ear.
 

I close my eyes. I need to sleep.
 

But I can’t. And it takes me a while to put a finger on why. At first, I think I’m replaying tonight to flog myself with regret. Then I realize I’m preoccupied for a deeper reason. I slip my hands inside my panties and rub myself to a utilitarian orgasm. And after that I finally drift away.

CHAPTER FIVE

In the morning, I notice my phone again and the headset beside it. I mentally run through the list of people who’ve seen the inside of my place, wondering if all of them see things as obviously as I do now.

Who still has a hardline phone these days?

Who needs a hands-free headset with their hardline, other than a pro who uses her phone for work — a lot?

Girlfriends always tell me they’re jealous of my voice. To me, even when I hear it played back, I sound like someone speaking through a mouthful of gravel. But Archive and my other audiobook clients seem to like it fine, and thus far that deep, growly voice has made me a pretty good living. Not enough to buy me a proper studio, of course, and not enough to take care of the whole Linda situation by a long shot. But without all my additional complications, I’d live a pretty good life based on this mouth of mine.
 

And that makes me think of the phone again.
 

Because not only does it now seem obvious, to anyone who cared to look around my apartment and ask a few simple questions, that I do phone sex on the side — it’s also the pun about
making money with my mouth
that jars my thoughts. Because that’s what hookers do.
 

Not that I ever blew anyone for money.
 

Except that I sure described doing it,
all the time.
 

“Shit, Bridge. Give yourself a break,” I say aloud.
 

Because this is all stupid. It’s all self-pity. So I’ve done some dirty talking. What’s the harm? And so I fucked some stranger last night. Who cares that I didn’t know him? It’s not like he’s the only one who got what he wanted in that dark little alleyway. It’s not like he took advantage of me. I wanted it just as badly.
Worse
, I’d bet. I haven’t been laid since Keith, and at least “Alexander” didn’t hit me like
he
used to. Last night was, sadly, one of the best relationships I’ve ever had. I just have to get past the societal conditioning saying such things are forbidden, and that the women who do them are whores.
 

It’s okay for men to do it, though. Fuck a stranger in an alley, and you’re a dude, high-fucking-five.
 

That thought right there is enough to snap me out of the deepest part of my funk. I needed sex; it felt good; I have no regrets. I suppose I should head to the doctor for tests just to be sure since he didn’t wear a condom, but otherwise this is
 

no

big

fucking

deal.

Goddammit.

And so I roll out of bed, feeling proud and confident for the thirty seconds it takes to reach the living room. Which is where I see the embossed invitation, propped up where I left yesterday, after I gave up trying to solve its riddle.
 

The thing arrived sealed in an envelope bearing no marks save my first name, handwritten in fancy script. And the invitation itself was … well …

Fighting an odd, creeping sensation, I pick it up and unfold the five sections that accordion down like an especially fancy wedding invite. I’ve forgotten the small card in the middle, so I watch as it flies away and vanishes under my wobbly table.
 

I ignore it and focus, willing the invitation to make the sense today that it refused to make yesterday. It’s almost entirely blank, despite its five sections. Elaborately embossed, with small silver accents.
 

I hold it horizontal, and it seems to show a relief of an enormous, sprawling mansion. There are small, shiny spots where the windows belong. Yesterday, I set the invitation down, unfolded and sideways, upright on the table. Then I sat across the room on the couch to watch TV, pretending I was no longer curious. But my eyes kept returning to the card, and it was as if those little accent windows were watching me.
 

In the middle fold, when the card is held vertically, are the words:
 

You Are Invited

2 p.m., April 17
th
 

Castleview Hotel Private Conference Room C

$1,000 Paid For Attendance, No Strings Attached

* Bring A Day Bag *

And, because the whole thing is clearly absurd, the sender thought to provide a phone number below the day bag line just in case I want my foolishness spread into to a second medium.
 

I threw it away when I got it.
 

An hour later, I pulled the invitation from the trash. Just in case.
 

An hour after that, I did a reverse search on the phone number, which I assumed would be the Castleview’s front desk, or an offshore number for scamming people, like that Nigerian prince does.
 

It turned out to be the number of a bank in Charlotte, North Carolina.
 

One that, after some research, I realized wasn’t just some normal bank. It was a high-level investment firm called Brigham Assets. An investment account bearing a minimum of one million dollars was required before they’d even talk to you.
 

But even more than that, the number was a specific extension, a Brigham Assets personal banker named Paul Germain. Google kept placing his name in
Forbes
and the
New York Times
, in the company of names like Warren Buffett.

I did some work, ignoring the whole stupid mystery. But I kept staring at the invitation throughout. Some fool (possibly me) had unfolded the thing and placed it behind my microphone arm and mixer to taunt me while I recorded.

An hour or so later, I finally called Paul Germain.

Who was very polite.
 

Who greeted me by name before I gave it to him, as if I was famous.

And who refused to tell me anything at all about what the fuck was going on, beyond this being a legitimate invitation from a respected party, and that if I chose to accept it, I would, in the esteemed Mr. Germain’s opinion, be wise to do so.
 

And the $1000 “paid for attendance, no strings attached”?

Yes. That will be honored promptly and verifiable by any third-party financial institution you care to employ as your agent in this matter.
 

But what is the meeting about?
 

That is a matter of some confidentiality, I’m afraid.
 

Do you really think I’m going to just show up somewhere for no reason, with no information, just because I get a fancy card in the mail?
Then I corrected myself.
Except that it wasn’t in the mail. It was left on my damned doormat.
 

My client is providing the attendance stipend and hosting the session in a public venue to reassure you that all is “on the level,” as the saying goes. We understand that a leap of faith is required. The one thousand dollars — which is payable simply for showing up, and is yours to keep regardless of whether you stay or how long you stay — is compensation for that leap. But it is of course your choice to accept or decline the offer, and if you choose not to appear, you may discard my client’s invitation and consider the matter dropped with no hard feelings.
 

I paused, trying to make sense of all of that. Then:
Why am I supposed to bring a day bag?

I’m afraid that is confidential.

Just give me a hint.

I’m afraid I can’t.

Well, fuck you very much, Paulie Boy.

A pleasure speaking with you as well, Miss Miller.

Germain waited for me to hang up. I could hear him sitting in polite, well-bred silence until I did. There was a minute ticking in the interlude, and I imagined a small but handsome clock sitting on his polished-wood desk. Some little sliver thing with exposed clockwork made in Switzerland by elves or some shit, worth more than every car I’ve ever owned put together.
 

You still there, Mr. Germain?

Yes, of course.

Well. Okay. Bye.

Have a nice day, Miss Miller.

I hung up and folded the invitation back into a harmless rectangle. I’m not sure, even now, why I didn’t throw it away.
 

$1,000 just for showing up in a hotel conference room? And I’d be free to go as soon as I arrived and grabbed it, if I wanted? Hell, today is the seventeenth. The invitation is for this afternoon. I could go, and maybe come home with a few of my smaller problems solved.