“Get some poor schmuck who will be grateful for a bit of your money, but won’t, you know, bother you for the other stuff.”
A carefully waxed eyebrow arches. “What, no sex for me?”
It’s my turn to make a face. “Ugh. No! You’re like Mother Teresa. You can’t do that kind of thing.”
She chuffs out a laugh.
Our server clears the table and brings out the soup. Mine is a lobster bisque, and hers is cream of crab. The bisque is damn good. If I owned a restaurant like this, I’d get fat. “Seriously. You’re a woman,” I say.
“Am I now? I hadn’t noticed.”
“What I mean is, you’re going to have expectations, you’re going to get vulnerable. Women just do when they have sex. They think it means something more than it should. And you in particular. You’re a nice person; it’s gonna happen. Plus, you haven’t dated seriously for what, five years now? It’s been a long ti—”
“Four,” she corrects, her voice suddenly brittle. “And I appreciate your concern, but I’m a big girl and can handle myself.”
Four years, and still she reacts like that. I shake my head. “I wish duels were legal.”
“I’m glad they aren’t. You would’ve been shot dead.”
I laugh. “No. I’m an awesome marksman. I’d kill anybody who hurt you.”
Her expression softens, and she reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You’re sweet, Elliot. But don’t worry about me. If duels were legal, I’d do the shooting myself.”
“What? That’s a man’s job. You’re supposed to look distraught and twist a hanky around your fingers.”
“Yes, baby brother,” she says, raising her eyes heavenward.
I stick my tongue out. She always plays that card when she thinks I’m being overprotective.
“So are you going out tonight?” she asks.
I consider. I was thinking about doing exactly that to see the redhead, but the manager said she isn’t there anymore. It isn’t like me to want to see a woman for a second time, so for that reason I’m going to stay home even though I keep thinking about that curvy body and the temper in her eyes. She’s feisty, and feisty girls are insanely fun in bed. “Probably not. I need to wait for Ryder’s gift.”
“Right.” A hint of censure comes into her voice. “A stripper, delivered to your doorstep.”
“Exactly.” I grin. If what I heard from the people setting it up is correct, she’s more of a high-end prostitute than a stripper. But I’m not going to quibble over such a minor point. A gift horse deserves to be ridden, not endure a dental exam.
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Want photos?” I ask.
“Ugh. No.”
“I may make a video and post it on YouTube.”
She squeezes her eyes shut and raises a hand, palm out. “Please. I was traumatized enough from your previous tape.”
“That was like three years ago.”
“Amazing how it feels like yesterday. Intense trauma tends to last.”
Propping an elbow on the table, I rest my chin in my hand. “So what are you getting me for my birthday?”
“What, this sumptuous lunch isn’t enough?”
“We all gotta eat.”
She snorts. “I’m not sending you a stripper.”
“Of course not. Can’t copy Ryder.” I fake perking up. “I know: a hooker baked in a pie!”
Laughing, she throws a napkin at me. “You’re horrible,” she says, still chuckling. “Absolutely hopeless.”
“But you love me anyway.”
“That I do.” She wipes a tear from her eyes and sniffs. “Lord knows why, but I do.”
My phone vibrates with a new text. I pull it out just in case it’s from Ryder, but it’s not. It’s…
I scowl. What the hell?
Can we meet, love? I’m going to be in town in a few weeks.
Tension crawls up the back of my neck. If she thinks I’m wasting another second of my life on her, she’s crazy. If I could, I’d go back in time and change the day I met her.
I block the number. Didn’t she get the hint the last time? I also made my feelings clear when I blacklisted her email address and refused every letter and postcard she sent me.
“Who’s that?” Elizabeth asks.
I put the phone back in my pocket and smile. “No one. Wrong number.”
Chapter Five
Annabelle
The address Caroline gave me leads me to a small, warehouse-looking place about half an hour from our apartment. I park my Honda in back and buzz at the rear entrance like she told me to.
My phone pings, and I check the text. It’s from Nonny, at a friend’s place for a sleepover.
Got here fine. See you tomorrow, Anna! She only calls me Annabelle when she’s angry with me. When she was old enough to talk, she started to call me Nanni, which got morphed into Anna, and it stuck. She’s the only one who uses that nickname.
Have fun. Love you, I type and hit send.
A few minutes later, a guy opens the door. He’s somewhere around forty, with a narrow, fatless face and cleanly shaved head. He has the body of a distance runner, thin with ropey muscles, underneath a black T-shirt and jeans that hang off him. There’s a tattoo crawling halfway up his neck.
“Yeah?” he says. The voice is deeper than I expect.
“I’m here for the job.”
“You ain’t the girl.”
“Caroline got sick,” I lie. “I’m here so we don’t disappoint the customer.”
He looks at me. “You’re kinda short.”
“Easier to fit into the cake, right?”
He thinks it over, then makes a circle motion with his finger. I obediently do a slow pirouette, all the while reminding myself about the money I’m going to get from this one night’s work—and how it’s going to put me that much closer to true independence.
“All right. Come on.” He moves to the side, so I can walk past him. The door closes with a metallic clang.
Inside is some kind of makeshift studio. A couple of people are putting the final touches on the cake I’m going to get into. It’s white with lots of hearts and bright red ribbons.
“Change into this. You’re shorter, but it should still fit.”
He tosses a corset and matching G-string my way. I catch them automatically. “Where’s the dressing room?”
“‘Dressing room’? That’s funny.” He points with his chin. “Use the corner.”
The area has no screen, no privacy. My face flames. “I can’t—”
He regards me through drooping eyes. “Don’t want to disappoint the customer, right?” Then he turns away to supervise the cake.
Biting my lower lip, I go to the corner and change as quickly as I can. The “corset” is really two pieces. The top part is so tight, it’s almost painful to put on, but the hooks and eyes make it easier. I’m sure they’re also to make it easier to rip it off during the show. My breasts are pushed together almost indecently, and it feel like the girls are going to pop if I breathe too deep. The bottom part hooks to the top, and together they look like they’re a single piece. The G-string is black, with rhinestones strategically placed to emphasize my private parts without actually showing anything.