Burning Offer (Trevor's Harem #1)

by Aubrey Parker

  $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.

  But it’s too good to be true. Like a carrot placed in a rabbit snare, or a morsel of cheese to trigger a mousetrap. My father would probably have taught me that you never get something for nothing, if I’d known him.

  Whoever sent this invitation is playing an angle. Working a scam. I saw this piece online about how criminals can steal your credit card numbers just by waving some special equipment when you walk by. Maybe it’s like that. Someone is luring hapless idiots to walk through a funnel, where their information will be harvested and their identities stolen.

  Except that there’s no room left on my credit cards.

  And I’m an orphan who’s apparently willing to lift her dress for any cock that walks by, who’s resorted to breathy conversations with masturbating men as the best way to make enough money and force certain ends to finally meet. Brandon is my only family, and he isn’t even blood. Who on Earth would want my identity?

  I pace the apartment. Of course there’s an angle.

  Maybe someone wants to sell me a timeshare. Lure me in with a free something then count on breaking me down and getting me to buy.

  Or maybe I’ll be attacked in some way. Simple brute violence, for whatever reason.

  Except that I know the Castleview Hotel. I met James from Archive there, when he came into town, before they hired me. I even remember the conference rooms. They’re glass-walled, and people walk by all the time. It’s an incredibly expensive hotel. Try as I might, I can’t think of anything anyone could do to me. The worst that might happen would be my going down there to discover that whoever is behind this will simply refuse to pay me. But why would someone with as much apparent financial celebrity as Paul Germain put his reputation on the line for a welcher?

  I open the invitation again. I look at Germain’s phone number and can’t believe it was only yesterday when I called him. It had to be weeks ago. Years ago. From another country. In my past life.

  I set the invitation down, semi-accordioned enough that it stands without support, the way I did yesterday when the embossed mansion’s eyes kept staring at me. Then I squat to retrieve the smaller card, still on the floor. The web address hasn’t vanished. Apparently, none of this is or was my imagination, though it clearly feels like I’ve fallen down some sort of rabbit hole.

  It’s a custom URL ending with a slash followed by my first name.

  I sit down and type it in again. The browser autocompletes when I hit the keys as if nudging me from behind. Telling me I’m supposed to be here. I should be doing this. Because if anyone has ever needed a grand out of the blue, it’s me.

  The page loads. I see the third question in the pane on the left, right where I stopped the survey last time. The reference links are on the right. I clicked through most of them yesterday. None are marked as to what follows. They’re simply numbers.

  If you click 1, it takes you to a wiki all about the brain and psychology. Specifically, about conditioning and habits. Training, really. I read a bit yesterday about coercion. How enemy intelligence agents during the Vietnam War turned American captives into collaborators with nothing stronger than words, flipping their own beliefs against them.

  If you click 2, there’s an academic essay about a psychological concept called diffusion of responsibility. In large enough groups, one person can beat another to death with a pipe and nobody will intervene because every individual within the group figures what’s happening is someone else’s problem.

  If you click 3 there’s an Amazon author profile for some writer I’ve never heard of. Someone named Alexa Mathis, who writes lady porn.

  I won’t click 4 again. Someone in the tech department made a mistake with that one. It’s a German bondage site. The shit there, it looked like torture more than eroticism.

  My eyes, held captive by those plain links from yesterday, stray to the third question in whoever-this-is’s optional survey — some questions I can answer if I’d like, before heading into whatever trap this whole thing seems to somehow represent.

  Yesterday, I entered my favorite movie for question number one.

  And what the hell, why not: I entered my favorite color for question number two.

  Question three stopped me yesterday, killing the fun. Today, it’s back. And the game is as odd now as it was then.

  The question asks, Have you ever had sex with a stranger in public?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bridget

  I manage to record two chapters of Deadly Engagement, third in the Deadly Game trilogy and the latest in my queue from Archive Audiobooks. I’ve been enjoying the Deadly Game books quite a lot, and not for reasons you’d expect. I’ve always loved reading, so doing it for a living feels like winning the lottery. But Deadly Game is special. The books are thrillers — a genre usually read by men unless the main character is a woman. But Archive picked me as the narrator despite the action-heavy stories being a total sausage fest. It feels like a blow for equality. Or at least for me — the girl badass enough to pull them off.

  But this session is different. I hear a phantom voice whispering in my ear at every pause.

  You’re not so fucking tough after all, are you, Bridget Miller?

  Each time I resume, I have to do two takes. The first is always hesitant. As if someone’s undermining me, trying to put me off my game. It takes two attempts to recover my confident voice each time.

  But that’s not even the worst of it.

  I go into the bathroom and see my dress, now hanging from the showerhead by its straps to dry.

  And I hear that hard, cold voice telling me I’m tighter than he thought I’d be.

  I assume that if Alexander stalked me enough to find me last night, it was a simple trick to get my last name, too. And if he’s a stalker — one who’d already fucked me over the phone, giving us a history — then of course he’s probably spent some time thinking about my pussy, including (and especially) its tightness. Possibly how I trim my pubes, shit like that. So it’s creepy and gross, how familiar he acted. And maybe I should be nervous because it wouldn’t be hard to figure out where I live if he doesn’t already know. Maybe I should even go to the cops.

  But what would I tell them?

  Officer, a man is stalking me. He found me last night when I was at a club, watching my friend’s band play.

  I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Miller. Were you able to escape without incident?

  Mostly. Except that I did demand that he stick his dick in me first.

  I don’t think it’ll go over well if I report him. I’m not even looking forward to telling my doctor.

  But the biggest problem isn’t Alexander and what he’ll do next. I should be worried, but I’m not. If I’m honest — and I have a reputation for being so honest, it hurts — I’ve been thinking a lot about how he might track me down again. I’m thinking about it right now, while I finish peeing. And my hand spends more time wiping than is strictly necessary. After the toilet paper’s been discarded and I’ve already flushed. After I’ve spread my legs wider, to give my hand better access.

  But no. I know I’m fucked up, but I’m not that fucked up, am I? I’ve never had healthy relationships, but this is another level. God help me, I’m totally turned on by the thought of my stalker. The guy who aroused me so much during our phone sex session that I broke my usual wall of professionalism. The guy who fucked me as if angry, then vanished like a shadow.

  I withdraw my hand, denying my satisfaction. I stand and hike my panties up so hard I damn near give myself a wedgie. My unsexy cargo pants come next. I stare at the girl in the mirror with her hair pulled back in a way that won’t allow bullshit. My hard blue-green eyes.

  Fuck anyone who messes with me. That’s how it’s always been. I have no m
iddle ground or filter. I’m black and white. I’ll fight to the death for my friends and semblance of family, and am ruthless with enemies, of which I have plenty — even if they barely know I hate them. I always say what I mean. I do what’s best for me and mine, no matter what anyone has to say about it.

  I splash cold water on my face. It plasters the nearest hairs to my skin, turning light brown to dark.

  To the mirror, I say, “You’re not selling out by going, bitch. You’re taking what you’re owed.”

  Someone must have been watching us in that alley. Playing a game. So I can either be played, or I can be the player. I can sit back and let someone screw with me, or get my due and walk away.

  I can’t get my mind off last night? Fine. The solution is balls-grabbing action. To stop being steered and do some steering myself.

  I don’t know why some rich person wants to give me $1,000, but after talking to and researching Mr. Germain, I believe the offer and won’t turn from it on abstract fear. Fuck fear. Fuck fear and timidity right up their tight little asses.

  I don’t like to admit it, but I really, really need that money.

  And what the hell; all it seems likely to cost me is twenty minutes behind the wheel.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bridget

  The Castleview Hotel is an enormous white-brick monstrosity, like a less-shiny and less-ornate version of something you might see in the middle of Washington, DC. There’s a circular driveway near the front door, running under an enormous crimson awning, with a pair of bellmen in red uniforms and matching pillbox hats waiting beneath it. There’s a white-gloved valet behind a small wooden station that looks like a lectern, and as I watch, a black sedan pulls up. A man emerges, followed by a woman. The attendant approaches and hands are shook. If rich-person movies haven’t deceived me, a tip is slipped.

  I’ve paused on the street, in a no-parking zone. I have no idea where the parking lot is. When I came before to meet James, he sent me a car. Is everyone required to valet? The idea of handing off my shitbox Toyota with the crack in the windshield and the fast food wrappers in the footwell is laughable. Worse, it’s embarrassing. I’ve a hole in my muffler that I can’t afford to fix. Even now, the bellmen are staring as I idle loudly.

  Well. At least if this is a scam, it’s a classy one.

  I pull ahead when a suited man emerges and one of the bellmen points at me like a tattletale. That’s when I see the signs, and a few minutes later I’ve found the self-park lot and have abandoned my car.

  I’m not wearing anything fancy. Or even remotely nice. Baggy cargo pants with an oversized tee and a three-year-old pair of Converse. If I tucked my hair under a hat, I’d probably look like a teen boy from afar. A troublesome one, who might be at the Castleview to skateboard and paint graffiti.

  I’ve spent the entire drive preparing. By now, the chip on my shoulder is a miniature iceberg. I’ve covered every contingency, intent on grabbing the money I’m owed for some reason and then backing the fuck out. I’ll stay near the room’s door. I’ll make sure the walls are glass like I remember, then wait to enter until the hallway is sufficiently busy. I have pepper spray on my keychain, and I’ll hold it discreetly in my fist the whole time. I seriously doubt it’ll come to that, but I’m ready if it does. I grew up in foster homes, where friends and family didn’t always play nice. I can fight. I’m not especially strong, but I’m tall. After a while, I had Brandon to defend me, but I’d already learned to never count on permanence because people abandon you all the time. Besides, if you have a big mouth like I do, it’s amazing the number of fights you can avoid, how often you can talk your way into getting just what you want.

  I know what I’ll say.

  I know how I’ll hold myself.

  I won’t sit. I’ll barely meet eyes. Where’s my money? I was promised one thousand dollars. I feel stupid even being here because nobody just tosses cash around without any reason. Someone wants something, even if I’m supposed to have an out. But I have that mouth, I keep telling myself. I don’t know who I’m meeting, but I know Mr. Germain, and I know he wouldn’t take kindly to some loud bitch spreading stories about his involvement in some kind of … girl-napping scheme, maybe.

  The woman at the front desk disarms me. She’s entirely too polite, no matter how cunty I act. She seems to know who I am and where I’m expected to go. Her tone is cordial, even deferential. She speaks to me like a dignitary. She asks me if I’d like coffee. Tea. Complimentary champagne.

  I ask her who I’m meeting, but she’s obviously been prepped. She smiles. “Someone worth meeting,” is all she says.

  I’m slightly early, so she invites me to sit. I keep my eyes peeled for the other people who are coming to this whatever-it-is. There must be an army of time-share suckers on their way. Maybe if we compare notes, I can suss out what’s going on.

  I see a man with small glasses. I try catching his eye, but he walks off without seeing me. So he’s not here for the same thing.

  A teen girl.

  Three Japanese men in suits.

  An old couple. I’m sure they’ll stop; scams and lies love old people. I’m vindicated when, after catching the woman’s eye, the pair comes over to say hello. They even sit down. But when I ask them why we’re all here, they seem confused. Then they tell me it’s their anniversary. It takes me a while to figure out that it’s an answer. Why are they here? For their anniversary. And when I don’t respond in kind, they say their goodbyes and leave.

  A young man, maybe in his twenties, walks down the hall toward me. He’s immaculately dressed, his hair too fine and thin for someone so young. The poor bastard will be bald by thirty-five, I’m sure. But for now, he’s all youth and charm. Enough to thaw what’s left of the chip on my shoulder. It’s hard to stay angry for as long as I’ve been sitting.

  I look at the wall clock: exactly one minute before two.

  “Mr. Rice will see you now,” the man says.

  “I know several Rices,” I lie as if this is all very usual for me. “Which one is here today?”

  “Daniel, Miss.”

  Ah. A chink in the armor. I should slip off to the bathroom, use my phone to look him up in the minute before we meet. But there are no bathrooms along the corridor. When we arrive at the conference room, it’s empty. Glass walls, just like I thought.

  “He’ll be along shortly, Miss Miller,” the man tells me, gesturing into the room, toward one of two chairs. White things with soft interiors, almost like big postmodern eggs. They don’t look comfortable, but they’re literally the only furniture in the otherwise bare room.

  We stop at the door. His arm is out, a smile on his face.

  “Where is everyone else?”

  “It’s just you today, Miss.”

  I want my fucking money. But being here, in this place, is sapping my nerve.

  “I don’t want to wait.”

  “Very well, Miss. I will tell him you’ve declined.”

  I look at my guide. At the egg chair.

  I’ve come this far. Dammit.

  I sigh and enter but refuse to sit. The first thing I do, when my guide is gone, is to slip my phone from the backpack that is serving as today’s purse. My day bag holds almost nothing more than what my purse usually does because I’ll be damned if I’m here for more than thirty seconds once this mysterious Daniel Rice arrives.

  Using both thumbs, I type DANIEL RICE into the search bar of my phone’s browser. I see a few articles and news mentions that, on first glance, mean nothing to me. He’s nobody of much note, probably not more visible on Google than I am.

  I click over to the images tab.

  I gasp.

  And a deep voice behind me at the door says, “It’s nice to see you again, Bridget.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bridget

  Alexander.

  My lips form the word You, but I won’t say it. I can’t give him the satisfaction.

  “Do you know who I am?”

&nbs
p; I won’t answer that, either.

  “Oh, come on. Take a guess.”

  He pauses right in front of me. I don’t like that my body’s reaction is a traitor’s response. I don’t like that I notice how much more handsome his face is in decent light, before considering retrieving my fistful of keys to punch it.

  His smile lingers a second too long. He’s laughing at me. He’s picturing me naked. Remembering the feel of my tits in his hands. Remembering the show he gave himself last night, as he spattered my back before sneaking off like a pervert. My heart’s in my throat. I can barely breathe. The only way to relieve the pressure is to reach for his face and scratch the eyes from his sockets.

  “Have a seat,” he says.

  I set my lips. I won’t blow my top. That’s exactly what he wants me to do. The fact that the dots have so flawlessly connected between my creepy mysterious invitation and my creepy stalker don’t change my mission. I hate this man so much more than I’d have thought now that I see the way he’s toying with me, enjoying every twisted second. What happened last night was pure lust, and I’ll admit my feelings were mixed. But now it’s all anger. Now I feel used, abused, made a mockery of.

  And yet when he bites his lip and shrugs, sitting down himself even if I won’t, I still feel a flutter. He’s in a different ensemble than last night, but the motif is the same: open-throated shirt revealing the smallest black tips of a tribal tattoo on his chest, probably down at least one arm as well. The sensations are too confused, and my mind and body are both having trouble drawing sensible lines. Looking back now, last night makes me more furious than I think I’ve ever been. But I’ve probably never felt so aroused, either, or as preoccupied in the hours that followed.

  “I want my money.”

  I’m sure he’ll protest, but it’s okay; my sensibility is returning. I have a dozen threats lined up, and normal angry women have nothing on Bridget Miller scorned.