Burning Offer (Trevor's Harem #1)

by Aubrey Parker

  He makes a polite little noise of assent then reaches into an inner pocket and hands me an unsealed envelope with a large number 1 on the front. Inside, there’s a check for one thousand dollars.

  “Just like that?”

  He nods.

  I almost resent that he doesn’t want to fight. I turn then round again to face him, sure I can’t let this drop. I thought I’d come here to get something for nothing, but now I feel like a prostitute. He stalked me; he fucked me. Now he’s paying the bill.

  But I keep my cool. I turn again. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty-six years old now. I don’t need a knife to fight for crumbs. I have a future to build, goals to achieve, and one very large problem to solve. I’ve got responsibilities, and getting the last word isn’t worth the risk of losing what’s already in my hand.

  “Aren’t you curious?” Daniel/Alexander says from behind me.

  I put my hand on the door handle. Yes, of course I’m curious. But I’ll leave with that curiosity, and leave this all behind me.

  “I have another offer.”

  Okay. Fuck you.

  I turn my head, still holding the handle.

  “You’re an asshole. If I didn’t think it’d void this check, I’d tell the police about you on my way out.”

  “What would you tell them, Bridget?”

  “That you’re … ” But there’s no end to that sentence. He’d done nothing illegal.

  I open the door.

  “My offer is twenty-five hundred dollars,” Daniel says.

  “I’m not a whore.”

  “I just want to ask a few questions.”

  I won’t look back at him. I can feel my face working, and I’m glad nobody is walking by because it probably looks comical. I don’t know how to respond. I should go. I should listen. I should reply. I should ask him what kinds of questions he means. But none of those options are precisely correct, so I stay where I am, frozen.

  “Here.”

  Something skates across the floor. It wedges under the rubber sole of my right shoe. It’s an envelope, same as the first except on the front of this one is a number 2.

  I shouldn’t pick it up.

  I pick it up.

  And inside is a check for $2,500, made out to me. Like the first check, it looks official, drawn from an account at Brigham Assets, where the esteemed and imperturbable Paul Germain holds office.

  “Just a few questions, and it’s yours, Bridget.”

  I turn.

  “At least you’ve learned my name since last night.”

  “We know a lot about you. It’s why you were selected.”

  “We?”

  “Have a seat,” he repeats.

  I take my hand off the door handle, but stay where I am.

  Damn: $2,500. Shit, that pays the rent on my little shithole for three months. I can use the $1,000 to handle my immediate debts, then this new check to prepay my rent. Then I work my ass off and send as much as I can to Linda. Well, not to her, obviously. But for her.

  I’m already here. In this public place. The walls are glass, and he won’t take me anywhere else.

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Intensely personal and extremely uncomfortable.”

  He’s smirking as he says it. Asshole. I’m so repulsed that I fell for his tricks. I want to scrub where he touched me, to remove all his filth.

  But those eyes. Those big, strong hands.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Daniel Rice.”

  “You told me your name was Alexander.”

  “You told me your name was Elle.”

  “Is that what this is? You called a phone sex line then figured you’d buy your way into the operator’s panties?”

  He laughs and crosses his legs. “Not at all. I was able to get into your panties without paying a cent.”

  “I’m not for sale.”

  “I just want to interview you.”

  “So now it’s an interview?”

  “Yes. Like an interview for a job.”

  “I have a job,” I tell him.

  He smiles. Finally, realizing how ridiculous I’m making myself look — because hell, we both know I’m not giving him back that second check — I sit in the opposite chair. It’s more comfortable than I’d expected.

  “To answer your question before I ask mine,” Daniel says, “we knew who you were before I called your chat line.”

  A shiver runs up my spine. I don’t like the idea that I’ve been watched.

  “Who is we?"

  “Do you know the name Trevor Ross?”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He’s rich.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t know or care. I can’t tell them all apart.”

  “‘Them all’?” Daniel prompts.

  “Trevor Ross. Caspian White. Parker Altman. Like some sort of bullshit cabal.”

  “They’re associates,” Daniel allows.

  “How?”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential. But if you stay, you will likely meet more than one of their … group.”

  I look behind me, suddenly sure I’ve been surrounded while my attention’s been elsewhere. Stay? In this room? What, is there a line of media darling billionaires waiting outside to greet me, like a wedding reception line?

  “White cultivates his image; his reputation for denying press has specific aims, for one very specific person’s benefit. Everyone knows White for it, and soon everyone will know Altman despite the fact that he’d rather nobody did. Mr. Ross is a horse of a different color. As you may find out.”

  “I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him, assuming you’re his errand boy.”

  “Yes. You’re making that clear. But just tell me. What do you know of him?”

  “Is this the interview?”

  “It’s preamble. Believe me, you’ll know when the interview comes.”

  I don’t like that, but I like backing down even less.

  “Trevor Ross is something between the Bigfoot and a titan of industry, I suppose.”

  “Bigfoot?”

  “Because he’s so Howard Hughes about his affairs.” I realize I’ve just laid one metaphor atop another, but whatever. I want this over with.

  Daniel nods. “And which industry, Bridget?”

  When I don’t answer — not because I don’t know, but because I don’t like where this is going — he continues.

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal the details of my employer’s business,” Daniel says. “But it has a few public faces and a few public partners behind one extremely strong and silent one.”

  “Who?”

  “One who guards her privacy — at least in matters containing to the ‘cabal’ that is more accurately an unofficial conglomerate — more carefully than any of the others.” He shifts, his broad shoulders resettling in the chair. I feel my body respond, and curse it.

  “You’ve probably heard of is Amour, the most public face of Mr. Ross’s affairs. Perhaps it’s not a company people talk about in polite company, but believe me, it’s seriously discussed in private circles.”

  “Porn,” I say.

  “Sex,” Daniel corrects. “But even more than that. Sex is the manifestation of all Amour’s parent company does, but its members are more interested in what’s behind the sex.”

  “What’s behind sex?” But then I remember the survey links. All the psychology stuff, much of it dark. I didn’t follow all the trails, but I remember spotting the name Milgram because at first my eye read it as my last name, Miller. I remember Stanley Milgram’s brand of psychological experimentation from high school. He put people in intense situations to see their response. The kinds of experiments — and troubling decisions made by unwitting subjects — that left scars for years.

  “Everything is behind sex,” Daniel says. “And sex is behind everything.”

  “And Trevor … ”

&nbs
p; “Is interested in you.”

  “In what way?”

  But Daniel only smiles. My mind flashes to last night. To the evening of phone sex that preceded it. I’ve composed my exterior but want desperately to wipe that smug look off his chiseled jaw.

  It’s warm in here, and he must feel it. He removes his jacket, unbuttons his sleeves, then rolls them up. I see more of the tattoo peeking above his collarbone, winding like serpents down his hard forearm.

  “Forget about Mr. Ross,” he says, sitting forward, clasping one hand with the other, looking into my eyes. “Let’s talk about you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bridget

  Daniel stands. I stay sitting, desperate to leave. And I will, $3,500 richer.

  There’s a bar along one wall. He’s using tongs to drop spheres of ice into an old-fashioned tumbler then pouring amber liquid atop them. The liquor doesn’t fully cover the ice. I wonder if this is how rich people get wasted — one sip at a time.

  He sees me watching him. I avert my eyes, too late.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  I should say no. But I doubt he’s going to roofie me in a glass room in a public hotel, and whether it’s accepting gifts from an adversary or not, a stiff drink would make this easier.

  “Yes.”

  “Scotch?”

  “Yes.”

  He sets the bottle down and returns to his seat without pouring me a glass.

  “Do you masturbate, Bridget?”

  My jaw locks. I’m glaring into his face, but he’s kicked back now, sipping his drink.

  “It’s a simple question.”

  I shake my head, disbelieving. “Fuck you. Asshole.”

  I stand.

  “Not participating, then?” He looks at my bag, where I’ve stashed my check. I suppose I could run, but he — or Trevor Fucking Ross, who has more money than the nations of the world and surely wipes his ass with $2,500 — could easily void the check. And would, I feel certain.

  “I’m not answering that.”

  “Come on, Bridget. We all do it. I do it. I did it last night. Thinking of you.”

  My eyes flick to his crotch. Traitors. And I get a flash of an image: his big hands on the thick dick I felt sliding inside me from behind in that alleyway, pumping it, spewing all over his fist in a gusher.

  “Just admit it,” he says.

  “Ask another question.”

  “I already know you do. I want to hear you say it.”

  I look down at my bag. At the door. And I say, “Fine.”

  His eyebrows jump up as if he’s surprised. An amused smile forms on his lips. “You do? Well, that’s disgusting.”

  I shake my head and stalk toward the door.

  “Relax, Bridget. I’m only kidding. It’s not disgusting at all. In fact, if you were to do it right now, I’d join you.”

  “Jesus. Fucking pig.”

  He laughs. “Oh, my God, just forget it. I thought you had a sense of humor.”

  But I know he wasn’t kidding.

  “Please. Sit. Just questions, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know. Trevor wants to know.”

  “I told you, I’m not a whore.”

  “Nobody’s asking you to do anything you don’t choose to do. Now please, have a seat. I apologize.” He puts his hand on his heart, a parody of penitence.

  I face him. Heart beating hard. But dammit. Dammit fuck dammit, I realize I’m actually wet for this son of a bitch. I can’t help it and won’t be blamed. It’s biology, not sense or dignity.

  “The question, however, remains,” he says, returning to serious.

  “What would your boss think of last night?” I ask, going on the offensive.

  “He was very happy.”

  “You told him?”

  “And showed him the video. It’s why you’re here now.”

  My internal temperature shoots up to a thousand degrees. I desperately look around for something to throw. Something to hurt him with. But there’s nothing except the chairs, some bolted-down artwork, and the bar, behind him.

  This time, I yank the door open.

  “You can keep the money,” he calls to me.

  For some reason, I pause. But I refuse to look back.

  “We can stop the interview if this is bothering you,” the voice continues. “And if so, the money is yours. I don’t mean to upset you.”

  “Bullshit,” I spit.

  “I’m serious. Why would I want to upset you, Bridget? I’m on your side here. You’re my favorite. I’m rooting for you.”

  Rooting for me? Favorite? But fuck him; I won’t answer.

  “Does this make you uncomfortable?”

  I’m so angry. So unbelievably fucking angry.

  “Just answer that one last question, Bridget. The questions I’ve asked in our interview: Do they bother you? Would you rather not answer?”

  “Yes, they bother me. And fuck you; I won’t answer shit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “I am. I figured this was turning you on.”

  “You are such a piece of shit,” I growl.

  “So this isn’t turning you on?”

  “Of course it’s not.”

  “You just seemed so hot for me last night. Because fuck, I was hot for you.”

  I feel a rush of warmth. This isn’t fair.

  “I didn’t know the truth last night. And I’d never do it again.”

  “Hmm. Then I apologize. It just seemed to me that your nipples were getting hard while you sat here. And I can’t see your pussy, obviously, but … ” And he makes a vague gesture at my seat, as if I might have left a puddle.

  But he’s right.

  Fucking hell, he’s right.

  I’m a gusher down below. I hate it and I hate him for it, but the truth is I feel it with every step I take. Thank God I’m not wearing a skirt; my panties would have a big dark spot right now.

  I hate all of this.

  And yet the way he sits there, I keep thinking of his hands on my shoulders. My face and chest against the cool brick wall. And his thick cock slamming into me over and over, making me come harder than I have in years.

  I pull out the 2 envelope. It hurts me to give it back, but FUCK. THIS.

  I crumple it up and am about to throw it to him when he says, “Keep it. The interview is over.”

  I want to throw it, but it’s also three months’ rent, and he’s just said I can keep it.

  I shove the wadded-up envelope into my bag and stomp out of the room. The door is almost entirely closed when I hear him say, “I know about Linda.”

  I turn. I watch him through the glass.

  He reaches for his folded-over suit jacket, into the pocket.

  And holds up another envelope, marked with a 3.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bridget

  Daniel sits across from me in the limousine, and I see the logic trap I’m falling into. The reasoning inside me goes something like this:

  Nothing bad could have happened at the Castleview Hotel because it’s not a fleabag frequented by losers and junkies.

  Nobody involved here is going to do anything seedy or untoward because Paul the Banker vouched for them, and Paul the Banker has been in Forbes.

  And it was okay to get into the limo because it’s a limo. It’s not a Pinto with rust under the wheel wells, with busted air conditioning like the questionable thing I drive. There’s a driver in a black suit and a cap who opened the door for me, and I can see him right now through the open partition. He’s wearing one of those little chauffeur hats and white gloves. A chauffeur hat and white gloves, for fuck’s sake. So clearly I’m okay trusting these people just a little bit further.

  My logic seems to assume that if people are rich, they can’t be evil bastards. But I know for a fact, thanks to my current charity project: that’s not true.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I tell
Daniel. His eyes are so brown, they almost look black from where I’m sitting. That alone should bother me and it does a little, but his look is far more craven than sinister. “Other than to the bank, I mean.”

  “That’s your choice.”

  “I only packed the bag because I thought I might not be able to get my thousand dollars without it. But there’s nothing in here other than my purse, see?” I unzip the backpack to show him.

  “Are you on any essential medications?”

  “No.”

  “Then you packing anything for the trip isn’t strictly necessary.”

  “I’m not going on any trip.”

  “Of course. My mistake.”

  “We’re going to the bank. I only agreed to get in the car. You said we could go anywhere I chose, and I choose my bank.”

  Daniel smiles. “And that’s where we’re going, Bridget.”

  He’s so kicked back and at ease in this big, dimly lit car, it’s annoying. I’ve never been in a limo and frankly don’t know how to situate myself. Should I buckle in like in a normal car? What’s with all these buttons and screens and bottles? I don’t know if you’re supposed to treat it more like a car or a condo that just so happens to be moving.

  I hold my bag close, like a teddy bear, to comfort me. I don’t like how timid it must make me look, but I’m not sure what else to do. Daniel is directly opposite me, and if he leaned forward, he could put his hands on my knees. If I look ahead, I can’t miss the look he keeps giving my neck, my chest, my manly cargo pants, my unladylike sneakers. I couldn’t make myself less appealing without adding dirt and odors, and yet he’s eyeing me as if I’m in a sheer gown with my legs spread, dressed to the nines with red lipstick and fuck-me pumps.

  “Do you like the car?”

  I look through the tinted glass. Just as the white-gloved driver gives me false security, so do the familiar streets. The top part of my brain understands that I couldn’t simply leap from this metal cage if things went bad, but a more animal part is comforted by passing the Inside Scoop, the Overlook concert hall where Gavin got his start, a housing development built by Life of Riley and scouted, I’m pretty sure, by my foster brother. Nothing can go wrong, I find myself thinking, if the family house that Brandon’s friend Grady wants to auction off is only fifty yards away.