by Lexi Ryan
I smile at him and run my gaze over his toned biceps, broad shoulders, and narrow hips. “For some reason, I’m guessing you probably don’t eat the same foods I do.”
He shrugs. “I’d eat slugs if you’d keep looking at me like that.”
And just like that, my vague affection for this clean-cut college boy turns into a full-on crush. “I’m not really in the mood for slugs, but I’m always game for tacos.”
He takes my hand and laces our fingers together. “Tacos just became my favorite food.”
Present day . . .
I’m jarred awake when Mason scoops me up and lifts me out of the car. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on tight before remembering myself.
“You can put me down,” I murmur, but I’m tired, and his chest is warm against my cheek.
“Let me impress you with my ridiculous strength for a minute, okay?”
I try to laugh, but that takes too much effort, so it comes out more like a cough. “Okay.” I’m so relaxed, and maybe I should credit the tequila, but I know the comfort of his presence is what has me so loose-limbed. I’ve always felt safe with Mason around.
I don’t bother protesting anymore, or even opening my eyes as he carries me into the house. The moment reminds me so much of the night he found me in my apartment after Nic’s funeral. He scooped me into his arms and carried me to the bed.
“Hold me. Don’t leave,” I whisper, just like I did that night, and I cling to him, just like I did then.
Sleep tugs me under again, and I’m half dreaming when he settles me into bed and tucks the covers over me.
Dream mixes with reality, past with present. In my mind, I hear Mason whisper, “I’m not going anywhere,” but when I open my eyes, I’m alone in his big bedroom, the duvet pulled up to my chin, the ceiling fan clicking overhead.
I want him to come back and hold me like he did after Nic died. I want to be wrapped in his arms all night, but it’s such a selfish wish that I don’t dare tell him. Instead, I close my eyes and settle for the memories of Mason’s soothing touch, his reassuring whispers.
I wasn’t supposed to be overwhelmed with grief by the death of a man who didn’t want me, and it was unreasonable to feel guilty about Nic’s death when I wasn’t driving the car that killed him. But grief doesn’t care about supposed to, and guilt doesn’t care about reason.
I’m not allowed to be Mason’s wife. But the heart doesn’t care about rules or promises that never should have been made.
I wake up alone and disoriented. At the foot of the bed, sunlight slants in through the sliding glass doors and seems to spotlight the ocean beyond.
The opposite side of the bed is fresh, unrumpled. Mason didn’t sleep next to me last night. I put my hand on the pillow, trying to decide how I feel about that, trying to imagine what it would be like if I agreed to give him four months.
With the video released yesterday, it’s unlikely his parents remain unaware of what we did in Vegas, but unlike Mason, I don’t think that information is going to do anything to change how they feel about him marrying someone not of his social status.
I climb out of bed and wander down to the kitchen. On the island, I find a house key, my wedding band, and a note scribbled on the back of a takeout menu.
Bailey,
I had an early meeting and didn’t want to wake you. There’s coffee in the pot and Pop-Tarts in the cabinet, since I know your aversion to foods that don’t rot your teeth.
I’ll be home this afternoon. I hope you’ve considered doing me this favor and will think about what I could do for you in return.
Here’s your house key and the alarm code is 40236. Come and go as you please.
Your adoring husband,
M
I rub the ring between my thumb and index finger and read the note three times, because when I do, I hear his voice in my head, and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
I slide the ring onto my finger, as if to test its feel, and find the Pop-Tarts in the cabinet. I shake my head at the unopened box. Mason doesn’t eat crap like this, and I’m sure they were purchased for me. When did he do that? Last night after he tucked me into his bed, or this morning before he left for his meeting? Regardless, he went out of his way, and the simple gesture tugs at my heart.
I pull out my phone and text him.
Me: If the Pop-Tarts were a bribe to make me consider your offer, you’re an evil genius.
I send the message, and the doorbell rings. Shit. Can I ignore it? Pretend I’m not here?
Reluctantly, I leave my breakfast behind and go to the door. When I open it, a pair of familiar green eyes look back at me.
“Funny seeing you here, Bailey,” Christian Dahl says. Then he pushes past me and into his son’s house. I don’t even protest—because one, seeing him again makes me want to puke, and two, he has more of a right to be here than I do.
Helplessly, I shut the door behind him and follow him into the kitchen.
“How are you?” Christian asks, spinning to face me. His sandy blond hair is shorter than it was when I first met him. I hope he matured when he cut off his man bun, but that’s just wishful thinking. He’s dressed to do business in a navy suit and tie, and I wonder if that’s what this is to him—a business meeting, where I’m a pesky little detail he must contend with before he can close a deal.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice tight. “Mason’s not here.”
He wanders around the kitchen, examining my breakfast on the island, a picture of our friends from Arrow and Mia’s wedding on the fridge. Between each destination, his shoes click on the tile floor. Everything is met with scrutiny. Nothing is good enough for his son, least of all me.
“I know he’s not here.” He returns that critical gaze to me and levels it at the ring on my left hand. “I came because I want you to look me in the eye when you tell me you’re breaking your promise.”
Four years ago . . .
I’m smiling. I’m smiling and I feel . . . happy.
Today, we found out that Nic’s getting parole, and while I’m thrilled, I’m also nervous as hell, because I don’t know what’s going to happen if he gets out of prison and owes Clarence money. I wanted to find a way to resolve the situation before Nic was a free man, but aside from picking up more shifts at the Kitty, I’m drawing a blank as to what I can do.
Our relationship is complicated. Nic’s worked so hard to push me away since he’s been incarcerated that my friends would tell me to let him fix his own problems. But they don’t know Nic the way I do. They don’t understand that he pushes me away to protect me. They haven’t seen his stubborn determination to get a leg up in this world, despite the consequences. They don’t know that it’s my fault he’s in prison to begin with.
And yet, despite my worries about Nic’s future, I can’t get this stupid smile off my face, because I can’t stop thinking about Mason Dahl. Which is weird and confusing and not at all what I expected. But Mason isn’t what I expected. He’s rough and sweet and so damn steady. I’ve never been with someone who treats me like he does, but I hope I can get used to it.
The Pretty Kitty is busy tonight. I’d normally be thrilled with the crowd—nothing says payday like a bunch of drunk guys with pockets still deep from their summer jobs—but tonight I’d rather be with Mason.
It’s been a good night for tips, even if every time I walk on stage, I think of Mason holding me tighter, growling, “Don’t go,” into my ear. “Find another job.”
“Are you embarrassed to be sleeping with a stripper?” I asked him tonight when I was getting ready for work.
“I’m not embarrassed,” he said, sliding his hand down the front of my body. “I just don’t want to share you.” He slid his hands behind my back and cupped my ass. “I’m feeling a little possessive, Bailey.”
“You’re feeling something,” I whispered, then I ended up being late for my unofficial shift because he picked me up and carried me to the bed. He explored me with tho
se big hands and that demanding mouth until I forgot all about the Pretty Kitty and the money I very much need.
I don’t want to do this job any more than he wants me to do it, but I have to. It’s a necessary evil.
Vicky saunters up to me at the counter. She’s in a short skirt that shows her hot-pink panties when she walks and a rhinestone-studded bra that I know from experience itches like a motherfucker. “Somebody’s here looking for you,” she says as she loads her tray with drinks.
I immediately tense. Shit, shit, shit. Clarence probably wants to give me one more chance to take him up on his offer before Nic’s released. I was hoping seeing me with Mason might make him back off, but I guess it’s not going to be that simple. As long as Nic owes him money, Clarence will believe he has a chance. “Where is he?”
She points a thumb over her shoulder and sighs. “Booth at the back. He asked for the bourbon.”
“Did you tell him what it costs?”
She shrugs. “I don’t think he cares. He looks and smells like money, you lucky bitch.”
I grin like I know she expects me to, trying to hide my nerves. I don’t want to tell her about Clarence. I don’t want anyone knowing that Nic’s still tied to him. Worst-case scenario, Clarence is asking for me. In that case, I’ll deliver his drink and walk away, and if he tries to get more from me, Hammer will stop him. Best-case scenario, some rich man wants to pay for the pleasure of my company. Normally, that would be a good thing; I’m just not in the mood to play the toy tonight. People think strippers make good money because of their hot bodies, but I’ve seen A-cup chicks with beer bellies take home more in one night of tips than I make all weekend. These men are here for attention, whether they know it or not, and good strippers make bank by giving it to them.
I pour the man’s drink and flip my hair over my shoulder before heading through the crowd to the back booth. When I don’t see Clarence anywhere, my shoulders sag in relief. I spot the bourbon drinker. Vicky was right. He looks like money. He has sandy blond hair pulled into a tie at the back of his neck, and he smirks when he sees me. It’s not just the Rolex on his wrist or the crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows or the way he parts his hair. This man has an aura of wealth about him that’s unique to men who’ve never wanted anything they couldn’t buy.
We don’t get a lot of guys in here with deep pockets, so if I’m smart, I’ll take advantage of the opportunity to take some money off his hands.
“You asked for this?” I say, bending unnecessarily at the hips to deposit his drink in front of him. Straightening, I smile. “And for me?”
He has sharp green eyes, and he drags his gaze over me. I’ve been objectified enough times in this place to know what it feels like when a man is looking me over in a sexual way. This man is not. This man is sizing me up, cataloging my body like a piece of jewelry he might purchase to resell. “You’re Bailey Green?”
I shift uncomfortably. I don’t use my name in here. With a town this size, almost everybody knows it anyway, but I’ve never met this guy before and I don’t like him calling me by name. “You can call me whatever you want.”
“Why don’t you have a seat, Bailey.” The emphasis he puts on my name makes me want to walk away, but the value of the watch on his wrist makes me stay.
“You’re not the only guy in here who wants a drink.” I try to keep my smile in place, but it’s wavering. Does this guy have some connection to Clarence? I don’t get that King Kong drug-dealer vibe from him, but what do I know? What else does some rich guy insistent on using my real name want from me?
He extends a hand. “I’m Christian Dahl, Mason’s father.”
The eyes. Shit. This might not be the most awkward meet-the-parents moment in history, but it’s a contender for the podium. I try to keep my smile in place, but it’s hard when I want to crawl under the nearest table and hide. Fuck the table—I’d rather crawl under a rock than be here right now. When the earth doesn’t open to swallow me whole—damn the luck—I try to pretend this is totally normal. “It’s nice to meet you, Christian.”
Has Mason told his parents about me already? Obviously, he did.
“Now will you sit down?” he asks.
I suppose this could be worse. He could have gotten a lap dance or tried to talk to me while I was onstage. Yeah, it could be worse, but not much. I look over at Vicky, who’s serving a round of beer to the booth beside us. She grins, no doubt making assumptions about me and the rich guy that are so wrong, I can’t even . . . She waves me away, letting me know she’ll take care of the floor while I talk to him.
The booths in here are semicircles big enough for men to lounge in comfortably and situated so they all have a view of the stage.
I sit opposite Christian, and panic seizes my chest. What if he’s here to deliver terrible news? But he doesn’t look like a man who’s recovering from a tragedy. He looks like a cocky son of a bitch who thinks he has my number. “Is everything okay with Mason?”
“Not particularly,” he says. He swirls his bourbon in his glass, takes a sip, and makes a face before pushing it away. I can’t imagine Gary’s cheap shit meets the standards of a man like this, and I’m oddly satisfied to see Christian drink cheap booze. Freaking rich people. “I understand you’re involved with my son.”
I’m not even sure how to respond to that. Mason and I haven’t talked about what we are to each other. It’s complicated, and we certainly aren’t at the point where our parents need to be involved in the conversation. “We’re friends,” I say.
He smirks. “Right. Girls like you know how to get real friendly, don’t you?”
That’s the moment that I hate him. His “girls like you” comment? Fuck that noise.
I stand, and he smacks a hand on the table. “Sit.”
“Fuck off,” I say, not caring that this is Mason’s dad. I wouldn’t care if he was the president of the United States. He’s already decided who I am, and he’s wrong. “Girls like me can hold our own,” I say, my voice a low growl that curls with anger. “Girls like me can put food on the table. Girls like me won’t be bossed around by shallow rich men who confuse the size of their income with the size of their worth.”
“That’s a nice little speech,” he says, cocking a brow. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you were just on that stage letting men tuck money into your G-string. So why don’t you save the self-righteous speeches and listen to what I came to say.”
I hate myself a little for it, but I don’t walk away. I fold my arms over my chest and stare at him. “You say what you need to, then I’m getting back to work.”
“My son is going to be drafted. In just a couple of years, he’ll be making more money than you’ve ever seen or dreamed of. But you already know that.”
Now I do. Maybe I didn’t when Mason approached me at the party, and maybe I didn’t when I first got into bed with him. But since then, it’s come up a few times, and I’ve gone to a couple of games to watch him play. Mason’s talented, and I don’t doubt he can make a career with football.
“And you probably know,” his father continues, “that he comes from more money than you’ve ever seen or dreamed of.”
That I didn’t know. I could’ve guessed after the last five minutes, but before tonight I didn’t have a clue.
He holds my gaze, but I’m not taking the bait. I refuse to justify my relationship with Mason. I refuse to defend myself and explain my intentions to this man—not that I have any. I just have a job that people judge me for and an asshole sitting in front of me who thinks what I do for a living says everything about my character.
“I get it,” he says, dragging his gaze over my body again. “I totally get why a girl like you would latch on to a guy like Mason. He could change your whole life. ’Cause right now, I figure you have a few years of lying to yourself. You do this job and tell yourself you’re just doing it to get through school, but soon, you take it outside the club because you can make even more cash that
way. Then come the nights that you don’t want to think about what you do anymore. Maybe your friend offers you powdered happiness—something that makes dancing seem fun again—then your checks start going up your nose or in your veins, then you’re back in that trailer park nailing boards to cover the broken windows in the piece of shit you call home. Just like your mama did.”
My eyes sting, and I clench my fists. If this man wasn’t Mason’s father, I’d probably swing at him. “You don’t know anything about me.” But anger simmers in my voice because he seems to know an awful lot.
“My son has a bright future. We’ve worked hard to make sure he has every opportunity. The last thing he needs is a girl like you bringing him down.”
“I’m done with this conversation,” I say.
“Are you? Because I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”
“The good part is where you leave.”
“The good part is where I offer to write you a check, Bailey Green. The good part is where you tell me how much it’s going to cost me to make sure whatever is between you and my son never turns into anything more. I don’t care if you want to fuck him. He’s entitled to all the toys he wants, and right now, he seems to think he wants you. So sure, have your fun. But you’ll never be anything more than the stripper he used to screw around with. Whether you take my money or not, I can promise you that.”
“You obviously don’t know your son very well,” I say, but even keeping my voice low doesn’t hide the way it’s shaking.
“I know him better than a girl like you ever will. The way I see it, your choices are to take the check, pretend we never had this conversation, and make sure your little fling never becomes anything more. Or you don’t take the check. Maybe you tell my son we had this conversation, and I won’t deny it. But I will tell him you took the money, even if you didn’t. And let me tell you something about my son: once I tell him you took my money, that will ensure you two never become anything more. Which will it be?”
