14
1038 Words
Sloane drawls, “What does it stand for then, Smalls?”
Cringing, face flaming, I lift my shoulders up to my ears and lie meekly, “Dude?”
“Uh-huh.” She throws back her head and laughs. “Oh, god. If you only knew how right you are!”
Declan looks back and forth between us. “I’m lost.”
Sloane reaches over and squeezes his thigh. “The D stands for daddy, honey.”
He glances at her hand on his thigh then looks at her mouth. His blue eyes grow hot. His smile comes on slow and heated.
And I am so out of here.
I stand abruptly, almost knocking over my water glass. Yanking at the hem of my dress, I say, “Be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Ladies room.”
“Spider.” Declan snaps his fingers. Spider shoots to his feet.
“I think I can pee by myself, thanks.”
Ignoring me, Declan makes a motion with his hand to indicate Spider is to follow wherever I go.
Knowing I don’t have a say in the matter, I sigh and head toward the back of the restaurant, tugging self-consciously at my hem and hoping Spider isn’t following too closely. He’ll probably get an eyeful of one of my pasty butt cheeks.
Gah! Why did I agree to wear this stupid dress?
I burst through the bathroom door and lock myself into a stall. I sit on the toilet with my elbows propped on my thighs and my chin propped in my hands until it seems enough time has passed for Sloane to jerk off Declan under the table. Or whatever it was they were about to do.
Then I go to the sink to wash my hands. Even though I didn’t pee, clean hands are always a good idea.
When I turn the water off and reach for a paper towel, I happen to glance into the mirror above the sinks. I freeze in horror.
A man is directly behind me.
He’s huge.
Frighteningly tall and broad, he stands with his legs spread open and his massive hands hanging by his sides. He’s all in black, including a heavy wool overcoat with the collar turned up against his tattooed neck.
His hair and beard are thick and dark. A small silver hoop earring glints in one earlobe. Beneath lowered brows, his eyes are a startling shade of pale green.
A powerful energy of violence and darkness emanates from him.
It’s like being in a room with a supermassive black hole. I’m about to be devoured and disappear for all eternity.
He’s the most beautiful and the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
His intense gaze locked on mine in the mirror, he murmurs, “You don’t need to sell yourself, malyutka.”
His voice is deep, rich, and hypnotic.
So is his scent. He smells like something that lives and hunts in the woods.
“You’re better than that, no matter what he tells you.”
He’s speaking English, but I have no idea what he’s saying. I can’t think. I can’t focus. All I can do is stare at him, seized with terror and fascination, my heart beating like mad. The rest of me is frozen solid.
“Take this.”
Stepping closer, he removes an envelope from an inside pocket of his overcoat. It’s a thick brown rectangle with a rubber band around the middle. He leans over and sets it noiselessly on the countertop beside the sink. He gazes down into my wide, unblinking eyes.
“Don’t go back to him. Leave now. Make yourself a better life.”
He reaches up and gently brushes his knuckles over my cheek. His voice drops even lower.
“I can tell it’s not too late for you. There’s still hope in those pretty eyes.”
Swift and silent as smoke, he turns and vanishes out the door, leaving me stunned and breathless.
I’m a sweaty, shaking, disoriented mess.
What the hell just happened?
After several moments, I gather my last two living brain cells and look at the envelope. Turning it over, I pull off the rubber band, slide my finger under the flap, and stare in disbelief at the stack of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills looking back at me.
I say to the empty room, “Wait. Wait a second. Wait just a f*****g second.”
Thumbing through the stack, I estimate I’m holding about a hundred thousand bucks in my trembling hands.
My brain does a series of complicated gymnastic flips, then presents me with a hilariously impossible scenario: a hot, scary, wealthy stranger just tried to save me from being my future brother-in-law’s prostitute.
I run over the encounter again in my mind. Then again. Then once again for good measure. The only other possibility I can come up with is that Sloane is playing a bad joke on me.
Or she just doesn’t want to lose our bet. Maybe that’s it. Maybe she paid a guy to come in here and screw with my head.
No, wait. It’s all mixed up in my mind. The bet was that I would win if a man thought I was a hooker because of the way I’m dressed.
Wasn’t it?
I don’t know. I can’t think. Giant Hot Dangerous Stranger ran off with my IQ.
Plus, how would she have found someone on such short notice? After we made the bet, I was only out on the patio before we left for like four minutes. Is that enough time for her to arrange this kind of prank?
Well, probably. This is Sloane we’re talking about. And it seems like she has dozens of these big, dangerous guys hanging around.
And she probably carries that much cash in her bra.
But why would she make it so specific? There was no need for Giant Hot Dangerous Stranger to mention Declan. Not that GHDS mentioned him by name, but the implication was there.
Wouldn’t it have made more sense if he simply approached me and said I didn’t need to sell myself, his assumption that I’m a s*x worker being based on the way I’m dressed?
- Writer
