Deep down, I knew I was being marginally hypocritical. If I could sell myself, why couldn’t he buy me?
On the other hand, I was at that sale because I absolutely had to be. My father’s life was literally on the line, and mine as well. If there had been any other more legal option for getting that amount of cash in a short time span, I would’ve taken it. But I was up a tree.
And it was because of Dazzlers.
My hatred for Tate and all he stood for intensified once more, even as he took off his blazer and draped it over a sleek gray sofa, revealing his ropey muscles barely contained by a starched shirt. Damnit, couldn’t he just put the jacket back on?! It was inconsiderate of him to try to distract me when I was busy putting a curse on his family.
“Let’s go the kitchen,” he said breezily.
We were standing in a foyer that led seamlessly into the living room, with a handful of couches oriented around one coffee table and a dazzling mod chandelier hovering over the cluster. Beyond the sofas was a large glass wall. Behind it was a Vegas-style dry garden, with unusual species of cacti and other succulents dimly lit by tiny ghost lights in the dark. It reminded me of a more upscale version of my dream Washington house — cool and calm. I shook my head, trying to ignore this unexpected overlap in our tastes.
Tate escorted me through the high-ceilinged room into the kitchen, which was done up in bronze and black fixtures, with an asymmetrical slanting roof that made it feel as though we were in a living art work. The kitchen was immaculate. There were three fridges, all with clear doors, and inside them, the tons of food were so neatly organized it would put a grocery store to shame.
“What do you drink?” he asked, turning around and staring me down with those devilish blue eyes.
“Who said we were gonna drink?” I sniffed. “We agreed to talk, not imbibe.”
He chuckled. “You really are literal, huh?”
“I’m not doing anything more than I absolutely have to.”
“Smart business move,” he allowed. “My father would’ve liked you.”
Huh, wonder what that meant. I shook my head, unsure what to make of it and not interested in pressing Tate, and thus implying that I cared about the answer.
He shrugged and moved to one of the fridges. “Whatever, I’m having some Champagne.”
“What are you celebrating?”
He rotated his head just slightly over his shoulder. “You. Being here. With me.”
I bit my lip and sat down on a Lucite-backed barstool as he searched for a Champagne flute.
“Fine,” I said at last. “I like Champagne.”
Tate didn’t have to turn for me to know he was grinning.
“Good. Any sensible person oughta like Champagne. It’s the finest of libations.”
I snorted. “You’re a snob.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s fifteen-dollar Champagne.”
“Seriously? Why not splurge and get, say, a twenty dollar bottle?”
He whirled back around, two brimming flutes in hand. With a grin, he said, “Those are in the basement.”
Tate moved around the kitchen island and passed me the glass, our hands brushing in the process. He hesitated just a beat too long before withdrawing his hand, and even after he pulled away, I felt the ghost of where we’d made contact.
He tapped his watch a few times, and then music began to play, a song I recognized from James Blake’s new album. I looked around for the speakers before realizing that he must have one of those fancy systems where the speakers are embedded in the walls. Apparently, that’s a very fashionable rich person thing today.
“Can I ask you something?” he questioned before leaning on the counter and taking a sip of his drink.
I mulled this over, then replied, “I guess that’s technically talking, which was part of our deal. So… yes. But I may not answer it.”
“Fair enough.” He took another sip, then looked at me intently. “Why’d you do the sale?”
Anger rose up in my throat like dry bile. His words slapped me in the face, after everything I’d been through. He wanted to know the truth? Fine, he’d get the fucking truth.
“You,” I spat.
The color drained from Tate’s high cheekbones. “What? Because of how I acted at the theater show last week? Kiki, I’m sorry, but I told you, the escort wasn’t my—”
“No, not that,” I said, waving his silly conjecture away with annoyance. “I know you think highly of yourself, but believe me when I say, one night of your bad behavior couldn’t make me wanna sell my body.”
“So, what then? How the hell is this on me?”
I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes and clutching the stem of my glass.
“It’s Dazzlers. My father went broke after years of playing at your casino. Now he’s in one hundred thousand dollars of debt, all because of you. He worked at Dazzlers, too, and everyone knew he had a problem and no one but me ever tried to get him help. And it’s my job to pay off his debts because we share a home, and I don’t wanna be on the streets. But even more than that, he’s my dad.”