“Not compared to you.”
He shakes his head you’re not fooling me. “I can hold this hostage.” He taps the Starbucks You Are Here mug. London. Of course. A gift from a client.
A well-meaning gift I loathe.
During my stint in the Royal Air Force, I saw a lot of the world.
I always wanted to come home to London.
Until those papers landed in my lap.
Now, I need the Atlantic ocean between me and my painful memories.
“What? Does she think you’re a handsome, rich man with a British accent?” Shep chuckles. “Women hate that.”
It’s true. I’ve always had an easy time attracting women. Even as a poor kid in baggy clothes. In the States, in a tailored suit, with a no-limit card and no fear of using it?
I’m drowning in opportunity.
“You are old,” Shep says. He’s nearly ten years my junior. Young for his position. He’s always teasing me about my age. I’m always teasing him about not being able to keep up with a thirty-six-year-old. “Is that why you won’t contact her?”
“What did your wife say?”
He smiles at the word wife. “Something about true love being blind.”
“Understandable with your looks. She must be blind.”
He chuckles of course. There’s no mincing words. Shepard is an attractive man. Between the blue eyes and the athletic build, he looks like a Disney Prince.
A rich Disney Prince in a tailored suit.
He does well with women. Even with his prickly personality.
Not that he cares anymore. He’s madly in love with his wife.
“I read her posts. That’s all.” Yes, I’m obsessed with Eve. I want to know everything about her. I want to possess her in every way I can. But, so far, I’ve resisted.
“Really? You read her posts and don’t use your skills to find out every other thing about her.”
It’s better this way. Safer for both of us. Or it was. Until now. I try to shrug it off. Fail to project a casual attitude. “Too busy using them for med-vac missions.”
“Rock climbing?”
I nod of course. “Surfing the North Shore.”
He doesn’t buy it. “How much do you know about her?”
“Enough.”
“And…”
“She needs money.”
“And you’re planning to leverage that?” He turns to the tea. Strains it into the Starbucks mug.
“There’s another man… A guy trying to buy her virginity.”
“Your wheelhouse.”
“I never pay.”
“Is that the line you won’t cross?”
“Usually, yes. Parting gifts are one thing. Money for sex is another.”
He hands me the cup of tea. “Ready to cross it?”
“I’m not sure I have a choice.”
“You do. You’re just not willing to admit you’ve already made it.”
Chapter Five
Ian
For two days, I resist digging into Eve’s life.
Then she updates Original Sin with a short and simple post.
The doctor came in today. Made an actual offer.
One night.
Fifty grand.
The act itself. Nothing more. Nothing less.
One night for next year’s rent and tuition.
Half of me wants to slap him.
The other half wants to counter. See if I can find a better offer. If one asshole is willing to drop fifty grand, is another willing to drop a hundred?
And there’s this other part, that wants to say yes before he changes his mind.
I need that money. I can’t afford to say no. No matter how much I want to.
Resistance is futile.
In five minutes, I find the club where she works. There are only so many strip clubs in Manhattan. Fewer with allusions to the devil or hell.
Another five minutes, and I work out her schedule. She posts later the nights she works. And she’s consistent about it. Tuesday then Thursday, Friday, Saturday.
Half an hour to find her college applications. Good grades, especially in English and creative writing, but they slipped senior year. Still, she had options. Almost got into Oxford. Accepted at NYU, Princeton, and a few schools on the West Coast.
Chose Hunter over better schools. A public school in the city. Cheaper than others, but still five thousand a year.
Her sister is a straight-A student. Nearly perfect test scores. She’s enrolled at Columbia. Starting in the fall.
Some aide—the Ivies are known for their generosity—but not enough.
There’s no way Eve is covering the rest on a bartending salary.
How is she covering rent, much less some awful debt?
She needs help now. She needs help yesterday.
Shep is right. I’ve already decided.
I know what I have to do.
It’s time to do it.
Like many Manhattan strip clubs, Devil’s Point is just off Times Square.
The neon sign—a dancer on all fours, horns and devil tail in clear detail—is as bright as any billboard in the tourist trap.
All red and purple.
No subtlety.
It’s Friday night. Busy.
The bouncer shoots me a curious look. The one I expect in the States.
People don’t know what to make of a tall Black guy in a suit.
Then I flash my passport and British takes over. The bouncer nods oh, of course, sir. The look in his eyes changes.
Now, I’m class incarnate. The rest of the details are irrelevant.