Hired

by Zoey Castile

  “Do you want to change that?” I ask, and once again, our bodies are like magnets, drawing closer inch by inch. What the hell am I doing?

  She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. But I’m not ready to go home just yet.”

  When she sets her drink down, the back of her hand is touching mine. I can’t ignore the tightening sensation in the pit of my gut. The nerves slamming against my chest. The way my dick twitches every time I stare too long at her sensual lips.

  “Good. Neither am I.”

  The place is filling with late-dinner goers. They squeeze in around us, and a second bartender joins Angelique to help with the rush of orders.

  Someone screams from the other end of the bar. We turn around to find the source of the yelp, and it’s a group of young women.

  And they’re headed right toward me. Now, I never get recognized from my shows with Mayhem City, so this is particularly weird.

  “Excuse me,” one of them says, holding a pen. “Are you Maluma?”

  I grin at her, and Faith is trying not to laugh behind her hand.

  “I’m not—”

  But they shove their napkins and pens in my face and jump behind me for selfies. I scribble the singer’s name on scraps of paper and one rib cage.

  “So you’re a singer,” Faith says as the girls run off, blowing kisses my way and telling me that they love everything about me.

  “You definitely don’t want to hear me sing, mi reina,” I say. “But I can sign dozens of autographs like a pro.”

  She narrows her eyes, and I love when her nose scrunches up every time she does that because it feels like she’s trying to see through me, through any lies I might be telling.

  “Vegas must have been the best place for that.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t really miss it.”

  “Everybody misses something from everywhere they’ve lived. Even if it’s one thing. Like, Connecticut is not my thing. But there was this patch of green on campus. There was this tree that had the perfect place to sit. Like the roots grew to make a chair just for the students. It was perfect.”

  I try to picture this incredibly smart girl reading in the shade, a breeze blowing leaves across her lap. Even that thought of her—sweet, simple—sends alarms of pleasure to my cock. I grab my jacket and drape it over my lap.

  “I mostly miss people, not places,” I say. “My sort-of mentor, Rick Rocket, wanted me to replace him one day.”

  “What happened?”

  I got caught up in the things they warn you about. Women. Rich women. Promises that lead to nowhere. But it hurts to admit that to myself.

  “Made a bad investment. Lots of regret. That’s why I’m here alone, drinking.”

  “You seem awfully young to have so much regret.”

  “Age means different things to different people,” I tell her. “Ever since I was little I’ve had people telling me that I can’t do something. I’ve been trying to prove them wrong for so long—I don’t know. It’s hard to keep motivated when the people you care about don’t believe in you.”

  Faith squeezes my hand. “This is going to sound insane. But I know exactly how that feels.”

  “Is that why you’re here with me on a Friday night instead of breaking hearts on Bourbon Street?”

  Faith looks away, trying to suppress a smile. Her smirk is equally as satisfying. “First of all, you’re from New York, right? How often do you go out to Times Square?”

  “Point made. Still. No hot date?”

  She picks up her drink, purses her lips together. Her eyes flick over my shoulder. Is she expecting to see someone? Maybe I’m being used to make someone else jealous. But if that’s the case, she can use me any way she wants. I would gladly lend her my body for all kinds of things.

  “I was at a work event,” she says, finally. “My boss and I disagreed on something and I walked out.”

  “Damn. That’s ballsy.”

  “Gutsy,” she corrects me. “And not as gutsy as I wish. I didn’t exactly quit. I know I should.”

  “What’s stopping you?” I ask, leaning in closer. It’s like the bar is getting louder and louder so we have to lean in closer and closer to hear each other better. Right now I’m so near that I can smell the sweet perfume lingering on her neck, floral and citrus and that primal essence that fills my dick with an urgent need. Any closer and my mouth would be on the silky skin of her neck, which she bares to me by brushing her hair away.

  “You can’t walk away from family,” she says, punctuating her sentence with a sip of her whiskey. “Besides, if all goes well, I’ll be able to go my own way next year.”

  “Cheers to that,” I say, clinking my glass to hers. My drink has been gone for a long time, but I have never felt so aware. So grounded to one person that the place could catch on fire and I wouldn’t want to move, not without her moving first. That’s a dangerous thought, and it’s the only thing that makes me draw back a bit.

  “What do you have going on tomorrow?” I blurt out.

  “Tomorrow?” Her eyes flick from my stare to the unbuttoned space at my collar. Then, she glances over my shoulder. I force myself to not follow her stare. What is she looking at? What makes her wide-eyed? She turns her body a bit. Is she hiding? A boyfriend? An ex-husband? Then she says the words that make every cell in my body come alight with possibility. “Why not tonight?”

  I stand, to shield her with my body. If she’s hiding from someone, the least I can do is provide cover. Maybe this is wrong. Maybe I don’t know the full story of what’s going on with Faith. But I know that I don’t want to tear myself from her presence.

  Angelique walks over with a knowing smirk on her face. “You guys done?”

  I reach into my pocket for my clip. “Check, please.”

  “You can charge it to your room if you want.”

  That sends a shot of panic through my blood. That’s not a good idea. Ginny left me her card, but that feels all kinds of wrong, even for me.

  “Nah, it’s all right.”

  I leave a few bills, and when I turn, Faith has something in her hands. Her thumb brushes across the surface of my expired New York State ID.

  “Aiden Peñaflor,” she reads, then there’s a tiny gasp in the back of her throat, a throat I desperately want to feel. “Today’s your birthday?”

  Dressed up with nowhere to go.

  “Twenty-five isn’t really a big deal.” I smile, but I don’t feel it reach my heart. I run a hand through my hair. I don’t know what else to say. I mean, all of my birthdays have been pretty crappy. Why should this one be any different? But I don’t want to bring her down. I want to hold on to this sensation she instills in me with her voice, her stare, her body. Around us the music grows louder and the people have multiplied once again.

  Her finger reaches for the strand of hair that flops over my eyes. It doesn’t stay put, but her fingers find their way, tracing my ear, my cheekbone.

  “I know a way we can celebrate.”

  4

  Pour Some Sugar on Me

  FAITH

  I know, I know—everyone says that they’ve never done anything like this before. Especially when it comes to impulsive decisions to run off with a stranger. The most attractive stranger I’ve ever met.

  This goes against everything that I’ve ever learned as a girl growing up. Don’t trust people you’ve just met. Don’t be alone with a man you’ve just met. What would my mother think if she saw me right now, clutching my purse as I leave with this Aiden Peñaflor? What would my dad say?

  When I left the bar, Angelique gave me a wink. If she thought there was something wrong with Aiden, she wouldn’t have encouraged me. I trust that.

  Ultimately, the decision is mine and mine alone.

  Walking behind him, I find my hands are not my own. They want to reach for him. To see what he feels like beneath the layers of tapered cloth. He has the kind of face that surely leaves a trail of broken hearts in his wake. Heartbreaker.

  I
follow him to the elevator.

  The easy solution is not to involve my heart. Aiden is just a man. I am just a woman. We’re consenting adults who don’t have to answer to anyone.

  I just have to step into that elevator.

  What if we stop on the conference-room floor? What if someone gets in who knows my face?

  There’s a ding to my right. Familiar voices chatting back and forth. Maribelle. She’s stepping out of the other elevator, and before she can turn to see me, I hop in.

  “Why does it feel like you’re running away from someone?” he asks. He takes out a room key and presses it against a sensor, then presses a button. Penthouse.

  How is an unemployed male stripper able to afford that?

  “Would it matter if I were?” I ask.

  We’re on opposite ends of the elevator. There’s a feeling at the base of my stomach that tightens just by watching him lean against the wall. He exudes an effortless confidence without being overbearing.

  “It doesn’t matter to me,” he says. He starts to move a step closer, but the doors open and in walk a couple of men. They glance at Aiden, but decide he’s of no interest to them, and barely look at me.

  They were at the fund-raiser. Harry Coleston and Kyle Bel-lachamp. Two of the people my mother’s team has been courting for sponsorship.

  My heart thunders in my chest. Neither of them look at me, but when they eye Aiden up and down, they acknowledge him as a fellow businessman. I inwardly roll my eyes.

  This is a bad idea. What if they remember me?

  Harry and Kyle are speaking in such hushed tones that I can’t actually make out anything they say, but I catch a loose “could be very good for business.”

  Then they exit the elevator, and Aiden and I are alone once again, and I let go of an anxious breath.

  His clever eyes slink from them to me, relieved. To him, they were just men intruding in our moment. Had they noticed me, it would have been a costly mistake. I am being reckless.

  But then he pushes himself from the metal wall and asks, “Where were we?” I close the distance between us with two sure steps. It’s like wading into water the first day of summer to figure out the temperature. When I press my hand over Aiden’s chest, I can feel the way his heart pounds, speeds up when I rub my fingers in the dip between his pecs. It’s a strange thing to react like this to someone you’ve never met before today.

  But maybe that is why I like this so much.

  I’m not supposed to be the kind of girl who does this.

  I’m not supposed to want him this way.

  I’m not supposed to do so many things.

  Aiden presses his hand over mine. His thumb strokes back and forth across my skin. Heat spreads up my arms and down my spine. It’s like my body isn’t mine. I’m pushing myself up on my toes, reaching for his mouth.

  And then the elevator bounces. Aiden’s arm wraps around my waist and pushes me into a corner to cover me from whoever might be coming next. There’s no time to pull apart without looking suspicious.

  A group of girls ready to go out on the town hoot and holler at the sight of us.

  “Ohhh girlll, get it!” one of them shouts.

  I feel hot with all of this attention. I’m not supposed to have this kind of attention. Supposed. Supposed. Supposed.

  That’s all replaced by one word. Want. Want. Want.

  Aiden laughs his sweet, cool breath against my neck, and I cling to him like a shield.

  The group gets off on the next floor, which has a rooftop pool and bar. He gives me breathing room, but I want to feel the pressure of him against me once again.

  “I can mark public exhibition off my list,” I say when the doors close.

  Aiden points at the way out. “I mean, we could always go back to give them a real show.”

  That magnetic feeling overcomes me again, but we’ve arrived. This time, he moves backward. One, two, three steps, and we’re down the hall from his suite.

  Nervousness flutters in my chest as he opens the door. He searches for lights.

  “Make yourself at home,” he says.

  He sweeps inside. The suite is huge, with beautiful carved fixtures and gold trim that makes everything feel like I’m in a French painting.

  I set my purse down on a little table by the front door.

  “Do you want something to drink?” he calls out from the sitting room.

  I peek into the bedroom. The linens are pulled so tightly that there isn’t a single wrinkle on the comforter. There’s a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the bedside table. A black duffel bag and an open suitcase. Sneakers and dress shoes near the bed.

  “I’ve always wanted to have something from a minibar,” I say, walking into the living room.

  “You can have whatever you wish.”

  I grab a bag of fruit candy for something sweet to nibble on. When I turn around, Aiden has taken off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt one more notch to reveal a thin gold chain with a tiny gold stamp.

  “What’s this?” I ask, and maybe it’s to have a reason to be close to him again. To get my hand near the warmth and beat of his heart. The gold stamp is light to the touch.

  Aiden smiles, and his whiskey-brown eyes bore into mine. “My mother gave this to me when I was born. I carry it with me wherever I go.”

  “My father gave me something like this once.” It was a pair of diamond earrings that I got during my cotillion. They were his mother’s and intended to be worn on my wedding day.

  “My mother said that this would protect me.”

  “Do you need a lot of protection?”

  He takes a minute to consider this but finally admits, “Yes. But so far it’s worked. Come, let me show you my favorite part of this room.”

  He stops by the minibar first and grabs two champagne splits. Then, instead of taking me to his bed the way I expect, he leads me to a small balcony.

  My belly flip-flops at the sight of the city sprawled out, a blanket of twinkling lights in every color, a chorus of music and revelry. We’re in the middle of it and yet in a corner of our own.

  “See?” I tell him. “This is the greatest city in the world.”

  “It certainly has the best view.”

  When I look at Aiden, he’s not staring at the city. He’s staring at me.

  “Happy birthday, Aiden,” I tell him.

  He twists off the caps to the champagne bottles and hands one to me. “Ah, it’s no big deal.”

  “I think it’s a bigger deal than you want to make it out to be.”

  He starts to raise the bottle to his lips. “You’re a shrink?”

  I laugh and shove him a little with my hand. “Cold. Not even close. What do we toast to this time?”

  “To being spontaneous.”

  “Spontaneous isn’t my middle name,” I say.

  He comes closer. We’re leaning on the railing of the balcony, and even though it’s sturdy and I know it won’t give, I have the strangest sensation that I could fall at any moment.

  I drink my champagne quickly, which is a mistake because the fizz spills over. “Sorry, I’m a mess.”

  He chuckles. Takes our drinks and sets them on a table. His fingers close around my wrist. I raise my eyes to his and my breath catches. His smile is just as disarming as his touch.

  And the strangest thing happens.

  Aiden kisses the spot along my jaw where the champagne spilled. His tongue licks against my skin in the softest brush. My free hand instinctively reaches for his neck to cling to like a lifeline. It is the thing I’ve been wanting to do since I laid eyes on him. Why do we stop ourselves from wanting things?

  I knew I wanted this man at first sight. It doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t make sense.

  This is wrong.

  Is it? Why is doing what you want wrong? Why is that the lesson I’ve had instilled in my head all my life?

  Because being kissed by Aiden doesn’t feel wrong. Not one bit. His next kiss lands just below my
lower lip. I dig my fingers into his neck. He pulls me closer. I’m a magnet. A force meant to collide with him. I let out a small moan, and then he’s kissing my lips. His mouth closes over mine. My eyes flutter shut, and I can taste the lingering orange sweetness on his tongue. My fingers dig into the base of his hair, tugging lightly on the short crop there. He grips hold of my waist, squeezing so tightly I have to gasp and slide my hands across the solid plane of his torso. I find his mouth again, because he’s a beautiful kisser. Firm and gentle and attentive. Like my mouth was made for his to revere.

  I reach for the buttons of his shirt and undo them until I reach the waistband of his trousers.

  He breaks the kiss first to take off his shirt. Tosses it to the side somewhere in the dark of the suite.

  My hands don’t feel my own when I reach for him. He’s too far, even though he’s one foot away. I have to kiss him again. I have to touch the rapid pulse of his heart beneath his skin. We come together again, lips searching for lips with the neon lights of the French Quarter as our backdrop.

  I reach for the button of his pants, but he grabs my hands and says, “Your turn.”

  He graces me with another kiss, and it’s like my legs have turned into liquid melting at his feet. Those slick fingers of his find the clip at the back of my dress, and with one hand flat on my back, he uses the other to tug down the zipper. The cool night air touches my bare skin, warring with the fire igniting in my veins with every kiss he lands on my mouth.

  I feel greedy, wanting to explore the scape of his body without taking my mouth off his.

  He stands back, giving me space. Space to enjoy myself.

  I feel his eyes on me as I let the sleeves of my dress fall down to my waist and then into a pile at my ankles.

  “Fuck,” Aiden hisses. But he doesn’t make a move. He stands half a dozen feet away with one hand on the balcony as if for support.

  I did that. I made him feel that way. It sparks a tingle between my legs. I don’t even have time to be self-conscious that I’m not wearing matching underwear and bra because when I woke up this morning I didn’t think I was going to be on a balcony, getting undressed with a guy I met at a bar.