Dirty Boss

by Crystal Kaswell

  I take a deep breath. It does nothing to slow my heartbeat. "What's your name?"

  "Blake. You?"

  "Kat."

  Those piercing eyes find mine. He presses his fingers against my ankle. "It's sprained."

  "I've dealt with worse."

  His stare is penetrating. It demands an explanation.

  But why?

  He doesn't know me.

  He doesn't have any obligation to help.

  He's someone and I'm no one.

  He's not even going to remember me tomorrow.

  Still, I want to wipe away the worry in his eyes. "I ran cross-country in high school."

  He nods with understanding.

  "I can't work on a sprained ankle."

  "What do you do?"

  "I'm a waitress." And I can't afford to not work.

  I stare back at Money Guy. Blake. His expression is still streaked with concern. He's not going to leave me alone until he's sure I'm fine.

  And I can't exactly make a quick exit. Not with my ankle this fucked up.

  "I'll ice it when I get home. I promise." Ibuprofen will have to get me through my shift tonight. I've played through the pain before, back when I ran all the time instead of every so often.

  "I'd feel better if you went to the E.R."

  I press my lips into a customer-service smile. "Not happening."

  "Where do you work?"

  "It's not far. I can walk."

  "I'll walk you." He slides my shoe onto my foot.

  His fingers graze my ankle.

  His touch is soft. Tender. Sweet. Like we're old lovers, not strangers.

  It wakes up all my nerves.

  I want those hands on my skin.

  Under my skirt.

  Tearing off my blouse.

  Sliding my panties to my knees.

  I swallow hard.

  I don't think about sex like this. And certainly not with strange, rich men who insist on walking me to work.

  Blake.

  Money Guy.

  He certainly has the tall and handsome thing covered.

  If things were different, if Lizzy wasn't home, if I didn't have to work, maybe I'd invite myself out with him.

  We could have dinner. Drinks. A night at a hotel. The kind with security. So it's safe.

  I could finally punch my v-card.

  But things aren't different.

  I can't waste time with strange men.

  Even rich ones.

  I rise to my feet. "I can walk myself." I take a step to prove it. The first is fine, but the second makes me wince. Maybe I can't work on this. Fuck.

  He slides his arms under mine, offering himself as a crutch again.

  This time, I take his help without protest.

  "You really shouldn't work on that." His voice is steady. Impossible to read.

  "It's really none of your business."

  He nods and walks with me. "It was my fault. I wasn't paying attention."

  "You can admit that?"

  "Should I not?"

  "No." I take a few more steps. It's not so bad. I'm off tomorrow. With rest, ice, and plenty of over the counter painkillers, I'll be okay. "Just… I serve a lot of guys like you."

  "Handsome?"

  He… he's joking. I think.

  I try to find the meaning in his expression, but I get lost in his beautiful eyes.

  "Business types," I say. "Guys who are used to getting what they want."

  "And they want you as dessert?"

  "Sometimes." I get a lot of phone numbers. But that's normal. All the girls at the restaurant do. "They don't usually take no for an answer."

  "And I?"

  "I guess you're the same." I manage to put my full weight on my foot. It hurts, but it's tolerable. We turn the corner. It's not too far now. "Those guys… they don't like to admit anything is their fault. Even if they order the wrong entree. Or forget to say 'hold the onions.'"

  "I know the type." He raises a brow.

  We cross the street. I'm moving faster now. New Yorker fast. I nod to the restaurant two blocks down. "I'm there. I've got it." I step away from him.

  He pulls his arms back to his sides. "I'm not different."

  He pulls something from his back pocket and hands it to me.

  It's a business card.

  His voice is that same steady tone. "Give it a few days and let me know how you're doing."

  "You mean how my ankle is doing?"

  He holds my gaze. There's something in his eyes—some tiny hint of vulnerability. I look at the pavement, then back to his eyes. That vulnerability is gone. Replaced by pure determination.

  "That's my personal number. Text or call anytime." He takes a step back. "Be careful."

  I nod. "Thanks."

  He turns, walks around the corner, and he's gone.

  I look at the business card.

  Blake Sterling. CEO of Sterling Tech. They're huge. Lizzy is obsessed with them. Uses their web services exclusively.

  Blake is the CEO of one of the biggest tech companies in New York.

  And he wants to know how I'm doing.

  Chapter Two

  Work drags on forever. By the time I collapse on the subway, my ankle is throbbing.

  Two people squeeze onto the bench next to me, a woman and a man in their 30s.

  He wraps his arms around her waist.

  She climbs into his lap.

  The two of them mash their mouths together like they're competing in some sort of face-eating contest.

  I scoot to the edge of the bench, but it doesn't help me escape their groans.

  It's almost sweet how badly they want each other. It must be nice to need someone so badly you're willing to dry hump on the L train.

  Is Blake into that kind of thing?

  No. He's far too polite to screw in public.

  But then, it's always the quiet ones…

  I let my head fill with ideas about the stoic CEO. Images form in my mind. A short comic strip.

  A sketch of him standing there in that suit. Blake stepping onto the subway, his eyes streaked with confidence. Blake ordering some pretty woman to strip out of her coat and plant on the bench.

  It's been forever since a comic has floated into my mind. Since any image has floated into my mind.

  Once upon a time, I spent all my free time drawing. I wanted to be an artist.

  But that was before the accident.

  That was back when I had the time and space to think about things like hobbies and guys and sex.

  I'm so lost in thought I nearly miss my stop.

  The horny travelers are still going at it.

  I fight the jealousy that rises in my throat. I want to lose myself like that.

  I step onto the platform as lightly as possible. My work shoes—thick, black, non-slip sneakers—soften the blow. But not enough to ease the ache.

  Usually, I relish my walk home. The Manhattan skyline is gorgeous against the dark sky. Silver steel and yellow fluorescent bulbs against a brilliant blue. It's a color that belongs only to New York City.

  I pass rows and rows of brownstones. A few trendy restaurants. People smoking on their stoops. Cars circling the block for a space.

  It's quiet by our apartment. I climb the porch and check the mailbox. Angry red letters read past due. The bill for the mortgage.

  It's a steal compared to rent anywhere nearby—our parents bought this place before Brooklyn was an It Spot—but it's still too much. I could afford it if I got a job like the one I lost out on today. I could even help Lizzy with school.

  Right now…

  Ankle first. Then my future.

  There's a bunch more junk mail. Electricity bill. From New York University.

  Lizzy's letter.

  It's thick. Legal-pad sized.

  She got in.

  This must mean she got in.

  I rush inside even though I'm limping. "Lizzy!"

  Her bedroom light flicks on. She pulls the door op
en, and wipes her sleepy eyes. "You're supposed to be the one who warns me it's a school night."

  I wave the letter.

  "What? Hold on." She steps into her room and returns wearing her trendy black glasses. Her eyes go wide. "I can't open that."

  "You have to." This is the best news in forever. Lizzy got in. That means she can stay here. With me. My best friend, the one person I trust, can stick around.

  "No." Her eyes pass over the return address. Her lips press together. "You open it. Please, Kat." She presses her palms together. "I can't. I can't even think."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Have I ever asked for your help when I wasn't sure?"

  "Have you ever asked for my help?"

  She laughs. "I never have to."

  It's true. I'm a little… overbearing. I know that. But I can't help it. Lizzy almost died that day three years ago.

  It's cheesy, yeah, but I really do feel lucky she's alive.

  Alive and ready for an awesome future.

  She deserves it.

  I tear the envelope open and unfold the letter. Dear Ms. Wilder; We are proud to offer you acceptance—

  My heart swells. Warmth spreads out through my body.

  She got in.

  Everything is going to be okay.

  We'll make it work. Somehow.

  "You're not saying anything." Her fingers curl around my wrist. "Is it bad? Tell me it's not bad."

  I shake my head. "It's good. Really good."

  She scans it carefully. "Oh my God." A smile creeps onto her face. "Kat! I… I can't believe it!"

  "I can." I wrap my arms around my little sister. She works so hard. She deserves it.

  "But we can't afford this. Not unless they're offering a full ride. And NYU doesn't do that. It's not like if I got into Columbia."

  "We'll find a way to afford it."

  "Will we?" She stares back at me, studying my expression. It must be obvious I've got nothing, because she sighs and crushes the letter into a tiny ball. "I still have Stanford and USC. And there are bunch of SUNYs."

  And other schools far, far away. "We'll find a way to cover your tuition."

  "It's not the end of the world. The school in Albany is great and only a few hours on the train." She moves towards her bedroom. "It's okay, Kat."

  My heart sinks. It's not okay. Nothing about it is.

  One of us is going places.

  One of us is destined for great things.

  Lizzy is going to the best school she gets into. Period.

  "There's a way. We just haven't figured it out yet." I'll do whatever it takes.

  Blake is sitting in my section.

  He's in another designer suit.

  His blue eyes are still icy. Impenetrable.

  He still looks like a guy who can snap his fingers and get anything he wants.

  He's here. That makes him yet another rich customer. I can handle that.

  I make my way to his table. I'm a little slower than normal. My ankle is still aching.

  He looks up at me. "Did you ice your ankle?" His voice is cool, but there's something in it. Compassion.

  "And rested all day yesterday." Not that it's any of his business. "Can I get you something?"

  "Whiskey. Rocks."

  "You'll get that faster at the bar."

  "I prefer here."

  "Sure. I'll have that right up." I step back with my best customer-service smile.

  His lip corners turn down.

  His eyes go to his watch. Then to his cell phone.

  Okay…

  I guess he doesn't like smiles. Fair enough. I don't like smiling at assholes all day either.

  I punch his order into the Aloha and stay busy rearranging salt and pepper shakers. The place is dead this time of day. There are only a few other people here.

  And Blake is looking at me.

  There's something in his eyes. Like he wants something from me. Like he's sure he's going to get it.

  I head to the bar, grab his drink, and drop it off. "Enjoy."

  "Wait." His voice is demanding. Sure.

  "I have—"

  "I'm the only person here." He pulls out the chair next to him. "Have a seat."

  "This isn't Hooters. Waitresses don't sit with customers."

  "Should I have a word with your manager?"

  "And say?"

  "That you're kind enough to sit to help a poor, confused patron navigate the lunch menu."

  "Yeah? Do you not know the difference between filet mignon and ribeye?"

  "Say I don't."

  "Okay." I swallow hard. That chair is inviting. My ankle is killing me. And his gaze is intoxicating. "I only have a few minutes."

  He nods.

  I take a seat. Cross my legs. Smooth my black jeans.

  "How's your ankle?"

  "Fine." It will be fine. Eventually. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't need your help."

  Those piercing eyes find mine. "You don't know how I can help."

  His voice is low and deep and impossible to read.

  I'd ask who the hell he thinks he is, but he's a tech mogul. He knows exactly who he is.

  His hand brushes mine. "I have an offer for you."

  "What kind of offer?"

  His fingers curl around my wrist.

  It feels so good.

  I want that hand everywhere.

  I want his touch everywhere.

  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

  This guy has a sway over me. I don't understand it. But I'm not going to give into it.

  Not right now.

  He draws his other arm over the side of his chair. "You were interviewing for a job the other day."

  I clear my throat. "Keep that to yourself."

  He nods. "Is this a profession you enjoy—waiting tables?"

  "We can't all be tech CEOs."

  "True." He leans a little closer. Those piercing eyes find mine. "You're a very beautiful girl."

  There's a flutter in my stomach. Then somewhere below it. "Thank you."

  "And polite."

  "Uh… Thanks?" What's he getting at?

  "I'm looking for someone like you."

  What? "For…"

  "It's a job. Unorthodox—"

  "I'm not a whore."

  "And I'm not a john. I don't pay for sex."

  "What? You'd pay for the time and we'd happen to sleep together? I wasn't born yesterday. I know how this goes."

  His grip around my wrist tightens. "No."

  The word stops me in my tracks. It's strong. Confident. Sure. I feel it in my bones.

  No. He doesn't want to pay me to sleep with him.

  I shouldn't believe him, but I do.

  He stares back into my eyes. "I want to fuck you, Kat. But I'm not going to pay you for that. It's going to be because you want me."

  My cheeks flush. "I…"

  "It wasn't a question." He lowers his voice to a whisper. "That other restaurant is a nicer place. You'd make more."

  I nod.

  "You need money?"

  "You could say that."

  "I have money." His voice lifts. Back to that confident, unshakable tone. "And I want you. For six months. A year maybe."

  "You want me to what?"

  "I want you to marry me."

  Chapter Three

  I want you to marry me.

  What the fuck?

  What the actual fuck?

  I stare back into Blake's eyes.

  They're still beautiful and blue and dead serious.

  I fold my arms over my chest. "You don't even know me."

  "I need a wife. And I want it to be you."

  "But…"

  "We'd start dating, get engaged, get married. After a few months, we'd divorce and go our separate ways."

  "Why?"

  His eyes turn down. "I can't explain."

  "Then I can't agree."

  "I'm willing to meet your price. Whatever that means. Think about it. You could grad
uate college debt free. You could buy an apartment in the Village. You could spend the next ten years in Paris." He pushes himself to his feet. "Whatever you want, I can make it happen."

  "I… I've never even had a boyfriend." I press my lips together. "I don't know how to be a girlfriend, much less a fake wife."

  "It's like your job. You smile and convince people you like them."

  So he does know something about the service industry.

  Blake pushes himself to his feet. "Think it over. Call or text me anytime. I need someone soon, and I want it to be you." He pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, places it on the table, and leaves.

  At home, I pour my thoughts into my sketchbook. It's an old habit. One I've ignored for a long, long time.

  It feels good putting pen to paper. Even if my drawing is only okay.

  I need practice. And training. Art school isn't cheap.

  But if I have a blank check?

  That could be the end of the mortgage.

  It could be Lizzy's tuition.

  It could be anything.

  God, the thought of destroying the mortgage, of being free of that monthly obligation…

  Blake may be an ax murder. He may be a jerk. He may be criminally insane.

  But he's not lying about being a billionaire tech mogul.

  There are pictures of him in a few dozen news articles. He made quite the stir when he founded Sterling Tech as a teen. He turned down a few million dollars for his company then.

  Now, it's worth a thousand times that.

  And he owns a lot of it. It's not clear how much, but it's enough that he could pay off the mortgage and finance Lizzy's degree.

  But marrying him?

  It's ridiculous.

  I hide his card in my desk drawer.

  For a week, I ignore Blake's card. I go to work. I hustle my ass off. I smile at assholes who leer at my chest and hint that they're staying nearby.

  Sunday, I get home late. And lacking tip money.

  My shower fails to wash away the tension of the day. Usually, I'm good at grinning and bearing it. But now that I'm considering the possibility of not waiting tables…

  Of being able to breathe?

  I find Blake's card.

  If he's really willing to make all my problems go away…

  That must be worth six months of my life.

  I have to ask.

  Kat: It's Kat. I'm considering your offer but I'm not particularly negotiable.