by EM BROWN
“I know that,” I say quietly.
“Why do you need the money so badly?”
“Well, I don’t make much of it at The Montclair. Lila—my mother—doesn’t make much either back in North Carolina. And my younger brother, he’s got a chance of getting a basketball scholarship, or so his coach says, if he can attend this special camp. Plus...there’s a lot of good reasons.”
“What about your biological father?”
“I don’t know who my biological father is.”
He taps the cigarette to dislodge the ashes before taking another draw. “A lot of people have things they need to pay for without resorting to what you’re doing.”
Finding his statement patronizing, I can’t help replying, “Easy for someone like you to say.”
He glances sharply at me.
Undaunted this time, I continue, “I have an opportunity, a unique opportunity, to make more money than I could working an entire year—well, I guess it would be more like two years because I only work part time because of school.”
“Where do you attend school?”
“I’m taking classes at the community college, but I’m hoping to transfer to UC Berkeley in the fall.”
His expression seems to soften—a little.
“Maybe you don’t understand what a relief it would be not to have to worry about money for a change.”
“I don’t,” he concedes. “My family always had money. At least since the fifteenth century on my mother’s side of the family, when China took over Vietnam.”
“That’s a long time.”
“You go through with your plan, the hangover is going to be worse than what you felt this morning.”
“You don’t know that.”
He gives me a who-you-trying-to-kid look.
“Really,” I say. “I’m very practical.”
He doesn’t seem to believe me. “Women always remember their first time.”
“And men don’t? Did you have a ‘hangover’ after yours?”
His stare deepens, and a faint smile tugs at a corner of his mouth. I realize how full his lips are. Usually I don’t notice men’s lips, almost as if they don’t have any, but Tony’s lips are supple and...sensuous.
“I do remember my first time,” he says, his tone lighter than before. “I don’t remember her name, but I remember what she looked like. And I remember it was hellishly humid because it was summer in Vietnam.”
“And did you have buyer’s remorse?”
“It’s not the same for men.”
I suppose that’s true. Expectations for women around sex have changed but are still different. A wind has picked up, so I cross my arms in front of me.
“I’m willing to take the chance,” I tell him. “I’m okay with the ‘hangover.’”
“You say that now because you don’t know how you will actually feel afterward.”
I let out a breath, feeling like a child talking to her parent. It’s true that I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through with it yesterday because I didn’t want to regret it later, but I want to be the one to make that decision, not have it made for me.
I rub my arms. He takes a last draw of his cigarette, then drops it into the sand before removing his coat and putting it around my shoulders. I reach up to pull the coat tighter about me and end up grazing his hand. His breath seems to stall. Mine does for sure.
I make up my mind then and there.
I want to do this.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It takes me a few minutes to work up the guts to ask, “Why did you pick me if you didn’t want...if you didn’t want to do anything?”
He puts his hands in his pockets and gazes out at the ocean. I hang on to his silence, eager yet anxious for his reply.
He murmurs more to himself than me. “Je sais pais.”
I’ve heard those words before, like in a movie, but can’t remember what they mean. I bite down on my lower lip. If he sends me back, does that mean I don’t get paid?
“Let’s go inside,” he says, turning toward the house.
His coat is heavy, but it protects me from the cold breeze. I bend down and pick up his discarded cigarette butt.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Picking up the litter,” I reply.
He lets me go up the stairs first and follows me back into the house. Once inside, I thank him for the coat as I return it to him.
“Have lunch, then collect your things,” he instructs.
I walk into the kitchen to find Sierra, still in her satin robe, sitting at the island counter finishing off a sandwich. There are several other sandwiches and salads to choose from.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asks when I poke at a salad without taking a bite.
“Tony’s taking me back to the city,” I reply.
“Why’s that?”
“Guess he changed his mind about me.”
She sips her Arnold Palmer through a straw. “Too bad. Would have been cool to lose your virginity to someone like Tony Lee. And make twenty thousand for it.”
“I guess I blew it,” I sigh.
She concurs. “Sucks to be you.”
I give up on the salad and head upstairs to gather my things. Maybe if I hadn’t been so indecisive yesterday...but he hadn’t seemed inclined to want to do anything anyway.
With my duffel bag in hand, I descend the stairs and can hear voices from the foyer.
“Where you going?” Eric asks.
“I’m taking Virginia back to the city,” Tony replies.
“Yeah? She no good?”
No response.
“Does she not suck dick?” Eric clarifies. “Does her cunt smell bad?”
“I wouldn’t know. I put her to bed.”
“What? Why? I mean, she’s maybe a six or seven out of ten, eight if she had some style, but that’s not bad. If she’s not pretty enough for you—”
“She’s pretty,” he says firmly.
“You decide you can’t bang a virgin then? I can take care of that if you want.”
No response again. I hear the sound of keys.
“Well, if you take her back, make sure Dan knows I’m not paying. Maybe you can trade her in for one of those other girls.”
Not wanting to hear more of how I might get exchanged like a defunct product being taken back to the store, I descend the stairs and enter the foyer where Tony is waiting. He’s changed into more casual slacks, a sport shirt, and a dark leather jacket. He puts on his sunglasses. He looks devastatingly sexy.
Damn. I messed up big time.
I follow him outside and get into a black sports car of some kind. He puts my duffel bag in the trunk before opening the passenger door for me. I climb into soft leather seats.
He starts to drive, and we make our way down the winding road that takes us into town. We’re almost at Highway 101 when I finally work up the courage to say, “I don’t want to go back to the city.”
He doesn’t respond and takes the car up the on-ramp.
“I’m serious,” I say. “I’ve thought about it a lot, and I want to do this.”
Still no response. We’re on the freeway.
“I need the money,” I add, “and losing my virginity is not going to be that big a deal.”
He stares straight ahead. “You don’t want to do it with me.”
“Why not?”
“I have...preferences.”
“Like what? Blonds? Asians? Non-virgins? Women with bigger boobs?”
He draws in a breath. “You know that book you are reading? Fifty Shades.”
“Yeah?”
He turns to stare at me. “Child’s play.”
I can’t swallow. So he’s into...BDSM. No biggie. I know about that now. Not like firsthand experience “know,” but it’s not something that I’m scared of. I don’t think.
“That’s okay,” I reply.
He raises his brows.
“I’m open to trying new things,” I insist.
“You keep thinking you know what I want or should want. I’m not this naive, can’t-tie-my-own-shoes—”
“You’re too young.”
“I’m twenty-one, not sixteen or seventeen.”
“I’m too old.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Okay, that’s old.”
My answer surprises him, and he looks at me. Realizing I’m not serious, he lets out a chuckle. I like the sound of it.
“Any other objections?” I press.
“Yes. You’re correct. I prefer blonds or Asians. And non-virgins.”
I look down in disappointment, then up in puzzlement. Remembering I didn’t get a satisfactory answer earlier, I ask, “Then why did you pick me yesterday?”
“I was being nice.”
Oh. Guess I shouldn’t have asked. I purse my lips, then say softly, “I’d rather you not be nice.”
The muscle along his jaw tenses as he shifts into a higher gear so that we’re driving beyond the speed limit, like he’s in a hurry.
Feeling like I have nothing to lose at this point, I say, “Why do you care how I lose my virginity anyway? If I don’t lose it to you, it’d probably be to some half-drunk frat boy whose name I won’t care to remember.”
He weaves between two cars so that he can get ahead of a car that’s only doing seventy-five in the fast lane.
“You’d be doing me a favor,” I try. “The money means a lot. And I don’t know that I can work two jobs while studying at Berkeley. There are so many smart people at that school. Honestly, I don’t know how I got in. I keep thinking there’s another Virginia Mayhew out there who got the rejection letter I was supposed to get.”
After a few minutes of silence, he says, “I’ll give you the money.”
My jaw drops. Is he being serious?
Incredulous, I inquire, “For what?”
“For Berkeley. For whatever you need it for.”
He sounds a little frustrated. At first, I think he’s like Eric, whom I suspect is a scrooge when it doesn’t involve self-indulgence. But my intuition tells me Tony’s different.
“So you’re giving me, like, a scholarship?”
“Sure.”
“And you’re still taking me home?”
“Yes.”
“That’s...very philanthropic of you.” I knit my brows. I should be ecstatic. Instead, I feel unsettled. “I’m sorry I’m not a blond or Asian non-virgin.”
I watch his nostrils flair. He hasn’t looked at me for a while. We sit in silence, which I’m almost used to by now. I tell myself I should keep my trap shut. It’s like I hit the lotto. It doesn’t feel real.
“You know, it’s okay,” I decide, even as a part of me is screaming that I’m a card short of a full deck. “You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to give me the money.”
Now he turns to look at me, and even with his sunglasses on, I can see his disbelief.
“I know I said a lot about how important the money is, but...it’s not your problem.”
“Are you refusing my generosity?”
No.
Yes.
Because I’m crazy.
And an idiot.
“I wasn’t looking to guilt you into charity.”
“You wanted the money badly enough to give up your virginity, but now you won’t take it because I won’t have sex with you?”
It sounds ludicrous because it is. I don’t know what I’m doing.
“So have sex with me,” I say.
He blinks several times. His grip on the steering wheel tightens. He mutters something in French.
I realize I’ve upset him. On top of making no sense. I look out the window to my right and wish I was back at my apartment, so I can put this whole thing behind me.
Abruptly, he swerves the car all the way to the slow lane and pulls up on the shoulder. He puts the car in park and turns to me. I feel like withering beneath his stare.
“You won’t take money unless I fuck you?” he demands.
I guess that’s what I’m saying. It’s hard to think straight when he’s looking at me like that, even with the sunglasses shading the flash in his eyes. For almost the entire time I’ve been in his company, he’s been nothing but cool and collected. Occasionally, I would see a flair of emotion from beneath half-lidded eyes, but his tone was always calm. Till now.
“You could, um, not fuck me and not give me the money if you want,” I offer.
He rolls his eyes once with a shake of the head. “I told you what my preferences are. I warned you.”
I nod.
“Putain de merde,” he mutters.
He works the gearshift and pulls the car back onto the freeway. So what did he just decide? I almost dare not ask, but he speaks first.
“So where do you want to do it?”
Does this mean he’s agreeing to have sex?
When I don’t answer, he says, “The Grand Pacific at The Montclair is still available.”
“No!”
If I show up there, Mrs. Ruiz will think I’m reporting for work. I can’t imagine what lie I could concoct for why I would be accompanying Mr. Lee into his suite. But I don’t want to go back to my place either. There’s not enough privacy, and I don’t know that he wants to slum it.
He pushes a button on the car’s dashboard, and a woman’s voice comes on over the speaker. She speaks in Chinese, and Tony answers in Chinese. She replies, then hangs up.
I stare out the car window. My heartrate matches the speed of the car. Is this really happening? Did I just finagle him into having sex with me? Either way, he doesn’t seem happy about it.
What have I done?
CHAPTER TWELVE
The woman Tony called earlier on speaker calls back, and I hear the word “Drescott” amidst the Chinese.
Once in the city, he drives toward Union Square. The Drescott is a high-end boutique hotel just blocks from the shopping district comprising Neiman Marcus, Burberry and Tiffany’s—stores I don’t even go inside to gawk.
Pulling up in front of the Drescott, he hands the keys to the valet, who opens my door and gets my duffel bag. Taking my elbow, he guides me into the well-appointed lobby. This is not a place one rents by the hour, but that’s what we’re going to do. As he goes up to the check-in, I hang back because Tony and I do not look like we go together.
“Just one night, Mr. Lee?” the receptionist asks.
“Yes,” Tony responds.
“Ricardo here can get your bags for you.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Card key in hand, Tony approaches me and we walk together to the elevator.
“I didn’t mean for you to have to book a hotel room,” I say with guilt as the elevator climbs to the top floor. Maybe I should be offering to pay for the room, or at least half of it? But I don’t have the twenty thousand dollars yet.
“Where else is this supposed to happen?”
I guess we could have gone back to Eric’s place, but by then, Tony might change his mind.
“My best friend from high school did it in the back of her boyfriend’s pickup truck,” I tell him.
“I don’t want a mess in the back of the Porsche.”
Oh. It’s not the most romantic response, but it’s practical.
We step out of the elevator, and he opens the door to a suite. It’s not as fancy as the penthouse in The Montclair, but it’s more luxury than I could ever afford.
He drops my duffel bag on the sofa and puts his sunglasses on an end table. Staring at me, he takes out his cigarette case.
Remembering the sign by the door, I say, “I don’t think this is a smoking room.”
I regret ruining his fun, but billionaires should follow the same rules as everyone else. He presses his lips together and puts away the cigarette case.
We stand several feet apart, staring at each other. Suddenly, I remember I never did work out the condom i
ssue. “Um...”
How do I say this?
“About protection...” I manage.
He narrows his eyes. “You’re not on birth control?”
“I tried pills once, but they gave me terrible headaches. I didn’t get around to exploring other options. And most of them don’t protect against STDs anyway. I’m not suggesting that you have an STD, just that I don’t know you that well—”
He picks up his sunglasses. “I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. Relax. Order room service.”
He leaves without telling me where he’s going.
I sit down and contemplate what I should do next. Should I change into something more appropriate for the occasion? But what would that be? I don’t have any sexy lingerie, and it’s not like this is my wedding night.
I find the leather-bound room service menu. My eyes widen at the prices. I put the menu back.
Holy crap. This is happening. I’m going to have sex. For the first time in my life. With Tony Lee. Never in a million years would I have thought my first time would be with an international billionaire.
I don’t move from the sofa the entire time he’s gone. He returns with a bag from the local drugstore.
“Protection,” he says, setting the bag down. “What did you order?”
“I didn’t,” I reply. “Everything was expensive.”
He picks up the menu. “What do you like to eat?”
“I’m okay. I don’t—”
“What do you like to eat?” he repeats.
“I’ll try just about anything once.”
He scans the menu. “You like scallops.”
I nod. He picks up the phone and orders a mixed green salad, the scallops over linguini, a crème brûlée with Chantilly and blackberries, and a bottle of Château Latour.
After hanging up, he sits down on the sofa an arm’s length away. He leans back and studies me. “What are you going to study at Berkeley?”
“I don’t know yet. I was thinking of taking some sociology classes, maybe some education classes.”
“Sociology? You can’t make a lot of money in that field.”
“Not everyone goes to college to get rich.”
“College is an investment, supposedly. There’s an expected ROI.”
“ROI?”
“Return on Investment.”