ALEXANDER: A Billionaire Romance (NIGHT OF THE KINGS SERIES Book 4)

by Shayne Ford

  “Look at me, please...” I say, sounding like mom.

  She raises her gaze, her face stained with tears.

  “Why don’t you want to talk with mom?”

  “I can’t...” she says, crying softly. “I can’t be in that house. It reminds me of daddy. And I can’t talk to her right now,” she says.

  I squeeze her hand.

  “Sooner or later, you’ll have to talk to her. No one has anything against you, Elsa.”

  “I know... I can’t face her. Especially now. It’s the past and the memories...”

  She pauses, and our eyes lock for a moment. Something tells me it’s more than that.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “You’re not bothering me,” I say.

  “You have your own life.”

  “No, I don’t,” I say, smiling. “I have this place, my new job and a couple of friends.”

  She stays quiet for a moment.

  “Why especially now, Elsa...?”

  Tears drop in her lap.

  “Is there something else going on?”

  She looks at me, sorrow flashing in her eyes before the answer makes it to her lips.

  “I think I’m pregnant,” she murmurs.

  DAHLIA

  I slump into my chair.

  “What?”

  She looks at me with teary eyes.

  “You think? How?” I murmur.

  She shrugs.

  “I mean...Why didn’t you use protection?”

  More sobs rock her chest.

  “It was one of those heated moments...” she murmurs, and I wish I had a clear representation of what a heated moment was.

  I never had one. Unless, of course, it involved an actual heater, but I digress.

  I don’t even know what to say.

  “We should call mom,” I offer.

  Her face turns white.

  “No, no...” she says, desperation spilling in her voice.

  “She’s gonna help you.”

  “No. I can’t go home like this. Please...”

  Adrenaline surges through my body, and my pulse starts racing. Panic runs through me as I realize I have no idea how to help her.

  I may be three years older than her, but in many respects, she has more life experience than me. And yet it didn’t help her much.

  She runs her fingers under her eyes, wiping tears.

  “So what are you planning to do?”

  Her eyes glisten.

  “About?”

  “The baby,” I say, softly motioning to her. “You said you think you’re pregnant.”

  “I haven’t gotten myself tested.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know what to do if I really am. I can’t go to a clinic. I’m sorry...” she murmurs, her voice breaking again.

  Tears pool in my eyes.

  “That’s not what I was saying...”

  Softly, I rub her shoulder, trying to comfort her as my own confidence begins to falter.

  “You can stay here with me until you figure something out...” I say.

  She looks at me, hope flashing in her eyes.

  “The only thing is, the money that I make barely covers my expenses, and my car after I pay the student loan. There’s not much left.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll do something,” she says.

  Her innocence and desperation bring more tears to my eyes.

  The reality is, there’s not much she can do. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be on the run, fighting with her boyfriend, and showing up at my door.

  She has no education, and she just lost her job–– I’m using the term loosely. She may have actually lost it because of her condition.

  “What else can you do besides dancing?”

  The reality hits her hard even wrapped in my soft words.

  “I can work as a waitress.”

  “Anything else?”

  She shrugs.

  “Have you ever thought about going back to school?”

  “I can’t think about that right now.”

  She’s right.

  “What about that man of yours?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” she says abruptly.

  Why it doesn’t surprise me.

  “Any skills...?” I ask half-heartedly.

  “Dance...?” she says, a small smile lighting up her face.

  A soft chuckle rolls off my lips.

  “Thank God for dancing,” I say, remembering how hard it was to convince her to come with me to the studio. But once she got started, she practically lived for it. “Maybe you should start teaching sometime in the future. Perhaps have your own business,” I say, and her face brightens up again.

  Perhaps things will not be that bad after all, I muse. Except that now they are.

  A shadow rushes across her face.

  “I’ll start looking for a job next week. In the meantime, I’ll help around the house.”

  I stay silent for a moment, sunk into my thoughts.

  “Okay?”

  “Yes,” I murmur.

  If she starts looking for a real job she needs a car. I open my mouth to point that out, but then I change my mind and zip it.

  I guess we’ll take it one step at the time.

  “Are you hungry?” I say with a more upbeat voice.

  She nods.

  “What about I cook something? What would you like to eat?” I ask, glancing at her.

  She ponders.

  “Something you haven’t had in a long time,” I say, trying to cheer her up.

  A smile beams on her face.

  “Mom’s mac and cheese.”

  I grin.

  “Sounds like a great idea,” I say, feeling much better.

  An hour later, we dig into the steaming casserole, big smiles plastered on our faces.

  “This is the best I’ve ever had,” she says, indulging.

  “So, about this job of yours...”

  “Yes?”

  “What exactly were you doing?” I ask.

  “Dancing...” she says, flashing a mysterious smile.

  I tilt and eyebrow and stay quiet.

  “Lap dance...” she adds, stealing a glance in my direction.

  I motion her to continue.

  “Private lap dance.”

  “What exactly is that?”

  “You know... Lap dance.”

  “That, I know. What does private mean?”

  “I dance for the customer in the champagne room.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A private room, nicely furnished, dimly lit, and with music running in the background. Plenty of drinks. It’s only the client and me.”

  “You...um... wear anything while you’re doing that?”

  “Yeah...” she says with a hesitant voice.

  “Like what?”

  “It depends. Usually G-strings. Pasties or a bra. Something sexy.”

  “Do you sleep with them?”

  “No.”

  I shoot her a questioning look.

  “I mean theoretically no,” she says.

  What does that mean?

  “Hmm,” I mutter, biting my lip.

  “At least, I don’t,” she says seriously, and I believe her.

  “Isn’t the whole point of dancing on his lap to get him hard?”

  “Yeah. And they do get hard. But there are women for that, just not in the club. Or maybe I wasn’t part of that group. As a dancer, I was only doing what I was comfortable with. The clients know what to expect ahead of time to prevent misunderstandings.”

  We stay silent for a moment.

  “It’s good money,” she says.

  “How good?”

  “It goes anywhere from a few hundred to a few thousand.”

  “A week?”

  “A weekend night,” she says, studying me.

  “What did you do with the money?” I ask, baffled by the math.
>
  “I only started at this place a few weeks back. That’s why I’m so mad. Everything I stashed away I gave to you. As a contractor, you get the gigs as they come. There are no guarantees. More often than not, it’s up to the client. If he likes you, they call you back.”

  “How do you get this kind of work?”

  “Word of mouth. Someone has to vouch for you. And then you audition for the owner.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “No, no. It’s not what you think. It’s a dance audition in a studio downtown.”

  She pauses as she searches my eyes for a moment.

  “It’s a very exclusive club,” she says. “They don’t hire off the street. The clientele is top notch, and the women are cherry-picked. Half of them are college students. I was really lucky.”

  “Not that you need college classes to roll your hips,” I say.

  “No. You don’t. There’s a sort of, um... freshness about these women and men are willing to pay handsomely for them.”

  “How did you get into this business?”

  “Tasha.”

  “Is she a student?”

  “Yes.”

  We share a few more moments of silence.

  “You could probably do it as a side gig to supplement your income,” she says, and I’m suddenly flushed.

  “No way in hell.”

  Her hand comes to mine.

  “Listen. This is the worst position to speak from, especially now that I asked for your help. It’s not my place to suggest this precisely because I’m in a way the beneficiary, but trust me... this is an easy, fast way to make some extra money. I would’ve done at least a few more weeks if it wasn’t for that jerk. ”

  She pauses before she speaks again.

  “The thing is there’s a very small window of opportunity here. You have a good chance to land this gig if you act fast. You don’t have to work nights. One Friday night, for example, would probably earn you as much as you’d make the whole week working for your boss.”

  Her eyes enliven as she speaks.

  She’s no longer the girl with big teary eyes finding comfort in a mouth full of mac and cheese. She is–– and it pains me to admit, a street smart woman. One who was knocked down by her poor choices, nonetheless, a sharp one.

  “I can’t imagine myself doing that.”

  She takes a gulp of water.

  “Why’s that? You’re a better dancer than me. You look great. It’s work. How is that different than what you do at that office?” she asks.

  My eyebrows tilt up, an amused smile sliding onto my face.

  She’s not joking, though.

  “Well, for one I don’t have to take my clothes off or touch men... or their private parts.”

  I bite my lip as the memory of me touching my boss’ neck sends tingles down my spine.

  “As I said before you control how much you touch them or if in fact, you touch them. And about taking your clothes off. You’re doing that anyway...”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. For your doctor, or at the beach.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Yes, it is. You do it for people who couldn’t care less about your body,” she says, shooting down my argument.

  “The doctor cares,” I say trying a joke.

  She chuckles, yet only for a moment.

  “You take your clothes off for your boyfriend.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Why?” she asks, genuinely surprised.

  “I don’t have time.”

  She laughs softly and then she goes quiet as she weighs her words.

  “Do you know why you don’t have time?”

  I smile.

  “No. But I’m dying to hear.”

  “Because you don’t have enough money. That’s why. If you’d earn more or enough, you’d own more of your time,” she says.

  She does make sense, not that I expected this kind of advice from someone who currently doesn’t have a place to live.

  “You should give it a try,” she says softly. “What do you have to lose anyway?”

  “Someone could recognize me,” I say.

  She shakes her head.

  “No, they couldn’t. That’s the beauty of this work. You have your makeup on, your hair done, and you use all kind of props. You can use one of my Venetian carnival masks to cover part of your face.Trust me. I wouldn’t be able to pick you from a line of women dressed like that, let alone someone who barely knows you. Who are you afraid of running into, anyway?”

  I shrug.

  “No one, I guess.”

  “Then what’s the problem, Dahlia? As I said, you give it a try. If it’s not working, it’s not working. If it does, you double your current income. It’s a nice stash of money to have on the side. I’ll cook and clean and run errands for you, and hopefully one day, I’ll be able to pay it all back to you,” she says, and my heart begins to soften.

  I sigh.

  “Well, what you say makes sense in theory, but––”

  “You can dance, perhaps even better than me. You have everything you need,” she says, sensing me right on the fence.

  “There’s only one thing. I’m not comfortable with a man in that way. I haven’t been with one for some time.”

  “That’s even better,” she says.

  Clearly, I can’t win this argument.

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s better if you’re cold. You stay focused on your dance routine. You do your moves, calm and calculated, without getting yourself aroused.”

  “Can that happen?” I ask, sounding so stupid.

  “Yes, of course, it can. You’re made of flesh, aren’t you?”

  I purse my lips, crushing a smile.

  I don’t think she wants to hear what my flesh experience really was.

  “If you get too hot, then you have to deal with your own problem while taking care of his,” she says, and I laugh softly.

  God, I love her.

  That’s my little sister.

  “What’s so funny?” she asks, smiling.

  I shake my head.

  “Nothing... I’m just happy that you’re back. Here, with me, I mean,” I mutter, mentally crossing my fingers she’ll be using her brain more and acting less under the influence of her emotions.

  “Are you going to give it a try?” she asks.

  I stare blankly at the table, pondering.

  “Maybe....”

  Her face lights up.

  “For sure? I can talk to Tasha and arrange for an audition.”

  My stomach ties in knots.

  “You have to teach me your dance routine first.”

  “We have the whole weekend, and the next week for rehearsals.”

  “I have a day job, little lady.”

  “I’ll help you. I told you.”

  “Okay,” I say, a little voice inside my head already chiding me.

  9

  DAHLIA

  By Wednesday afternoon, it’s official. I’m taken with my boss. I’m the first one to recognize, it’s not a smart move on my part.

  In fact, it’s downright stupid, and yet I find him irresistible.

  I can’t tell if it’s his blue eyes, the impeccable way he dresses, or the way he walks into my office–– his stride paced and confident, his gaze pinned on me.

  I do my best to hide my fascination with him. I also try to distract him long enough so that he misses all the clues telegraphing how smitten I am with him.

  I blame it mostly on my lack of romantic life, although Chris assured me most of the women in her department–– freshly colleges graduates like me, have fallen for him at one point or another.

  “What’s his story?” I ask as Chris, and I take a seat at the corner table in the cafeteria.

  I pull the bowl of salad close to me while she sips ice tea through a straw. She shifts her gaze to me and shrugs.

  “I don’t know. There are stories floating around, bits and pieces from ye
ars back, but no one knows anything for sure. All I know is that he is one of the most chased after bachelors. He’s rich, good looking and seemingly a gentleman.”

  “Why is he single?” I say, rummaging through slices of tomatoes and cucumbers, picking the bites of cheese.

  She shakes her head.

  “Maybe he doesn’t need to be with someone?” she says. “Why are you alone?” she throws at me, taking me by surprise.

  “I’m not by choice,” I say, my cheeks burning.

  “How long have we known each other, Dahlia?”

  I smile.

  “Long enough.”

  “Exactly. You always made one step forward two steps back. You shunned away from boys in the beginning and later on from men. Good, bad, it didn’t matter.”

  “There weren’t that many good.”

  “Arguably so. You wouldn’t know anyway.”

  “Things didn’t work out.”

  She waves me off.

  “I was there, Dahlia. I know exactly how you interacted with them.”

  A quiet chuckle escapes my lips.

  “How?”

  “Awkwardly.” Her chest rocks with laughter. “It wasn’t good.”

  “Okay. Whatever. But this isn’t about me. We were talking about Alexander Harrington,” I say, the sound of his name rolling off my lips, making my blood run faster.

  “Oh, my God. You’re blushing.”

  “Wouldn't you?” I counteract.

  “Back to you,” she says, unfazed. “You are very much like him, at a different level of course,” she says.

  I roll my eyes.

  “You could find someone if you wanted to.”

  “Your point being?”

  “Oh, come on. You know my point.”

  “Okay, smarty pants. The thing is, I’m not very comfortable with men intimately speaking. I always felt awkward around them. So there. That’s my excuse. What’s his reason?”

  She sticks the straw in her mouth and stares at me vacantly.

  “I dunno... Clearly, that’s not his problem. Maybe he has commitment issues.”

  “Insecure men have commitment issues. Does he look insecure to you?”

  Now I sound like someone who spent some time studying him.

  “Nah... He doesn’t, but you can never tell.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I say dismissively.

  “Perhaps he longs for someone secretly,” she says.

  “You think?” I ask, my throat drying up.

  “Could be,” she mutters.

  I muse over her words for a moment, giving her theory a careful consideration.