Say You’ll Stay

by Carrie Lomax

  “Now he has my cell phone and wallet, and he’s threatening to send some video to everyone on my contact list.” The words came out in a whispered confessional rush. “He says he emailed it to me.”

  Internet security. Sex tapes. Those were things he could help her with. As long as she wasn’t into drugs, he could help her without dredging up memories that could send him spiraling downward in this most dangerous of all cities. “Was he paying you?”

  If Janie blushed any harder she’d turn into a tomato. “Not directly. He’d offered a stipend. A thousand dollars a month for two weekend encounters.”

  Trent sighed. This girl was a babe in the woods if she thought it was a fair deal. She was stacked, attractive and clearly educated. “You’d have gotten more working at a crappy escort service.”

  “Plus travel expenses,” she replied indignantly.

  As if that made any difference. Trent downed his drink and set the glass on the table. Between a beautiful woman crashing his hotel room and him standing in the hot sun for a sandwich, his shirt was sweat-damp and wrinkled. He’d have to change unless he wanted to chase off any prospective business contacts with BO. Pushing off the bed, he went to the closet and slid the door open.

  “You can stay here for a few hours. Make some calls. Get your ID replaced. Call your parents to get money for your own room. I’ll be back around five.” He unbuttoned his shirt, aware of her watching him.

  Cute little Janie who’d only slept with one person. Person, not man. Maybe she was a lesbian?

  Judging from the way her eyes were riveted on the mirror before him, not a chance.

  The placket opened gradually. Her eyes widened. How long had it been since any woman had watched wide-eyed as he undressed? He’d lost count. Trent knew he should stop now, before innocent little Janie’s eyeballs popped out and stood on stalks. Instead, he unbuckled his trousers to pull out the hem of his shirt.

  Janie’s mouth went slack. She swallowed, and he bit back a smile. Totally innocent. How the hell had a chick like her gotten mixed up in quasi-prostitution?

  The world could be an incredibly shitty place. Trent tossed the shirt onto the floor of the closet with the small pile of dirty laundry growing there. Then, he pulled up the undershirt he wore and chucked that too. He balled it in his hands and looked over his shoulder.

  “Enjoying the show?”

  Janelle coughed and grabbed her drink. “Sorry.”

  Trent tossed the wadded undershirt onto the heap and went to the bathroom. He couldn’t exactly tug one off with her out there listening, but he wanted to.

  “Your tattoo’s interesting.” Janie declared the instant he came out of the bathroom. “I apologize for staring.”

  She sounded properly contrite, which was disappointing. Trent supposed nice girls from the suburbs didn’t see a lot of half-naked ex-Army guys with giant tattoos spread across their backs. He’d enjoyed her momentary interest for what it was—momentary—and didn’t want her feeling bad about checking him out. After all, he’d done the same to her, and he didn’t feel remotely bad about it.

  “It’s the story of Icarus, isn’t it?” The ice cubes clinked against the glass as she took a long, fortifying sip.

  Yeah, she was educated.

  “No. It’s my story.” He pulled a fresh undershirt over his head and a new shirt out of the closet before conceding, “There’s a few similarities.”

  “For a minute there, I thought you had actual wings.”

  Like he was some sort of angel. Which given where he’d found her, maybe he was. Her crappy luck if she believed for one minute he was any kind of savior. Dressed, Trent ventured over to the table she sat behind and picked up the hotel stationery and pen. “Here’s the guest password to use my computer.”

  She accepted it with small, lovely hands. Trent took Janie by her stubborn chin and tilted her face up. “I am an expert in cyber security. If you attempt to do anything other than check your email, I’ll know. I will nail you to the fucking wall if you attempt to hack into any other system. Understand?”

  Wide-eyed, she nodded. He let go, but the sensation of her soft skin under his fingertips stayed with him.

  * * *

  The video was bad. She’d been out of the room when he’d arrived, and Kyle had clearly planted a camera in her absence. That required a coldness of calculation that implied he’d done this kind of thing before.

  Everything she’d done up to the point he’d dropped his pants and tried to shove his semi-hard dick in her mouth was caught on tape. It was grainy, but there was sound and there was no point pretending it wasn’t her, there willingly at least up to that point.

  Mason seemed like a nice enough guy, provided she didn’t attempt to hack into his computer—which she wouldn’t know how to do even if she wanted to—so she helped herself to another drink from the mini bar. Vodka cranberry this time since the gin was gone. He’d understand. Janelle jotted an IOU on the hotel-branded notepad.

  Then she used the hotel phone to call the agency hotline. She wasn’t going to let Kyle get away with this. If he was doing it to her, he’d probably done it to someone else, and he’d probably to it again. Solidarity, ladies.

  “Your contract doesn’t specify no filming, and oral sex was something you agreed to perform,” the woman on the other end replied unhelpfully.

  “I didn’t sign any image rights release forms. I read the paperwork before signing it,” Janelle seethed. She was fucking literate, after all. That is beside the point. The point is that Kyle stole your personal property and is threatening you. Focus.

  It wasn’t easy after she’d consumed the gin and tonic and half of the vodka cranberry, but she voiced her complaint anyway. “Revenge porn is illegal.”

  She wished she’d been quick enough to point that out she she’d been on the phone with Kyle. Stupid.

  “We don’t get involved in personal disputes,” the woman on the other end of the line replied. “I recommend you call the police.”

  So much for female solidarity. “He is threatening to send an illegally obtained video to my friends and family to force me to have sex with him.”

  “You agreed to have sex with him.”

  “Well, that was before I met him, and now I want my goddamn wallet back so I can get home!”

  “I am not a law enforcement agent. I have no authority to assist you. I can call him, that’s it.”

  “You could throw him out of the program. I doubt this is the first time Kyle’s done something like this.”

  Click. Janelle gave the phone a dirty look. She was dirty. She was such a pathetic failure; she couldn’t even succeed at screwing an old guy for cash. She sucked at being good. She sucked at being bad. She was a waste of a human being. Ugh.

  Janelle needed to wash the thoughts away as badly as she needed to rinse off the lingering creepiness of Kyle’s hands on her body. A faint bruise marked her left wrist. Another bloomed over each bicep, though they were probably from the guards. She took a quick shower, since Mace was out of the picture for a bit, and she didn’t want to impose later. Then, she put her clothes back on and braided her hair while considering her next move.

  A next move that definitely shouldn’t involve sleeping in his bed, but it did. The sheets smelled of bleach, clean but impersonal. She rolled out of bed, plucked Trent’s undershirt from the pile, and sniffed it.

  It was, hands down, the weirdest impulse she’d ever given in to. Nevertheless, she rolled it into a ball and hugged the wad of cotton like a teddy bear while she rested, unable to fall asleep for fear Mason would return and find her cuddling his dirty laundry. The spicy, deodorant-scented bundle made her feel safe, and a little bit stronger. Janelle needed the comfort, and she wasn’t going to overthink it.

  After a while she got up, returned the shirt to the pile, and made the bed. She turned on the TV and pulled out her toiletries. While the TV ran in the background, she removed the chipped nail polish from her toes and fingers. Then she applied a n
ew coat of pale pink instead of dark red. One day she’d be able to afford salon mani-pedis.

  Along with a new car.

  Fake it ’till you make it.

  She was never going to make it. She was going to die here of boredom in this weirdly small hotel room, and all alone. Janelle shoved her misery away and booted up the computer to research her options.

  Chapter Four

  Midway through the afternoon in a fascinating but highly technical panel discussion of two-factor security weaknesses, Trent realized he’d been sitting there for forty-five minutes without absorbing a thing. He hadn’t paid two grand for the privilege of sitting in a stale conference room in the middle of the desert for four days to rescue green-eyed sirens with other resources to fall back on, like caring parents.

  Business contacts were the only reason he was here.

  A sharp elbow in the ribs brought his attention back to the present.

  “Captain,” he replied, sitting up straight and nodding.

  The dark-skinned woman to his left smiled slyly. “Daydreaming, Sergeant?”

  “No ma’am.”

  Old habits died hard. He’d served for three years in Afghanistan under Captain Olivia Davidson, the last two working cyber communications for military intelligence’s field operations. Now they were both on the outside and partners…of a sort. She’d been out for eighteen months now, and she’d built up her own company by going after government contracts with a ruthless strategy honed on the battlefield.

  Trent had declined to re-enlist. He’d thought he was ready to get back to normal life, by which he meant an approximation of Olivia’s life before it had cracked against the rocky shoals of divorce. Married. Children. But once he’d severed from the military and gone on reserve duty, he’d drifted for a few weeks before deciding to follow Olivia’s path.

  Within a few weeks, Trent knew he didn’t have the same talent for managing people and growing a business. She’d helped him win a few government contracts and generally get off the ground. She’d been the one to recommend this conference as a potential source of contacts.

  He’d followed her like a duckling waddling after its mother. Olivia was not his mother, but she was his mentor. The very last thing he should be doing was mooning over the dark-haired nymph hiding in his hotel room when he ought to be making the most of this opportunity. Yet his body kept flushing with heat at the memory of Janie watching him undress.

  “May I confide, Captain?” he asked.

  “Let’s get a coffee. This speaker’s been droning on so long I can’t even remember his point.” She stood up and made her way past a full row of scowling men who didn’t like being interrupted by a woman, especially a black one. Olivia never let that shit get to her, though.

  Outwardly.

  They found a pair of comfortably overstuffed chairs in the lounge area and availed themselves of free, terrible coffee. Considering the deprivation they’d endured on the base, neither complained.

  “What’s on your mind, soldier?”

  Trent gave her the thumbnail sketch of his predicament. He imagined most people would’ve laughed at his problem—most men didn’t think a pretty girl taking refuge in your room would qualify—but Olivia was a mom through and through. If there was one person in the world who knew him, it was Captain Davidson. She understood why this was a serious challenge for him.

  “Well. You can’t turn her out into the street,” she finally said.

  There went that plan. “Can I hand her off to you?”

  “No you cannot, soldier. I’m already sharing a room to keep expenses down, and there’s no space for a third. Why don’t you give her the other bed for a night?”

  Because there is no other bed. Though the names and décor of hotels changed, Trent knew most of the Las Vegas venues from his days as a professional poker player. He’d thought he was being smart by choosing the awkward line of smaller rooms to save a few bucks and, more importantly, give him some breathing room between long days of socializing. He hadn’t counted on Janie.

  “Who are you rooming with?” he asked, sidestepping Olivia’s question.

  “My twin,” Olivia deadpanned. It was an inside joke. People frequently mistook her for her roommate, another black woman, though they looked nothing alike.

  Trent winced. “You still get that shit?”

  Olivia snorted. “You might be the only white guy here who can tell us apart. So, what are you going to do about the gate crasher?”

  “I have no idea. She has no money. I can’t keep feeding her all weekend.”

  Olivia grinned widely, her teeth a little gapped in the front. “Lucky for you, I'm not attending tonight's dinner. I have other plans.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Gotta get back on the dating train sometime. I’ll drop by your room with my dinner ticket later.”

  “Thanks.”

  That took care tonight. Maybe Janie would be gone when he got back. Trent ignored a little stab of disappointment at the thought.

  * * *

  If she explained the situation rationally instead of retreating into sarcasm, Mason would let her stay. Probably.

  Maybe.

  She hoped.

  The door opened softly and her pulse leapt. “You’re still here. I was hoping you wouldn’t be.”

  Janelle swallowed. “Me, too. As I have yet to invent teleportation, I’m still stranded. I’d have left a thank-you note, though. So long, thanks for the sandwich, have a nice life. And for the drink. And for the second one I made after you left. There’s an IOU on the table.”

  Mason sat on the edge of the bed, since she was curled up on the small couch. Loveseat. She could hardly even think the word. His knees splayed open and he leaned back on one hand. Her attraction had sharped to a knife’s edge. She cleared her throat and continued.

  “I called the agency. They talked to the sugar daddy. He says he doesn’t have my wallet, and the agency told me there was nothing they could do for me. Without ID, I can’t check into a hotel room even if my parents agreed to rent one for me.”

  “Your parents wouldn’t help you?”

  “They would if I told them about this situation, but frankly, I’m too embarrassed to do that if there’s any other way to fix this mess. My plane ticket isn’t until Monday. I can probably talk my way past security at the airport, but I’d rather not have to.”

  Mace rubbed his forehead. “How did a girl like you get into this mess?”

  “A girl like me?” What the hell did he mean?

  “Pretty. Smart. Capable.”

  Right now, Janelle felt like none of those things. “Student loans. I missed a few payments early on and my credit’s trashed and my debt load’s high.”

  “How about getting a job?” Mace demanded.

  “I have two, thanks for asking.” Ah, sarcasm was not her friend here.

  Mason made a face. “Sorry. If you’re employed, why are you so broke?”

  “My loans take up a huge chunk of my monthly income. It makes managing the loans damn near impossible. I’ve paid a lot of it down since I graduated, but my credit’s still in the gutter. I’ve had job offers rescinded because of it. My boyfriend moved to Texas and broke up with me shortly after. Now he’s getting married to someone else.” Janelle gritted her teeth hard enough to almost crack her molars just to keep her chin from wobbling.

  “He was the one partner I take it?”

  “How’d you guess?” Janelle watched Mason slowly collapse backward on the bed and for one embarrassed moment she wondered what he’d say if she told him she was ready for partner number two. He lay back with such controlled motion that even if she hadn’t already checked him out with all the subtlety of a bride picking out housewares for her wedding registry, she’d have known his abdomen was solid muscle.

  Mason clapped both large hands over his eyes and rubbed them. “What is it you need?”

  Not sitting here ogling a guy who wasn’t her type at all. She liked nice men. Not t
oo big, not too tall, a little earnest, kind and funny. Guys who’d remember your birthday, your mom’s birthday, and your anniversary without fail. Like Ben, her ex.

  Mason was none of those things, except kind. Though her presence was wearing on him, and his patience seemed ready to snap. “I need a place to stay for a night or two until I figure out how to get my wallet back from the Rich Jerk.”

  Mason made a crack between his fingers and peered out. “Rich Jerk?”

  “That’s what I call him.”

  “There’s a simpler term. They’re called johns.”

  If he’d smacked her across the face it would’ve hurt less. “You know what? I think I’ll take my chances with the police. There’s probably a women’s shelter I can check into somewhere around here.” Janelle snatched up her bag from the floor beside her and headed for the door.

  Only to nearly ram into his chest as Mason rose and blocked her path. Janelle stumbled back two steps and peered up at him.

  “What does the Rich Jerk want?” he demanded in a low growl.

  “What do you think he wants? A belated Christmas card?” Mayday, mayday. Do not burn this bridge. It’s the only one you have.

  Mason watched her. “What’s your full name, Janie?”

  “If I tell you, will you let me stay?”

  He sighed. She had the feeling that he’d been doing that a lot since meeting her this morning.

  “I promise I’ll sleep on the couch,” she offered, cajoling.

  “No one can sleep on that couch. It’s tiny. We’ll figure something out. But first you have to tell me your full name.”

  “Do I get to know yours?”

  “Janie,” he growled. Irrationally, it made her smile.

  “Janelle Carlisle from Verona Harbor, Florida.” She stuck out her hand. “And you are?”

  “Trent Mason.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Trent.” His hand engulfed hers and pumped it once. When he let go, a tingly aftershock made its way up her arm and reverberated throughout her body. Trent wasn’t her type. But she wasn’t blind, either. He was all kinds of gorgeous.