I pushed away the fried pound cake, the few bites I’d been able to take sitting heavy in my stomach. The Douchebros had pitched all during dinner, Hunter’s face unreadable, Chuck visibly excited, and it was worse than I’d thought: apparently they’d taken Hunter’s earlier critique to mean that their previous pitch hadn’t been sexually exploitative enough. They now wanted, among other things, to hire “Knox knockers,” professional strippers who’d visit college campuses and dance in showers of bourbon while free samples were given out. Gag me.
I’d spent most of dinner wanting to throw up, and it hadn’t helped when Chuck accidentally-on-purpose slipped his hand over my knee.
I may have accidentally-on-purpose stabbed him with a salad fork.
“Aw, Ally, you sacrificing your dessert for your diet?” Harry said. “Don’t worry, I like my women with a full figure.”
I smiled at him in a way that I hoped communicated that he shouldn’t feel safe just because he was out of stabbing range at the moment.
“Now, now,” Chuck admonished Harry. “Allison’s not like that. She’s one of the boys, isn’t she?”
He glanced slyly at all the Douchebros, and there was hastily suppressed sniggering all around the table. I flashed back to the whispered conversation I’d seen Chuck and Harry having when I came back from the bathroom. Those assholes were planning something.
“Now what I think,” Chuck went on, with all the sincerity of a politician campaigning for reelection, “is that we should show Allison how much we accept her, by welcoming her into our sanctum santorum. Would you like to join us there, Allison? For a free and open exchange of ideas?”
He looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but the sniggering around him intensified. Oscar-level actors, his minions were not.
I knew it was a trap. It couldn’t be more obvious if he had painted the words ‘IT’S A TRAP’ all over it. But he’d maneuvered me into place, and I couldn’t afford to back down without coming across as a fun-hating bitch and looking bad in front of Hunter, who was probably already regretting hiring me after the ass I’d made of myself last night.
“Sure,” I said, my smile as fake as a spray tan.
“Wonderful,” Chuck said. He tossed his keys to Harry. “If you’d do us the honor of leading us to the Galenorn Gentleman’s Club?”
Shit.
#
“No, I do not want a lap dance!”
The Douchebros roared with more laughter than if I had been a professional comedian as I fended off an enthusiastic stripper in a g-string and pink sequined pasties.
I tried to avoid getting an eyeful as she sauntered off, offended, but there was nowhere safe to look. It was butts, boobs, and poorly conceived costumes as far as the eye could see. And while I’m certainly comfortable with the human body, I’m most definitely not the kind of person who wants to spend a night watching tastelessly outfitted strippers exploit themselves for cash. I could kill Chuck.
I mumbled something about needing to use the restroom and shrank backwards into the clouds of cigarette smoke. I needn’t have bothered; the whole crowd of them forgot me instantly in favor of drooling over a barely legal girl in a loincloth and an Egyptian headdress that was totally not historically accurate, with a fake rubber snake curled around her neck.
I rolled my eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t alter the orbit of the moon.
Hunter sidled up next to me. I braced myself for some double entendre, but he just looked at me sympathetically. “Not into it, huh?” he asked dryly.
It was the cigarette smoke making my eyes water, not the unexpected kindness. I covered with snark. “That’s not even the right outfit for an Egyptian theme. Even a temple prostitute would be more clothed than she is. And she definitely wouldn’t be wearing a Mayan belt, that’s completely the wrong continent.”
Shock flitted across Hunter’s face, and then he grinned. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises.”
I shrugged. “Hey, a semester of historical costuming stays with you.”
“Your school did something other than Civil War reenactment costumes?”
I gave him a Look, capital L. “Don’t tell me you did those.”
“Okay, I won’t.” He put his hands up defensively when my Look intensified. “Hey, it’s a great place to pick up chicks. You die a dramatic death throwing yourself in front of some fake musket fire, clutch their hands, look deep into their eyes…a winner every time.”
I snorted. “Don’t tell my mom. She’ll have me in hoop skirts before you can say Robert E. Lee.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The matchmaking sort?”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“My mom could get that way too, sometimes.” He shifted his eyes away, but not before I caught a flash of deep sadness in them.
I tried to distract him by joking about the costume of the next girl set to go on. “What’s she supposed to be, a Playboy bunny or the Easter bunny?”
He smiled, shaking his head at me. “I think she’s supposed to be a sexy cavewoman.”
“Ah, yes, that well-known trope,” I said sarcastically. “Uuuurgh. You Tarzan. Me Jane. Lap dance twenty mammoth, private room extra.”
Hunter snorted, and reached over to take my hand, pulling me closer. It was probably only to make sure he could be heard over the pounding music, but my heart still stopped as his breath tickled over my ear.
“Want to head home? I can’t wait to get out of here either.”
My hand fit into his like they were made for each other. I squeezed his hand, and looked up into his golden brown eyes with a smile. “I know I’m definitely not getting any work done here. What are we waiting for?”
NINE
Back at the estate, Hunter took my hand again to guide me out of the car. I didn’t need it this time, but I wasn’t complaining. I was actually rather rapidly conspiring to get him to do it again as soon as possible.
But then he didn’t move towards the guesthouse, instead tugging me down one of the unpaved gravel roads leading towards the edge of the property.
“Wait, where are we going?” I asked. “Is this the part of the movie where you reveal that you’ve been a ghost all along, and need me to know where you’re buried?”