Whipped (Hitched, #2)

Mary's lips are tight. I call it her "holy shit" face, because she never swears. She just makes that face. "That'd be really expensive, wouldn't it?"

"It would be," I say. "But it's worth it."

"You have enough for that sort of thing?" she asks.

"Not yet."

Kevin pats her on the arm. "That's why he's getting investors, mom."

"Ah, I see." She smiles and twirls her chicken with her fork.

"I have a meeting with a few interested parties this week." If it goes well, I can finally stop counting dollars and start helping people.

My phone buzzes, and I check my texts. Darrel's asking if we're still meeting tonight. I text back yes. Might as well get it over with. I say goodbye to Kevin and Mary and jog to my BMW down the street. The sky's dark, the stars invisible. When I arrive at the Wynn, one of the finest hotels on the Strip, I hesitate at the door. This was my old home. I’d hoped to avoid it for a while.

The hotel greeter, a young man with a skillful fake smile, swings the door open for me, and I, not one to keep people waiting, stride inside. I navigate the tall hallways to the Sinatra Restaurant, barely having to watch my way. "Darrel Fowler is expecting me," I tell the staff member. He nods and escorts me to a table for two, where Darrel waits with a glass of wine. My hands are slick with sweat. I wipe them on my jeans.

"Lachlan, my friend." Darrel stands and hugs me. His voice is deep. His smile white and full of teeth. His skin is dark. People are often surprised by his Australian accent.

We sit down, and I order a chicken salad with extra vegetables. Darrel orders a barbecue steak and whispers something to the petite waitress. She giggles and saunters away. Another one-night-stand in the making. I don't judge. I know the waitress. Her name is Micky, and I had her giggling a few nights ago.

"You know I'm not coming back," I say.

His smile doesn't falter. "One more year, Lach. One more tour."

"That's what you said last tour."

He sighs, rubbing his bald head. "Because you're meant to perform. This thing you're trying to do, this…"

"Youth Center," I say. I wonder if he forgot, or just couldn't stand the words. A week ago, I asked him if he wanted to invest. He laughed and patted me on the head.

Darrel nods. "It's not you, Lach. You're meant for the stage. And besides, the guys need you."

"The guys will be fine. They've been doing this for years."

"Not without you." He frowns. He doesn't often. Darrel taught me how to dance, meet girls, spend money.

He did more than my father.

I feel my temper rising. I down my glass of ice water, and it cools me down. "I'm done." I stare into his dark eyes and see the disappointment.

He bows his head. "Two million."

"What?"

"We're prepared to offer you two million for the tour."

I can't stop myself. I laugh. "I could have used that last year."

"Last year, I knew you wouldn't leave."

Son of a bitch. I imagine punching him, something I haven't done for years, and it feels good. I want to say, "You can shove that two million up your ass," but I can't. I may need it to open the center. To help kids like Kevin.

So instead I say, "I'll think about it."

I leave my food half-eaten and pay my bill. Darrel flirts with Micky as I walk out and search for a liquor store. On the way, I scroll through my contacts. I land on Jessie. Good with her mouth. Doesn't talk a lot. She's what I need tonight. However, as I pick up a bottle of rum, my mind fixates on images of Vi. But I'm about to sleep with Jessie, so this is… hmm. Strange. The alcohol should fix that.

I grab a second bottle.





CHAPTER 3





VI


I stare at the wad of money sitting on my dresser. What the hell did I just do? I wanted a nice, respectful, quiet roommate. Someone who wouldn't intrude on my life too much. Not the womanizing ass who frequents my sex shop.

I count the money again, just to make sure it's real. It is. And this pile of cash is the answer to my question. At least it's temporary. He'll only be here a few months, just long enough for Zoe and me to get our shop in the green and to recover from our initial investment. How bad can it be?

Famous last words, right?

But I ignore my own trepidation and grab the cash before it disappears. He paid more than twice what I asked, and all up front. My landlord will be happy.

I shove rent money into an envelope and pen a quick note, then sneak out of my condo to stick it into the mail slot next door. At least now I can start entering and exiting my house without fear of confrontation.

I check the time on my cell and grab my purse. I'll have just long enough to get to the bank and keep my utilities on, if I hurry. With a last glance at my unusually clean condo I lock up and head out.

On the drive to the bank I consider what it will mean to have a roommate. I haven't lived with anyone since I moved out of my parents’ house—aside from a very brief stint with Chad, which obviously didn't end well. Even in college I scored a private dorm room. As an only child, it suited me. I guess I was going to have to learn to share my toys.