“Liv, I don’t know why you listen to Flynn.” f*ck
ing Flynn, who had appointed himself Brody’s personal condom dispenser. Flavored ones as well. “I do not have syphilis. And my sex life is very healthy.” If by healthy, you counted orgasm, party-of-one in his shower with his frump of an assistant the fantasy.
Must. Get. Laid.
“Good to hear,” said Liv. “And if it isn’t, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of this weekend.”
His ears perked up. “What about this weekend?”
“I’ve decided to have my pre-pre-bachelorette party in Chicago. I’m arriving Friday.”
Pre-pre-what the f*ck
? And in four days? He groaned.
“I heard that.”
“You were supposed to. This weekend isn’t good. I have business dinners and waxing appointments. Getting my hair washed.”
“Aw, what’s wrong, Brody? Are you too busy jerking off to pictures of Day-leks in your Fortress of Solitude?”
“Liv, it’s pronounced ‘Dah-lek’ and you know I hate when you mix up the sci-fi and comic book universes.”
Ignoring him, she charged on in her usual bull-in-a-china-shop manner. “I’ll be staying at a suite at the Peninsula so there’s no need to interrupt your masturbation schedule. I’d just like to see my sad, pathetic brother—and maybe offer one of the F-Troop in sacrifice.”
“For f*ck
’s sake.”
“Exactly. I’m doing this for the sake of your wang. I’ve already emailed the details to Emma. Make sure you send a car to the airport. It’s the least you can do, since you’re not paying for my wedding, you jerk.”
Click. Strip club with cock-destroying women or have his sex life coordinated by his sister? What a choice.
“Ms. Strickland?” he called out to the reception suite.
“Yes, Mr. Kane?”
Yes, Mr. Kane. There, Mr. Kane. Harder, Mr. Kane.
Perfectly anticipating his needs as usual, she already stood at the door to his office. Had she heard any of that conversation? Did he need to affirm to her that his sex life was indeed healthy and he really, really did not have syphilis?
“My sister.” He waved to fill in the rest.
Was that a smirk lifting the corner of Ms. Strickland’s hot little mouth? A heartbeat later, it was gone—if it had ever been there. Nothing but placid professionalism greeted him now.
“Your sister emailed details of her weekend trip and specified Alinea as her preferred dinner destination on Friday night. Should I make a reservation?”
“Remind me.”
“Avant-garde dining. Sixteen courses. One of the desserts is a helium-filled, apple-flavored balloon.”
He growled. Something like feminine appreciation softened his assistant’s usual no-nonsense mask. Note to self: Ms. Strickland likes it when you growl.
“I’ll book Smith & Wollensky instead,” she said.
“Just the two of us. She’s bringing her princess posse but I’ve no intention of sitting through dinner with that gaggle. And also, could you—”
“Reserve a town car to pick them up at the airport? Will do.”
“Thank you, Ms. Strickland.”
She shut the door behind her, and despite the shapeless skirt, his inner horndog detected the shift of her fine ass muscles beneath that cheap fabric and stood up to beg. Christ.
Guess he knew how he’d be spending today’s shower time.
…
Emma pushed through the double doors of Club Girl and did a quick scan. Phew. Ray wasn’t on the floor yet, which meant she might just be able to get away with being thirty minutes late for her shift.
Why, oh, why had she thought shutting her eyes for that brief power nap was a good idea? It was supposed to be twenty minutes where she would awake refreshed and ready to flirt with the well-tipping, grabby-assed clientele. Two hours later, and she was screwed.
“He wants to see you.”
Shit.
Emma turned to face Katerina, one of the dancers. Without a doubt, she was one of the most beautiful women Emma had ever seen, with her strong, toned body, perfect breasts, and legs a mile past eternity. If Emma bent that way, she’d be bending all over Katerina.
“He knows I’m late.”
“Yes. He know.” Katerina was Romanian and her English, while good, often left her mouth abruptly. She claimed to have arrived in the U.S. as a mail-order bride, took one look at the prospective groom and told him “you are unworthy to touch this body.” She’d rather allow men to stuff bills into her G-string than let a catfishing, potbellied liar share her bed.