An Improper Deal(2)
Proposition? The word makes me pause.
He continues, “Ideally, he will think it is all his own decision.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Hardly. And I hope for your—and your sister’s—sake that he does proposition you. I’ll email you the details.”
He gets up, smoothes down his suit, and leaves. I gulp the rest of my drink. Infuriated or not, I can’t afford to waste free coffee, especially when it’s this good. I gather up everything on the table—napkins and the offending photo—ready to toss them in the trash.
But I don’t. Curiosity tickles my mind.
Just what kind of messed up guy is rich, wants to marry a stripper and needs Mr. Grayson’s help to do it? And why in the world would Mr. Grayson want me to strip so that this weirdo can propose to me?
No, not propose to. Proposition.
I pick up the face shot. My mouth opens at the absolute gorgeousness of the man.
He isn’t classically handsome, but he is…arresting. That’s the word. Thick, neatly cropped dark hair is somewhere between medium brown and black. His nose is a blade, straight and sharp, and smooth, lightly tanned skin stretches over the high forehead, finely carved cheekbones and strong, square jaw. His eyebrows are almost black, slightly arched in an arrogant line. The dark chocolate of his eyes makes me think of something warm and sweet, but there’s a hint of insolence in them that says I better watch it.
Why does a man who looks like this need to marry a stripper? And why me? I mean, I was all right back home, but this is Los Angeles. The city is full of these tall gorgeous women, and I’m about as unforgettable as a candy wrapper on the street.
Shaking my head, I walk over to the trash. In go the wrinkled paper napkins and empty paper cup…
I can’t seem to throw away the picture. My hand floats over the trash receptacle, but my fingers won’t let go.
Okay, fine. I’ll just throw it away at home. I tuck Mister Rich and Arresting into my wallet and walk out.
I don’t want to do this. Not at all. But Mr. Grayson’s flat voice made it clear there will be consequences if I don’t. There is no way I can survive here without his money, and going back to a homeless shelter is out of the question. The last time Nonny and I were there…
I shudder, then shake off the ugly memory. It was close, but nothing happened. And I’ll do everything in my power to make sure nothing ever does happen.
Stripping. It’s just taking off your clothes, right? There are bouncers and stuff to keep the patrons in check. I know how it is. I worked in a casino briefly, which is how I met Mr. Grayson.
The fact is, there’s no one I can turn to for help. I’m all on my own. So I’ll go with the flow…
…for now.
* * *
Elliot
I stifle a yawn as another stripper gyrates to the music.
You’re slumming.
No shit, Einstein. I’m not in the VIP area, am I?
Even though I told all my siblings I would marry a stripper for a year, I just can’t seem to make myself proposition one. But the bride search isn’t too bad. After all, I’m not at some stuffy debutante event or—god forbid—out on a date. A shudder runs through me. So not my style. I don’t do romance, I don’t date, and I don’t have the kind of sterling reputation that gets high society mamas to push their daughters my way.
What I do have is a sizable bank account. That’s it.
A strip club is the perfect venue for what I need. All the merchandise is on display, so there won’t be any surprises. A lot of the girls are stacked, although I cross off all the ones with plastic tits. I put a premium on tactile sensation. What’s the point of having a wife you don’t want to fuck?
The problem is that I can’t imagine fucking any of them for more than one night. If I’m going to marry, I’m going to make sure I stay faithful for the duration. Not because I care about the girl’s feelings—I don’t, not really—but because I don’t want my father to be able to use my infidelity to fuck with me and my siblings again.
I consider calling it a night. I’m not gonna find any wife material here.
Then the girl shows up on stage.
I don’t know what makes me look at her face. Usually I check out the girls’ bodies first—I’m not at the club to admire cheekbones. But with her, I can’t help it.
She’s young. Maybe twenty? She probably can’t even drink legally. Hell, she’s too young even to know how to do her makeup right. That shade of lipstick clashes with her flaming red hair. And the smoky thing she did with her eyes overwhelms the rest of her face.
But there is a shadow in the emerald depths that says she’s seen and experienced things that nobody her age should have, and I can’t seem to turn away. I want to take apart the puzzle, solve the mystery and satisfy my curiosity.