Sinful Rewards 1 (7 page)

“Hey, it works for me.” She laughs. “I haven't bought a drink.” Cyndi pauses, her head tilting. “Ever.” She grins. “Come out with us tonight.” She jumps to her feet, pulling on my fingers. “I'll snag us free drinks, more than you can guzzle. You're such a lightweight.”

The drinks aren't the problem. It's the purpose of the drunkfests, to hook up. Everyone goes to the clubs, looking to score a one-night stand, and Cyndi's no exception. In the past, she's pressured me to go home with some random guy, and when I refused, she left me alone on the dance floor. “I have to work tomorrow.”

“Duh.” She makes a face. “So do I.”

“I'm not related to the boss,” I point out. Cyndi works in the Chicago division of her family's candy company. She can roll into the office at noon and no one dares to comment. “And I'm still temporary. Maybe after Friday—”

The doorbell rings, interrupting a promise I don't know if I would have kept. “Dinner's here.” Cyndi runs to the door, my hyperactive friend not bothering to look through the peephole before opening it. The risk is low. All visitors to the buildings are screened by security.

The deliveryman's eyes widen as he sees my friend. “D-d-delivery?” He holds up the paper bag, his hands trembling.

“Thanks.” Cyndi grabs the bag and flounces to the kitchen counter. The man stares after her, his mouth open, his expression bemused.

He continues to wait. I press my lips together. She must have forgotten the tip with her online payment. Again. I take a precious fiver out of my wallet and hand the bill to him. “Thank you.” I glance at his name tag. “Hapa.”

He drags his gaze away from my blonde friend. “Thank you, miss.” He reluctantly leaves, his steps slow. I shake my head as I close the door. He'll be thinking about Cyndi for days. She has already forgotten him.

“I heard about this Japanese fusion place last night from Ken . . . Kevin.” Cyndi frowns. “The guy I slept with.” She dumps the contents of the containers on plates. “He said the beef short ribs were to die for, and I know how you like ribs.”

“I do love ribs.” I set place mats, silverware, and glasses of water on the counter. Cyndi hands me one of the plates heaped with food.

“That's wasabi mashed potatoes and blanched spinach on the side.” She perches on a bar stool, and I sit beside her. “I want to design a wasabi-flavored jelly bean. Dad says it is too niche, which you and I both know is a load of hooey. It isn't any more niche than our buttered popcorn or cream soda flavors.”

Cyndi chatters about how she's not taken seriously at her family's company. I play the good friend and don't mention her variable work schedule, her past product disasters, and her tendency to quit projects midlaunch.

“So what did you and Rainer talk about?” she asks, her cheeks covered with the sweet and tangy rib sauce.

We talked about her, about how Nicolas thinks she's a handful. If I share this with Cyndi, she'll make it rain wasabi mashed potatoes and we'll receive another prissy memo from management. “He wanted to give me a reward for returning his phone.”

“No shit?” Her finely plucked eyebrows rise, and I nod. “What did you ask for? Oh, please tell me you said passes to R.” Cyndi claps her sticky hands. My friend is what Hawke would call a hot mess. “I've been trying to get into his club for weeks.”

“Do you think it's wise to go to Rainer's club?” I lick my fingers, savoring each drop of the rib sauce. “Your dad doesn't even want you to talk to him.”

“We're living in his building, and daddy doesn't care about that.” Cyndi waves her hands in the air, dismissing my concerns. “So what are we getting? Bottle service? The full VIP treatment? I know you didn't forget me, your bestest friend.” She flutters her eyelashes.

I laugh. “I could never forget you. You won't let me.” I pause. She'll think I'm a fool for turning the reward down. Maybe I am a fool. “I didn't ask for anything.”

A rib drops from Cyndi's fingers. “Bee . . .”

“I don't need a reward for doing the right thing.” I try to explain my bizarre thinking.

“God, Bee. Sometimes I want to strangle you.” She wipes her fingers on a paper towel, her movements jerky. “He's a billionaire. He can afford to help us.” Cyndi stands, leaving two ribs uneaten on her plate. “All of my friends have seen the inside of R. Multiple times. I can't even get onto the guest list. It's like Rainer has a personal vendetta against me.”

“Paranoid, much?” I laugh, the thought of anyone having a vendetta against my bubbly friend ludicrous.

“I'm serious.” Cyndi meets my gaze. A wet sheen clouds her beautiful green eyes.

My smile fades. She
is
serious. “Hey, I didn't realize how much this was bothering you.” I should have known. She's my best friend. I touch her shoulder.

“Don't.” Cyndi brushes my hand away from her, rejecting my weak attempt at consolation. Her bottom lip trembles.

I gaze helplessly at her, not knowing what to say, how to fix this. The distance between us has never been this vast. “Cyndi—”

“They make fun of me, Bee. Because I can't get into his club.” She doesn't look at me. “I'm an object of ridicule. You don't know what that's like.” Cyndi runs into the bedroom and closes the door, placing yet another barrier between us.

I know exactly what it's like not to fit in. That someone dared to exclude my wealthy, gorgeous, lovable best friend blows my mind. I'll do anything to spare her that pain.

Even suck up my pride and talk to Nicolas.

Cyndi stays in her room for hours, her TV turned to an earsplitting volume. It isn't like my happy-go-lucky friend to sulk, and this makes me feel even worse. She's done so much for me, and I didn't even ask to get on some measly guest list.

Needing to do something, anything to make her happy, I decide to clean our condo from top to bottom. I change into a T-shirt, hesitate for a heartbeat, then don my yoga pants, the pair with the hole in the back. Hawke, my tattooed stranger, has already seen my panties. It doesn't matter if he sees them again.

Nothing I do when I'm around Hawke matters because he's the leaving kind. When he hops on that pretty bike of his and rides out of Chicago, he'll take my secrets with him. I can be as naughty, as perverted as I like. No one else will know.

I dust and sweep and stack the dishwasher, feeling truly free for the very first moment in my life. Every time I move in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, I imagine Hawke is watching me, wanting me.

I want him to watch me. It's sick, I know. I bend over with my ass facing the window and I wiggle, giving him a good show. Hawke can't judge me harshly for my exhibitionism, as he's watching this show, watching me.

Nicolas could be watching me also. He has claimed the penthouse suites on all three of the towers, and sometimes I've seen him sitting in the park late at night. But, unless he has binoculars as Hawke does, Nicolas won't be able to see my panties. All he'll see is a sexy young woman tidying her condo.

I stand on a chair to clean the ceiling fan, swiping the blades with my rainbow-colored as-seen-on-TV duster. My T-shirt pulls upward, revealing my flat pale stomach.

Giving my audience a glimpse of exposed skin thrills me. In my fantasy, I'm a mischievous maid and my employers secretly watch me, lusting after me. They sit in the dark, hard, frustrated with desire.

The doorbell rings. I jump to the floor, my bare feet smacking on the hardwood, and I wander to the door, peek through the peephole. Ugh. It's Angel, living proof that labels don't always reflect the contents. I fix a fake smile to my face and let her in.

The blonde is tall, painfully thin, and is wearing five-inch heels, making the height differential between us even greater than usual. I tilt my head back to gaze up at her, envying the black Salvatore Ferragamo purse nestled in the crook of her arm, her sequined top and matching silver skirt, her effortless tan. Her parents own half of Miami, and she doesn't look at price tags when she shops, spending more in a day than I spend in a year. She views me as Cyndi's live-in maid, an irritant to be endured.

“Evening, Angel.” I must be civil. This is Cyndi's friend, and Cyndi isn't exactly happy with me right now.

“Bertha.” Angel curls her thin top lip.

“My name is Bee.” I grit my teeth. She knows this. She simply doesn't care.

“Whatever.” She shrugs her bony shoulders, her long platinum blonde locks skimming over her nonexistent ass. The girl needs a cheeseburger desperately. “Cyn here?”

“Yep.” I glance at Cyndi's closed door. “She's in her room.”

Angel doesn't move in that direction. She looks around the room, disdain sharpening her already angular face. There's a long pause. I don't bother to make conversation. Angel doesn't expect the help to speak.

“Well?” She huffs. “Are you going to get her or what?”

I want to tell her to get Cyndi herself. She's been to the condo a thousand times. But the last time I said that, Angel complained bitterly to Cyndi for weeks, hinting that she should get rid of my ungrateful ass.

“Right away, ma'am.” I layer the sarcasm on as thick as I can, walking with mincing steps backward to Cyndi's door. I rap my knuckles against the door, and the TV's volume lowers. “Cyndi, Angel is here.”

“I'll be a minute,” she calls back.

I tiptoe back to Angel. “She'll be a minute, ma'am. Would you like to take a seat?” Outside. In the hallway.

“I'll stand.” Angel spreads her fingers. “She feels sorry for you, you know.” She examines her flawless French manicure. “That's why she puts up with your insolence. You're her current charity project, but someday soon, she'll tire of you. Cyn never stays with any project for very long.”

Normally I'd ignore Angel's bitchy comments, but she's the second person today to hint my friendship with Cyndi is coming to an end. “We've been friends for almost five years.” Surely, this means something.

“Four of those were college years.” Angel sniffs. “Slumming is expected in college, but you're in the real world now. In the real world, there are those who serve and those who are served. You should take my advice and stick to your own kind.”

I straighten, trying to appear taller, more significant. “I don't judge people based on their bank accounts,” I lie, having done exactly that with Nicolas . . . and with Hawke.

“Then you're the only person on the planet who doesn't care about wealth.” Angel's laughter is brittle, holding no joy.

Cyndi's door opens. She slinks out of her room, wearing a silver metallic Hervé Léger bandage minidress, paired with dainty sandals. She usually seeks my advice on fashion purchases, sending me photos of prospective outfits. This dress was bought without my insights. Glitter dusts her cheeks and lips.

“I'm ready.” She doesn't meet my gaze, doesn't ask me to join them.

My heart twists. I'm losing my friend. “Have fun tonight.” My voice is small.

She says nothing, slipping out of the condo. Angel smirks over her shoulder as she follows Cyndi, her top reflecting the light, creating an otherworldly effect around them. They're sparkly, beautiful, rich.

Kind sticks to kind.

The door closes and I'm alone.

I glance toward the windows. Perhaps I'm not completely alone. Did Hawke see Cyndi's rejection, my humiliation? I drift toward the glass, lean my forehead against the cool surface, and grip the metal bars holding the panes in place, unconsciously seeking to be closer to him, hungry for company, even the wrong sort of company.

Is this how my mom felt? Had she been so lonely that being with any man, even the leaving kind, was better than the alternative?

Refusing to make the same choices, I push away from the window, away from the temptation of the telescope, of Hawke. Tomorrow, I'll talk to Nicolas, convince him to put us on the guest list for R, and Friday, I'll go clubbing with Cyndi. We'll make up, celebrate my full-time job, dance until our feet are sore.

Everything will be normal again.

Chapter Five

I
SPEND THE
rest of the evening drafting my list of work initiatives. My goal was to pitch ten hire-me-or-feel-like-a-fool ideas to Mr. Peterson. With the help of the Internet, I outline fifteen.

This full-time job is mine. I grin. At least one of these ideas will please my boss. Hell, he might even upgrade the position to reflect my awesomeness. I'll spend some of that windfall on Cyndi.

She hasn't texted me. Not once. She usually gives me the play-by-play at the clubs, sharing quirky fashion styles, bad pickup lines, sending me stealth video clips of crazy dancers, making me laugh until my stomach hurts.

Tonight, there's silence and I miss her. I miss her so damn much.

I fiddle with my phone, willing it to ring. Nicolas's number is listed on my incoming call list. As a joke, I draft a text to him, linking to an article I found in a woman's magazine. The title is “How to Be a Better Friend.”

I shouldn't send it. I know I shouldn't. My finger has a brain of its own, however, and presses the send key.

Two minutes later, I receive a link from him. I click on it. The article lists the top five ways to deal with an asshole. I smile and set the phone on the couch. My best friend might not be thinking of me, but my billionaire is.

I watch TV, losing myself in the runway shows, admiring the fashions I adore yet can't afford. Some of the styles are as classic and timeless as my Salvatore Ferragamo purse. They can be worn and loved for years.

At eleven fifteen, an electronic twinkle fills the quiet, and my heart leaps. It's Cyndi. Finally. I grab my phone and stare down at the small screen.

Friendly: Leave your curtains open. Good girls earn rewards.