The Chase (2 page)

Numbness washes over me as I
hook my fingers in the waistband of my leggings, slowly pulling them down the length of my thighs. Stepping out, I pick them up and fold them neatly, placing them on a nearby chair. The T-shirt is next.

I’m left in the underwear that
I purchased for the evening, a pale pink thong that makes me feel like I’m flossing my rear end and a shelf bra that in my opinion has absolutely no purpose, for all the support it offers. Miss Black was very specific about what I needed to get, and even where I had to purchase it—a high end boutique down the road from this building, a place that sells items that cost more than the trailer I grew up in.

I simpl
y didn’t have the money. Not that I had it and couldn’t spend it—I literally didn’t have it. So I’d ordered these things off a discount store on Amazon, and hoped she wouldn’t notice.

She doesn’t seem to as I
step on the scale, but then again, she does seem a little off this evening. I hold still as Miss Black wraps the measuring tape around my waist, my breasts and my hips, then coos with delight.

“You’ve lost weight in the last week.” Her smile tells me that I’ve pleased her, in the manner of a puppy learning a new trick. “How wonderful.”

Yes, I’ve lost weight... because I’ve been terrified about starting this job. Her words make me feel exposed, vulnerable, and I fight the urge to reach for my discarded clothing.

“You may get dressed now.” Noting my measurements in a chart—and won’t I be thinking about
that
every time I eat from the cheapie menu at McDonald’s—she hands me a paper chart identical to my own on the outside. “Then review Mr. Thomas’ chart while you wait for your driver.”

The paper burns my hand like guilt, and my fingers clench involuntarily.
I don’t need to review the file—I’ve been so nervous, I’ve committed it to memory.

My patron for
the evening is one Henry Thomas—Miss Black says that normal procedure is to use false names, but he wants his real name known, wants what Miss Black refers to as a
total girlfriend experience
... basically, he wants to pretend that we’re on a real date. His chart makes him out to be palatable enough, a good looking man a la Clark Kent, who first and foremost wishes simply for company on his evening out... but who, I was quick to note, is also quite open to sex, should that occur.

And it will occur. I know it will.
And it will probably be kinky, because otherwise why would a handsome successful man like him have to pay for a date? I know plenty of girls at school who would go on the date and then conclude the evening with a blow job, all for free.

Whatever the reason, he’s paying... and I have to make the full meal deal happen, because sex is where
the big money is.

Not to mention,
Miss Black expects me to deliver. I want to make her happy. This job is my ticket to a better life, not a forever job, but a way to get ahead, to lift my mom and I out of the hell hole our lives have become.

It’s not the easy way out, though I’m sure some would say so—but I’ve had to sweat just to get into college, had to fight for every scholarship dollar that could mean the difference between eating or not.
Coming from the Green Acres trailer park in upstate New York mean that it’s nearly impossible to get ahead, and thanks to my mom’s latest stunt, I’m so far behind that I think I’m winning.

I intend to milk this opportunity for all that it’s worth, then get the hell out. Cause
I want to be a hooker when I grow up?

Yeah. Said no one, ever.

Engrossed in my thoughts as I pull my outfit for the evening from my bag, I’m unduly startled by the sound of the office door opening, and the footsteps that follow.

“I t
old you not to come back here.”

It might have taken me a moment,
but the sound of Miss Black’s voice combined with footsteps clues me in. I look up at the intruder—and into a pair of ridiculously gorgeous hazel eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes that any woman would kill for—I can’t quite stifle the curse that rolls out of my mouth.

“Shit!” I clutch my arms in front of my breasts, which, clad in the very low cut bra are far more naked than I would like.

“Calm yourself, Miss Daniels. Mr. Kincaid isn’t interested in what you have to offer.” Miss Black sniffs, somehow managing to infuse the small sound with condescension, before she stalks over to the man who has just entered the room and plants her hands on her hips. He smirks at her irritation. “What are you doing here?”

“You know what I’m doing here.” The man’s voice, deep and reminiscent of whiskey, nags at my consciousness. I
can’t help but stare as I slowly reach for my dress.

He stares back, a cocky half smile playing over his lips. I feel the punch of attraction that comes with being appreciated by a good looking man, a persistent feeling even though I’m naked and way out of my element.

“Nice rack.” He runs his tongue over his lips as he looks me over, and I gape, utterly shocked by his crass words, and even more put out by the fact that my body responds to the comment, and to the way he looks me over like a car he’s thinking of buying.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Don’t toy with my new girl.” Miss Black glares at him, but something in her body language tells me that her anger is for show. She’s manipulating the situation, trying to get something... and if I’m right, that something is money. Probably a lot of money, if she’s bothering to play this game.

So who is this man? Why is she putting up a fuss yet allowing him to barge into her office while I’m naked and exposed?

It takes me a minute, because he’s dressed differently—dark skinny jeans and a tight black T-shirt are a far cry from the elaborate get ups that he wears on stage or in photographs. But his eyes are still ringed with dark liner, his arms sleeved in bright tattoos. A thin silver ring pierces his left eyebrow.

Holy shit.

What the hell is
Adam Kincaid
doing in Miss Black’s office? Apart from being so famous that he surely has no need to pay for sex...

According to entertainment news the world over, he’s
not interested in women, if you know what I mean... not that the female population is deterred by that.

“My answer is the same as it was last time. We don’t
employ the services of men here, so we have nothing to offer you.” Miss Black all but bares her teeth; Adam smiles lazily in return, a sexy curve of the lips that makes me think of dirty things.

Hmm. Something tells me that it wouldn’t take too much effort for Miss Black to find a good looking young man who needed money as badly as I do. But then, I would never say that I know what’s going through that woman’s head.

And that answers that. And it’s probably for the best, because even before I recognized him, he gave me a nice little buzz in my girly parts, one that I haven’t experienced often in my life. What can I say—when I’m not getting paid for it, I’m picky.

But I’m determined to make my way through life on my own terms—even if my own terms have led me into this job.

I’m self-conscious for a moment, then shrug it off, realizing that Miss Black would have chased him out the door if he’d been at all interested in what I have to offer—the comment he made was clearly just because he’s a self-indulgent asshole trying to make me uncomfortable. Holding my breasts in my bra with one hand—damn, but this thing is low cut—I bend to retrieve my dress from my backpack. When I straighten, I find Adam freaking Kincaid once again perusing my naked flesh, an insolent smile on his lips.

He’s interested in men.
And he’s a jerk. The look doesn’t mean anything besides the fact that he’s toying with me for fun, but the nipples that have gone rock hard don’t know that. My skin flushes, and I pray that he – and Miss Black—don’t notice the jutting peaks as I hastily slip my arms into the short, silky wrap dress that was a major thrift store find.

“I’m sure you can do something.” Dropping into one of the huge leather chairs that are scattered throughout the large office, Adam reaches into his
jeans pocket, extracts a wad of cash even thicker than the one Miss Black handed me not fifteen minutes ago.

I try not to gape. I cannot, absolutely cannot fathom having that much money... and very likely more. Closing my eyes, I imagine the scene that the sight of that wad of cash would cause back at Green Acres.

Bloodshed and mayhem. People doing anything to get their hands on the money that could lift them out of their dismal lives. And then those same people would ultimately blow their windfall on third generation Camaros and cheap domestic beer as they gravitated toward the comfort of their old routines, however dismal.

I’m not saying that all trailer parks are home to white trash. I’m really not. But where I come from? It lives up to every stereotype-filled late night comedy sketch you’ve ever seen.

Miss Black eyes the money, lips pursed. I wonder if she’s going to kick him out with the pointy toe of one of her designer pumps, but instead she snatches the crisp wad of cash from his hand and stalks from the room, leaving me without further instruction.

Clearly she doesn’t think he’s any kind of threat to me, but that doesn’t do anything to change my feeling of awkwardness... I’m not accustomed to be
ing seen almost naked by rock stars. Especially not ones who are smirking at my exposed skin. Cheeks flushing crimson, I turn to the side. I can feel his impudent stare burning my exposed skin as, not sure what else to do, I fasten the waist tie of the teal silk dress, then smooth it over my figure, which, thanks to the nerves of the last week, is actually a bit slimmer than I like it to be.

I really don’t need to look over the Henry Thomas file before I leave, but I want something to do, so I perch on the edge of the
leather chair nearest me, then open the folder in my lap.

“You don’t look like the type.” I’m not expecting Adam to speak, and I jolt, just enough to knock the folder out of my lap.

“Fuck.” I curse as I lunge after the papers—Miss Black will have a coronary if anyone gets a look at these papers. Of course, that means that the one with Henry’s name marked right across the top lands right at Adam’s feet. Smirking, he picks it up, studies it, then hands it back to me.

“Mind you, you don’t look like you’d have a mouth like a
drunken sailor, either.”

I snatch the
piece of paper back, stuffing it into the leather bound folder. Sexy or not, that smirk makes me want to punch him in the throat. “Yeah, well. Don’t judge a book and all that.”

He smiles lazily at my obvious agitation; I return to my seat, face burning.
God, what a shithead.

But...

Thing is, I don’t
feel
like that kind of girl—the one who sells her body for money.

But here I am in Miss Black’s office... so clearly how I feel is no longer who I am.

“The easy road isn’t always the best one.” Leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees, I find myself on the receiving end of the stare that has launched millions of lust filled dreams. He arches an eyebrow, the silver ring catching the fading light outside.

I’d like to say tha
t I’m above noticing the way the jerk’s new position draws attention to his biceps.

I’m not.

But I can appreciate a nice set of pipes and still be irritated as hell. Stuffing the papers I’ve gathered back into Henry Thomas’ folder, I glare at the man sitting across from me. Famous he might be, but he’s also clearly a know-it-all and a bit of an asshole.

“You don’t know a thing about me.”
              Deciding to ignore him, I set the file on the seat beside me, then reach into my bag for the shoes that I found at the local Walmart. They may not have been expensive—if you look really closely, they’re clearly made of cheap vinyl rather than supple leather—but they’re still sexy as hell, spike heeled black sandals with thin straps that wind around my ankles and calves and tie just below my knees. Sliding my feet into them, I begin to lace the ribbons of faux leather up and around my legs.

“Look. I’ll give you some money. Just get out of here. This isn’
t the kind of job a nice girl should have.”

Whaaaat?

Angry words on my tongue, I look up from lacing my shoes. I’m thrown off for a moment by the way his gaze is fixed, not on my eyes, but on where my fingers rest on the pale skin of my calf.

Aga
inst my anger, I can feel attraction, however unwanted, do a little spin in my belly. Those sensations only intensify when I look up, lock eyes with him, register heat there.

Then he thrusts a wad of cash at me. The moment is broken,
my jaw drops, and I feel like an idiot.

He makes people want him, Carly. It’s in his job description, dumbass.
My temper returns, and I flap a hand at the cash sitting in his hand.

“That’s a little hypocritical, coming from a man who’s here to buy sex.
Why
are
you here, anyway? Have you burned through all your willing groupies?” My words hit home—I can see my own displeasure reflected in his eyes—but in an instant it’s gone, replaced again with that languorous grin that screams
sex
.