Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,14
a tad bit better about my porn star performance when she throws in a zinger. “Of course, he probably would have enjoyed it more if you stuck around for an encore.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” I reach for my drink. I seriously don’t know how I’m going to face Jake again. Maybe I can pass this job off to one of my assistants. Aaron loves dogs. He’d probably jump at the chance to hang out with Roscoe.
“I have idea.” Mia whips out her cell phone. “You said this guy Jake owns a club, right?”
“Yeah. Some high-end place in Chelsea.” Not my scene, for sure. Mostly celebs and artists, mixed with a smattering of uptown girls and downtown finance boys. Too crowded. Too noisy. Too stuffy. I prefer joints like the one I’m in now. Quirky. Cozy. And quiet enough to have an actual conversation.
“What’s it called?” she asks, tapping her screen to open her internet browser.
I try to dredge the name up from the recesses of my memory. Brie must have mentioned it a million times. She’s inordinately proud of her brother and his pull-himself-up-from-his-bootstrap success. “Top...something. Drawer, maybe. Or Shelf. Why?”
“We’re going there. Tonight.”
It’s a good thing I’m not mid-sip, or I would have spit prosecco all over Mia’s brand new chili-red Kate Spade canteen bag. “Why in hell would I want to do that?”
“So you can apologize.” She taps away on her phone, presumably Googling the name and address of the club.
“That is so not going to happen.”
“This must be it,” she says, continuing to stare at the screen as if she hasn’t heard me. “Top Shelf, 455 West 17th Street. I’ll order us an Uber.”
“Earth to Mia.” I reach across the table and snatch her phone. The woman is a force of nature once she gets rolling, so it’s imperative I stop her before this crazy idea of hers becomes a full-fledged plan of action. “I’m not Ubering anywhere.”
She stands and slings her purse over her arm. “Fine. We’ll catch a cab. Or take the subway. It’s only a few stops.”
“You’re not hearing me.” I don’t budge from my seat, hoping Newton’s first law will work in my favor. A body at rest tends to stay at rest, and here’s where I’m staying.
“I hear you perfectly fine. I’m just not listening. There’s a difference.” She holds out a hand for her phone, but I pull it out of her reach. “Seriously, Ainsley. Trust me on this. You’ll feel better once you’ve cleared the air.”
She may have a point. But it’s not one I’m willing to concede just yet. “I’ll text him.”
“Nice try, but I’m not letting you get off that easily. There’s too much room for ambiguity and misinterpretation in a text. Face-to-face communication is best.”
“Who says he’s even there?” Brie does. According to her, her brother practically lives at the club, so the odds are pretty strong he’s there now. Not that I’m admitting that to Mia.
“It’s a chance I’m willing to take. Besides, the Yankees are losing, and I’m in the mood for something more than cheap prosecco and stale nachos.” She waves a hand at the half-eaten basket of chips on the table.
I look down at my outfit. Mia, as always, is fine and fresh and totally fierce in a little black dress that’s far from standard and five-inch, fire-engine red heels that match her purse and jewelry. But there’s no way my nacho-stained tank top, skinny jeans and flip-flops are getting past the bouncer manning the velvet rope.
“I’m not dressed for the club scene.” It’s my half-assed, last-ditch effort to get out of this, but if I know Mia, she’ll have some solution at her fingertips. The girl is a never-ending fount of can-do. I don’t think the word no is in her vocabulary.
She doesn’t disappoint.
“My place is closest. We can stop there first.” She pulls two twenties from her purse and plunks them down on the table to cover our tab, waving off my protest. “You can borrow my Armani shift dress. You know, the navy one with the beaded-fringe hem.”
I palm my breasts, which are at least two cup sizes bigger than hers. “Like anything in your closet can contain these puppies.”
“It’s very forgiving. And a little cleavage will make your apology go over that much smoother.”
More like a lot of cleavage, but it’s clear there’s no point arguing with the force of nature that is Mia Hadid. I hand over her phone, the battle lost. The best I can hope for