offer. Five figures for one night. My virginity gone. My problems gone with it.
Okay, he didn't specify the amount. But a girl can dream. Not of his hands or his lips or his ahem.
He's a jerk who reeks of booze.
Who thinks his medical degree earns him the right to part my legs.
He's not the man of my dreams.
But my problems disappearing? Rent and tuition paid? Good tea in the kitchen?
Addie's medical bills, gone?
How can I say no?
It will take me three years to pay this debt on my own.
Even if I find a better job at a better place. And not one run by a guy who thinks an allusion to hell is the height of creativity.
Who laughs ha ha, Eve, are you tempted by this forbidden fruit yet as he points to the twenties in a dancer's g-string. (Yeah, it's the first time I've heard that).
Yes. I'm tempted. But it's not a moral opposition.
If I had the stomach to dance, I would.
I can barely handle fixing drinks at that place.
I certainly can't handle a year there. Much less three.
One night with one asshole?
It makes me sick, sure, but it's better than the alternative.
How can I say no?
Why do I want to?
- Eve
Chapter Four
Ian
Fuck.
I lean back in my chair. Rub my eyes.
Her words stay the same.
How can I say no?
Some arsehole is offering to pay for her virginity.
No fucking way.
My fingers curl into fists reflexively. I need to hit something. To hurt someone.
To do whatever it takes to stop this from happening.
I need to breathe. Stay the fuck away from anger. Attachment. Anything that ends in a shattered heart.
Only Eve here…
Fuck.
It's eight a.m. Four hours since her post. She's probably asleep.
I've never tended bar at a strip club, but I've worked physical jobs. After six hours serving pissed arseholes, she's probably sleeping soundly.
Or tossing and turning over her lack of options.
I try to picture her.
A small room. A tiny twin bed. Sheets the color of her hair. But that's one of the only things I know about her.
Teal locks. Dark makeup. Don't fuck with me attire.
Not that I picture her in clothes.
Only those heeled combat boots.
Short hair in my hands. Dark lips parting with a groan. Soft body melting into me.
I've been good. Very good. Despite my skills—I'm paid handsomely to dig up people's dirt—I've practiced incredible restraint.
I haven't looked up her ISP address. I haven't found her name and ran a background check. I haven't accessed every single account she has.
I read her site. That's all.
Only that doesn't explain her place in my life.
It's more than that.
It's everything.
A few months ago, I was browsing a TV forum. I saw a woman tear down a man who dismissed her. She was sharp, articulate, insightful.
Of course, I clicked the link in the bottom of her profile.
Original Sin.
Her site. Half cultural criticism—she dissects a book a week. Half online journal. All public. All for my viewing pleasure.
Usually, I reserve that kind of language for a woman who's naked in front of me.
Usually, I keep strict rules about relationships. A set timeframe. Clear boundaries. No feelings.
I teach a woman everything she wants to learn.
Then we part with memories.
No one gets hurt.
No one sends divorce papers in the middle of a meeting.
No one tears through London in a bitter rage, sure he's going to find the other man and kill him.
It ripped my heart out. Now, the damn thing is quiet.
But Eve—
I don't know her real name. I've never seen her picture. Or heard her voice.
But I'm obsessed. Thoroughly and completely obsessed.
After I discovered her site, I made it a part of my normal routine. A break during my workday. The same way I visited Forbes or Slate, I visited Eve.
I get both sides of her. The analytical cultural critic. And the struggling girl offering every piece of her heart.
The rawness to her words captivates me.
The mystery—who is she and what does she want—is beautiful agony.
Or it was.
Until now.
I can't let this happen. I have to stop it. Whatever that requires.
I refresh the page.
The words are still there.
How can I say no?
Some arsehole trying to buy her. Offering money for her body.
I'm not letting that happen.
Even if it means breaking my rules. Looking into her life. Crossing a line I can't uncross.
Who gives a fuck about lines when some arsehole is trying to buy her?
Twenty minutes later, the post is still there. The office is still quiet.
Only the hiss of the espresso machine. The soft drip drip drip.