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.
I should cover it with something. Music Eve likes. She often alludes to a love of thrashing guitars and emotional vocals. A taste for her father's favorite music. Green Day, Black Flag, the Ramones. Classic punk and a smattering of the pop that came after.
Fuck.
I'm too obsessed. I need to stop this. Now.
Before I'm storming through Manhattan in a rage.
Before I need another three thousand miles between me and my past.
I'm not moving to Los Angeles. New York needs to stay mine. Not tainted by a woman ripping my heart to shreds.
I put my computer in sleep mode and join my business partner in the kitchen.
Shepard looks up from the espresso machine. That I am barely able to muster interest glance of his.
What is it people say? Resting bitch face.
Whatever the male version is, he's got it. Shep always looks irritated by other people's inability to keep up.
Usually, he is. With a few exceptions.
His wife. His brother.
Me.
Somehow, I'm the prickly mogul's best friend. Somehow, I was the best man at his wedding.
I guess no one told him it's bad luck asking a divorced man to stand at the altar.
"Early today." I hold up my mug to toast. Cold English Breakfast. No longer worth drinking.
Shepard shakes his head. "You need some new material."
"Wait until I ask what your wife is doing with you."
"Besides coming on my face?"
My laugh is a welcome relief—that's blunt for Shep—but it's not enough. Tension returns to my shoulders. Words bounce around my brain. How can I say no? "Sneaking away to your mistress?" I nod to the espresso machine.
"I need help if my mistress makes coffee this shitty."
"Sounds like something to discuss with your therapist."
He laughs.
It used to be a rare sound for him. Since he reconnected with his ex-girlfriend—
It was a strange turn of events. Marriage by blackmail. A new one, even for me. Not Shepard, blackmailing his bride. A third party, blackmailing Shepard. Win her heart or else.
The bastard called it a game. I guess it is a game. There are rules, victory conditions, stakes.
But where the hell is the fun?
"Interested in other people's problems," he says. "You should discuss that."
"You have so many. I can't help myself."
His laugh is soft. It covers the drip-drip of the machine. "Here for tea or torture?"
"I have to choose?"
"Which is it today? Something about how Americans don't understand tea?"
"Well, you certainly understand torture."
He chuckles.
"Full of yourself too. As if the US is the only country in the Americas."
"Are you going to call me a Yank?" he asks.
"That's the nicest thing I'd call you."
He half-smiles. "And you can't talk about ego."
"Ego? What ego?"
He picks up the electric kettle. Fills it with water.
I raise a brow. "You're fixing tea?"
"I've learned from the best." He smiles at the allusion to his wife. Stares at the kettle like it's his beloved. Dreamy eyed and full of affection. Then he shakes it off. Sets the kettle to boil. "Why are you here so early?"