I lift my arm, gesturing at him. From the little dining area behind us, I can hear the click-click of Quinny and Zora’s spoons in their bowls of cereal. I ignore them and hug my brother close to me, thinking of a way to get us out of this mess.
Then it occurs to me.
I need a rich asshole who probably has connections—or the money to buy them, at least—to the university. Fortunately, I know where to find one of those.
And the rich asshole I have in mind? He just happens to need something from me.
I have to get through another shift at work before I can take any sort of serious action. It’s a personal kind of hell today, because all I can think about is Wyatt and his situation with the college. And Angelo, and how I’m hopefully going to be seeing him soon. I think about calling him as we go from hair straightener malfunction—singed arm hairs, ambulance transport definitely not required—to an old man who fell four hours ago and just made it to the phone, ambulance definitely required. But I don’t want Ricky to hear the call, so I text instead.
Need to speak with you, playboy.
He doesn’t text back for two hours, but then, finally: Where are the xoxos? No more love?
I respond right away, not caring about seeming needy: This is serious. I get off work at five.
Quicker this time: Swing by my place at six. But don’t make a habit of making demands of me. This is a one-time deal and I expect a reward.
Ha. Ha. I text. Your reward is me being there, asshole. And here: xoxo. Happy now?
He sends me a winky face and I have to stop myself from tossing my phone at the dashboard, because I really do hate that emoji. Despite everything, I’ve got a smile on my face.
But then I remember how terrified Wyatt looked before I left, skulking off to the bedroom. He’s acting like being kicked out of college means he has to throw himself into a life of partying, like it’s not a choice but an obligation.
Maybe it is, for him. Maybe that’s how an addict’s mind works.
Once my shift is over I grab my spare clothes from the locker, take a quick shower, and then head over to Angelo’s place. It’s half past six by the time I get there, thanks to New York traffic. I go into the building, reach the executive elevator at the back, and a man in a suit lets me up. As I ride to the top of the building, I try to think of how to let him know I want to accept the deal. I wonder if I’m clutching at straws here. Just because he’s rich and owns nightclubs, it doesn’t mean he can get rid of Wyatt’s problem. But money can buy a lot in this town. I just have to bank on that.
I walk down the frankly intimidating hallway—past more Roman-style sculptures and landscape paintings—and knock on the door. On the other side, I hear opera music playing quietly. Angelo opens up, wearing just his shirt and suit pants, slippers on his feet, and a glass of whiskey in his hand. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing his tensed forearms.
“Aren’t you going to make a joke about my slippers?” he says when I walk past him. “I’m disappointed, Dani.”
“Maybe I’m not here for jokes,” I say, turning on him.
He sips his whiskey, regarding me with his dark eyes. “You have my attention.”
I roll my eyes. “What a jerk thing to say. ‘You have my attention.’ Like you’re the fucking pope or something—”
“Oh no, Dani, I’m much more important than that.”
He meets my eye, smirking slightly. I can’t help but smile. “You’re an ass. Do you have another one of those?” I gesture at the whiskey. “It’s been a hard liquor sort of day.”
He nods at the bar in the corner. “Be my guest.”
We walk over there together. I feel Angelo watching me, his gaze flitting to my ass in the gym leggings, the only clean clothes I had in my locker. I can feel his lust, smell it, sense it. It’s an animal awareness that triggers something in me. But I push it down for now as I pour the whiskey.
After taking a sip, I tell him about Wyatt’s situation. He listens closely, watching me carefully.
“And you want to know if I can make it go away,” he says when I’m done explaining.
“Can you?” I ask, a little too eagerly.
“I can,” he says. “But you know what I’m going to ask in return.”
“The wife thing.” He’s looking at me like he wants to own me, which should piss me off. But I want him to own me, too: with parameters, with the understanding that it’s not for real. “I still don’t understand this, Angelo. Why exactly do you need me to pretend to be your wife?”
He finishes his whiskey and lays it on the bar, and then leans close to me. “A powerful man needs to believe that I have a wife. The exact reasons are not your concern. All you need to know is this: it will not be forever. A few months at the most. I can get your brother back into college, providing that he does not fuck up like this again. And you will be paid well for your services.”
“So I’m a hooker now,” I drawl. That services comment stung a little too much. But what do I care? Isn’t this why I came here anyway?
He slides his hand across the bar and touches my wrist. It’s like he’s deciding which part of him he wants to let loose: the crazy animal part or the—what?—the gentler part. Or I could just be imagining that he even has that side to him.
“Not a hooker, Dani,” he says. “My woman. You’ll have the finest things. You’ll have staff to care for your every need—”
I pull my hand away. “I don’t need any of that,” I tell him. “All I need is Wyatt to be able to go to college, graduate, and get a job someplace he isn’t surrounded by drugs all the time. Okay? I’ll still be working as an EMT. Whatever ‘wifely duties’ I’ve gotta perform, fine. And by that, I mean dinner parties or whatever, before you get any ideas.”
“But it’s too late.” He walks around the bar way quicker than I’d expect from a man like him. “I already have a lot of ideas about you.” He presses me against the bar, his body rock-hard, his expression intense. “So you want to be my wife, Dani?”
“‘Want’ is a strong word,” I say, placing my hand on his chest. “But if you can help my brother, then yeah, that’s what I want.”
He brings his face close to me. Our lips touch. His are rough. He smells like whiskey, but then, so do I.
“I can help,” he says. “But first you have to help me.” With an arrogant grin, he grabs my wrist and guides it to his crotch. His cock is already solid, feeling like it’s pulsing, ready for me. “You see, Dani, I’ve had this problem ever since you walked in with those leggings on, showing me every curve of your perfect ass, every muscle in your legs.”
“You’re sick,” I rasp, stroking him up and down. I squeeze a little tighter. “So you’re saying if I take care of this little problem, we have a deal?”
He kisses me. “There is nothing little about this problem.”
I give his lip a bite and then say, “Or what? Are you going to punish me?”
He kisses me harder, passionately, and I rub his manhood even faster in response. I feel my body responding to him as it always does, but it’s tinged with something else now: a knowledge that this is more significant. Because no matter how vague he’s keeping this whole fake-wife thing, we’re going to be spending a lot more time together soon.