“Very funny, Fab. Issue her a refund.”
Adam sidestepped his supposed best friend and walked back inside, toward the den of iniquity.
The refund request implied an admission, but no way he’d take her money. Sure, they hadn’t broken the cardinal rule. But he’d initiated something and violated his own rule in the process.
How did the other guys live with themselves, letting their clients pay for their sessions after the line was crossed? Collecting their fat commission for what could barely be considered work? And when they care nothing about these women?
They do perfectly fine. More than fine, actually. They drove Porsches, rather than a beat-up Jeep.
He’d been one bad decision away from buying a Porsche himself, until the false accusation from a client at his former job convinced him not to blow what little savings he had. The worst part of it wasn’t the car. It was how his boss didn’t believe his side of the story, even after their years of friendship and mutual professional respect.
“Asshole,” he muttered under his breath just as he bumped shoulders with one of the other guys.
“Who are you callin’ an asshole, Ride? Watch where you’re goin’.”
“Sorry, man. I was talking to myself.”
“Sounds boring,” the guy countered.
Asshole.
Once in the men’s room, he splashed cold water on his face. He hadn’t lost this kind of control, fully clothed, with a woman since he was sixteen.
He yanked a paper towel from the dispenser and patted his skin dry. Didn’t even hear anyone come in.
“Please tell me you used protection,” Fabian said as he proceeded to toss some half-full glasses of red wine down the sink.
“Of course. Wouldn’t want my client to catch any of my multiple STDs, would I?”
“Or for you to catch one.”
Adam struggled to not rise to her defense, even though the two of them hadn’t ventured anywhere near such a delicate topic.
“Can we change the subject, please? Do I have anyone else on the books tonight? I’d like to get out of here,” Adam said.
“Nope.”
“How about tomorrow night?”
“Last time I checked you were booked solid. Good thing you asked for Saturday off. You’re going to need the rest.”
“Is she on the books?”
“She? You mean 181? Nope.”
“‘Nope’? You are an exceptional linguist.”
“And a cunning one, too. At least, that’s what the ladies tell me. It’s all in the tongue.”
With a half smile, Adam said, “I’ll take your word for it. Now, give it up, Fab.”
Fabian kept his head down. Kept busy swirling soap and water around in the glasses and dodging the demand in the process.
“Well?” Adam asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Her name.”
“That’s confidential. I could lose my job. But I do have a question.”
“You have a question, but you won’t answer mine? Asshole.”
Fabian made a show of clearing his throat and said, “Ever been to the Armadillo Palace?”
“You already know the answer. We’ve been there together.”
“What street is it on? I can’t remember.”
“Kirby.”
Fabian smiled. “Yes. You are correct.”
Kirby. Adam had to smile, as well.
He grabbed his cell from the counter and the thing practically vibrated right out of his hand. His heartbeat kicked up a notch or three at the possibility it was her.
Although the area code was in Houston, the number wasn’t familiar.
He stepped into the hallway.
“Adam here.” Not that Kirby would know his first name, but he wouldn’t mind if she did.
“Hey, Adam. It’s Bernard.”
Adam’s chest constricted at the sound of his attorney’s voice.
“Why do I have a feeling this is bad news,” he said.
“It isn’t the worst news, but I didn’t want to wait until morning.”
“Burning the midnight oil at home? How much is that going to cost me?”
“I told you not to worry about costs. I’ll draw my compensation from the countersuit we win.”
“Oh, yeah? Whom am I suing, and for what?”
“Defamation. Now, don’t get upset, but I saw a rather damning statement your ex-boss recently made, in print, about you.”
Flames of rage shot up Adam’s spine at the prospect.
“Is that a fact? What does it say?”
“He claims some Hermès saddles went missing around the time you were dismissed. Looks like he’s setting the stage for something.”
KIRBY RESTED HER head on her desk for a measly ten seconds before a hard double-knock jolted her from her borderline-REM state. She didn’t have to look up to know it was Seth Wainright.
“No, I didn’t get the story. Yet,” she called out from her slump. Against her better judgment, she looked up anyway.
Seth leaned in, and for a moment she was afraid he’d wobble over and crush her.
“Too bad. I was looking forward to the video. But, hey, we don’t all get lucky the first time,” he said. The words were ushered out by the fumes of coffee and onions.
She sat up straight, and not only to find some fresh air.
The video. She’d stayed up late, watching the dark, grainy footage over and over again. The only thing she’d noticed was how she’d totally lost control. They both had. The video couldn’t be used as evidence against the club, but it reminded her of how good it felt to experience such intimacy. In any case, she had no intention of sharing the footage with anyone. Especially not Seth.
“I’m going back in tonight,” she said without embellishment.
It wasn’t a complete lie. She hadn’t booked anything. But her neck ached to be massaged, her body hurt to be held, her mouth burned to be kissed. It was as if she’d caught the flu, and the best medicine would only make matters worse.
Seth lingered. And he wasn’t the lingering type.
“What’s it like in there?” he asked.
“Surprisingly classy. Gorgeous, partially undressed men.”
“Private rooms?”
“Lots of rooms, but I wasn’t in a private one.”
“Book one. Tonight. Force a confession. Or, in this case, seduce one out of him. That’s what I’d do,” he whispered, then wobbled away.
Although she couldn’t visualize anyone being seduced by Seth, he was right about one thing. Time to put on her big-girl panties. Just be ready and willing to take them off, according to Seth.
Not