“Franklin, huh?” Her eyes expand at the salacious promissory note details. “You still getting those huge tips?”
“Two hundred a pop.” It’s true. I’ve somehow garnered a mystery man who is willing to donate two hundred fat ones to my cavorting cause every now and again. For a while I thought they were from someone I knew, but each time I inquired about the big tipper, the waitress who delivered the funds rearranged her story to the point I’m not even sure this person is human anymore. Whoever it is has made damn sure their identity stays a two-hundred-dollar secret.
Piper’s eyes round out like lollipops. “That’s insanity. You’re probably going to have to get a restraining order.”
“For what? Keeping me in couture?” More like knockoff couture, but, hey, a coed’s gotta do what a coed’s gotta do. There’s a brand new shopping mall in the swanky side of Jepson, and they’ve just put a Barney’s in. Lord knows I’ve been squirreling away every pretty penny just to do a proper raid through that ritzy retail establishment.
“For keeping you in suspense,” she counters. “It’s creepy, and scary, and I don’t like it. Believe me, whoever’s doing this isn’t interested in what you’re wearing. They’re far more interested in what you’re not wearing. It’s probably some perv who wants to play with your vagina.”
I cinch my vintage Louis Vuitton bag over my shoulder as we both stand at the same time.
“Don’t you worry about me or my vagina. I’ve got both under control. See you later.” I lean in to hug her, and she grabs me by the shoulders.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Piper zips us toward the table behind us, and all I see are Jet Madden’s muscles jumping out at me, growing hulkishly bigger with every step in his direction. “If you’re going to be anyone’s big sister, I need to do a quick introduction.” We come upon their table, and all four pairs of eyes look up at once. Jet and Owen look slightly ticked as if their chaste plans for the evening aren’t going over well. The two girls don’t look so amused either. The brunette sitting across from Jet looks every bit a beauty queen version of the muscle man himself, and the girl sitting across from Owen, Ava, has a disparaging look on her face as if her life were just smashed to smithereens.
Piper pulls me in tight. “Ava, Lucky, this is Daisy Pembrooke. She’s a totally cool chick that I hardly ever speak to. In fact, she’s not even heading out to a movie with my real friends and me tonight.” Piper winks my way, and I try hard not to roll my eyes. These girls are smart. They didn’t just walk into Whitney Briggs without a clue as to how the world works. If I’m going to befriend them, it’ll have to be on their terms, not Piper’s questionable negotiations.
“Ignore her.” I take a safe step away from my well-meaning bestie. “Piper hit her head on Owen’s lips and hasn’t been the same since.”
Jet starts in on a laugh then stops abruptly as if catching himself in cahoots with me.
I offer both Ava and Lucky a friendly shake of the hand. Ava is every bit the beauty queen herself, and now I see what Jet and Owen are so suddenly insecure about. Every last boy at Whitney Briggs University is about to come running, and there’s not a damn thing these two balls of big brother muscle can do to stop it.
“So I’m off.” Piper gives a friendly wave, and Owen walks her to the door.
“Why, yes, I will take this seat,” I say, falling into the warm chair Owen heated with worry. The spiced scent of Jet’s cologne takes over my senses, and I swoon toward him without meaning to. I’ve always been a sucker for a well-scented man. But both of these boys need to learn how to loosen the reins a little, if you ask me.
I lean toward the girls. “So, what are the plans for tonight? Drinking? Dancing? Just taking in the boys and noise at the endless string of frat parties down the street?” I offer up a snide smile to the horrified wall of muscles seated beside me. “I’m teasing. You girls should head to the movies yourself. You’re at a university, not a prison.” I scoff toward Jet without bothering to meet up with his glare.
Lucky gives a heavy sigh as her shoulder sags with defeat. Her eyes are exaggeratingly large, with what looks like two perfect spheres of iced blue dew drops. “Nope. None of the above. I think we’re just going to grab a cup of coffee across the street and watch TV in our dorm.” She gathers her purse, a yummy buttery yellow, and I note the Dooney and Bourke stamp etched into the leather.
Jet gives a furious nod as if this were the best idea he’s heard yet. “You’ve got my Netflix password, right? I’ve got Little House on the Prairie cued up and ready to go. Knock yourself out, but don’t stay up too late. You don’t want to get used to that. I don’t want you falling asleep in any of your classes. You got that, kid?” He stands and makes an awkward attempt to either sock or hug her, both perhaps, but nevertheless she’s wisely evaded the move.
Ava stands along with her. “Yeah, I’d better go make sure that triple lock my brother installed this afternoon is working. God forbid any drunk frat boys stumble into our beds.”
Lucky scowls at Jet as if it were his fault she’s about to commit herself to a little prairie prison. They take off, and he falls hard into his chair again.
“Smooth moves, big bro.” I lean into his stately frame, and my gaze rides the ridges of those rippling abs from over his T-shirt. My stomach squeezes tight as I struggle to right myself in my seat.
“I wasn’t trying to be smooth, and I’m not your big bro.” Those behemoth arms cross over his chest, and that you’re-going-to-get lucky-tonight grin twitches on his lips.
“Thankfully not. God knows I’ve met my quota on those. Take it from a girl with two older, very annoying brothers—if you don’t play nice, she’ll move far, far away and attend a private college with a cozy little bar across the street filled with drunk frat boys.”
Any trace of a smile drips right off his face. “You’re hilarious.”
“I try, sweetheart.” My lips twitch, but I won’t give in to the laugh bubbling up my throat. That dark hair, those ultramarine eyes that glow under the duress of his hooded lids. Dear God, this boy is hot with a capital everything. Jet Madden is a dangerous kind of sexy, and both my lady parts and me are well aware I’d better stay away.
A group of perfumed coeds strut by, each one in a tight little dress that screams FU to any arrant big brother who might be floating around. I glance back in time to catch Jet’s eyes outlining the bevy of creamy thighs, and my stomach bottoms out like a stone.
“Anyway.” I scoot to the lip of my seat. “She just might gravitate to a pole for all you know, so give her some breathing room before you suffocate the poor girl.”
The lights from above hit him just right, and his eyes shine like the sea on a clear blue morning. “I’ve seen you hit the stage enough to know you don’t use the pole.” His gaze rides over my features as he bites down onto his bottom lip.
Jet Madden is inspecting me as if I were a juicy Friday night special.
“You can stop with the I’m-going-to-make-you-come-hither look on your face. I’m not in the meat market, thank you very much.”
“What?” His head inches back as if I’ve offered up an emotional slap. “Save the come hither speak for your class on Shakespeare—sweetheart.” He frowns a moment, and a set of deeply welled dimples dig into either side of his cheeks. My stomach boils with fire at the sight of them. Holy hell, I’ve always been a sucker for a bad boy with dimples. My eyes fall over those inked up arms, that expansive chest. A tiny part of me demands that I lift his T-shirt and inspect the damage, but I refuse to fall into the mattress trap those bedroom eyes of his are trying to lure me into. Jet Madden can deny it all he wants, but that boy is begging to taste unchartered territory, and, considering he’s bedded every female in a three-school radius, my friends withstanding, I would be the unchartered territory in question.
“So, are you coming to the club tonight?” I steal a fry off his plate, and he doesn’t blink. Apparently, potato theft is the only way I’m going to catch a meal this evening
.
I’ve seen Jet in Stilettos more than just about any of the regulars. He’s usually seated at the bar, brooding and angry—always leaving with a prospect for the night, which makes me that much more inspired to stitch my legs together whenever he’s around. For as much as our friends have hinted that we should be together, we seem to repel one another more than we attract. Besides, I’m happy just being me, and Jet seems happy screwing every girl that’s not me.
He gives a gentle bob of the head as if agreeing to my silent soliloquy. “Now that I’m off little sister duty, I am coming to the club tonight.”
“Sister duty.” I shudder at how primal it sounds. “She’s going to hate you,” I tease. “And then, she’s going to date an entire biker gang just to watch the steam come from your ears. Twelve biker gangs!”
“Whoa.” He winces, and something about that self-deprecating facial maneuver makes my insides go swirly as if I were on some demonic inspired carnival ride. “Please, don’t curse me.”
“Why is that a curse? Don’t you date the female equivalent of a bad boy? What’s fair is fair. If you get to bed every coed with a slutty pulse, I don’t see why frat boys are off limits to sweet little Lucky.”
“She is sweet.” He leans in, those fiery eyes bearing into mine with both a sadness and a softness embedded in them. “And she’s my only little sister. I want her safe, protected, and, for the love of God, not anywhere near a biker gang.” His gaze rides over my hair, my features, and I can feel the weight of his stare as if it were leaded. “I’m sure your brothers feel the same.” He gives a slight nod, dragging those ocean baby blues over mine. “About the, you know, dancing.”
I jump in my seat a moment. “Are you judging me?”
“No, I’m not judging you.” His eyes narrow in on mine once again, and I can feel the heat radiating from his stare, the powerful magnetism that must reel the girls in by the net full. “And what do you mean am I judging you? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If the manwhore boots fit.”
“Man—what?” He squints in what appears to be genuine confusion, only making himself that much more comely, and my lower half gives an approving spasm.
A beautiful blonde makes her way over with such a confident stride that even the girls in the establishment take note. Caila Clayton, or Caila Jace according to her stage name, is a vision in white—shiny skin tight vinyl as it were. She’s Cassidy’s identical twin sister, save for the scar on Cassidy’s face, not that I ever really notice it. Cassidy is perfect in every way and just as magnificent of a female specimen as Caila. It just so happens Caila here takes it off at Stilettos and rakes in more Benjamins than any of the girls combined. Caila stars in the club’s premiere spectacle. People come from far and near to watch her sway those magical hips—among other swaying objects.
“Here you are!” she beckons me to stand for a quick embrace, and I do. Jet, of course, is quick on his feet as well. I’m pretty sure Caila is safe from his wandering penis because for one she’s the spitting image of his best friend’s girl.
“I was just about to explain to my inked up friend here what the word manwhore implies.”
“I’m aware,” he growls so deep the sound of his voice rumbles through my spine.
“Oh, hon.” Caila sits opposite me and offers him a quick wink. “If that’s the predicament you’re in, I’d say there’s no predicament, if you know what I mean.” She purses her lips at him in that seductive way she hypnotizes the audience with, only now it doesn’t seem too clever and sexy. In fact, I find it alarmingly annoying. And what’s with Jet’s continual bobbing of the head? That goofy grin? Dear God, he’s not really thinking of pinning Caila to his mattress, is he?
“Hey”—I jab an elbow into his chest—“isn’t there someone out there you want to do the horizontal hoola with?”
That smug little grin returns to his face, and he leans in closer than a whisper. “Honey, there’s not a whole lot of horizontal action taking place when I’m involved. I like to play on all fours.” He rises and loses himself in the thick of the crowd.
Gah! All fours! I’ve always suspected Jet Madden was a tad animalistic.
“Beware of that one,” Caila says in a stern mother-like tone I’m not used to hearing from her. “Whether or not you realize it, that boy has his sights set on you.”
“Ha!” I try to brush it off with a laugh, but I can feel the sting of heat penetrating deep down into my bones at the thought of getting on all fours. “That boy has his sights set on everyone with a slip and slide between her thighs. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“I need a favor.”
“From me?” I do a quick sweep of the vicinity for Cassidy, Piper, and Scarlett, but it looks as if they’ve already left for the movie.
“Yes, you.” Caila leans in with the whites of her eyes radiating their full attention on me. “But you have to promise you will never, ever tell my sister.”
It turns out I’m not the only one rife with secrets. Like, for instance, my parents nor my overprotective brothers know anything about those night moves I’ve put on public display just about every night this last summer. Now that the new school year has arrived, I’ve relegated my hip swinging to just Friday and Saturday nights, but, apparently, not this Friday night, which brings me to a very special covert operation Caila has bestowed upon me, her deepest, darkest secret—the Platinum Club. Up until this very hour, the Platinum Club didn’t exist for me. Apparently, it’s Stilettos version of an escort service, of which Caila Jace is the sexually discerning madam.
“I will not have sex with this man,” I hiss as we come upon The Woods, an exclusive club located clear on the other end of Jepson about as far away from Stilettos as one can get and remain within city bounds.
“Of course not.” She straightens the little red sequin number she’s squeezed me into—per my date’s “request”. I followed Caila back to Stilettos where she groomed me to be the courtesan she’s molded me to be. And here we are, standing in a darkened hallway leering into the VIP room of a club so exclusive it literally doesn’t exist on paper—mostly we’re leering at a geriatric individual with balding gray hair and the body of Santa Claus.
I’m starting to really appreciate the fact I drove myself. There’s no way in hell I’m getting stranded miles away from campus with a man old enough to be my grandpappy.
“Trust me,” she whispers. “This will be way easier than busting a move in your unmentionables.”
I lean in to get a better look at him. God, he totally really is old enough to be somebody’s grandpappy or perhaps even the aforementioned ancient Saint Nick.
Caila pulls me close and lifts my chin with her finger until my eyes are square over hers. “All you have to do is be your charming self. He just wants company, that’s all.” She makes a face over my shoulder as if to garner one last look at him. “I’ve never had two customers request me on the very same night, and I couldn’t leave the senator high and dry.”
“Senator?” I glance back at the balding, somewhat stalky, harsh looking gentleman impatiently awaiting his red sequin Platinum Club surprise.
“Yes,” she hushes me back to a whisper. “I’ll be with the shah in the very next room.” She gives a little wink. “It just so happens that the shah is worth a million times more, literally. He’s in negotiations with an oil tycoon and needed some arm candy by his side.” She smooths my shoulders as if ironing out the nonexistent wrinkles. “Just promise me you won’t tell Cass. She’d never understand. That well-educated mind of hers will drift straight to the gutter.” She spins me by the shoulders until I’m staring into the dimly lit senatorial abyss.
The senator’s gray hair glints in the light. “No, definitely nothing gutter-worthy here.”
“That’s right. Just go on out there and have some good old-fashioned fun. I have both of our shifts covered at the club, and whatever tip he gives tonight you don’t have to give a dime to the house.” Caila gives my sho
ulders a quick squeeze as if still selling me on the idea. “It’s all you, kid.” She offers up a foreboding shove. “It’s show time!”
Oh God. My feet move without my permission, and before I know it, I’ve scuttled right over to the old, decrepit crypt keeper with the lewd, lascivious grin, and just like that, Jet Madden’s perfect body thumps through me as if he were stamping himself on the passport of my mind. Jackass.
“My darling.” The senator stands, taller than I expected, his distended Santa belly almost touching my thigh. “Please, call me Charles.”
“Nice to meet you, Chucky.” Honestly, I couldn’t help it. There’s no way I’m getting through this night without a stiff drink and plenty of levity, and seeing that I drove myself, the stiff drink is out of the question, so humor it is. And judging by the fact I can feel my sarcastic superpowers amping up inside of me, I can tell we’re in for one knee-slapping time.
I fall into the seat across from him, and he chortles the laugh of a man who’s smoked a thousand cigarettes. Dinner comes and goes like a bad dream as he regales me with all things government-issued and yawn-worthy. Honest to God, I didn’t think a thing could change my mind about law school, but something about his incessant droning about the legal system makes me want to reprise my childhood lust for doodling. For a brief moment, I even consider taking on art as a second major. Not that I would ever consider ditching my impending legal eagle career. No way, no how. I’m in it to win it. Scarlett and I have even tossed around the idea of starting a firm together one day.
Chuck leans in with his trusty Saint Nick-like squint and his belly full of jelly, or prime rib as it were. “So tell me, Duchess.”
“It’s Daisy,” I’m quick to correct my senior companion. After spending hours on the legal circuit with Senator Charles Danberry, I’ve concluded that he’s not that bad of a chaperone. Caila is right. This is way easier than busting a move in my unmentionables. And not having to split the take with the house? I’m in like sin each and every time Caila needs me to pinch-hit for her. All I have to do is pretend to be rapt at attention and kazam! I’ve just earned a thousand bucks. Well, not really. No talk of greenbacks has transpired as of yet. I’m pretty sure that’s what they called the promissory note way back when Chuckles here was a kid. In fact, he might have been acquainted with one or more of the men on those bills. All this talk about hedge funds and tax safe havens has this night panning out to be a rare glimpse into the financial infrastructure of US currency. Not to mention the fact he holds the scent of Old Spice, a cologne my father wears religiously, so, in a way, it feels as if I’m spending time with family.