Chapter 28
ASHA
Itossed the phone onto the desk and exhaled a steadying breath while dragging my hands through my hair.
My gaze slid to the partially open door of the studio and the treasure trove of recording gadgets that lay within, beckoning me like a siren’s song.
With only three days until my next podcast episode was due, I had to go in there sometime soon but didn’t want to fangirl over things Rook had gifted me.
Was I punishing myself over this unnecessarily? After all, it wasn’t my fault I was stuck here, nor had I asked Rook to splurge on this over-the-top studio.
I needed to talk to my girls to get some perspective. Beth would be my go-to for advice on something like this, but she was usually limited to texting while at work. So I phoned Daisy, putting the call on speaker.
“What’s wrong?” she answered in a serious tone I rarely heard from my bubbly friend.
“Nothing’s wrong. Why would something be wrong?”
“Because you’re calling instead of texting. That usually means you’re about to day drink or cut your own bangs.”
“That happened once!” What else was I supposed to do when my shitty boyfriend cheated on me with the biggest mean girl in college?
“Girl, that’s too many times.”
She had a point.
“I’m fine, okay? The scissors are out of reach.”
I heard glass clinking in the background. Daisy must be mid-setup for one of her lavish weddings. “All jokes aside, you took so long to text us that Beth and I wondered if your coochie had caught fire during your night of sin with McHottie and you’d perished when his bed went up in flames.”
“There’s something wrong with you.”
“Lies. I’m perfection, and you know it.”
Daisy’s self-confidence was its own planet.
“I’m calling because I’m working on a new case, and I want to run through a hypothetical with you.”
“Ooh. I love these. Just hold one moment, babe.” There was a muffled sound. “What the fuck, Gerald? Those are supposed to be stemless red-wine glasses. Fix it. Now.” More rustling. “Okay. Hit me with your hypothetical.”
“Are you sure you can talk?”
“Please. I can simultaneously solve your problem, girlboss this wedding, and crush a man’s ego without breaking a sweat.”
“Of course you can.” With a smile, I spun my chair to face the full-length window that overlooked the city skyline.
The pen in my hand sketched patterns in the corner of a notepad.
“Say there’s this…this billionaire from another country.
He’s a bad man. The very worst, and he uses his power to manipulate people into doing whatever he wants. ”
“Like butt stuff?”
“No, Daisy. Jesus. He just knows no one likes him, so he forces them to work for him. Then he gives them expensive gifts.”
“So he gets them to do a job and pays them for it?”
“Kind of, but it’s not as simple as that. He’s a real jerk about it.”
“Like a grumpy sugar daddy? Because I had a client like that once, and let me tell you, it was the best month of my life. Monaco, Cannes. His big-ass yacht was the bomb.”
I’d almost forgotten that being a sugar baby was how Daisy had paid her way through college.
“No, not like a grumpy sugar daddy. Like a sociopath who takes away people’s choices by stripping them of their human rights.”
“Hmm. Okay. But is he hot?”
I threw my hands in the air. “What does that have to do with anything?” I should’ve waited until tonight and called Beth.
“Just trying to get the whole picture. Jeez, calm down.” Someone performed a sound check on a PA system in the background.
I continued sketching while I waited for the noise to stop, the swirling pattern becoming more intricate as it extended down the page. “Fine. Let’s say he’s ugly. Hideous.”
“Got it. What’s your hypothetical?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “The gifts, Daisy. What should his slaves do with the gifts he probably paid for by stealing from old people’s retirement funds and selling meth to nine-year-olds?”
“That’s your question?” She laughed. “Bless your sweet heart. They accept the gifts, silly. They take everything they can get from Bad Sugar Daddy and bleed that sucker dry. And if they have to give a few hand jobs along the way, then so be it.”
“They won’t be touching his dick.” At least not anymore.
“If you say so. Oh! Does your bad sugar daddy have a yacht? Maybe you can convince him to take us to the French Riviera.”
Did Rook have a yacht? It wouldn’t surprise me. “No. There is no bad sugar daddy. This is hypothetical, remember? I need you to focus.”
“Right. Sorry. Continue.”
“Isn’t it wrong to take gifts from a bad man?”
“Why? He’ll just spend the money on another sugar baby or, I don’t know, buy weapons of mass destruction. Accept the gifts, Asha. Wait. Is this about McHottie?”
I froze. My brain seized like a car engine running dry. “What? No. It’s about a case I’m working on.” Not entirely a lie.
Daisy paused, then let it go. “All right. Just tell me one thing. Are you safe? Because if you need me to come kick some rich old dude’s ass, I’m totally down for that.”
“I’m safe. No ass kicking required.”
“Good. See you on Friday for drinks.”
“Bye, Daze.”
I ended the call and leaned back in my chair. The notepad fell from my lap, and when I picked it up, I saw what I’d drawn.
A goddamn Celtic cross. Almost identical to the ink covering Rook’s broad, muscular back.
I tore it up and tossed it into the trash.
The silence settled around me, the weight of it pressing in as my gaze shifted to the studio door again.
Everything inside that room was a bribe. Of course it was. But I could hate how I got it and still use it.
Maybe it was time to get a better look at the studio.