Chapter Three #2
The four of us are quiet for a full minute before we start laughing.
Seriously, who is this woman? And how the hell can she afford to pay us for our silence?
It’s not like any of us need the money, given we’re all pretty loaded thanks to our respective careers.
We got a lot luckier in life than most. Baxter owns and runs a high-profile garage where he’s had countless celebs asking him to hook them up.
He also has a knack for restoring old cars and selling them for stupid money.
Caiden is a personal trainer to the stars, owning his own brand and gym that makes a killing.
Ryan comes from old money, though he likes to invest a lot of it, making his own money with stocks and shares because he’s a smart bastard like that.
Then there’s me, the tattoo artist whose clientele is more of the famous variety.
Just like Bax, my work has been in countless magazines, and my shops are in high demand.
I almost had a TV show that would document the goings-on of my shop and staff, but I decided against it.
I didn’t need, and don’t need, that shit in my life.
It’s bad enough my face ends up in magazines or online articles.
I miss what the chick says again, tuning in at a weird moment when she says, “If it’s all the same to you, I’m in a lot of pain, my pussy is giving fire crotch a whole new definition, my apartment looks like it’s suffered a trash panda orgy, I feel like a human version of a taco, and I’m covered in lube…
which is completely unrelated to the trash panda comment.
What I’m saying is, can any one of you strangers help me, please? ”
I can’t help the abnormal grin that pulls at my lips.
Not when she says the word pussy, or with the rest of the crap that spews from her mouth, because this has to be one of the best introductions I’ve ever had in my life.
At least it is now that I know she’s not badly hurt.
But what the actual fuck is the red stuff on her shirt?
When the others don’t make a move to help her out, I curse under my breath and make my way toward the woman.
Holding a hand out toward her, she timidly places her slippery one in mine.
I try to pull her out of the tub, only her hand glides right back out of mine, making me groan and drop my head back so I can glare at the ceiling with a tired laugh.
Looks like I’m going to have to scoop her out of the fucking tub. Nice.
I get a little closer, looking into the tub, and my eyebrows almost hit my hairline. Why is she only in a goddamned shirt and covered in… what did she say it was? Lube? That only brings more questions than answers, and I honestly can’t wait to hear how she tries to explain all of this.
“God, just smite me down, right here and now,” I hear her mumble, embarrassed as fuck and turning a funny shade of pink, the blush spreading all the way down her neck. She drops her forehead back to her knee, whimpering again.
Snickering and deciding to give her some kind of mercy, I turn my head to the guys and tell them, “Go fix up the shit in the hallway and living room while I try to get her out of the tub.”
They’re all still laughing, but they do as they’re told, leaving me and the slippery girl alone in the bathroom. I then look back down at her and quietly instruct, “Wrap your arms around me and I’ll pull you out.”
“I only have one arm free. The other is stuck between my tits and my legs,” she pitifully grumbles, more annoyed at herself and the situation, I hope, than me.
Another grin tugs at my lips and I shake my head, bending low enough for her to wrap a slim arm around my neck, her greasy hand gripping my shirt with a vise-like hold.
I slide one arm under her knees, squeezing tight enough that she doesn’t slide right out of my hold.
Using her shirt for traction with my other arm, I hug her tightly and pull her body from the tub, placing her on her feet the moment she’s free.
“Thanks,” she breathes, her face contorting in pain while she keeps her legs spread awkwardly.
I gesture at her legs, ignoring her naked lower half even though it takes a whole fucking lot to do so, and am about to ask her what’s wrong when she says, “Fire crotch. Though not of the STI variety. It was the lube, and I need to wash it off before the polar bears get loose.”
My mouth opens. And then it closes, right before opening again. And closing again. I… don’t have the words. The only thing I can manage to ask is, “Polar bears?”
With a defeated sigh, the woman grumbles, “Long story. I’ll explain when my vagina is no longer suffering through a blizzard. It’s the least I can offer after all of this. I’m going to fucking kill them all.”
The… the polar bears? What do you even say to that?
She might be a bit crazy, her eyes narrowing dangerously when they grow a little distant.
I don’t want to think she might be plotting murder, but she very well could be.
Whoever they are, and I’m hoping it’s not the polar bears, should probably go into hiding for a few years.
Instead of replying, I look around and find a closet, pulling out two towels.
I place one at the base of the tub, knowing she’ll only end up in the same situation as before if she tries to step back in there with lube-covered feet.
I place the other on the heated towel rack, shaking my head at the fancy shit she has in this place.
Like the waterfall shower hanging from the ceiling.
Clearly, she’s not hard up for money if she can afford the top-floor apartment and has all the high-end gadgets and gizmos to go with it.
Shaking my head, I fumble around with the settings to turn the shower on before holding my hand out for her to take.
She eyes it closely before snorting at herself and accepting my hand.
Carefully, I help her back into the tub, letting go of her hand when she’s standing upright and in no danger of falling on her ass.
She doesn’t seem bothered that she’s practically naked, likely already mortified enough that she just doesn’t give a shit, so I pause and ask, “Got everything you need?”
With a long-suffering sigh, she asks, “Could you open the mirror and get my body wash and shampoo, please? It’s going to take the whole bottle to get this crap off me.”
“Sure,” I say, biting my smile as I find the stuff she needs before placing it on the edge of the tub for her.
“Thank you…” she says, looking at me with both embarrassment and gratitude. Water is pouring over her, making her already see-through shirt completely useless, and it takes all the strength in me not to look directly at the perky tits that are completely visible now. I’m not going to be that guy.
Instead, I hold my hand out for her to shake now that it’s not as gross and greasy, and offer my name. “Rayne Hunter. And you’re welcome… I think.”
She snorts again, shaking my hand while she says, “Madison Fowler. Nice to meet you… kind of.”
She laughs, a fucking adorable thing that I would have appreciated more had I not suddenly frozen with her hand still in mine. Her name… that sounds way too familiar. Madison Fowler. Who is that? Where do I know that name from? Madison…
Oh, fucking hell.
The light bulb goes off in my head and I have to work a whole lot harder to keep from smiling like an idiot.
Madison Fowler. World-renowned photographer and entrepreneur.
Guess that explains a few things. This shit just got a whole lot more interesting.