Chapter 5 #2
I disentangle my hand from hers, pull my sports coat off the back of the sofa, and make for the exit.
Hand on the door handle, I can’t help but steal one last look.
This version of Charlie Riley—messy-haired, cartoon-shirted, vibrator-wielding Charlie—is infinitely better than the airbrushed pop princess plastered across billboards.
She’s real. Human. Talented. And infinitely interesting because I have about a hundred more questions I’d like to ask her.
But I’m out of time, and it’s a damn shame I’ll never see her again.
I point to the piano. “For the record, I would pay good money to go to a concert and hear you play like that. Good luck with the rest of your tour. You’re going to do great. Don’t forget—hydrate.”
She doesn’t respond. Just looks at me with those big, sad eyes.
I make myself leave.
The elevator descends, and I use every floor to wonder what the hell just happened.
I should be calling Rina. I’m officially late now. I should be begging for forgiveness, explaining the mix-up, salvaging whatever’s left of my professional reputation. Instead, I’m standing here, reluctant to return to reality because I’m still thinking about Charlie Riley’s deep, rumbly laugh.
The elevator hits the lobby. I pull out my phone, ready to face the music—
And that’s when I see it.
A small wooden box, sitting abandoned on the concierge desk.
I stop walking.
The desk is unmanned. The lobby is nearly empty. And there, like someone just set it down and walked away, is a box exactly like the one Charlie described. Hand-painted with little orange hearts. Old, the colors faded with age. Small enough to hold in both hands.
Notes from my mom. She died when I was little.
Some lazy courier saw an empty desk and left it there. Didn’t wait. Didn’t care. Didn’t understand that this little painted box might be someone’s entire world.
My phone buzzes in my pocket like an angry hornet trapped in denim. Ah, crap. It’s Rina. The digital firing squad has arrived, locked and loaded, ready to berate me before I can even devise a half-decent excuse.
“Hey, Rina.”
“Where the hell are you?” Oh, she’s murderous. “Margaret is livid you’re late. Are you okay?”
“I don’t know what happened. I’m here at the Elusive. She’s not staying in the penthouse.” I pick up the box. It’s lighter than I expected.
“Why are you at the Elusive? That’s Midtown.
You’re supposed to be at… Oh shit—” A pause.
Scrolling. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Autocorrect.
Yep, there it is. Sorry, Taio. I don’t normally make mistakes like that.
You’re supposed to be at the Eloise. Other side of the city.
” She exhales sharply. “Okay, that’s on me.
But, Taio, you can still make it if you hurry.
We’ll have you arrive fashionably late and can still salvage all this—”
“Tell Margaret I’m sorry. I can’t make it tonight.” I fight the urge to open the unlocked box and satiate my curiosity. But now that I’ve met her, and I know what this is and what it means to her, it feels wrong.
“What? I already talked her up to double the price for you. Do you understand? You begged me for first right of refusal and now you’re—”
“I know.”
Silence.
“Rina, I’ll call you tomorrow to accept my verbal lashing, I promise. But I’m serious. Something came up. I have to go.”
I hang up. Turn off my phone. Swivel on my heel. Before I know it, I’m marching right back to the elevator bay.
I’m an idiot. A complete, certifiable idiot.
But I’m already in the penthouse elevator, box cradled in my arms like a baby.
Already swiping the keycard for coveted access to the most elite guest in this hotel.
Already picturing the surprise on her face when I roll in like some poor man’s Prince Charming, hand-delivering this talisman like the hero she never asked for.
The numbers climb.
This is insanity. My brain’s been hijacked by one too many romance books. I silently vow to detox with at least one Brandon Sanderson fantasy beast before I completely lose my man card in the land of big romantic gestures, bedroom eyes, and happily-ever-afters.
The elevator doors open.
And there she is.
Charlie. Standing in the foyer, flushed and out of breath like she just sprinted a 5K in flip-flops.
Still rocking that ridiculous shirt with the most gigantic Tweety Bird you could ever conjure up.
And fuck’s sake, she’s clutching The Detonator in one hand like it’s a damn TV remote she absentmindedly grabbed while rushing to catch the UPS guy.
“My box,” she breathes out.
“Someone left it on the front desk.” I hand it over promptly.
Lost in a moment of nostalgia, she runs her free fingers over the faded painted hearts. “That was really nice of you. I guess you ended up the delivery man after all.”
I nod. “And fully open to tips. Big tips. Like four thousand dollars to help me make up for the night I just lost out on.”
Carefully tucking the box under her arm, she points at my chest with The Detonator, the bottom arm dangling around menacingly. “Hey, that was your choice, buddy. You could’ve walked right past.”
No, I couldn’t. Not with those tears in your eyes.
I make eye contact with the vibrator and immediately regret it. “I see you two have bonded. Did you already put that thing to good use in the five minutes I’ve been gone?”
Her jaw drops like a cartoon anvil, and she fumbles the vibrator like a hot potato between her hands before unintentionally turning it back on again.
She slaps it against the chest of her shirt, clutching it desperately and using Tweety’s giant head to muffle the vibration.
“No. I wasn’t. You forgot it. I figured I’d… ”
I raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “You were coming after me?” I tease, gesturing at the vibrator still clutched against Tweety’s face. My heart does a small, unexpected flip.
We stare at each other just listening to the awkward vibrations, pretending we don’t know where that sound is coming from.
“Well, I’m here. What did you want?”
She shrugs. “Truthfully, I don’t know. I just um…
never mind.” She hands over the vibrator like it’s painfully embarrassing to do so.
“I hope you have a nice date…or party…or wherever you’re going.
” She waves the big black two-dicked sex toy in the air.
“And I sincerely hope there are no fatalities because of this thing tonight.”
God, I can read her like my favorite book.
I run a hand through my hair. “Job got canceled. The client’s pissed. Doesn’t want to see me. And now, I’m finding myself very available tonight.” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She shakes her head, her hair catching the amber light from the sconce behind her, making her whole head glow. “I need another secret,” she says, fingers tracing the worn edges of her box. “Collateral. Something really embarrassing. Because I’m about to drop another big one on you.”
The elevator door beeps—a shrill, impatient sound—and attempts to murder me, steel jaws closing on my shoulder. I jam my elbow against the rubber edge, wincing at the pressure. Charlie steps backward across the plush carpet, making room for me to stay in her orbit.
“Okay. Um…” I step fully into her space, the doors finally surrendering behind me. “I got high with my cat tonight. Like, those were my actual plans this evening until I got the call about a job.”
She stares at me, her bright blue eyes widening beneath those impossibly long lashes.
“Yeah, that’s definitely embarrassing, but I need something deeper.
Much more vulnerable.” Her lips quirk up at one corner.
“Like I need to know if you had a bad circumcision, or have a ridiculous tramp stamp with dolphins or something.”
I drop my arms and shake out my shoulders, letting out a long groan.
“Uhhh, fine. Okay, here’s a big one. The only woman I ever loved left me when my family lost our wealth.
It took me three years to stomach that, but tonight I think I just found out that she might’ve been cheating on me before shit hit the fan.
So there’s a possibility she didn’t just leave me because of money.
It’s very possible she just didn’t want to be with me.
It’s kind of…messing with my head. I tell everyone I’m over it, but I cried.
Not bawled like a baby, but there was a single, glistening manly tear. ”
The pity permeates her eyes, her head doing that slow tilt, the way someone looks at a three-legged puppy.
“Is that worthy enough?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
“And now you? What secret did you want to swap?”
“I came after you,” she admits.
I duck my head, nodding along as I gesture to my abdomen. “I mean, I get it.”
She cackles. “You cocky son-of-a-gun. I meant I came after you because I had questions. Whatever your client was going to pay you, I’ll match it. I’ll pay you more.”
“For what, exactly?” I ask. I could’ve sworn on my life this girl has a boyfriend. I’m sure of it. The guy looks like the doppelg?nger of a twenty-five-year-old Brad Pitt. “You have sex questions?”
Her nod is so small it barely registers. “Sort of.”
“So you want to hire me for tonight?”
“I don’t know. I don’t ever do this. I always thought this is against the law, but I just…”
I take a step closer, close enough for our body heat to wrap around each other. “You’re interested?” I rake my top teeth over my bottom lip, the universal symbol for, just ask for what you want.
“I must sound absolutely off my rocker, right? I don’t even know you. You were a total coincidental accident.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, pairing it with a sweet smile. “Sometimes good things are born out of accidents.”
“You can’t tell anybody?”
I shake my head. “Not a soul. That would hurt us both.”
“And if I don’t like it, can we stop?”
“Of course,” I say gently. “Absolutely. It’s all about you. We’ll talk numbers, then you just tell me what you want.”
Her gaze skips away for a beat, then slowly comes back to meet mine. “And what if I don’t know…what I want?”
I try to read the pained expression on her face which seems to say yes and no all at once. I don’t like the ambiguity. I step back, giving her space. “Charlie, I’m not into pressuring you, or anyone. If you’re asking me to stay, then I’ll stay. If you’d prefer I go, I’m a ghost. It’s up to you.”
“I want you to stay, I just don’t know what I want because…” She clamps her eyes shut. “I’ve never done it before.”
“Done what?” I eye The Detonator again. “Been with an escort?”
“Had sex, Taio. I’ve never had sex with an escort…or anybody. I’m a virgin.”
Full. Fucking. Stop.
Charlie Riley—pop star, tabloid fixture, woman in crisis—looks at me with those big, tired eyes and makes a choice. “And I’d like you to stay.”