32. Trips
Chapter 32
Trips
W hy did I take her out to eat? What kind of idiot doesn’t realize it’s Friday night and that dinner out on a Friday with a girl you’re into is at least mostly a date?
I’m that kind of idiot.
Clara is looking over the menu at the Irish pub I stopped at between Emma’s apartment and our house. Why did I fucking stop? Because I was hungry, and she said she was too.
She tucks a curl behind her ear, and I have to look away, staring at the half-full bar. In a few hours, it’ll be full of TAs drinking shots and pretending they’re too mature for a house party. But half of them will have to be carried home at the end of the night, so I fail to see any difference.
“Do you want a beer or something?” I ask, my mouth jumping ahead of my brain. Because, you know, adding drinking to this Friday night dinner really communicates this isn’t a date. Smooth, Trips .
She shakes her head before she digs into her wallet, pulling out her ID. “I guess I can now, can’t I?”
Walker must have finished up her fake, not that he’s said anything to me about it. He’s cagier than ever, and I know exactly who to blame—this fucking magnet that crashed into our well-calibrated machine.
The waiter comes by, and I order an Irish whiskey while she gets a whiskey ginger. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her drink the same thing more than once. Apparently, she likes her drinks like she likes her men: selected to match her moods, then tossed aside.
With that bitter comparison stuck in my mind, I order some pub pretzels, too. I wasn’t kidding about being hungry.
And of fucking course, because my mind has decided to knock me as low as possible once that fucking siren sits across from me, it flashes to Jansen’s fucking grin, asking me about Clara giving me head.
No, no, no. I’m not daydreaming that my half-assed attempt at sexting had gone a different direction. Not right now. I’m here for a reason.
I fold up my menu, drawing her attention to me. “So I heard from RJ and Walker about how you handled Jasmine in Chicago.”
Clara tilts her head, and I know she’s trying to get a read on me. I don’t know if she knows that’s what she’s doing, as I’m pretty sure it’s instinct for her, but I lock down all the shit in my head, forcing all those damn emotions deeper.
“What did you hear?” She pulls on her sleeves, a new nervous gesture she’s picked up now that it’s almost winter .
“That you played the part of badass bitch with grace and aplomb.”
A smile twists her lips. “And isn’t that a good thing?”
I shrug. “I have to consider the sources.”
“You don’t believe them?”
My heart thunders. The problem is that I do fucking believe them, and now I’m stuck with our main fence thinking a girl who isn’t even on the team is the one calling the shots. And I don’t know of a way to fix that without our team looking unstable and a bad bet for bigger gigs. Instead of saying all that, though, I shrug. “Consider tonight an interview.”
She laughs. “You’re interviewing me, Trips? For the job of badass bitch?”
I lean forward, waiting while the waiter leaves our drinks. The whiskey burns all the way down, and I remind myself that despite what this looks like, it isn’t a date, it’s business. One drink only. I have no intention of losing control. I haven’t in a long time.
“We need a face.”
She just sits there, waiting for an explanation. I sigh. “Fine, we need a hot piece of ass that can get us access to places four guys can’t go.”
She plays with her glass, staring at me. The pretzels sliding across the table breaks our eye contact, and I’m not going to lie, I’m goddamn grateful for the interruption. We take turns ordering, shepherd’s pie for me, fish and chips for her.
After the waiter steps away, she shifts, crossing her legs. “So you want a pretty face? Why me, Trips? I’m not the only hot girl in the world, or even in this bar. ”
She motions around the room, and while there are a few good-looking chicks around, she’s the hottest by far. I run my finger along the rim of my glass. “We also need someone who can read the situation and adapt to what’s needed. Someone who thinks on their feet.”
She frowns, like that doesn’t describe her to a T. “I’m prone to panic attacks and begging, Trips, not criminal improvisation. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes planner than anything else.”
“We’re not looking for that role, Clara. It’s face or nothing.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. It takes all I fucking have to keep from dragging her across the table to wipe that look from her face—to take that tongue and put it to better use than doubting that she was made for this bullshit. Even if I fucking wish that weren’t the case. She unfolds her napkin, breaking off some pretzel and dipping it in the mustard. “Why would I take what you’re offering, Trips? What’s in it for me?”
“Money. Lots of money.” I grab bread too, dipping it into the cheese.
She takes a big bite out of her pretzel, shaking her head. “Do you really think that’ll be what convinces me?”
“I know you need it. By this June you’d have enough to pay off all your loans and the rest of your tuition, living expenses, everything.”
She blinks, and I can tell she’s adding that up. Then she gets another chunk of pretzel. “Nice, but not enough, not with the risk.”
How did this just happen? I’d wanted to put her on edge, have her work for her place, and now I’m the one convincing her to join us? The fuck? “None of the guys would have to keep secrets from you. If you don’t join, we can’t include you, because, as you pointed out, there are risks.”
“I thought my ‘involvement’ with your team was a problem, Trips?” She sets down her pretzel, sipping her drink, and all I can think about is what she’d look like with that mouth wrapped around my cock. The same fucking thought I’ve had for two weeks. With her here in front of me? Yeah, that image is impossible to shove away. I focus on the thought of her sucking Jansen’s cock, hoping for some righteous anger. But, for some dumbass reason, my mind twists it to her sucking both of our cocks, her warm mouth alternating with her hand, hot and wet and—
What the fuck has she done to us? To me?
I run my hands through my hair, trying to regain some ground, to wrest control of the conversation somehow. “I just wanted to make you a fair offer. It’s up to you if you choose to take it.”
The waiter comes back, placing our food in front of us. I’m shocked to find both of our drinks empty. I don’t even remember drinking mine. She gets a refill. I guess she’s still in the mood for whiskey ginger, at least for now.
She squirts ketchup onto her plate, dipping a fry. I never thought watching someone eating fucking fries would be erotic, but somehow, she manages it. I’m half hard, my shepherd’s pie just sitting on my tongue as I watch her. This needs to stop. She’s not for me.
“How long would this contract last, Trips?”
It takes me a minute to remember what we were talking about. I swallow, try to sip my empty glass, grimace, and answer. “After a probationary period? Forever.”