“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,evertell my sister.”
It turnsout I’m not the only one rife with secrets. Like, for instance, my parentsnormy 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 shoulders 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’sDaisy,” 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. Infact,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.
“Duchess.” He winks, deferring to the unique moniker he’s picked out for me. “What do you say we head on up and roast the broomstick?”
“Pardon?” I squint into Grandpa Chucky a moment in an attempt to discern his words.
“Let’s go hide the bishop.” His brows tweak as if he’s just uttered something suggestive.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Does this have something to do with religion? Do you need to go to Mass?” God, maybe I’m supposed to escort him to church? But what was with the broomstick? Suddenly, the night feels less like a governmental infomercial and more like a crossword puzzle. Then, just like that, it hits me.
Oh. My. Shit.
He leans in with a devil-may-care grin blooming on his lewd little bowtie lips. “I’d like to know you biblically. You know—feed the kitty.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m going to kill Caila for the fossilized coital hookup.
I swallow hard, suddenly wishing for an entire bucket of nice stiff drinks. For sure, once I get home, I’ll need an eighty proof lubrication to scour this verbal assault out of my head. I strum my jewel-tone nails over the table, trying to figure a way out of this geriatric genitalia trap and not get stiffed by way of his suddenly very hard to find wallet.
“I—uh—I can’t. Goodness, no, we can’t do that. I have vaginal candida.” It was a toss-up between that or Aunt Flo, but a freak like Grandpa Chuck here might not be too picky about which orifice I offered up tonight. When in doubt, go with the fungal. I lean in and mouth, “Yeast infection.”
“My.” His brows tick higher into his forehead, and strangely he doesn’t look any less put off by the situation. Oddly, he looks slightly aroused, and it’s only then I note the perverse way he’s studying the shape of my mouth.
