“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” I drawl, holding my hands up in surrender.
“This is a business transaction—nothing more. We’re here to talk about rates,notfor you to trick me into rating your below-average body.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Below-average?”
Listen, I’m used to the majority of the population calling me a conceited man whore or an arrogant, talentless cum dumpster who couldn’t sink a puck with his eyes open, but I draw the line at anyone degrading my clearly superior physique.
“I’ve seen better,” she scoffs, finally severing her trance and coming to her senses.
I take an unwise step closer, immediately getting drunk off the smell of her lavender perfume. Sweet, almost virginal. A signature scent that emanates off her like a second skin—that taunts my insatiable hunger in the same way a meek doe surrenders the stretch of its white-dappled neck to a slavering maw.
“Like hell you have.”
“Are you done showing off?”
“Do you ever unlodge the stick up your ass?”
Fuck, is it wrong that I’m getting turned on right now? That’s not a normal response to conflict.
You’re truly a piece of work, Knox.
I’ve only known Staten for a few weeks, and yet she’s already cracked the code on how to dance around (apparently) taboo topics. Which is impressive, considering I have the perseverance of a three-year-old and the patience of an eighty-year-old.
“How much for each one-hour session?” she inquires,shuffling back a little to provide some breathing distance between us.
I grieve the loss of heat from her body—the high that broils whenever we’re one inch away from compromising our acquaintanceship. She might’ve well just gutted me down the middle and thrown my bloody entrails to the vultures.
I haven’t thought this far ahead. Honestly, I didn’t even think I’d make it pass the initial turnstile. How much does she want? Money obviously isn’t an issue for me—I’m ready to make it rain. Hell, if she asked me to donate alung, I probably wouldn’t refuse her.
“How much is the school paying you?” I ask, completely unprepared for the truth bomb that detonates in the silence of the abandoned hallway, rebounding off the gypsum walls.
“Twenty an hour.”
I rake my hand through the front of my waterlogged hair, indignation by proxy setting up camp inside me. “Only twenty? Jesus fuck. That won’t last you through the week.”
“Yep, well aware of that, thank you,” she grumbles.
I didn’t realize her financial situation was so bleak. Also, what kind of rich-ass school stiffs its student employees? MU has the funds to install one of those goddamn Avalon drinking fountains on every floor of the science building. And it’s seven stories tall. The school would collapse without the backbone of its tutors. I know firsthand that some of these professors can’t teach for shit. I’m surprised the drop-out rate isn’t higher.
Okay, Knox. Don’t seem too excited. Offer a reasonable price.
“I’ll pay you five hundred an hour. For one month. Or until I can get my grade in Lit up to a B.”
Staten splutters. “Five hundred?!”
What? Five hundred dollars is pocket money. My voice-controlled bidet cost more. And yes, I own a bidet. Sue me for practicing clean hygiene.
“Is that too little? Damn, you drive a hard bargain.”
“No, it’s—it’s fine. That’s just…a lot of money,” she squeaks, revisiting a spot of dirt on the ground with wide, glassy eyes, her voice shaking worse than a surgeon’s hand after one too many procedures.
“You need it more than I do,” I urge as sympathy breaks over me.
I lose her for a solid minute, watching her awareness vanish into a swathe of mental fog, and I’m stuck outside a dirt-carved delineation with no jurisdiction to chase after her. Maybe she’s weighing the pros and cons. Maybe she’s questioning the legitimacy of this arrangement. Whatever it is, when she comes to again, her reluctance is nowhere to be found. It too must have run into the impending mist.
Her spine goes ramrod straight, determination blustering over her hard-set features. “Alright, let’s set something else straight: ground rules. Rules that are going to beimperativefor me not ripping your head off for the next month.”
“Why the hell do we need rules?” I exclaim, leaning my back against the wall, the hem of my towel slipping a centimeter lower on the cradle of my hipbones.
