She points the box at me menacingly, like it’s a weapon. “Is Taio your real name?”
“Actually, yes.”
Her eyes narrow. “Okay, Taio. Start explaining.”
chapter 5
Taio
Charlie Riley is pointing a two-pronged vibrator at me like it’s a loaded weapon, and honestly? I’ve had worse Tuesday nights.
“Start explaining,” she repeats, and there’s steel underneath the exhaustion in her voice. “Now. Please,” she adds, taking the time to add manners to her demand.
“Okay. Um, I don’t know. My boss—Rina texted me about a job tonight. A woman named Margaret, recently divorced, hosting a passion party at the Elusive Hotel penthouse. I was supposed to be her date. But I get here and…” My wrist does this sort of lazy roll so I’m gesturing toward Charlie but not pointing at her in accusation.
Her brow quirks again, a soft round arch. She should be freaking out. I am a strange man in her apartment, so how come blatant curiosity is sprawled all over her expression? “Margaret?”
“That’s what Rina said. Margaret. Forty-two. Looking to”—I clear my throat—“sow her wild oats.”
I brace myself for her wrath, mentally rehearsing my “I swear I’m not a creep” speech while calculating how many stepsto the door. Instead, Charlie unleashes this laugh that sounds like a lumberjack gargling bourbon—deep, rough, and weirdly satisfying. It’s like watching a chihuahua bark with James Earl Jones’s voice. Honestly? Extremely hot in a way I’m not prepared to examine right now.
“And you thought…Margaret was…me?” she manages through her heaves of laughter. “And I thought you were a delivery boy. What’re the chances?”
“Whoa, hey. Deliveryman,” I correct, tapping my imaginary name badge. Her laughter is infectious—like a TikTok dance craze you swore you’d never do but suddenly find yourself practicing fervently in the bathroom mirror. “Not to be the guy giving stranger-danger lectures while holding a vibrator, but most women would’ve already pepper-sprayed me into next Tuesday. You know, after the whole condoms-are-non-negotiable opener. You seem pretty at ease, have you done this before?”
She places her hand against her heart like she’s worried about an attack. “You’re asking ifIhave ever ordered an escort?”
“Half my clients are celebrities. All of them rich. Most of them could buy and sell small countries before breakfast. When you’re that loaded, paying for company is like ordering room service—just with more orgasms and fewer club sandwiches.”
A wicked smile crosses her face. “Which celebrities? Spill the tea.”
I snort-laugh like a startled bull. She’s still holding the vibrator while wearing Tweety Bird pajamas and wants celebrity gossip like we’re at a slumber party. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m under a strict privacy clause. No exceptions. I could sleep with your mother or best friend, and you’d never ever find out.”
Her shoulders relax and the sadness in her eyes returns. “You actually can’t. My mother’s dead and I don’t have a best friend. My sisters, maybe. But both of them are happily married.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “Yeah…happily married isn’t exactly my target audience.”
Her lips flinch into a barely there smile. “Right.”
We stand there in silence for a moment. Her in that ridiculous Tweety Bird pajama shirt, hair that looks like it survived a cage match with a leaf blower, clutching a vibrator, waving it around as she talks like she’s about to signal a commercial flight to its appropriate gate. Then there’s me, trying to subtly re-button my shirt, my secondhand sports coat in my periphery, hands still raised like I’m being mugged by a cartoon character. If my life were a GPS, it would be saying “recalculating” right about now.
Then her expression shifts. The exhaustion is still there, but something else creeps in underneath—suspicion. Calculation. The look of someone who’s been burned too many times to take anything at face value.
“How much did they pay you?” she asks quietly.
“What?”
“Oh come on,Taio, if that’s really your name. Nothing about this is believable. But I’m a good sport, and you know what? You’re as much a victim as me. I bet they offered you a golden unicorn to catch me in here”—she twirls around—“like this. Looking like the next big meltdown in the line of pop queens like Britney, Christina, and Shaylin. Well, news for you, buddy—I’m not drunk. I’m not doing drugs. I’m not smacking puppies. There’s no story here. I was just exhausted, okay? Tell your bosses that. The most irresponsible thing I’ve done is ignore hydration to the point there is sand in my veins. That’s it. No scoop, no story. We’ll be announcing my return to the tour shortly.”
She points at my chest with an angry resonance. “And don’t you dare spin this story like I answered the door half naked, either.” She lifts up her long shirt to flash me a pair of pinkspandex. “I’m wearing bottoms, and in my defense, I thought we were going to have a three-second exchange. As far as my hair…” Charlie’s eyes shift left, then right. “Well, I don’t actually have an excuse for that. This is just kind of what it does after a nap.”
Now that she’s mentioned it, there is a strand defying gravity and standing upright and center like it’s trying to catch a lightning strike. I close the gap between us in two small steps and smooth her frayed hair. She doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t move away, but I catch her sucking in a breath and holding it until I retreat a pace backward. “There you go. Right as rain. Now, who do you think I work for?” I ask, trying to contain my humor.
“New York Post? TMZ? CelebNow, maybe?”
“Hmm.” I nod my head in consideration. “And you think I’m doing some kind of exposé on your concert from two weeks ago?”
She pulls her gaze from mine, her toes suddenly fascinating as she wiggles them against the hardwood floor. “They’ll call it—‘Pop Princess Charlie Riley: From Stadium Tours to Sex Toys’? Complete with unflattering photos and some quote from my third-grade teacher about how I always had ‘attention-seeking tendencies.’” She tosses the vibrator onto the coffee table like she’s ditching evidence at a crime scene. The thing springs to life, buzzing with the fury of a chainsaw powered by ten thousand horses.Christ, that’s not a sex toy—it’s a power tool.
