Tug (Irreparable 3)

She steps into the hall and locks her door.

We drive in silence. Once we’re at the restaurant, I do all the gentlemanly things I’m expected to: hold doors, pull out her chair, and make polite conversation. Her laughter annoys me. She talks mostly about herself. Her efforts to touch me inadvertently are obvious. She’s a Barbie doll, and I wish she’d sit quietly like one.

After her third martini she asks, “Am I ever going to get that apology?”

I sit back in my chair and turn to the side, crossing my legs and folding my hands together on my knee. “I thought that’s what this was.”

She leans forward, purposely exposing her cleavage, and runs a finger over the rim of her martini glass. “Was it?”

I down the remaining Scotch in my glass and hold it in the air for a refill. When the waitress acknowledges me, I set the glass down. Red is waiting for me to comment. I say nothing until my Scotch arrives. I sip the amber liquid slowly, watching her squirm under my gaze.

“I should apologize, but I won’t say it.” She starts to speak, but I cut her off. “We both know why you went home with me the other night.”

“We do?” she asks, attempting to feign innocence. She’s a total bull-shitter, but you can’t fool one, especially one that’s mastered the art of the game.

“You crave power and money, both of which I have, and you thought if we had sex, I would want you for more than one night. Am I close?”

She doesn’t deny it and inquires, “What is this all about, Aidan?”

I sip my Scotch again while the waitress clears our plates. Once she’s gone, I lean across the table and take Larissa’s hand. The gesture isn’t meant to be romantic, and I squeeze hard. “I need a girlfriend.”

“Are you asking me?” I nod, and her jade-green eyes narrow. “How romantic.”

I release her hand and laugh. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly the romantic type. I’m not here to woo you and make you feel special. You’re simply a commodity I’m looking to acquire. I need a girlfriend in public, and you want a boyfriend to brag about.”

She twirls a lock of fiery hair around her finger, her expression contemplative. She’ll say yes. I know I have the right girl for the job. “You’re suggesting a business transaction?”

“I’m suggesting that you be my girlfriend, because it looks good for my image, yes. And I’ll pay you well for it.”

She holds her hand out, staring at her long red fingernails, her eyebrows raised.

“You’re going to have to pay well. I have healthy spending habits and mounting debt that needs eliminating.”

Blankly, I say, “Done.”

“For how long?” she asks.

“At least six months.”

“Strictly professional, then?”

“Yes.”

She leans over the table and whispers seductively, “No sex?”

I grin and lick my teeth. My fingers pinch her chin. “Sex is a requirement of the job. If I want to fuck, we will.”

She rights herself properly in the chair and straightens her skirt. “And if you don’t, am I free to have sex with someone else?”

“I don’t care what you do, but if a picture of you and another man ends up in the tabloids, you won’t be paid a dime. This is about making me look good.”

She lifts her glass and drains the remainder of her martini. “I have to think about it.”

“You have two days,” I say flatly.

“What happened to make you so cold?”

Without answering her, I throw some cash on the table and leave the restaurant alone.