The album in my hand is worth over five thousand dollars on the open market. I knew that because that's what Jenni, my assistant, told me she paid for it before driving it up here herself from Nashville to hand-deliver it to me in the freezing cold.
She was even more passive-aggressive than usual when I thanked her for her assistance. “Sure, Shelli and I were planning on going to the closing night of Chrysanthemum tonight. But anything for my boss.”
Well, I’d been scratching my head to figure out what to get her for Christmas. A weekend off while we’re on the European leg of the G-Latham tour and tickets to go see that opera everybody’s been talking about, Chrysanthemum, in some East Coast city with her girlfriend would do the trick. If they were still together by then, that is.
I stayed touring, and girlfriends got clingy and whiny when they couldn’t see you—one of the many reasons I never bothered with them. So far, none of the women who came before Shelli had stuck around waiting for Jenni to get back. That’s probably why she chose to complete my errand over a night out at the opera. Girlfriends come and go, but there’ll always be asshole bosses willing to pay for assistants to be at their beck and call.
Anyway, pissing Jenni off and the money I paid for the album was worth it.
When Red breathlessly asks, “How did you find this?” I know I’ll be able to pay for Jenni’s Christmas present and the Roxxy Roxx vinyl with all the bet money I’m about to win.
“That's something I’d love to discuss with you, ” I answer smoothly before adding, “on this side of the bar.”
I confidently wait for her answer. The internet says this vinyl’s worth a few thousand dollars, but to a Roxxy Roxx megafan, it’s priceless. A true stan would find it almost physically impossible to turn this gift down, even if it comes with strings attached.
She wets her lip, and her expression weakens.
“What do I have to do to get that album?” she asks, confirming my guess about her true-fan status. “Have sex with you?”
Sex . . .
My pulse sprints at just the thought of it. I can already see all the stuff I want to do to her—all the positions I’ll put her in for making me work so hard.
But something inside of me won’t let me say yes to her question.
Damn ego again. It’s telling me that it won’t be much fun conquering her if she’s only hooking up with me because of a round piece of plastic. I have to prove to Red that she wants this too. Just as bad as I do.
“Another five minutes,” I decide. “Another five minutes with you on this side of the bar. And then the album is yours.”
She squints at me in a way I’d describe as adorable if she wasn’t making my cock so stiff and achy.
“Five minutes doing what?” Her voice is laced with suspicion. “I’ve got a feeling you’re not interested in just talking with me for five minutes to see if we truly connect.”
She’s got me there. Yeah, we had that weird moment when I told her about my mom for some reason. But like the “F**kin’ Problems” A$AP Rocky track I keep at the top of my workout playlist, I’m not one for the long talkin’.
I run my tongue around my teeth and admit, “I wish I could do the small-talk dance with you. But this thing between us is burning too hot for that.”
I dip my head down and promise, “There’s gonna be kissing involved. Touching too.”
I heroically manage to keep my eyes on her face as I tell her this, but I can already feel the weight of those glorious breasts in my palms. And maybe she can tell what I’m thinking.
She crosses her arms over her breasts, hiding them from me. Then she looks up as if she's seeking some kind of consultation from above.
I can tell her brain’s working overtime to reconcile my terms. It shouldn’t be that hard of a decision. I mean, look at me. I’ve had girls beg to suck me off on their knees. And I know deep in my gut this desire isn’t one-sided.
“That’s all I have to do?” she asks eventually. “Let you kiss me on that side of the bar? With a little touching?”
I nod.
“Okay, five minutes.”
She says the words on a rush of air, like she’s sighing and giving in at the same time.
“You can kiss me. But you can't take any of my clothes off. And no touching below the waist. I’m not looking to star in a porn video for your friends.”
She glances to the side, and I follow her gaze to the Reapers’ table. Those damn lookie-loos are watching us like a TV show. A few of them are even standing to get a better view.