Wicked Grind (Stark World 1)

Only fourteen thousand more to go.

The thought hits me like a surgical strike, pulling me back to reality. And the reality is that I need a lot of money. A lot of money.

That thousand he shafted me out of isn't the prize I care about, and I shove the bills back at him. "Actually, forget the grand. I want the job." I nod toward the club. "I think I proved myself."

"Is that what you think?"

I stiffen, unnerved by the sharpness of his voice, a steely blade cutting right through any past--any connection--we may still have. "You saw me dance," I say defensively. "You know I can strike a pose. You know I can look alluring." I swallow, my cheeks burning. "And you know I can strip down and not turn away from the camera--or from the eyes behind it."

His expression hardens. "And if I was looking for a woman willing to flaunt her tits so some poor slob can fantasize that she'll take him home and fuck him like a porn star, then you'd totally land the job."

Without even thinking about it, I reach out and slap his face.

Then that same hand flies to my mouth to cover my own gasp of surprise. I cringe and step back, certain there will be retribution. That he's going to grab my shoulders. That he's going to slam me against the side of the car and demand I apologize.

He does none of that.

Instead, the stiffness leaves his body, and he draws in air as he drags the fingers of both hands through his hair. "Oh, hell, Kelsey. I'm sorry. That was a shitty thing to say."

I'm so surprised by the admission that I take a step toward him, and the irony is that I want to make him feel better.

"It's okay, really. And I don't think your work is sleazy or anything like that. That's not why I wanted you to see me dance here." I don't have to work to make my words convincing. Whatever else is going on between us, I would never lie about the impact of those spectacular, provocative photos. "Your work--Wyatt, those pictures are incredible. They're honest and real, and the women you've photographed are . . ."

I trail off with a shrug, because how can I say that I want to be like them. "Maybe I shouldn't have done this. But you made me so angry. All I really wanted was for you to see that I can handle the job."

"And you thought this would convince me?"

"Well, um, yeah."

"Hmm." He starts to circle me, and I instinctively step away, protecting my blindside by putting his gigantic SUV behind me.

"You can dance, but I'm not hiring a dancer." His words are low, almost as if he's talking to himself. But his eyes are on me with every word. "Still, you have the look I want. The persona, too. And you damn sure have the attitude."

"Like I said, I can do this."

"You definitely proved that you can push past your comfort zone. I'll even go so far as to say that not only are you absolutely fucking perfect for my show, but that no other model has come close."

There's a sharpness to his words. An anger. One that I'm certain has roots going back twelve years.

"But here's the thing." He stops circling me and instead comes straight toward me. I inch backward until my rear bumps the cool metal of the door. "So what if all those things are true? So what if you're perfect? Because even with all that going for you, how can I trust that you'll see it through? I only have a few weeks to wrap this up, and I can't be wrong. So you tell me, Kelsey. How can I trust you? How can I be certain that you won't bolt midway into the shoot? That you won't leave me hanging?"

That you won't break my heart?

He doesn't say that last out loud, but I hear the words clearly in my head. I swallow the knot in my throat and blink rapidly, trying to stave off a flood of tears. I messed so much up. So many people, so many lives, and all because I reached for more than I should have.

And maybe I should stop pushing and just walk away. I'll get the money somehow. If I have to, I can sell my Mustang, although it would kill me to do that. After all, Griffin painstakingly rebuilt it for me, and it would just hurt him all over again if I parted with it. Even if I was selling it to help him.

But walking away isn't an option. Not anymore. Now it's not just about me. It's about Wyatt, too. About everything he's been saying.

He needs me.

Maybe I can never make up for the way I hurt him twelve years ago. But I can help him now. And while that may not be everything, at least it's something.

"I won't run," I promise. "I don't know how to make you trust me. All I can do is tell you I mean it and hope that you believe me."

His eyes bore into me, as if he's trying to read the truth on my soul. Then he rolls his neck and starts pacing in front of me, his body as tense as a wild cat about to spring.

But even though that's the impression I have, I still gasp when he does exa