Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

"But--"

She holds up a hand. "You know what? I don't even want to hear it. For days you've been telling me that you're desperate to keep your house. And I've seen the numbers, Laine. You should be desperate, because unless you know different math rules than I do, you could work shifts at Blacklist twenty-four seven for a full month and still not earn enough to pay off that note."

She heads for the car, tossing her words back over her shoulder. "Make up your mind, okay?"

Ten grand. Ten. Freaking. Grand.

Ten thousand dollars of debt knocked out in one fell swoop. Maybe even more.

I stand beside my chair, my hand clutched tight on the backrest as I think about it. That, plus what I've saved so far, plus another two in cash advances from my credit cards will get me kissing close to fifteen thousand.

That leaves sixteen thousand to earn in two weeks.

And even though that's still a scary number, it's ten thousand less scary than it would be without this job.

I think about my house and all the weekends I spent refinishing the wood floors and kitchen cabinets. I think about the claw-foot tub I spent weeks searching for. And the pipes that better not burst again in my lifetime, considering the time and money it cost to fix them.

I think about my mother and the hours she spent landscaping the backyard. The way we laughed the day we painted the shutters.

I think about everything I've lost over the last few years, and I know that there is no way I'll survive losing the house, too.

And that's when I know that I have to do this thing.

Just sex.

Once again, Joy's words fill my head. And once again, I know that she's wrong. So very wrong.

Sex is a tool, and it can either build or destroy.

My first time, it was a wrecking ball that broke me into a million pieces.

But this time...

This time sex is a lever.

This time, it's going to save me.

3

"Wow," I say as we step off the private elevator and into the foyer of Marjorie's high-rise condo. It's all marble and shine, sparkle and polish. "I mean, seriously, wow."

"I'm glad you like it."

The speaker's voice is low and melodious, and is accompanied by the click of high heels. I turn toward the sound and find myself staring at one of the most elegant women I've ever seen. Tall and model-thin with platinum blonde hair upswept into a chignon, perfectly lined red lips, and wide gray eyes with just a hint of gold.

"I'm Marjorie." She extends her hand, her smile revealing brilliant white teeth that must have cost a fortune. "And you must be Sugar."

"Laine," I correct as we shake hands, her grip firm and confident. "Please."

She laughs. The slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes makes her seem more approachable, and I relax just a little. "You're right," she says to Joy. "She's charming. And as for your name," she continues, her focus returning to me, "all things considered, I think we'll call you Sugar."

All things considered.

"Right," I say, forcing a smile. "Of course."

I've often thought my mom saddled me with a hooker's name. Considering the job I'm about to take, I guess I wasn't far off the mark.

"Joy's explained to you what I do, I'm sure," Marjorie says as I follow her out of the foyer and into an equally elegant living room. This space, however, is designed as much for comfort as for appearance, with overstuffed couches and chairs, along with an area rug, a coffee table topped with water and wine, and the soft strains of classical music emanating from hidden speakers.