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“I loaned your family millions of dollars. You don’t think I’ve already paid for these?” I grunt. “They were mine the second they touched your skin.”
“No,” Deirdre says firmly. “I have my own job, my own bank account. I bought almost all of my own clothes with my money, not my dad’s. So, I’ll repeat my earlier question. How much are they worth to you?”
Fucking priceless, is what I want to say. But telling her that I’d wipe her entire seven figure debt for a sniff of her used panties is not exactly going to put me in a position of power here.
But even so, I have to admit I’m impressed by her right now. Trying to negotiate with someone like me, in a situation like this.
“Name your price,” I say, turning the car onto Brindle Path.
Deirdre pauses, as if she didn’t actually expect me to agree to this. I can practically hear the gears turning inside her head.
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“Done.”
“Wait, what?” She sounds stunned, her coolly confident business-woman mask slipping away, and I smirk.
“Should have asked for more, Songbird.”
The guard opens the gate to the house, and I drive up and put the car in park.
“Fine, then,” she says as we emerge from the vehicle. “What about my rate per performance? Per song?”
The answer is the same as before. Priceless.
I don’t speak as I open the door. I start mounting the stairs and she follows without needing to be told, which makes my cock hard.
Clearly, she’s learned from the negotiations in the car, because her proposed sum this time is much higher than before.
“A million dollars per song!” she declares.
I let out a bark of a laugh at the balls of an offer like that. At that rate, her debt would be paid in less than a week. It could be paid off in a single fucking night.
“Nice try,” I tell her as we reach the top of the stairs.
“Fine. A hundred thousand per song.”
“Not if you’re going to pull more of that Twinkle Twinkle Little Star shit,” I reply as we enter my bedroom. We both stop walking, and she looks at me, her face determined and so damn pretty it makes my fingers twitch.
“I won’t,” she says firmly. “You can pick the songs. I don’t care. I’ll learn anything, play anything.”
I hear the rest of the sentence without her having to say it out loud.
I’ll do anything to get the fuck away from you.
“A hundred thousand per performance, not per song,” I counter. “If the performance meets my standards.”
She presses her lips together, considering.
“Define performance.”
“A set, unbroken period of playing. An hour. An evening. However long I say it is.”
She nods slowly.
“OK. So that’s, what, about sixty performances? If I play for you every day my debt will be paid in two months.”
My teeth grind. I can see how smart she is. The clever, iron will driving her to save herself. I admire it, I do.
