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“Her father came from money. Opened a casino and resort in Vegas. Economy has been shit. They aren’t doing too well.”
“So, he’s in debt enough to sell his daughter off?”
Coleman shrugs his shoulder. “Basically, that’s the long and short of it.”
I think about the situation, and really, it’s a pretty good one. She comes from money. It won’t be a complete shock to enter our world. She’ll know when to talk, when to keep quiet, and what is expected of her, generally speaking.
However, I don’t know how anyone can just accept being sold off to pay their family’s debts. Especially someone who does come from money and is finishing college with a degree in something that she can actually make a good living doing.
Sinking my teeth into the corner of my bottom lip, I think about the girl who stares back at me. She’s young, beautiful, smart, and about to become my brother’s wife. Not just his wife, though. She will be his possession.
“But you want Shiloh gone before you take your vows with this one,” I murmur.
“I’m giving Dad my answer tomorrow. I want the wedding to happen in three months. This deal with Shiloh and Ray closes in fifteen days.”
My lips twitch into a smirk. “And on day sixteen, Shiloh mysteriously dies.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay, but if you truly want my help, this must be an accident. There’s no other way around it. I’m not going to have Dad ride my ass about it.”
Coleman smiles. It’s one of his victorious ones. He shakes his head a couple of times, then throws back the rest of his drink, slamming the glass down on the table with a loud thud that seems to bounce off the walls around us.
“We have fifteen days to come up with a plan.”
“Then we will,” I agree. “One that will be flawless and leave us without an ounce of suspicion.”
PARKER
I debate callingAllison to tell her about my secret text message rendezvous, but I decide against it. I’m not sure what I would tell her, and I’m a little embarrassed that I threw caution to the wind like that.
Instead, I take the bound book of plain paper out of my nightstand, something I’ve had for about a year and never even cracked open, and I journal.
Instead of writing about my childhood, I choose to write about this stranger. I’m pretty positive that nothing about this is healthy in any way, shape, or form, but at the same time, I can’t help it. Because for whatever reason, I feel like this could be exactly what I need. It seems safer than anything else in this big, scary world.
As I write, I think about that fact. To me, a stalker seems safer than someone at a club or even a little café. What does that say about me? About my life? And more importantly, about my future?
What happens when he makes himself known to me? Will he expect us to have a relationship? Will I have to tell him that I’m a virgin and that I am definitely not that sexpot who touched herself in front of that window?
My body heats with embarrassment just thinking about the moment. I loved it. I felt so sensual. Sexy. Like I could be someone’s lover and not just nerdy, anxiety-filled Parker Nichols. There was something that just clicked inside of my head. I did it, and I loved it all.
There is a moment of silence where I stare at the journal, seeing absolutely nothing. Reaching for my bottle of water, I lift it to my lips and take a drink, trying to shake myself out of the memories of last night.
I need to finish my journaling, then I need to work on my reports for my job. I can’t get this unknown man out of my head, though. He found my number after he danced with me at the club. How? And who is he to be able to get my cell phone number like that? Not just my name but my number, too.
Instead of hyperfocusing on this situation, I decide to finish my journaling then switch to my report for work. I need to keep my mind busy, and this is the only way I can get completely lost.
When I finish my bottle of water, I make my way to the kitchen and pull another bottle from the fridge, then prepare a small snack of salami, cheese, and grapes again. I don’t know why, but that is the best combination ever.
Walking over to my favorite chair, I set my plate and a new bottle of water on the small side table, then walk to the coffee table and grab my computer bag. Glancing over at my phone that sits on the coffee table next to my journal, I decide to grab that, too.
What if he texts me again?
I want to be available, even though I know it’s the exact wrong thing to think, but I can’t help myself. It’s what goes through my mind. I want to hear from him. I want to read the messages he sends. I want to try to figure out who he is.
Maybe he’s someone who I work with.
Maybe he’s someone who I know.
