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I fold my arms over my chest, hoisting my moderately sized bosom higher before attempting a serious expression. It is no easy feat. I’ve always been described as cute with a reserved personality, so for someone to believe I exude enough confidence to be a sex worker is rather intriguing.
“A friend askedherbodyguard to walk me inside to ensure I didn’t have any run-ins with men from the thirty-seventh floor.”
There’s no pussyfooting around with this man. He’s onto my underhanded claim he purchased a prostitute for dessert the second it leaves my mouth. “I swear to God, that isn’t why I’m here.”
“Then why do you have condoms in your pocket?”
I nudge my head to the evident circle disc imprints embedded in the rigid material of his jeans pocket. They’re just to the left of the massive bulge I’m once again staring at.
Did he stuff a banana down his trunks after squeezing into them? What other explanation is there for him needing to hire a prostitute other than a cock-stuffing incident?
After the past few months I’ve had, the honesty in his tone is refreshing. “They were given to me by a friend.” His tug on the crotch of his pants doesn’t give him an ounce of leverage before he confesses, “Who most likely booked me a room on the thirty-seventh floor on purpose.” When I scoff, faking repulsion, he murmurs, “Should I go?” He doesn’t give me the chance to reply. “I’ll go.” The elevator doors pop open a second after he stabs the open-door button with his index finger. “I hope you have a pleasant night, Nicole.”
He freezes partway out when my curiosity speaks before my disappointment. “How do you know my name?”
A hundred scenarios run through my head except the one he gives. “I was eavesdropping on your conversation with your…”—he almost stumbles—“friend’sbodyguard.” After quickly evaluating my response to his near miss and gifting me a grin that makes me dizzy, he says, “He called you Nicole.”
I don’t know this man, but I believe him. My trust is as sturdy as my regret that our brief exchange of banter is already ending. The heaviness on my shoulders will never entirely shift, but it didn’t feel as heavy during our discussion.
“I hope you have a pleasant night too…?” I leave my question open for him to answer how he sees fit.
I can’t help the smile that hooks my mouth to one side when he replies, “Laken. Laken Howell.” It’s a groovy name that matches his relaxed, calm demeanor.
Laken waits a moment for me to work his name through my head a trillion times before he issues a final pledge. “And I swear to whatever mythical being you believe in that I’m not planning to doanythingbut sleep on the thirty-seventh floor. They just refused me access because I’m not carrying any ID.”
The elevator doors shut before I can offer a solution.
5
NICOLE
Just as quickly as the elevator doors close, they open on the floor of the presential suite. I don’t recall scanning the hotel room keycard Knox organized for me after I called him panicked I’d forgotten to take my keycard with me, but the reason for my magic trick comes to light when I step into the hallway.
Knox is waiting in the entryway, his expression furious.
“Hawke was with us the entire time.” With my purse stuffed under my arm, I kick off my stilettos and pick them up before slowly trudging down the elaborate space filled with priceless paintings and restored antiques. “And I only had two drinks.”
“Two drinks in a smoke-plumed bar. You may as well sign up for a laryngectomy.” He scoops my pumps from my hand, dumps them next to his boots in the entryway, and then guides me toward the main suite.
The presidential suite has four rooms, each with private ensuites. Though you wouldn’t know that with how many of Knox’s hair products are spread across the vanity in my bathroom. He swears the lighting in my bathroom is better than his, but I know he’s hiding his pricy products from River, his little brother who only wants to emulate him, not frustrate him.
“We’re offering for you to sing live at each event,” Knox says, his grip around my waist tightening. “If vocals aren’t strong, they’ll tear you to shreds, baby cakes.”
“They’re strong. They are untainted. I’ve been resting my voice all week.”
I wish that were a lie. Knox is so paranoid that I’ll strain my voice before a live performance, I was placed on voice rest for a week.
My wrist hurts more from scribbling down notes to him than writing song lyrics—regretfully.
“Untainted before you ruined a week of rest by clogging it with dangerous fumes and voice-hindering chemicals.” Sighing, he enters the bathroom, switches on the faucet full blast, and then spins to face me. “You’ve possibly undone twelve months of hard work in less than two hours.”
Ipffthim, confident he’s not being serious. “It isn’t that bad. Singers across the globe get their starts in pubs and clubs.”
“And most retire before they’re thirty.”
With his mood teetering more and more toward negative, when he instructs me to breathe in the steam fogging the mirror he hogs every morning, I follow his order to a T. I’m not exactly an argumentative person, but I’m not a lapdog either. I assess the situation and implement an attitude that will ensure the best outcome.
Sounds like a lapdog to me.
