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I nod. “Thank you.”
When he leans in to press a kiss to the edge of my mouth, I freeze. His overfriendly nature is nothing out of the ordinary. It is the fact I can smell sex and intrigue on my skin that has me clamming up.
Much to my relief, Knox acts oblivious to the intoxicating scent. After sucking in a big breath, he says, “But since you’re adamant the world needs it to be Nikki J at rehearsal this afternoon, how about you put the facilities to good use before joining me downstairs for a quick breakfast? The jet is already on the runway.”
“I can’t shower here,” I stammer out, like being screwed senseless in a wall-less room is far more acceptable than showering in one.
When Knox bows a suspicious brow, I make out the disgust in my tone isn’t as potent as it is. “All my supplies are downstairs.”
I gather up the bedding that didn’t escape the deluge last night. Somewhere between peeling off his skintight jeans and screwing me unconscious, Laken transferred our make-out session to the rug in front of the fireplace.
Although my skin felt like it was on fire, he kept the blanket close in case we had unwanted visitors.
Apparently he didn’t want anyone seeing my skin but him.
I’m such an idiot.
Determined not to be made a fool of twice in less than twenty-four hours, I say, “I’ll be ready to leave in thirty. Ten if my detour pays dividends.”
I need to get my songbook back from Laken because aside from its sentimental worth, the lyrics I penned last night could be the only stable foundation of my career.
Before Knox can get another word in or follow me out, I gallop down the secret entrance stairs of the rooftop room before throwing open the fire exit door next to the elevator and descending another two dozen levels.
I’m hot, sweaty, and moody when I reach the thirty-seventh floor.
No one will survive my wrath, not even a woman paid to take it.
“Excuse me,” shouts a lady with bright-red hair and fishnet stockings. “I’m not expecting a client for another hour.” I freeze halfway into the bathroom of her suite when she says, “So if you’re looking for your husband, he isn’t here.”
“I’m not looking for my husband.” I turn to face her. “Just a man who—”
Her sigh cuts me off.
Lucky, as I was lost for words.
“How much does he owe? If it’s over fifteen hundred, Henry will cover it. If it’s less, you’re on your own. Henry only accepts debts his men will happily beat out of the johns who skip on their obligations.”
I’m lost as to what she means until her eyes drop to my skimpy nightie.
“I’m not a…” I can’t say prostitute while standing across from one. “I don’t work in this…industry.I don’t sell my body for money.”
My last sentence is barely a whisper, but she hears it. “Then doesn’t that make you silly?” My scoff doesn’t bother her in the slightest. She moseys to the door, her hips swinging, opens it, and then gestures for me to leave with a head nudge. “You give it away and still get treated like trash. That makes you no better than me, baby cakes.”
“He didn’t… I didn’t…”
I’ve got nothing.
Not a single comeback.
“I’m sorry for barging in on you. I’m just desperate to have something returned that can’t be replaced.”
Her huff bellows down the empty hallway. “You gavethataway for nothing…”—her eyes rake my body for the second time when she says the word “that”—“andyour virginity. What is wrong with girls these days?”
My eyes bulge. “I didn’t give him my virginity.” I try to hold back my grumbled comment, but it leaves my mouth before I can. “I wasted that on Tony Stepanova at the end of prom.”
“Tony Stepanova? The balding man from Marcella’s?”
With my heart in my throat, I nod.
