I just have to hope that same loathing she harbors for me won’t urge her to set my plan on fire. Here’s to hoping money is a big enough motivator for her to workwithme, not against me.
“What makes you say that?” There’s a wariness in her voice as her eyes narrow into slits, as if she’s trying to see past the protective shell of my skin and weed out all my secrets. Or figure out if I’m bluffing.
Well, Poor Girl, I assure you, I’m not.
“That you won’t catch the feels?” I ask, unsure what she means.
She rolls her eyes. “That I’m desperate,” she clarifies.
I shrug. “Well, it’s kind of obvious you must need the money. Otherwise, you would’ve left the second you saw it was me you were meeting.”
She doesn’t object to this statement. She doesn’t say anything at all. She won’t even look at me, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve broken her. If I’ve pissed her off so much that her hatred for me has somehow pushed her over the edge into catatonia.
When I can’t bear the silence any longer, I murmur, “Come on, Dornan, we can help each other. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.”
Her eyes snap to mine again, hard and cutting, like diamonds. Or like a knife in the hand of someone far too eager to stab me. Holding my gaze, she raises one finger, and steps forward, shoving it under my nose. “There will be no back scratching,got it?”
Flinching, I inch away a step and nod. “So…does this mean we have a deal?” I dare to ask.
An eternity seems to pass in the ten seconds it takes for her to respond. Retracting her hand, she grunts out, “Fine. But I want fifteen grand a month, not ten. I want to be paid for my time upfront. And we need to set some boundaries. Some rules, if you will…assuming you know what those are.”
A smirk plays at the edges of my lips at the stony look in her eyes. This might end up being more fun than I thought. I thrust out my arm. “You drive a hard bargain, Blondie, but I accept your terms. You won’t regret this.”
She reluctantly takes my hand with a deflated laugh. “Yeah. Sure. We’ll see about that.”
When the ratio of drinks I’ve consumed to friends who are judging me is 2:3, it only makes sense to order another. Might as well even the score.
The contact of Damian’s hand around mine sends a jolt of electricity racing through me. And not in a cute, romance book kind of way where the spark between two characters is a literal shock that manifests when they touch for the first time. No, this is definitely more of a I-feel-like-I’ve-just-been-tased-by-a-cattle-prod kind of way, and it causes a crippling anxiety that ignites in my blood and consumes me until all I can think about is getting as far away from Damian “Fuckboy” Navarro as humanly possible. I need space. I need to think about what I’ve just agreed to…preferably someplace quiet and dark where alcohol is available. That compulsion gnaws at me hungrily, taking control of my body as my mind takes the passenger seat to my panic, which wrenches my hand free of his and has me bolting from Touro Park like I’m the goddamn RoadRunner and that jackass—who is apparently harder to get rid of than herpes—is my nemesis, Wile E. Coyote. Well, meep, meep, motherfucker. If only I’d had an anvil handy to drop on his head.
I don’t stop running until sufficient distance has been put between us and I’m safely in the warm embrace of one of my few places of sanctuary, though I wish it was a cozy dark hole I could crawl inside and die in. I hate that the reality of what I’m about to get into overshadows my relief at knowing I’ll have the money to take care of Mom, but foreboding chokes me when I think about having to spend any length of time with that asshole.
I grimace at the thought. I really don’t know what the hell I was thinking agreeing to this stupid arrangement. Me…pretend to be Damian’s girlfriend? I snort, shaking my head, and spin the highball glass on the table as I sink deeper into the cushions of the farthest back booth of my favorite Newport bar, Grape Expectations. It’s one of those rustic gastropubs with lots of wood and exposed brick that serves local draft beer, spirits, and cocktails, with all the drink names inspired by books. Plus, it has minimal lighting so I can easily hide my shame in peace as I nurse my drink, pretending I didn’t just agree to sign my soul away to the freaking devil.
Technically, I’m not old enough to drink in a place like this, let alone legally drink at all, but with Newport being a college town (and Conwick students havingverydeep pockets), the bartenders tend to look the other way. And for the few who don’t, I have my handy-dandy fake ID, compliments of one of the guys in Andie’s local D&D group, who is a townie like me, and makes cash on the side forging government documents and selling painted Warhammer figures on Etsy. You know, whatever pays the bills.
While a public space probably isn’t the best place to have a quarter-life crisis, I couldn’t go home—Mom and Gina would’ve noticed something was wrong and pulled the truth out of me,which I definitely couldn’t let happen. Not when everything hinges on this arrangement playing out exactly as Damian plans. Not when I urgently need the money he’s offering. So, instead, I came here. Where there’s alcohol to drown my sorrows, and no one will judge me so long as I keep my tab open.
My eyes dip to my phone, checking the time, then swing in the direction of the door when it opens, the hum of the outside world popping my little bubble of quiet. It’s early—the bar only just opened for happy hour—so there aren’t many people here yet, which makes me look a bit like a day drinker, but is definitely for the best as far as my dwindling sanity is concerned. I need to process what in Satan’s fucked-up playground I’m about to submit myself to, and it would be nice to have as few witnesses as possible when I tell Ronnie and Andie what I’ve done.
My stomach flips when the cousins storm into the bar like a S.W.A.T. team busting up a drug ring, figurative guns blazing, ready to whoop some criminal ass. Except, the only ass that needs whooping in this scenario is mine. Embarrassed, I give a little wave to get their attention, and when their eyes shift to where I sit slumped in the corner with a drink in hand, I can’t mistake the worry that stretches across their faces. I had warned Ronnie that I was going to meet the “Craigslist Guy,” so I can only imagine what she must be thinking right now, especially after the S.O.S. text I sent them after fleeing the park. I typed it up in a frenzy on my way here, and while I usually love me some autocorrect, it did not do me any favors today; the word choices it opted for made me come across as borderline deranged. Oh, well. At least it was comprehensible enough for them to figure out where to find me.
They hurry to the back of the bar where I’ve sequestered myself, but it’s only when they’re nearly to my table that I catch sight of the white-blond hair behind them and notice Andie’sboyfriend trailing her steps like a lovesick puppy. Wonderful. We have an audience. Eli meets my gaze, and whatever expression I’m wearing is countered with a look of utter bemusement topped with a cherry of unease, like he’s not sure he should be here for this.
You really, really shouldn’t,I silently project, but he doesn’t seem to pick up what I’m throwing down. If there are any doubts festering behind those piercing blue eyes, he keeps them to himself as he slides into the circular booth after my friends.
“What happened?” Ronnie asks, eyeing the highball glass clenched between my trembling fingers as she scooches along the bench to sit beside me. “Are you okay? Or is there a reason you’re drinking in the dark alone on a Tuesday like a depressed businessman?”
My gaze shifts from her face to Andie’s, then I very quickly look over at Eli, not quite sure how much I should say with him here. In the confusion and surprise of the moment, Damian forgot to have me sign the non-disclosure agreement he mentioned in our email exchange yesterday, but that doesn’t mean he won’t bring it up later or press charges if word of our arrangement were to get out in the meantime. I can see the headlines now:Nobody Scholarship Student Besmirches Good Name of Billionaire Heir. If it wasn’t such a dire possibility, I’d laugh at the thought. Good name, my ass.
Still, I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that, between the two of us, Damian has a whole lot more at risk than I do in the reputation department, and as much as I would rather stick hot needles in my eyes than spend a single second more with the cocky bastard, I really,reallyneed the money. If he was anyone else, it wouldn’t matter; I wouldn’t give a damn about pretending to be some rando’s girlfriend—I’d fake that shit until I make it—but explainingthiswill take far more creativity thanI have. If Ronnie and Andie hadn’t been active participants in helping me find the job listing, then I’d take the indignity of this secret to my grave, and just let them think I’d lost however many brain cells would be deemed acceptable to excuse a relationship with the university’s biggest playboy. It would still be humiliating, obviously, but for some reason I can’t explain,fakinga relationship with Damian after everything he’s done to me feels a lot more shameful than actually being in one. But alas, that isn’t an option, and besides, they both know me far too well to know I’d never date Damian Navarro for free.
“I…” I hesitate, stalling for time, and swallow so loudly the sound seems to echo around us.
Think, Lexi,I chide myself, glancing once more at Eli, who watches me, his bright eyes narrowing slightly beneath the quizzical crease of his brow. Yeah, because my continuing silence and the perspiration beading on my forehead don’t look suspiciousat all. No wonder the poor boy looks so confused.
“I…had that blind date I told you about,” I say carefully when nothing else comes to me, pinning the full intensity of my gaze on Ronnie. Maybe if I stare at her hard enough, she’ll be able to read my mind, unlike Eli.
“O-oh,” she stammers, thankfully catching on. “And…how did that go?”
