Page 4 of Playboy For Hire

“Ashley, get up.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. He pointed at me, his face thunderous. “You—you’re coming with me.”

With that, he dragged Ashley off the stage, stumbling and objecting the whole way. She didn’t even let go of the microphone until distance and the taut cord ripped it from her hands. All I could do was limp along and follow.

Her father didn’t stop walking until he reached the parking lot. A fine mist hung in the air, not quite thick enough to be called rain. He let go of his daughter roughly, and she staggered back three steps before falling on her ass.

I bent down to give her a hand, but her father pulled me away.

“Leave her,” he growled. “She can stand up on her own, if she’s sober enough to manage it.”

“I don’t think she—”

“Shut up,” he barked. “She got herself into this situation, she can get herself out. But I’ll be damned if she’s coming back inside and ruining more of this evening.”

He glared at me, and I remembered Ashley telling me her dad was a senator. I’d looked him up online. He had a reputation for being tough on crime, hawkish in international relations,and full of conservative social values. In his official picture, in front of an American flag, he’d looked like a man used to being obeyed. I was bearing the full brunt of that gaze right now.

“Why’d you let her get this drunk?” he demanded. “On her sister’s wedding day?”

“I didn’t know she was going to get this bad,” I protested. “I didn’t realize she’d been drinking before the ceremony until—”

“Oh, don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve seen her like this. You know what she’s capable of.”

It was, in fact, the only time I’d seen her like this, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

“There are reporters here,” her father snapped. “There’s no way this isn’t going to end up in some gossip blog, if not a bigger media outlet.” He shook his head, disgusted. “Take her back to campus, now.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep an eye on her?” I asked. Ashley had paid for my time through one a.m. but I wouldn’t have complained if our evening ended earlier.

“Do I look like I want to babysit her? No. Just get her out of my sight.”

With that, he turned and stalked back into the building.

“Daddy?” Ashley said from the pavement. Her voice sounded as broken as a little girl who had lost her favorite doll. “Daddy, I’m sorry.”

But he was already gone.

I looked at her with misgiving. Was this another ploy for attention? Or was ‘sad, lost little girl’ just another stop onAshley’s Freight Train Tour of Drunkenness? She looked up at me, confused and hurt. I bent down, snaking an arm around her shoulders and helping her to her feet.

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll get us a cab.”

The car ride back to campus was quiet. Ashley had put her head against the window, looking out at the rain-dampened streets, and had fallen asleep within a few minutes. I closed my eyes and tried to figure out how I’d gotten into this mess.

Ashley and I had met up two days ago to go over our plan for the evening and to get our story straight. It helped that we were both students, even if I didn’t live anywhere near campus. It gave us an easy answer as to how we’d met. She’d honestly seemed really sweet at the time.

A little sad, maybe, that her sister was getting married. But I’d chalked that up to a fear of change, and maybe some fears of abandonment too. People got that way when their older siblings got married, right? I didn’t know. I was an only child.

But her big blue eyes had looked so helpless and scared, and she’d said she just didn’t want her family to think she was single at the wedding. I knew what it was like to worry about your parents’ judgement. I’d felt sorry for her.

I glanced over at her in the taxi. Underneath all the alcohol and anger, I thought I could still see a sliver of that scared, sad girl. Besides, shehadpaid a thousand dollars for the pleasure of my company. The least I could do was make sure she got home safe.

The cab dropped us at the front gates of campus, and I steered her firmly towards the dorm where her apartment was, and away from the bar down the street.

“All you need is water and rest,” I told her. She didn’t even argue that hard. By the time I got her up the steps to her third-floor apartment—no elevator, of course—her eyes were closing on her, and she looked ready to fall asleep on her feet.

“Alright, you,” I said, standing at the front door. “Can you make it to your bed from here?”

She gave me a pouty glance. “You’re leaving me.S’likeeveryone else.”

“I was never going to stay the night,” I reminded her. “I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

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