Page 8 of On Your Knees

He ends the call with no response; Ryker isn’t one for pleasantries. My secure email pings and I open the file Ryker has sent through on Aspen.

It has all the basics:

Aspen Anne Ashcroft

Born on February first

She is twenty-one years old and attends PHU, grew up near here in a small town called Maple Hollow with her grandmother. Father unknown, mother MIA. I’m sure if Ryker dug further, he could find her, but unless asked, I won’t pry into her personal life. She has no felonies and leads a fairly boring life. Aspen currently works at a college bar called The Syllabus close to campus. She has five thousand dollars in her account, and her transaction history is mostly at the facility caring for her grandmother. Otherwise, there is minimal spending, which concerns me because it means she isn’t eating well. She doesn’t appear to own a car, and there is no record of an ex-boyfriend. I don’t know why I care, but I find her fascinating. Along with the fact that she is stunning, and my cock noticed.

What I would give to film some content with her. I haven’t filmed in so long, as I no longer need to. In the early days of View4U, I put out content to get the app moving. While Ridge made me use a fucking skull mask to hide my identity, it was still some of the most fun I have ever had—even Ridge joined in. I shake the memories from my head.

Chasing girls in masks is not my kink, chasing men is.

They are less fragile, and I love the hunt, but I would make an exception for her.

Chapter Three

Aspen

When Zeland offered me a place to stay, I was skeptical; he had to have an ulterior motive. Yet as the days go by, he doesn’t ask for anything. He isn’t creepy. Sure, we flirt, but the guy is fucking hot. I’ve concluded that he has a hero complex; he gets off on helping someone less fortunate than himself. I googled him and Ridge, and choked on my own spit when I saw their net worth—how can two people have so much money? It doesn’t seem fair. There is no way they could spend it all in their entire life, even if they stopped earning money. It doesn’t mean I will take handouts,though.

This semester’s syllabus is busy, and tonight at work a bunch of jocks are celebrating a win. I don’t mind because they’ll draw a massive crowd who will drink a lot and tip well. While I’m not a huge fan of how handsy some of them get, if you want to tuck a fifty into my bra, I won’t stop you as long as you know it doesn’t mean I will fuck you. Not after the Jax Wilder incident last year, when I stupidly gave in and went home with a dudebro jock, who had tipped me earlier in the night. After I refused to go back for seconds, he spread around campus that he had paid me. In retaliation, I may have written his number in the bar’s male bathroom to “call for a good time.” His response was to call me a psycho bitch, and he was very vocal about considering himself lucky he hadn’t stuck his cock in me again. Though he was unimpressed when I replied that, with how small his cock was, I wondered if it had happened again and I didn’t realize. He wasn’t small, maybe average, but I know how to hit a man where it hurts the most. Especially after the rumors he spread.

Barbie, the co-owner of The Syllabus, said I should have been the bigger person and let it go, but I’m not the bigger anything in this life. If you want to push me, I will push back ten times harder. It’s just who I am.

Sweat drips down my ass crack; it’s hotter than hell in here tonight. Our uniform is skimpy enough with tight black booty shorts and a V-neck shirt with the logo. For the girls blessed with tits, the V-neck is great, but I need a padded bra to give the girls a pop. I play a role here, myeyes heavily lined and my face caked with makeup. My ass-kicking boots are non-negotiable as footwear, along with the one thing I have that belonged to my mom: her choker necklace from the 90s. It’s a flimsy plastic material, but I have worn it since she gave it to me when I was thirteen. It’s the one gift she ever gave me, and I keep it as a reminder not to get close to anyone, to not get my fucking hopes up.

“Aspen!” Shiloh, one of the bar staff, shouts over the music. “These are for table thirty. They requested you bring them over personally and they ordered top shelf. Maybe smile a little—the tip could be worth it.”

I plaster on a smile, and she nods as I take the tray with two drinks on it. If I had to guess, it would say the golden liquid on ice is whiskey—fancy. Table thirty is a booth on the other side of the bar, away from most of the noise.

As I approach the booth, I hear a vaguely familiar voice, but as I place the drink down and turn to see his friend, I shake my head.

“Zeland, what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see where you work, roomie. It’s boring at home without you. You should quit and I’ll pay you to entertain me.”

In my peripheral vision, Ridge rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink.

“I’ve already told you, I’m not a prostitute.”

Ridge coughs. “So this is the reason you dragged me down here. You were bored and wanted to see the stray you brought home.”

“Fuck you very much, I’m not a stray,” I snap.

He looks up at me, his eyes a deep brown with golden undertones, the type that claw their way into your soul.

“So you have a house?” His stare is unfaltering.

“Well, no, but that’s only because Zeland was nice enough to offer me a room.”

“So you’re a stray. It’s just like always. We were not looking for a roommate—I mean, do we look like the type of men who have roommates?”

“No, you look like an arrogant, self-entitled prick. I’m wishing Zeland would shove his cock down your throat right now so you wouldn’t talk. It really is a shame because your voice is enough to bring a woman to orgasm.”

Zeland throws his head back and laughs, while Ridge dismisses me.

“Oh, before I forget, I brought you this.” He dangles out a set of car keys. “And before you get your knickers in a twist, it’s not a handout, just a loan.”

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