Yep. I want to junk punch him. “What are you talking about?”
“The boy from the closet.”
Boy? Judging by the way he fucks, he’s no boy, but I won’t tell Nixon that.
Nixon shifts his stance, leaning into me, the smell of leather and expensive cologne drift over me. “Your father is well aware of who comes in and out of this hotel and if he knew you were messing around with people likehimin the closets, I can’t imagine he’d be happy about it. Not to mention fire you for your lack of attention.”
How dare he threaten me, but then again, I’m surprised he is. It’s just like him. “Nixon, I’m perfectly capable of—”
He interrupts me with, “Daddy’s girl fired for slumming?”
I’m not stupid. I know exactly what this is and I don’t appreciate Nixon bribing me into going on a date with him, but what else am I going to do?
Let my father find out about my lack of self-control inhishotel?
Not an option.
“What time?”
Nixon’s eyes take a slow and unapologetic tour of my body. I fight the urge to slap him across the face. His eyes lift to mine. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
I want to throw myself on the floor and kick and scream and punch.
Goddamn it!
I’M DISAPPOINTED IN myself. Twice at work now. Twice. That’s dirty and well,addictive. It’s like doing it on the couch with your parents in the room obliviously fifteen feet away watching a movie while you cuddle your boyfriend under the blanket. And by cuddle, I mean his dick buried inside of you and you’re thankful for the pleather couch you can easily slide your ass back and forth against when a fleece blanket is underneath you. Leaves for little to no noise.
You know what else I’m disappointed in?
I didn’t get Caleb’s phone number, again, and the fact that I agreed to go out with Nixon to the Vance Benefit.
I’m not one for these black-tie events. Hell, I don’t even like going to the company Christmas parties. I can’t avoid them, but I’m never comfortable.
What makes this event even more uncomfortable is being here with Nixon.
I once dated this guy. Actually, itwasn’tdating. It was only a few late-night hook-ups, and then I realized he was sleeping with four other people and stillmarried.
Remember when I said I slept with a married man? Remember when I said don’t date bankers? That guy was Nixon’s dad.
Iknowwhat you’re thinking, slutty. I’m frowning at myself just thinking about that awful, misguided portion of the year I turned twenty.
Believe me, it’s one of the many times I wished I hadn’t spread my legs.
Ever since then, and I’m not sure how he knows about it, but Nixon has been asking me out and acting like we’re destined to marry.
Not happening.
There’s a good part of me who thinks the only reason Nixon asked me to come with him tonight was because of his dad and what happened in the storage closet. Like maybe he’s thinking because I was once dumb, I’ll just go ahead and sleep with the rest of the men in the Shaw family.
He’s delusional, and I’m beginning to understand Caleb’s right: he wants to fuck me.
But I agree to go to the event with him because I know he knows about Caleb and the closet, and I do not want him telling my father.
We’re done with dinner and Nixon’s giving a speech about numbers and nothing that interests me. I excuse myself for some fresh air to think.
I’m leaning against the railing when I notice there’s a firetruck parked at the entrance. How I didn’t see it before is beyond me?
Straightening my posture, my heart pounds, my stare wandering around the lobby of the Grand Hyatt.