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I slam the door shut, lean against it and pound my head slowly against the wooden slab. What’s the saying? Life sucks and then you die?
Chapter Two
LAUREN
When Roberta Ware came to me with her devil’s bargain, my biggest worry was getting caught. As I stare down the barrel of a handgun, my new, most pressing concern is making it out of this expensive school alive. Who does all this just for grades? These parents are insane.
The envelope with the tests feels like a stick of dynamite in my hands. I let it fall onto the coffee table before it singes my fingertips and shrink back against the wooden slats of the office room chair as the two men examine me with various expressions of dislike. The one in the silk robe inspects me like I’m some foreign, dirty insect while the tall guy with the bedhead, tight jeans, and equally tight shirt is torn between wanting to shove me out the window and wanting to flip me over on his massive thighs and paddle my bottom until I’m red. There’s a glint in his eye that says he’d prefer to do the latter, and to my utter humiliation, it’s turning me on. Who knew I had a spanking kink?
I squeeze my legs together and remind myself I’m being held at gun point, so this is the absolute worst time to get worked up.
It’s the rich guy who has the gun in his hand, but it’s the taller one whose gaze I avoid. My instincts are telling me he’s thescarier one. This weird arousal I’m experiencing is fear-based. That’s the only explanation. I’m the type of person who laughs during sad movies because crying makes me uncomfortable, so it’s only reasonable that I’m lusty. It’s a defense mechanism so that I don’t pee on myself in terror.
Holy mother. Guns are a thousand times scarier in person than they are on the television screen. Who knew barrels were so large? I suck in the corner of my lower lip and pray I don’t humiliate myself.
“Styling hair doesn’t pay well I take it?” the rich guy says, pushing the envelope around with the barrel of his gun. The moment they turned the light on, I dropped the packet onto the table and babbled how I was just a hairdresser running an errand. It might be the only thing that is keeping me alive at this point.
“Not really.” I don’t know if he’s serious or just out of touch. Hairdressers really don’t make much money in this town. A lot of them work second jobs and sometimes even a third. The city’s too expensive with too many temptations, so we’re all working around the clock to make ends meet.
“This is your side job?” wonders the rich one. He flicks an imaginary piece of lint off the lapel of his robe.
This whole situation bothers me. Why do they both look like they slept here? They’re rich. Surely they have mansions around here and beds to sleep on. Tough guy looks like he rails a girl every night. I clench my inner thighs together at the very thought.
“Why are you even here?” I ask. Was this a setup by the old bat and for what? Did I do someone’s hair really badly and she’s trying to get revenge? She could’ve just had me fired.
“Because people like you are hired to steal the tests,” tough guy drawls.
Fair answer.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have tests worth stealing. That’s pretty dumb. Kids are stressed out these days. You should be making the tests easier not harder to the point that parents feel the need to steal them.” I know I should shut up, but I feel cornered. I need to get out of here. Mrs. Ware is only getting exactly what she asked for. If she wanted a professional job, she should’ve hired a professional, not blackmailed a hair stylist who waits tables on occasion.
“Who should we be mad at?” still the security man. His arms are bigger than my thighs. It’s sickeningly attractive.
“Lots of people. I can make a list.”
“You should stick to cutting hair.”
“Oh, what great advice. Next time I have someone forcing me to do things, I’ll be sure to tell them I’m only good at cutting hair. I’m sure that will go over swell.”
“It was Roberta Franklin-Ware, wasn’t it?” the rich guy guesses.
My eyes fly to his, and that’s all the confirmation he needs. He smirks. “She wants her son to go to Harvard, but his grades aren’t good enough even for her to buy his way in. A diploma from the Academy would solve that problem. I’ll leave the girl to you, Griff. Do with her what you want.” He taps the envelope against his forehead and walks out of the office, leaving me alone with Mr. Sex on a Stick. I want to cry and I want to throw myself at him, maybe both at the same time.
“Tell me what Ware has on you,” he orders, pinning me to the sofa with a dark look.
“Griff” might look like sin incarnate, but he could be on his knees begging to take me to the stars and beyond and I wouldn’t give him any information. I can’t even if I wanted to. My brother’s freedom depends on my silence. I fold my arms across my chest and stare back, which is a mistake because hisgaze is so intense and his face is so close that I’m afraid I’ll blurt everything out. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Something wrong?” he says. His voice is closer. I can almost feel his breath on my cheek.
“Yes. I don’t feel well.” It’s not really a lie because I know my internal temperature is way higher than it should be.
“Sit still,” he commands.
I sense him moving away. Sounds of water splashing into a cup fill the empty room. He’s making coffee. Or tea. I’m so confused. Who makes a drink for a burglar? I open my eyes and inspect the big man while he’s occupied. He’s obviously a bodyguard or security specialist who came over in the middle of the night. He looks like he rolled out of bed, grabbed the first pieces of clothing he could find, and hustled over here. Jeans hang on his lean hips, and the exposed seams of his T-shirt are straining. My gaze drops farther to his boots, which are firmly secured around his ankles with double laces.
A tiny laugh escapes.
“You have a problem with my boots?”
