Page 31 of Miss Typed

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After leaving the club, I drove to Chloe’s apartment complex and waited for her in the parking lot. Finally, her Jeep pulled in across from where I’d parked. I got out and leaned against the side of my SUV to watch her climb out of hers, McDonald’s fast-food bag in hand. She’d changed over into jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and tennis shoes, looking like a young and innocent college student. Yet now I knew better.

She turned, her eyes going wide when she saw me there. We stood, facing one another until she finally sighed and crossed over to me. “What do you want, Aiden?”

“Answers.”

She shook her head. “I’m tired and not in the best of moods.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because my boss showed up tonight. This time without bacon.”

I cracked a smile. “Can we go inside?”

“Sure. Guess it’s better to get this over with tonight than in the office tomorrow. Just do me a favor and give me two weeks. I’d like an opportunity to find a new job.”

What? I waited until we were in her apartment with the door closed to speak again. “Why do you keep assuming I want to fire you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because you come here with a huge frown on your face after something’s happened to piss you off. If you’re not here to fire me, then why are you here?”

My frustration poured out. “Why are you taking such a risk? Do you realize what could happen if the authorities conduct a sting and find you stripping?”

Her chin lifted in defiance. “It’s not your business. Didn’t we have this conversation during my interview? No chitchat, and nothing personal.”

“Personal lines went out the window once I made you come tonight.”

She blushed crimson. “No. It went out when you decided to track me.”

I sighed, not bothering to deny it. “I didn’t track you per se. I followed you when you went the opposite direction from home. And if you hadn’t lied about saying you were heading home, I wouldn’t have worried enough to do so.”

“Was I supposed to tell you ‘oh, gee, aside from stripping this evening, I don’t have any other plans’? How do you think our conversation would’ve gone?”

We were at an impasse. She wasn’t wrong. If she’d told me, I would’ve been pissed. Pissed like I was now. The image of my shy, way-too-nice assistant had been shattered tonight. “Why do you need the money?”

She sat down on her couch, curling her legs under her and proceeding to stuff some fries in her mouth. “I told you. For my family.”

It wasn’t adding up. “You make a decent salary and have your housing paid for, so why go to such lengths for the extra income?”

“Because I need it.”

“For what?”

She shook her head, showing a stubbornness I hadn’t expected. “I don’t owe you any explanations.”

No, she didn’t. Which only made me more determined to get one. But perhaps it was best to try another tactic. “Fine. How much do you make working there?”

She leveled her gaze on mine. “Why, so you can break it down per lap dance? Figure out if I’m whoring myself out at the hotel and what my rate is?”

My hand scrubbed over my face. “I was out of line in saying those things earlier. After what happened between us in the private room, I didn’t like the idea of the same thing going on with other men.”

Her eyes went wide at my admission, but she stayed quiet.

I took a seat across from her, on the coffee table. “I have a proposition for you.”

“What?”

“How much are you making at the club?”