Page 3 of Miss Trust

Chance

The brunette on her knees in front of me wasn’t getting my dick hard.

What an inconvenience.

I blamed my indifference on my lack of sleep over the last twenty-four hours and the distraction caused by all of the events leading me to this particular trip on my private jet.

“Stop. I’ll take a bourbon instead.”

Her expression showed confusion over not getting the opportunity to suck my cock. But luckily, she remembered she was the flight attendant and headed towards the rear of the plane to fix my drink.

Once she returned and handed me the crystal glass with my favorite bourbon in it, I murmured, “Thank you.” When she simply stood there, I arched a brow.

“After your drink, I could meet you in the master bedroom?”

Although it would be a terrific way to pass the sixteen-and-a-half-hour flight from Dubai to Los Angeles, I found I wasn’t even tempted by the offer. “I’ll pass.”

Her pout was obvious. “Tell me if you change your mind, Mr. Maxwell.”

I wouldn’t.

I could blame the lack of appeal in her offer on my distraction, but I thought rather it was boredom over having an endless supply of pussy. Such was the privileged life of a rich nightclub and strip club owner who had women throwing themselves at me on a daily basis. In my early twenties, I’d fully taken advantage, but with age came wisdom. Now in my thirties, I had other priorities, primarily business.

Business—and my younger siblings. Which brought me to the task at hand. I was on my way to do a favor for my younger brother, Reid.

Who was I fucking kidding? Favor was too generous of a word. It was a debt. Something I owed him and his girlfriend, Teagan, to make up for my bad assumptions and the active part I’d taken in trying to break them up. Thankfully, they had reconciled, but I owed them both some reparations.

Should be easy enough to rectify the situation. Convincing people was something I did well. Convincing women was something I did exceptionally well. Getting Teagan’s sister to accept my offer shouldn’t be difficult at all.

Upon landing, I was greeted by my driver and right-hand man, Malik. A longtime, loyal employee, my head of security was in his sixties, though his age wasn’t obvious since he stayed fit and carried himself with military precision. I knew he’d served in the Special Forces, but he didn’t talk about it.

Malik was part of what I called my inner circle. Loyal employees who’d been with me for the last decade. I didn’t trust many, but the ones I did were important to me.

“Home to your condo, Mr. Maxwell?”

I wished. I hadn’t slept in my own bed in weeks. But I’d made a promise, and I intended to follow through. “Not yet. Take me to the Lucky Lady on Hollywood Boulevard, please.”

My eyes scanned my phone, reading the email a private detective had sent after digging up information on Teagan’s older sister, Victoria Larson.

Twenty-seven years old. One sibling. One daughter, four years old, named Penelope. No other family history listed. Lived in South LA in a one-bedroom apartment on the third floor. Currently worked part-time at the Lucky Lady as a stripper. Spotty employment history consisting of several assistant jobs over the last few years. No medical insurance.

The last piece wasn’t part of the report, however, it was why I was on my way to the strip club. To offer Victoria Larson a job with medical insurance, to ensure she no longer had to pay out of pocket for her daughter’s leukemia treatment. Her acceptance would release her sister from the burden of working a second job which entailed stripping in a country where it was highly illegal. It would also go a long way towards repairing my strained relationship with my brother.

I thought about setting up a meeting with Victoria, something more formal, and using more strategy in this encounter, but the whole thing was a simple matter. A no-brainer, really. Of course she would accept my proposal, and I’d be able to put this business in my rearview mirror. Best to take care of it tonight.

The Lucky Lady was a decade past its prime. And that was being generous. Unlike the strip clubs I owned, this one was low class, with peeling paint, stained carpet, and weathered furniture. It smelled like broken dreams and dirty socks. I shuddered to think what a black light would find in a place like this.

“I’ll have your best bourbon, neat,” I ordered at the bar and felt grateful the glass it arrived in was clean. I paid the bartender and walked towards the front stage.

The liquid burned my throat. No top shelf here. I scanned the girls up on stage. Unfortunately, I only had a driver’s license photo of Victoria Larson to go off of, and the lighting in the place was dim, making it tough to make out which girl she was.

Taking out a twenty-dollar bill, I motioned to the nearest waitress who happily pranced over. “I need to find Jewel.” I hoped my PI had her correct stage name, or God knew who I’d end up talking to.

The scantily clad woman perked up, studying me from head to toe. I knew what she saw. An expertly tailored, expensive suit, a Breguet watch, and Italian leather shoes. I wore a rich man’s attire like a second skin. The wealth was what I wanted people to see. Because a man with money was a man with the power, and power was something I always carried.

“Sure, honey. She’s the blonde in white up on the stage. If you want a lap dance in the back, I suggest you book her quickly with our floor manager over there. She’s one of the more popular girls.”

I could see why. Despite the horrible music screeching some eighties tune from the speakers and the aforementioned bad lighting, Victoria Larson was a knockout.