Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“Alright, Mr. Contract.” She pulls out a chair and sits down. Then, she stares into her tea instead of at me. “What are you suggesting?”
She doesn’t want to know what I’d like to suggest. Because I’d like to tell her that the sight of her in person has startlingly awakened something inside me that I didn’t think would ever come back to life. That sounds very dramatic, and I guess it is. Or I could just say I’m turned on, and I never get turned on. It’s not very professional, and it’s certainly not helpful to have wild emotions of any kind, so I tend to shut them down.
I’d also like to tell her that I’m highly observant, but she doesn’t need to know that. It might freak her out. I gather information like people collect objects. It’s important, but another thing she doesn’t need to know.
“You’re super creepy when you zone out like that, you know?” she commented.
“I’m sorry.” I know I don’t look sorry, which is fine. On the surface, this isn’t about pretending to be something I’m not, although that’s, of course, what I’m doing. This is about offering her a deal she can’t refuse because I need a legit in. If it makes me seem like a creepy bastard, I can live with that. This isn’t the real me. The real me is a guy who doesn’t want anything or anyone.
The idea is that I’m the typical rich man who is indeed lonely and coming around to the idea that money can’t buy everything. She pegged me correctly, and I’ll let her roll with it.
“So, what are you offering?” she asks, her soft blue eyes narrowing directly. I like that, despite her small size and adorable appearance, she has the balls to stand up to me and then some. She wouldn’t and won’t let me get away with anything. And she’s made zero apologies for who she is and what she wants.
It’s my job to find out if she should be offering up apologies or if the world has given her a really shit hand of cards.
“A series of nights,” I answer.
“Nope.” She shakes her head and flies out of the chair. “That’s not an option. I don’t allow do-overs or repeat clients. It’s right on my profile. I’m more of a one-hit wonder.”
“I didn’t know you made music.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s a metaphor, dude.”
“Do not call me dude.”
“Alright, well, just no then.”
I clear my throat. It sounds like a cat trying to cough up a hairball, but that can’t be helped. At my last job, I inhaled a bit of smoke, and ever since then, things have been raspy. But I’m fine. I’ve seen the best doctors, and they told me to stop putting myself in harm’s way, which is not going to happen. Anyway, I’ll probably recover in a few weeks. End of story.
This woman is going to be a delicious challenge, and if there’s anything that shouldn’t be dangled in front of me, it’s that. I can’t help the fact that there’s something inside me that has to rise to the occasion every single time. When you become as rich as I am, the unattainable is extremely thrilling. That might be fucked up, but it’s also the truth. Denial has become utterly enchanting. On top of all that, a job well done is something that’s always going to be the goal I strive for, no matter how rich I am.
“Five thousand for tonight. Ten thousand for a night a week from now. Twenty thousand for a night a week from then and forty thousand for the last night,” I state.
Crossing my arms, I watch her face carefully. I don’t think she’s the kind of woman who can be bought by throwing around large, wild numbers, but in a month, she’ll make more cash than she could in a year working at a regular job. I know it has to be tempting. It’s not a test. I think it’s a fair offer. I want to make this happen. I need to make this happen. Everything else depends on my being here and figuring this woman out.
“Cash, so it’s tax-free and untraceable,” I add to sweeten the deal.
“Wow.” She bats her eyelashes dramatically. “You sure know how to charm a girl. Suggesting tax evasion makes me hot. Not. I can pay my taxes like anyone else.”
“Still cash.”
“How would you even transport that kind of money? I’d need a bill counter. No. Wire it.”
My spine finally makes contact with the back of the chair. “Are you not saying no then?”
She looks like she wants to throttle me. But she turns her face instead, and I swear she exchanges a look with her crawfish. Truly. One of those long-suffering—do you see what I have to put up with?—kinds of looks.