Say You’ll Stay Read online

  “You have a what?” Aghast, Rachel nearly knocked over her new drink.

  “A sugar daddy. An older man who pays some of my law school bills and housing expenses in exchange for sex.” A knowing, worldly smile played over Crystal’s lips. “Georgetown’s expensive.”

  The sentence hung there, a bomb gone off in the middle of their margaritas.

  “You’re a prostitute,” Janelle said flatly.

  “No. I have an arrangement. Sort of like a mistress in the nineteenth century.”

  Rachel’s mouth hung open. Janelle snorted dismissively. “Lucky you. Those arrangements always worked out so well. It’s all fun and games until things go south and you’re stuck with an illegitimate kid and no way to get a job.”

  Undeterred, Crystal kept smiling. “I’ll have a job, and a good one. The modern miracle of birth control almost guarantees I won’t get pregnant. It’s not the Victorian era. It’s not prostitution. It’s a mutually beneficial system that allows bright young women like myself to exploit rich older men for their money.”

  “It’s sex for money,” Janelle replied flatly. “Call a spade a spade.”

  “I’m not a prostitute,” Crystal insisted. “It’s more akin to having a rich boyfriend who pays for everything with a specific agreement up front. Like a prenup. The arrangement only lasts for as long as both parties want it to. It’s one-hundred-percent about consent.”

  “It’s exploitative.” Janelle’s fingers were relaxed around the stem of her glass. This was simple, easy. Sex for money was bad. How clear-cut could it get?

  “Don’t be so judgmental, Janie. It’s a fair exchange between equals. Didn’t your sister have a rich boyfriend in New York?”

  More to the point: How had Crystal known?

  Rachel’s gaze dropped guiltily to her lap. Janelle shot her a glare. They’d be discussing her loose lips later.

  “Yeah, Alyssa had a boyfriend. They broke up right before she and Marc got together.” As in, literally the evening before. That hadn’t gone over so well. Janelle liked to think she’d had a hand in helping them work it out in the end, even though she’d been cheering for Alyssa’s ex at the time.

  “How is what I’m doing any different from your sister dating a rich guy?” Crystal demanded, calmly placing her crossed forearms on the table.

  “I need another margarita if we’re going to continue this conversation,” Rachel interjected, summoning the waiter.

  “It’s…she…Alyssa loved Zach, for a while. What about you, Crystal? Are you in love with your sugar daddy?”

  “No. But I am faithful to him.” Crystal smiled. “It’s monogamous, at least on my part.”

  “On his part?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not part of the deal. He’s married.”

  “Okay, this is too gross, Crystal. I can’t believe you’d do that.” Rachel looked sick, but she quickly drained the third huge margarita anyway. “It’s wrong.”

  “Why not? I didn’t make his wife any promises. If he wants to cheat, that’s his business.” She leaned against the vinyl booth.

  “Rachel, eat some more chips. Let’s get another round of appetizers.” Janelle tried to flag a passing waiter, and failed.

  “I’m going to head out in a few minutes.” Crystal pulled out her phone, the latest Apple model.

  “How’s the sex?” Janelle blurted.

  “Not bad, honestly,” Crystal barely glanced up. “You should consider it, Janelle. You could find a really good protector with that rack of yours.”

  Eww. Eww.

  No.

  “Send me the info. I’m curious.” Only curious. She’d never do something so morally compromised. Rachel’s eyelids were hovering half-open, and a stab of worry hit Janelle. “Maybe we should skip the appetizers and head home.”

  “Sure,” Rachel slurred. “Or shots.”

  Crystal reached over and moved a strand of hair over Rachel’s shoulder. “No shots for you, Rach. You never could drink worth a damn. I’ve got the bill. I’ll charge it to Barry’s credit card.”

  “Thanks, Crys.” Janelle suddenly remembered why she liked Crystal enough to be casual friends. She could be very generous. Although, apparently, someone else was paying. A stranger she’d never met. One who cheated on his wife. It was hard to summon much outrage about a couple of birthday margaritas in the grand scheme of things, but it left a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach that had nothing to do with tequila.

  Janelle focused on helping Rachel out of the booth. Her part in the Crystal/Barry/Barry’s wife mess was incidental. They all abandoned the table, Crystal and Janelle on either side of Rachel, supporting their drunk friend.

  “I don’t think she’s going to make it home,” Janelle said worriedly.

  “Are you okay to drive?” Crystal asked.

  “Not really, no.” Never a big drinker, two margaritas were the upper limit of Janelle’s tolerance, and she’d had three. “We’ll get a car service and come pick her car up in the morning.”

  “Okay. Be safe. I’ll go let the restaurant know she’s leaving it overnight.” Crystal unwound herself from Rachel, who lurched against a lamp post.

  Then she gave Janelle a warm, if awkward, hug. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks, Crys.”

  “Oh, hey, I meant to tell you. I heard Ben’s getting married.”

  It was as though Crystal had raked claws across her face. “My Ben?”

  “He hasn’t been yours in a few years, right?”

  Now Janelle knew how birds and mice felt when cats toyed with them. Her body felt disengaged, almost paralyzed. She swallowed. Janelle ought to be happy to know someone she’d cared about—still cared about—was in love. If she were truly a good person, she wouldn’t feel the hot sting of jealousy. But she did. “No. He hasn’t. Who’s the lucky girl?”

  Crystal shrugged, nonchalant about the bomb she’d dropped. “Some Texas blonde. You know the type. Big hair. Blue eyes.”

  “Thanks for drinks,” Janelle replied tightly, suddenly hating every blonde-haired woman in the Lone Star State with a raw, unreasonable passion. The driver pulled up, sparing her from further humiliation. Janelle tugged the seat belt over her friend’s petite body and clicked it into place.

  “Oh, Janie, I meant to tell you earlier. I got distracted by Crystal’s sugar buddy news.” Rachel slumped against her shoulder, a fine sweat breaking out over her pale forehead. Her skin practically glowed, she avoided the sun carefully.

  “Sugar daddy,” Janelle corrected automatically. “Can you believe she’d do something like that?”

  “Crystal? Yeah, I can. Listen. I forgot to tell you. I’m moving out.”

  The car swerved. Janelle’s stomach heaved as though she might vomit half-digested margarita all over the upholstery. “When?”

  “At the end of the month. Caleb wants me to move in with him. He says he wants to get engaged, and so do I. It doesn’t make sense for me to renew the lease. Do you think you can find someone to take it over?”

  For the past two years, Rachel had been the sole lease holder on their apartment. Janelle paid her cash for her share of the rent and utilities. Her friends’ lives were progressing normally. Jobs. Careers. Starting families. She was flailing in quicksand, and now they were all leaving her behind.

  “I’ll try.” Janelle pushed her friend upright. On Friday, she’d received a check from her sister, Alyssa, with a note: Hang in there. More to come. Enjoy your birthday.

  If she’d saved it, she might’ve had enough for a deposit on a new apartment. Or a down payment on a car. Instead, Janelle’s heart had swelled up like a desiccated sponge dropped into a bucket of gratitude, and in a fit of determination she’d sent the entire amount directly to her student loan servicer this morning. If Rachel had told her sooner, she’d have planned differently.

  Given a do-over, Janelle would’ve done a whole lot of things differently. Trying to be responsible had gotten her nothing but too much debt, a dead-end job, a
broken-down car, and no way to rent an apartment of her own. She was slipping backward. If she didn’t stop the fall, her entire future would be buried under an avalanche of debt and regrets.

  Something in her life had to change. It had to change now. Today. Tonight. Maybe Crystal’s unexpected visit was a sign.

  After she hauled her roommate upstairs, dumped Rachel into her bed, and set a glass of water and two painkillers on the nightstand beside it, Janelle checked her email.

  Crystal had sent her a link. Janelle clicked it. She was twenty-five years old—almost—and broke as fuck, with no hope of escape unless she took a big risk. A huge risk.

  The screen popped up. Janelle shook her head and closed it. No way. I deserve better than some gross, old guy cheating on his wife.

  Yet maybe Crystal was right. Being good wasn’t getting her anywhere. Maybe it was time to try being bad. What better day to commit to a big change than on her birthday?

  Chapter Two

  He shouldn’t be here.

  The red carpet and gold chandelier recalled another world, another lifetime. One that beckoned with the thrum of muted excitement, even now. He could go back. If he wanted to. Poker was mostly math and patience. But he wasn’t that person anymore. Six years ago, everything had changed here in the banquet hall of the Astoria Casino Hotel. His life had crashed down from the high only this palace of chance could give.

  He was here to pay his respects. To remind himself why he needed to stick to his chosen course. He had find out whether his old life still had any power over him.

  It did.

  Trent Mason ran one hand over the back of a red velvet chair. The soft fabric slipped beneath his palm like a lover’s back.

  Six years ago, he’d lost millions. Professional poker was a game of probability, not money. It didn’t matter whether you were up or down at any given moment until you bet wrong and lost. Everything he’d built had been vaporized in a flash of inattention and bad luck. A few weeks before, everything else that mattered had been vaporized, too. He’d been twenty-three, and left with nothing.

  Trent walked around the first floor, though he knew that if security caught him on the premises he’d be arrested on the spot. He was counting on the six intervening years to have wrought personnel changes and faded memories. He wasn’t here to make trouble. Only to pay tribute. In a few minutes, he’d move on.

  Indignant-woman noises punctuated his reminiscence. Garbled words, spoken in a low hiss, then louder, reached his ears. Security guards appeared from shadows and swarmed toward the elegant lobby.

  “Let go of me! I need my things. You can’t just toss me out with—oof.” A flash of long leg, obscured high at the thigh by a flash of jade green appeared at the center of a cluster of security guards.

  Time for him to go. Damsels in distress were usually up to no good in this town. He knew from crushing experience. Whatever heart he’d had left had been smashed, stomped, and blown to pieces when Penelope betrayed him.

  Bad Penny. A name he’d rather forget. One imprinted indelibly on his soul.

  Penelope, whom he’d met in this very casino. She’d been far away from this luxury, or faux luxury, when she’d nearly died. It might’ve been a kinder fate than the heroin that had eaten her from the inside out.

  At least he’d escaped. He was sworn off rescuing Vegas damsels, for life.

  “Can I at least get my stuff?” The angry woman pulled futilely against the burly guards. Her gold high heels threatened to rip holes in the carpeting.

  She didn’t stand a chance. Trent relived the helpless feeling for a moment. Then he took one last look at the elegant light fixture and the glittery gold lights and plush red velvet of the Astoria, tossed his suit jacket over his shoulder, and headed for the door.

  Sunglasses topped the bridge of his nose even before he made it to the first set of darkly tinted automatic doors, but he ducked his head as the security guards returned into the building. Just in case.

  They passed him without a second glance.

  “Send someone upstairs and get her boyfriend to pack her bag. I’ll take it out to her if she’s still there.”

  She was. The skimpy strapless dress looked cheap and trashy in the broad light of day. Her bare shoulders shook. Crying, probably.

  No tan lines.

  The expanse of smooth, evenly tanned skin between the bright fabric and the thick dark hair between her shoulder blades would be the first thing he noticed. The sight made his cock perk up.

  Down, boy.

  Trent glanced at his watch. Quarter to noon. The conference sessions that had broken fifteen minutes ago wouldn’t resume for more than an hour yet. He ought to find out where the attendees were clustering for lunch and try to make some business contacts. It was the only reason he’d come back to this town. Otherwise, he was content to never set foot in Las Vegas again for as long as he lived.

  She wobbled a few steps away, then stopped as though unsure where to go. Trent sighed. He could at least let her know she’d get her belongings back if she hung around. “You all right?”

  The girl stiffened as though he’d smacked her. A loud sniff. Then she raked back her mane of dark hair and rubbed beneath her eyes, a gesture that turned the dark smudges of mascara into huge circles. Like Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra, minus the poise.

  “Fine.” She glanced over her shoulder as though trying to figure out the best way to run if he attacked her in the middle of the street at high noon. The sun was at its zenith in the sky, the air hot and unforgiving.

  Then Cleopatra turned to face him directly. It was as if the sun had fallen out of the sky and landed on him.

  Holy tits, Batman.

  Trent choked. The tiny scrap of a dress clung to the two biggest, perkiest breasts he’d ever seen defying gravity sans bra. The distinct shape of nipples dead in the center of each globe strongly suggested he bend down and suck them until they pulled into hard, tight buds.

  The rest of the woman read his mind, and was less than enthusiastic about the direction of his thoughts. Her raccoon-rimmed eyes flared wide with outrage.

  He jerked his attention away. It’d been years since he’d been near a woman, and he wasn’t about to break his celibate streak with this one. If she was a woman and not a confused teenager. She looked very young.

  “Here.” He held out the suit jacket he was carrying over his shoulder. “I overheard the security guys saying they’d bring your things out if you stick around.”

  She sniffed and reached for the jacket. Then, she turned away to push her arms into the sleeves so he couldn’t get a second look at her.

  Trent turned away, too, trying to erase the image of Cleopatra’s rack from his memory.

  “Thank you.”

  He spoke over his shoulder, not trusting himself to keep his eyes where they belonged. “You’re welcome. I’m staying at the hotel across the street. When you get things sorted out here, you can leave it at the front desk.”

  “What’s your name? So I know what to tell the clerk.”

  Right, she didn’t care to know the name of the guy who’d shown a little kindness. He didn’t want to know hers, either. Trent knew she’d caught him checking her out, but he hadn’t been a complete asshole about it, and she probably got that reaction all the time. Understandable if she wasn’t in the mood for a pickup line, but he hadn’t offered one.

  “Mason.”

  “First or last?”

  “Both.” The less Cleopatra knew about him, the better. The less anyone knew about him, the better. “Here’s the guards. Good luck with everything.”

  “You too. Thanks again.”

  Clearly, she was a nice girl. Well-bred, probably had two married parents and a nice suburban upbringing. Like he’d had once. Before they’d died, and he’d gone off the rails with grief and teenage hormones. He was old enough now to know better than to get dragged into whatever trouble she was in.

  Trent was here for business, and it was time he got back to i
t. He waited at the curb for the traffic to clear. The Las Vegas strip was always busy, but if you caught the lights right you could make it across the street without walking to the corner. He’d hit them dead wrong, so he was still standing there, eyeballing cars, when Cleopatra’s outraged voice rang out.

  “Son of a fucking bitch!”

  Whew. The girl could cuss. Trent chuckled. It was almost funny to hear the string of foul language come from a cute chick. Maybe she wasn’t as young as she looked. Whoever she was, she reminded him of Penny, only with a worse attitude.

  “Goddamned bastard stole it. Wait. Come back—my wallet’s missing. My driver’s license, my debit card, my phone. They’re all gone. How the hell will I get home? Wait!”

  Trent turned to see the guards manhandling her away from the Astoria’s front door. One of two refrigerator-box-sized men grabbed her by the collar of his favorite suit jacket and dragged her back to the little pile of items on the sidewalk. He winced and hoped it hadn’t torn.

  “Stop touching me, you oaf!” Cleopatra fought the good fight, but it was hopelessly one-sided and she was losing.

  There was a tearing sound, and then the giant shoved her away. Trent closed the distance in two strides to steady her. Cleopatra gaped up at him with fierce green eyes that stole his breath.

  “You won’t win,” he told her. “Do you want to file a police report about your wallet?”

  She pulled away hard, out of his grasp. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t.”

  Oh, shit. Now he for sure didn’t want to know what she was into. “Is there someone you can call?”

  “No. I have to figure this out on my own.” Her hands shook as she bent and rummaged through her scant belongings, searching desperately for something that didn’t appear to be there.

  Pride. Trent recognized it, and pitied her for it. If she was into drugs, or prostitution, or any variation of those problems, he couldn’t help her. He couldn’t go down that road again.

  Cleopatra stuffed a jumble of soft fabric back into the small duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder as she stood up. She heaved a great sigh. It would’ve done wonderful things to her breasts if they hadn’t been obscured by his ruined jacket. It covered more of her body than her dress did.