The Virgin and the Kingpin Read online

  “It’s The Chateaux. I didn’t want anyone making the assumptions you’re making before I could call your sister and have her come get you.”

  Maybe this was a hidden-camera show. Or The Twilight Zone. Or the most screwed up dream she’d had in ever. “What makes you think I have a sister?”

  “Because she talks about you. Susan Rice. You’re eight years younger. Only sibling she has who likes her.”

  “Everyone knows that. Half the town is familiar with our family drama.”

  He chuckled.

  “What?” Frustration joined the churning inside.

  “Mercy told me you were stubborn. You’re a lot like her. I don’t know how you’re thinking through the drugs. Low dosage, I suppose.”

  “What?”

  “Mercy. Told. Me—”

  “You didn’t call her Melissa.” Susan was coming further out of the fog, and her logic believed this man. Andrew. His name sounded familiar. Did he give it to her earlier?

  He raised his left brow. She wasn’t sure if the single raise was on purpose, or because of the scarring. “She hates that name,” he said.

  “So you might know her. Maybe.”

  “You were a lot more trusting in the steakhouse. Good drugs. If it makes you feel better, you can walk out the door right now. I promise I won’t stop you. You can take the elevator down to the front desk and call the police and Mercy. She’ll vouch for me. Fuck.” He lifted his butt off the chair, reached into his pocket, pulled out a wallet and a phone, and tossed both on the bed. They landed near her without a sound. “You can call from here if you want, and see I am who I say I am.”

  She opened the leather wallet, alternating her gaze between him and it. His driver’s license was from Atlanta and said he was Andrew Newton. She definitely knew that name. Why? The logo on his business cards was a silhouette of a curvy woman with horns and a halo. The company name was Smut Central. That was why he was familiar. Sure enough, his title was CEO and Lord High God of Smut. If he was lying about his identity, it was the most elaborate setup ever.

  “Mercy didn’t answer when you tried to get a hold of her,” she said.

  “Not the first time. You told me she turns off her phone.”

  “She does.” Why couldn’t Susan remember any of that?

  “I left her a message. Told her I met some groupie, who loves my work, in a bar, and we came back here and fucked like bunnies, and now you need a ride.”

  Her face heated to scorching. “You didn’t.”

  “No. I told her to call me A-sap. I won’t share details unless you want help filling in the blanks. She got back to me right before you woke up. She’ll be here in about”—he glanced at the clock—“five minutes.”

  “Oh.” Susan wasn’t sure what else to say. Her head pounded. She desperately wanted to curl up and go to sleep. Things barely made sense, despite the explanation. Every time she tried to grasp a thought—a flash from earlier tonight—it slipped away. Sometimes she caught the tail, but others vanished in a poof. “Thank you.”

  He waved a hand, and turned his gaze away. “Yeah. If you’re okay, Ima watch TV till Mercy gets here.”

  She nodded, though he wasn’t looking at her anymore. With her heart rate returning to normal and the mental haze slowly lifting, it sank in how much her head hurt. Especially when she tried to wrap it around the situation. What would have happened if he hadn’t been there? Didn’t know Mercy? Hadn’t cared one way or another? Would Susan be waking up with far fewer clothes, in a not-so-kind stranger’s bed?

  Her gut lurched. Bile surged into her throat. She stumbled from the bed, and her legs threatened to give out. She bolted for the bathroom. She kicked the door shut behind her and reached the toilet, before the contents of her stomach evicted themselves. The heaves continued after there was nothing left to vomit, and she knelt in front of the porcelain, hating that she had the extra-hot salsa on her nacho burger. The thought made her want to hurl again.

  Tears and sweat streamed down her cheeks. She was so stupid to let this happen. A nagging voice reminded her it wasn’t her fault, but she knew better. Always be alert.

  Someone knocked nearby, and seconds later, she heard the squeak of hinges. Then Mercy’s voice. She and Andrew spoke in hushed tones, so Susan couldn’t make out the words.

  Susan waited until she was sure she wouldn’t puke again, then extracted herself from where she knelt on the floor.

  “You alive in there?” Andrew’s question carried through the bathroom door.

  “Yeah.” The word rasped out of her throat. She looked in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes stared back, studying blotchy cheeks and swollen lips. Gah. She was a wreck. She splashed cold water on her face. Now she was a drowned wreck, but her skin was cooler.

  When someone pushed into the room, she whirled, startled. Andrew didn’t so much as twitch at her appearance. He held out two cups. “Water. Don’t swallow it; rinse your mouth out. Mouthwash. You know how that works. When the nasty vomit taste is gone, drink some water. Tiny sips. No gulping.”

  Mercy moved around him—the most welcome sight Susan had seen all night. She rubbed Susan’s back. “You okay?”

  “No.” More tears threatened, and Susan swallowed them back. She turned away, cups in hand, and followed Andrew’s instructions, not trusting herself to speak. The mouthwash burned, and she fought her gag reflex. It was pathetic. She didn’t care.

  “I’ll give you a few minutes to wash up. Come out when you’re ready,” Mercy said.

  Susan closed her eyes and focused on calming down. Knowing security sat outside the door helped. When she was ready, she headed back into the main room.

  Mercy sat next to Andrew on the bed, their heads bowed together as they talked in hushed voices. They looked comfortable, as if this was how they spent every free night. According to Mercy’s stories, they had, when they were younger. The two toured a lot of South America and Europe together, in their late teens and early twenties. It was how they met.

  A pang of envy knocked behind Susan’s ribs. For Mercy’s experiences. That she had this close friend here and an amazing fiancé at home.

  Andrew stood and grabbed Susan’s Converse from the floor next to him. He handed them over with a sympathetic smile.

  She was grateful he didn’t say anything, because she didn’t have a lot of brainpower for talking; she used most of it doing up the laces on her shoes.

  Mercy moved to stand next to Andrew. She squeezed his hand. “Thank you. See you Monday?”

  “I’ll be there.” He met Susan’s gaze. “Take care of yourself, Suzie-Q.”

  The nickname made her cringe, but a portion of her liked the quirk of his mouth when he said it. She returned the smile.

  Moments later, she dropped into the passenger seat of Mercy’s battered Honda. The worn leather was already warm from the heater. With comfort around her, reality threatened to overwhelm Susan again, reminding her how bad things almost got, and she shuddered. “Can I stay with you guys tonight?” She managed to talk without her voice cracking.

  “Of course. Don’t want to face Dad?”

  Susan frowned at the implication. She didn’t like the nudge that, while Mercy and Dad were on speaking terms after years of being out of each other’s lives, there wasn’t any trust between them. The thought gave Susan a new focus, and she was grateful for that. “He’s in Seattle.”

  “Oh. You know you’re always welcome. Do you want to tell me what happened?” Mercy rested a hand on Susan’s knee.

  “Not yet. I need time.” Susan saw Mercy’s brow furrow. “Nothing bad. Not that bad. But I need to process.” She had no idea how, but she’d figure it out. “Thank you for coming to get me at— Holy wow. Is it really three in the morning?”

  “Of course. You’ll be more careful next time, won’t you?” Mercy clamped her jaw shut and frowned. “I didn’t mean it like that. You shouldn’t have to be. Whatever happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know.” Susan didn’t beli
eve it, though, and her sister’s slip added to the doubt. When they got inside Mercy and Ian’s house, Susan mumbled goodnight and stumbled off to her part-time room.

  She fell into bed without taking off her clothes. The soft quilt and feather pillow hugged her, and the scent of fabric softener squeezed with comfort. For a moment, her head felt like it might roll away, but equilibrium returned quickly. She expected to sleep for ages, based on the exhaustion raking her bones.

  She rolled onto her side and watched the shadows warp and twist across the textured wall and bleed into the burgundy accent. Snippets of the evening popped in and out of her mind, but not the ones she expected. Instead of terrifying her, the conversations with Andrew kept her company; his compassion, irritation, and sense of humor.

  She flopped onto her back and studied the vaulted ceiling, trying to make out where the apex vanished in the shadows. As night gave way to the gray of the oncoming morning, she couldn’t get the thoughts of Andrew out of her head. Her knight in shining armor was her sister’s porn-friend. The guy who helped Mercy shed her inhibitions and discover what life was really about when she was Susan’s age.

  It wasn’t the first time Susan wished she could live that experience without having to surrender her friends and family—she could never abandon this life without caring, the way Mercy had—but the thought hit harder and lingered longer tonight. It would be nice to find a friend like Andrew, without having to go to South America to do so.

  Chapter Three

  Susan felt a lot better than last night, after sleeping off whatever drugs might have been in her system.

  Waking up in a house where she wouldn’t get a sigh when she refused to accompany her father to church. A long, hot shower. Outside, the sun bounced off the snow, bright and warm. Today would be a good day.

  Her phone said it was close to eleven. Later than she normally got started, but it meant Mercy should be up.

  Susan wandered downstairs. The white of a Christmas tree, covered in gold and cream ornaments, winked at her through the living room doorway. She headed toward the murmur of voices. The open dining room flowed into the kitchen, divided up by a breakfast bar, then continuing into polished walnut, granite counters, and stainless steel. Mercy stood near the stove with Ian behind her, arms around her waist. Their backs were to Susan. He nuzzled Mercy’s neck, and she laughed and leaned into him.

  Such a perfect couple. Susan wanted to be half of that kind of adoration someday, but that didn’t mean she wanted to watch them grope each other. She cleared her throat. And then again.

  Mercy whirled, grinning. “Hey. You sleep okay?”

  “Once I finally passed out, it was good.” Susan adored having Mercy back in her life. She was so young when her sister left. And Mercy saw and experienced so much. Susan wished it hadn’t been at the cost of family, but now they were back together. Besides, Ian was nice. The house had a happy presence to it.

  Ian kissed Mercy on the cheek. “Give me ten, and we’ll go.” He squeezed Susan’s arm. “Brunch?”

  “Absolutely,” Susan said. Her phone rang.

  Mercy frowned. “I’m sorry last night it took me so long...”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Susan ignored the pang of hurt at the reminder. “I have to take this.” She clicked Answer and turned to pace toward the living room. “This is Susan Rice.”

  “Susan, it’s Grace, with Ballet West.”

  Susan’s heart dropped into her stomach, and she swallowed back the surge of nervousness. “It’s great to hear from you.” She’d auditioned with the group for the last four years, with no luck. But this would be her year. She knew it.

  “Same.” A hint of strain ran through the woman’s voice. “Listen, I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday.” She laughed, but cut it off abruptly. “We don’t normally call back at all, in cases like this, but I wanted to talk to you.”

  Susan ran the words through every second-guess filter in her brain. She wanted this job. Had prayed to make it through this audition. It wasn’t a big part, but if she performed well for their next season, she could move into larger roles in future years. It would also look fantastic on her resume, when she finished college and started teaching. It should be a stepping stone to instructing a high school drill team. She wanted this so bad she could taste it. “It’s not a problem. What can I do for you?”

  “Ms. Rice, you’re very talented. It’s been years since I’ve seen such technically skilled performance.”

  The words didn’t boost her spirits the way they should. “Thank you.”

  “But this kind of performance requires a stage presence, which—to be direct—you’re lacking. This is a difficult thing to explain, but you don’t have a gift for playing to the audience.”

  Susan swallowed a whimper. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard feedback like this. It kept her out of all but the one-off background dancer gigs, where she was cast to the back row. She’d never figured out what to do with the information. “Is there some way I can learn?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, carried on a pleading she wanted to hide. “I know you don’t have time. But if you could recommend someone—” She snapped her jaw shut before she resorted to flat-out begging.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Rice. It’s not that easy. The kind of presence you’re lacking isn’t the kind of thing one normally learns. The best advice I have for you is to do more in front of audiences. Do it until it’s as natural as dancing when no one’s watching. Come back during group try-outs in January. We might have an opening then, and you can see about observing from the background.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  “And Ms. Rice? You only have a few more years left. I’d love to see a talent like yours perform with us before you pass your peak.”

  “Me too.” Susan failed to keep the bitterness from her voice. “Enjoy your Sunday.” She disconnected and dropped her cell phone onto the couch, before sinking down next to it. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the snap of a log blended with her mood. Dang it.

  “Everything all right?”

  Mercy’s question startled her, and Susan shifted to see her standing in the doorway. “Fine. Good. Status quo. Didn’t get the Ballet West thing. No big deal.”

  “I’m sorry. I know how much you wanted that.”

  Susan wasn’t in the mood for pity or sympathy or anything obligatory. She had her fill of that last night. “It’s fine. But I’m not up for brunch. Can you give me a lift back to my car?”

  Sympathy bled into Mercy’s smile. “Of course. You know where to find me if you want to talk.”

  “I do.” Susan didn’t want to talk. Wasn’t in the mood to get another lecture on living her dreams and pushing to achieve. What the heck did Mercy think she was trying to do? Susan buried the acrid thought. She needed a little time to work through this.

  ANDREW PARKED IN THE lot of the four-story building near the freeway. He’d been to the Rowe and Thompson offices a couple times, since Mercy and Ian merged their advertising firms. Andrew was Mercy’s oldest client, but the visits were as much social as business. And they gave him a chance to visit his sister and nephew, while he was in the state.

  Despite his past with Mercy, he was surprised she had room in her schedule for him, what with her getting married next weekend and all. When he asked her about the timing, she said she wasn’t going to stop working because one of the biggest days of her life was coming up—besides, this was a nice distraction from the insanity, and she had new campaign metrics and concepts to go over with him.

  He couldn’t say no to that. Her work helped make him what he was, and she never disappointed. They had a friend, Justin, who had turned a Silicon Valley startup, based on a rewards program, into something bigger. More artificial-intelligence-like. R&T had invited some of their clients to beta-test demographic information, and Smut Central was first on the list.

  Andrew strolled into the office and pasted on his biggest smile for the girl at Reception. “Hey, Can
dy Cane. Miss Mercy is expecting me.”

  The woman’s name was Mindy, but she had a preference for painting her nails red with white tips. She returned his grin, pressed a few buttons on her phone, and seconds later said, “Mr. Newton is here.” She looked back at Andrew. “She says ten minutes.”

  Of course she did. Mercy was a lot of things he adored, including just let me finish this up, and I’ll be right with you.

  He walked the short lobby while he waited. Normally he’d make small talk with Mindy, but he’d been on edge since Saturday night. A thought nagged him, and he couldn’t place it. Music drifted toward him. Rock, but played by a string quartet. Apocolyptica. It came from the in-house photography studio. He wandered toward the sound, and cracked the door open, to peek in.

  The screens and lights sat in the corners of the room, as they usually did when no filming was being done, leaving a wide expanse of concrete. That wasn’t what stalled his thoughts. Susan was in the middle of the open space, dancing. It was a stunning combination of ballet and more modern moves, and she flowed with every note and beat. Watching her chased away his tension about work and the strange funk that taunted him. It didn’t hurt that her bodysuit and tights clung to every inch of her body, but it was her grace that held him captive.

  When the music stopped, she dropped to one knee, shoulders heaving, chin on her chest.

  He clapped.

  She shot to her feet and whirled, eyes wide. “No one’s supposed to come in here when there’s music playing.” Pink flushed her cheeks.

  “I’m not anyone. And you’re fucking talented.”

  Her blush grew. “You don’t have to say that, to be nice.”

  “You’re right; I don’t. I mean it. You’ve been doing this all your life?”

  She bit her bottom lip. “It feels like it, sometimes.”