Dirty Work Page 7

  “Like what?”

  “Ignoring doctor’s orders. I have it on good authority you’re not supposed to go back to work until he clears you.”

  “I manage a nightclub. Ninety-nine percent of what I do is talk on the phone and push paper. It’s not particularly physically demanding.”

  She eyeballs my sling. “It’s the other one percent that’s the problem. Connor says this isn’t the first time you’ve thrown yourself in the path of danger. He thinks you have a hero complex.”

  Another stab of jealousy claws at my gut. “Oh yeah? What else did my ex–best friend have to say about me?”

  “Just that he felt a lot better knowing I’d be staying with you.”

  “So that’s what this is. You’re supposed to babysit me. Keep me away from Top Shelf and out of trouble.”

  She traps her bottom lip between her teeth and looks up at me, her wide, storm-cloud eyes laced with amusement. “Think of me as more of a roommate than a babysitter. Someone to bake cookies and binge-watch Game of Thrones with.”

  Not the activities I have in mind. But they’ll do. For a start.

  “Fine. No club.” Lots of people work from home. I’ll keep tabs on things remotely, after she’s gone to bed. She’s got to sleep sometime, right?

  I head for the bedroom closest to mine. Because I’m a glutton for punishment, obviously. Ainsley trails after me and deposits her suitcase and purse on the bed, looking at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. Or like she can read my mind.

  “That was way easier than I expected. What gives?”

  “I know a losing battle when I see one,” I lie, hoping it’s convincing.

  I set the bag I’m carrying down next to hers. She unzips it and starts pulling out clothes and organizing them on the bed. Tiny tank tops. The shortest of shorts. I catch a glimpse of something pink and lacy, and she slams the suitcase shut before I can see more.

  “I can unpack later. I’m starving. Why don’t we go grab something to eat? I’d offer to cook, but I’ve been known to burn water.”

  “Don’t you have other clients to take care of?”

  “Not today.” She snags a pale gray Yankees cap from one of the piles on the bed and plunks it on her head, pulling her ponytail through the opening at the back. “Today I’m all yours.”

  All yours. Her words have my cock pressing against the zipper of the jeans it took me an hour to get into one-handed, but my brain’s stuck on something else.

  “If you’re here with me, who’s minding the store?” I ask, curious. One entrepreneur to another.

  “Aaron and Erin. The grad students who run errands for me. They’ve got everything under control. And if they have any problems, they know how to get in touch with me.”

  Grad students? Is she fucking serious? If they’re anything like the ones I knew when I was an undergrad at the City College of New York, they’re more into booze than business. “Are you sure you can trust them?”

  “Sure, I’m sure.” She waves a hand, like the company she’s built from the ground up is a fly she can shoo away and forget. “They’re totally reliable. Been with me since I started.”

  Connor’s been with me since the beginning. Since before the beginning. We took a seedy strip club and turned it into one of the hottest nightspots in Manhattan. I know Top Shelf is in capable hands with him. But that doesn’t mean it’s not killing me taking a step back, even if it’s only temporary. The club isn’t just my livelihood. It’s my life.

  I stare at her, slack jawed. “I don’t get how you can be so unconcerned.”

  She lifts a shoulder nonchalantly then lets it drop. “I’m not unconcerned, I’m delegating. Besides, it’s just work. It’ll still be there when I get back.”

  I don’t tell her that’s what my father thought, too. But when he returned to the consulting firm that bore his name after his heart attack, the business was in shambles. And less than six months later, it was gone, along with our home and most of our savings, including my college fund. It took years for our family to recover, financially and emotionally.

  Years I don’t particularly want to rehash with Ainsley.

  “So, food,” I say, figuring that’s a safe change of subject. “What do you feel like? We can go out or order in. I have a bunch of menus in the kitchen. Burning water’s my specialty, too.”

  Hell, I don’t even know whether my housekeeper stocked the fridge this week. I haven’t looked in there since I got back from the hospital. For all I know, there’s nothing on the shelves but craft beer and condiments.

  “Let’s get out of here. You need a change of scenery.” She scoops up her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “And I know just the place.”

  We take Roscoe for a quick walk to do his business then catch the C train at Chambers Street. Half an hour later, we’re sitting on vinyl-upholstered chairs in a fifties-style diner, surrounded by drag queens in poodle skirts and saddle shoes belting out show tunes while serving burgers and milkshakes. Or, in our case, root beer floats.

  “What do you think?” Ainsley takes a sip of her float and eyes me over the top of her glass. “Pretty great, huh?”

  A Cher wannabe finishes crooning “If I Could Turn Back Time” and hands the mic over to a queen in a tiara, feather boa and elbow length gloves who launches into a rendition of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” that sounds more like Marilyn Monroe than genuine article. The crowd—impressive for a weekday lunch—is totally into it, laughing and clapping as Marilyn ruffles the hair of an unsuspecting diner and drapes herself seductively across his lap.

  “Great? It’s fucking genius.” I snag a napkin from the stainless steel dispenser, borrow a pen from a passing waitress and start scribbling. The wheels in my head are spinning fast and furious. Drag karaoke nights. A stage show. Maybe even a monthly Sunday drag brunch. There’s a whole market just waiting for us to tap.

  “What are you doing?” Ainsley asks.

  “Jotting down a few notes,” I answer without looking up. “I want to talk to Connor about doing some stuff like this at Top Shelf.”

  Before I realize what she’s up to, she snatches the napkin out from under my fingers and holds it out of my reach. “No work. Not today. Today is for celebrating.”

  She turns a blinding pearly white smile on me, and my dick twitches. “What are we celebrating?”

  “Whatever you want.” She folds the napkin and tucks it safely away in her purse. “The sun in the sky. The leaves on the trees. The best root beer float in the five boroughs. And the fact that we’re here enjoying it all instead of wasting this beautiful day slogging away at work.”

  She sips her drink, leaning forward to take the straw between her lips. She toys with it as she sucks, and my dirty mind replaces the red-and-white-striped cylinder with my cock, which hardens predictably, pressing against my fly. I take a sip of my own float, hoping it will act like a splash of ice-cold water to my libido, and reach under the table to surreptitiously adjust my jeans. When she finishes, she sits back and pushes her glass away with a satisfied sigh.

  “What do you have against work?” I ask as a waitress drops off our entrées. Big, juicy cheeseburgers with thick-cut steak fries. Ainsley insisted on ordering for both of us, and I’m man enough to let her take the lead if that’s what she wants. I’ll have to put in some extra time at the gym to work off the carbs once my arm is out of this sling, but judging by the mouth-watering smells wafting from the plate in front of me, it’ll be worth it.

  “I don’t have anything against work,” she insists. “But some people don’t know when to give it a rest. You know what they say. All work and no play makes Jake a dull boy.”

  She crosses her legs, letting one sandal dangle from her prettily painted, cotton candy pink toes, and gives me a playful, come-hither stare over her burger that’s enough to make me forget we’re in the middle of a cr
owded restaurant. I’m about to haul her across the table, onlookers be damned, and remind her how not dull I can be, but I don’t get the chance. Marilyn’s on the prowl, looking for her next unsuspecting target, and she’s heading my way. The next thing I know, she’s got her boa wrapped around my neck while she sings in my ear about Tiffany and Cartier and rocks that are square cut or pear-shaped.

  Some guys might feel threatened by having a drag queen hang all over them, but not me. I’m secure enough in my masculinity to laugh and play along. Marilyn finishes the number with a flourish, thanks me for being a good sport, and moves on, and I turn my attention back to Ainsley, who’s munching on her burger with a bemused smile on her face.

  “Still think I’m dull?” I ask, popping a fry into my mouth.

  “I never said you were dull.” She dabs at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Exactly.”

  Her phone chimes from the depths of her purse, and she reaches inside to dig it out.

  “Shit,” she mutters as she reads the screen, her face suddenly serious, all traces of amusement gone. “I have to take this.”

  “Let me guess. Work.”

  She nods, at least having the good grace to look ashamed.

  “Who’s the dull one now?” I tease as I take a bite of another steak fry. I haven’t braved the burger yet. The thing’s the size of a small car. I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to manage it one-handed.

  “I’m sorry. It’ll just take a second.”

  She ducks outside to take the call. When she returns a few minutes later, a worried frown creases her forehead.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask as she slides back into her seat.

  She shakes her head. A lock of hair escapes from her ever-present ponytail, and she tucks it behind her ear. “I have to cover for Erin. She’s stuck on the subway. I hate to eat and run, but I’ve got to get downtown before three to pick up a penis cake.”

  “A what?” I must have heard her wrong. There’s no way she just said what I thought she said.

  “A penis cake.”

  Nope. I definitely heard it right the first time.

  “It’s for a bachelorette party,” she explains between bites of her burger. “They’ve got a penthouse suite at the Soho Grand. I’m supposed to pick up the cake, bring it there and get started on the decorations.”

  “Decorations?”

  “More penises. The maid of honor’s seriously obsessed with them. She had us order penis lollipops, penis confetti, penis shot glasses, even a six-foot blow-up penis that I don’t know and don’t want to know what they plan on using for.”

  “Sounds delightful.” And by delightful, I mean scary as shit. A six-foot penis. How’s a guy supposed to compete with that?

  Ainsley polishes off the last of her burger and pushes her plate away. “Sorry for cutting our lunch short. But don’t worry. I should be able to get to your place in time to take Roscoe out before it gets dark.”

  She stands, and I follow suit. My parents’ dog is the last thing on my mind right now. It’s hard for me to concentrate on anything at the moment except the woman across from me. She’s doing something with her mouth that’s damn distracting.

  “Hold up. I’ll go with you.”

  The words escape my lips before I can stop them. I tell myself it’s because I’m curious. I’ve never been to a penis party before. But that’s horseshit. Truth is I don’t want this date—if that’s what this is—to end. If that means dick decorating for a bunch of bawdy bachelorettes, then I’m willing to swallow my male pride and take one for Team Spend the Day with Ainsley. And if I play my cards right, maybe the night, too.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she protests, unhooking her purse from the back of her chair and slinging it over her shoulder.

  I signal to our waitress for the check and a doggie bag for my burger. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. Besides, I’m guessing you could use an extra hand. I may only have one working, but it’s all yours.”

  I pat my sling and wince. Damn shoulder hurts more than I want to admit. I probably should have taken the doctor up on his offer to prescribe me something stronger than ibuprofen. But I hate the way the hard-core stuff makes me feel. Woozy and wobbly, like I’m in a brain fog. Or a M. Night Shyamalan movie.

  Ainsley studies me. She’s way too perceptive. Sees everything. No doubt she’s figured out I’m in pain and is getting ready to send me packing. I’m gearing up for a fight, but she surprises me and gives me a resigned shrug. “Have it your way. You can help. But you’re on light duty. No lifting boxes or climbing ladders.”

  I cross my heart and hold up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “You were a Boy Scout?” she asks, her tone suspicious.

  “Cub Scout. I only made it to Webelos,” I confess. “But we Webelos take the Scout’s oath very seriously.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you take just about everything seriously. But we’re going to change that.” She takes a pair of sunglasses out of her bag and slips them on. “Come on. Let’s go play with some peckers.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ainsley

  “WHAT THE HELL is this?”

  I look up from the penis wine charms I’m fastening around the stems of eight wine glasses—one for the bride and each of her seven bridesmaids—to see Jake holding a box like it’s about to bite him. I suck in a giggle when I see the picture on it. Two women whacking each other with inflatable dicks strapped around their waists.

  “That’s one of the party games. Dueling Dickies.”

  He shudders. “Please tell me I don’t have to blow them up.”

  “So you’re okay with being serenaded by drag queens, but putting your lips on a plastic penis is where you draw the line?”

  “I am not giving a blow job to a four-foot phallus.”

  This time I can’t fight the laughter, and it bubbles out. “No worries. If it threatens your precious manhood, I’ll do it. You can fill Willy Whack-It.”

  “Willy what?”

  “The party pecker piñata.”

  I hand him a bag of individually wrapped penis gummies and point him toward the fully stocked bar, where the piñata lies face up, its taunting, cheeky smile on full display. He approaches it cautiously, like it might jump up and attack him if he moves too fast.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said the maid of honor is penis obsessed. This thing’s creepy. What kind of dick has a face? It’s looking at me like it wants to stab me in my sleep.”

  I put a charm on the last wine glass, open a bag of brightly colored confetti shaped like tiny, adorable, nonmurderous penises, and start scattering them across the dining table.

  “Don’t be such a wimp. It’s all in good fun.” I should stop there, but I can’t help baiting him. It’s too easy, and I like getting a rise out of him. In more ways than one. But for now, I’ll settle for the one. “You know what fun is, right?”

  He fixes me with those piercing, brandy-brown eyes. “You mean like our shaving session? That was fun. Or how about when you rode my leg like a bucking bronco? I really enjoyed that. And based on your screams and moans, so did you.”

  My face goes instantly hot and tingly. My girly parts, too. I decide to ignore it for the time being and focus on the task at hand. We have to get this place decorated before the bride and her entourage show up. Then I can get Jake home, where I can jump his bones. And this time, there’s no stopping until we both get off.

  “You got that thing filled yet?” I gesture to the piñata.

  “So that’s how you want to play it.” He finds the sticker marked Fill Here and peels it off. “Fine. I’ll let you off the hook for now. But don’t think the subject is closed.”

  “What subject?” I ask, feigning innocence.

  “You. Me. Trust me, Nightingale. Th
is—” he waves a hand between us “—is happening, whether you want to admit it or not.”

  Admit it? I’m counting on it.

  “Just finish stuffing the piñata so we can hang it up.”

  I scatter the last of the penis confetti, crumple up the empty package, and toss it into the heavy-duty garbage bag I mooched off housekeeping. Normally I’d bring one with me. We’ve got a no-mess-left-behind rule at Odds & Errands. Another way we try to stand out from the competition. But since I’m pinch hitting today, I’m not as prepared as I usually am.

  Jake rips the bag of gummies open with his teeth, dumps them into the papier-mâché penis, then puts the sticker back on to seal it up. “There. All done. Where do you want it?”

  “Hmm...” I scan the large, open loft, looking for a safe place to hang a piñata. Somewhere the ladies can swing away at it without fear of damaging any of the Soho Grand’s pricey decor. “How about over there?”

  I point to the archway that separates the dining area from the living space. He nods and starts to pull a chair over.

  I stand in his path, blocking him, hands balled on my hips. He may be bigger and stronger than me, but there’s no way he’s more determined. “Not. Gonna. Happen. Remember our deal. No heavy lifting. No climbing.”

  He steps aside with an elaborate bow. “As you wish.”

  “The Princess Bride. Impressive.”

  “You can thank my sister for that, too. She made me watch it a least a hundred times. Even tried to get me to dress as the Dread Pirate Roberts one Halloween, but that’s where I drew the line.”

  “Too bad,” I say, dragging the chair beneath the archway. “You would have made a cute Dread Pirate Roberts.”

  “The Dread Pirate Roberts is not cute,” Jake huffs. “He’s feared across the seven seas for his ruthlessness and skill with a sword.”

  “Wow, you weren’t kidding when you said you’d seen the movie a hundred times.” My eyes dart around the room until they spot what I’m looking for. “Can you bring me that box of tools on the couch?”