I’m sitting on the couch, one leg tucked beneath me, when my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and immediately smile. It’s Tiffany. Swiping to answer, I bring the phone to my ear.
“Hey, stranger. How’s it feel to be home?”
A soft laughter fills my ear. Damn, it feels good to hear that sound.
“Like I got hit by a truck and then forced to sit in my dad’s recliner for a week straight,” Tiffany says. Her voice sounds a little strained, but better than I expected.
I laugh. “Recliner life not your thing?”
“Boulder is kinda dull compared to Denver,” she mutters, but I can hear the faint smile in her voice. “I’m getting stronger every day. The doctors want me to come back in for a checkup a few weeks from now, and if all’s good, I can go back to my normal life.”
“That’s great news,” I reply, leaning back into the cushions. “You had us worried there for a bit.”
“I know.” There’s a slight pause, then she asks, “Any word on Kailee?”
My stomach knots and I sit up straighter. “Unfortunately, no. I’ve called, I’ve texted, but still no response. It’s like she’s vanished. I was hoping you had heard from her.”
“Not a thing. It’s scary.” Tiffany sighs heavily. “She doesn’t have any family, right? No one we can check in with?”
“Not that I know of,” I say, the knot in my stomach tightening. “You get any leads?”
“No. Kailee’s weird. She’s got this fun, party-girl thing going on, but when it came to personal life stuff she was always, I don’t know, closed off. It’s part of her charm, I guess. Never had to hear about drama from her.”
“Charm isn’t going to help us find her,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “I don’t know what to do, Tiff. File a missing person’s report for a stripper? The cops won’t even blink.”
Tiffany groans. “You’re right. They’d file it and forget about it. It’s fucked up, but people don’t really give a shit about sex workers, unless they want one for themselves.”
“But we give a shit about her. And we need to keep trying,” I say. “We keep calling, keep texting. Maybe she’s just laying low, waiting for the heat from Misha to die down.”
“And if she’s not?” Tiffany asks quietly.
I swallow hard, the question hanging heavy in the air. “We’ll figure it out. We’re not giving up on her.”
“Damn right we’re not,” Tiffany says with some fire back in her voice. I like it. “She’s one of us.”
“Exactly. Now, tell me how you are! Your mom still shoving food down your throat?”
“Oh my God, kill me.” And just like that, the mood lightens. “I don’t think I’ve gone this long without eating takeout in years. Her cooking’s great, but I’d kill for a slice of pizza.”
“Well, don’t get used to the homecooked stuff,” I tease. “Once you’re back on your feet, I expect you to show up at my door with greasy burgers and a six-pack.”
“Deal,” she says. Another pause. “Erin? Thanks for everything. Thanks for visiting me at the hospital, for having my back.”
“Always,” I say simply. “Now rest up. I need you back to normal as soon as possible.”
She laughs again, and after a few more minutes of chit-chat, we hang up. I sit there for a while, staring at my phone.
Kailee’s face appears in my mind’s eye.
Where the hell is she?
I knock on the office door with the toe of my shoe, balancing two steaming mugs of coffee in my hands.
“Hey, boss man,” I call out. “You decent?”
Samuel’s voice comes through the door. “Come in.”
I step inside, the door slightly ajar. It creaks slightly when I close it behind me. He’s leaning back in his chair, his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened. His suit jacket is neatly draped over one of the guest chairs. A glass of whiskey is close at hand.
There’s a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, and even though he looks tired, the sight of him still makes my heart skip a beat. My gaze lingers on those sexy forearms, toned and taut.
“I figured you could use this,” I say, setting the coffee down on his desk.
He picks up the mug, looking it over as if he doesn’t know what it is. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t I know it,” I respond, dropping into the chair across from him. “So, how’s it going in here?”
“Slow,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. “Spent half the night with James going over marketing strategies, trying to figure out how to bring the numbers back up. This shit with Misha… it’s hurting us. Fucker’s being underhanded as hell, gossiping about the place like he’s a pissed-off girlfriend or something.”
“It’s been slow out front too,” I admit. “Quieter than it should be for a Thursday.”
His jaw tightens. “I know. The numbers don’t lie.”
It falls quiet for a moment, the silence hanging heavy between us. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should quit.”
His eyes snap back to mine, fire burning in them. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”
I raise my palms defensively. “Misha’s coming after your business because of me,” I say. “If I leave, maybe he’ll back off.”
“Absolutely not,” he says. There’s not even a beat of hesitation in his voice. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he glares at me. “You’re not quitting, Erin.”
“Samuel—”
“No,” he interrupts. “Quitting is not an option. You’re not running because of him. This is your home, your job. Hell, it’s your life we’re talking about. I’m not going to sit here and let you back away from something you’re damn good at because that prick scared you away from it.”
For a moment, all I can do is stare at him.
Then he stands up, making his way over to me. He leans down, capturing my lips in a hot kiss. It’s not soft or tentative, it’s fierce and possessive. When he pulls back, my heart’s pounding.
“I…” The word falls out of my mouth dumbly. Truth is, I’ve got no idea what to say. Gently, he pulls me to my feet.
“I’ll handle Misha,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “One way or another.”
“You’ll handle him? What does that mean, exactly?
He steps back, crossing his arms over his chest. “It means James and I have some ideas.”
I narrow my eyes at him, crossing my arms to match his stance. “Ideas that are going to get you in trouble?”
He chuckles. “I like that you worry about me.”
“Someone has to,” I shoot back. “Are you going to tell me what these ideas are?”
“Not yet,” he says. He steps close again, his hands sliding to my waist. “But I promise you, Erin, we’re going to be smart about this. Safe.”
I search his face, looking for any hint of doubt, but all I see is determination. “You’d better be,” I say finally, my voice firm. “Because if you’re not, you’ll have to answer to me.”
He leans down to kiss me again, softer this time. “Understood.”
I smile against his lips. Then I rest my head against his chest, his arms wrapping around me, holding me close. I realize that’s all I’d really wanted from the moment I walked in.
“Good. Now, finish your coffee. You’ve got a business to save.”
For a moment, the tension is so hot between us I think he might take me right there in the office. I sure as hell would let him. But the phone rings, cutting through the moment. Samuel plants a quick kiss on my lips, then reaches over to hit the speaker button.
“What’s up?”
Mark’s voice comes through, sounding upbeat. “Looks like we’re getting a rush. Could use you up here, Erin.”
“On my way.”
Mark hangs up, and it’s just me and Samuel again.
“Duty calls,” I say.
“It would appear that way.”
I bite my lip. “I’ll see you later in the shift, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I turn to leave, but Samuel pulls me back, turning me toward him and pulling me into a slow, deep kiss. His tongue probes my mouth, and I moan into his lips. He places his hand between my thighs, rubbing my now-soaked pussy through my jeans. I sigh, the pleasure instantly flowing through me.
But just as I think he might be down for some pre-shift fun, he pulls away.
“You heard the man,” he says with a smirk. “You’re needed up front.”
I laugh. “You’re a tease, you know that?”
“And you love it.”
“Maybe.”
By the time I get back to the bar, the place is buzzing. Customers line the counter, chatting and laughing, and the energy feels like a weekend night, not a Thursday. Mark’s already juggling orders when I step behind the bar.
“About time,” he teases, handing me a drink tray. “You ready to work?”
“Always.”
For the next forty-five minutes, we barely get a breather. Drink orders come in rapid-fire but being busy feels good. It’s a distraction, a rush, a reminder of why I love this job.
Mark and I work seamlessly, barking out orders to each other, tossing bottles and cracking jokes. For a short while, everything feels normal again.
Then the rush starts to fade. The crowd in front of the bar thins. Seemingly everyone who’s there is seated or chatting on the dance floor. I let out a breath I’d been holding since the rush started.
“I’m heading to the bathroom,” I tell Mark, grabbing my backpack from the corner.
“Yeah, yeah,” he waves me off with a grin. “Try not to fall in.”
I laugh, flipping him off playfully as I walk away.
As I push open the door to the back halls, my stomach churns slightly, and I press a hand to it. It’s probably just the adrenaline from the rush or maybe the burger I scarfed down earlier, but the nausea has been lingering all day.
In fact, nausea’s been coming and going for the last week or so. And it’s been getting worse. I can only assume it’s from the stress Misha’s bullshit has been putting on me.
I dig into my backpack as I head toward the bathroom, fishing out some ibuprofen. I figure I might be about to start my period—that would explain the weird mood and the nausea. But as I walk, something niggles at the back of my mind.
When was my last period?
The thought stops me cold for a second and I frown, trying to remember. It was… what, five weeks ago? No, longer than that. I started working for Samuel at least five weeks ago.
I do some quick math in my head. I should have started two weeks ago, give or take a few days. I’m never late. My periods come like clockwork.
My thoughts begin to spiral. When did Samuel and I first sleep together? That was about three weeks ago. I think.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My stomach twists again, but this time it’s not from nausea. It’s from realization.
Holy shit.
No way.
I shake my head, trying to push the thought away. There’s no fucking way. I can’t be.
But the timing. The symptoms. My mind races, connecting dots I don’t want to connect. Could I really be…?
I stop outside the bathroom door, my hand hovering over the handle as my heart pounds in my chest.
This can’t be happening.
