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It was her turn to look scandalized. She wasn’t expecting me to be game. Hey, negotiating putting my dick in Dylan Casablancas wasn’t on my year’s bingo card either. But it was all in theory anyway.
“No hurting me.” She erected a finger for every rule, counting them with her hand and starting with her thumb. “No audience, you always have to use a condom—I am never getting pregnant again—and we’ll have to be exclusive.”
I nodded. This was easy enough. Even though I was a big fan of pussy, I didn’t care for the complication of variety. If there was one thing I’d learned in my former gig as a gigolo, it was that a pussy was a pussy.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d made a career of fake-dating people, and now I had to pay for someone to fake-date me.
Karma, you filthy little animal.
“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “We have a deal.”
“Wait—I’m not done.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, drawing in a breath. “Of course you’re not.”
“I might need babysitting.”
“Look, I’m the first one to agree you’re a mess, but I think you should be fine. Just google shit if you run into big words.”
“For Gravity, you tool bag.”
“Oh, I don’t do kids.”
“You just saved Gravity from sure death.”
“I imagined she was a squirrel,” I quipped. “Seriously. My la vida is a little too loca to throw kids in the mix. No way.”
“Well, I’ll need someone to help me with her while I look for work. Seeing as you’re the only non-stranger here, I only trust you.” She gave me a slow once-over. “Kinda. No offense.”
“None taken. I wouldn’t trust me. Which is why I beg you to reconsider the last item on your request list. Plus, why the hell would you need a job if I’m paying you ten K to breathe?”
“You can sign the contract with Bruce tomorrow morning, and then what?” She lifted a brow. “I wouldn’t be able to provide for my kid. No. I need to find steady work. Gravity trusts you. Babysitting duties must be included. At least twice a week.”
I drew in a sharp breath, rolling my tongue along the inner walls of my cheeks. I hoped the kid liked McDonald’s and vegging in front of the TV. “Fuck. Fine.”
“Try not to curse in front of her.” Dylan made a face.
“I have some asks too,” I informed her.
“Go ahead.” She nodded.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Gravity busted open a bag of chips and was wolfing them down between fits of giggles.
“One, you will be my fake date as many times as I need within the time constraints. You will be prim and proper, and you will look at me adoringly. You will not blow our cover and won’t tell anyone about that time a balloon got stuck in my braces in eighth grade and everybody thought it was a condom.”
She gave me a frustrated look. “Rhyland, it was a condom.”
“It was a beige-colored balloon, Dylan.”
It was a condom. I’d wanted to see how far I could blow it up before it exploded. But this could never worm its way into the four-page piece about me in Forbes, if and when I signed the deal with Bruce. Either way, Dylan had an unsavory habit of telling the story every time we were in the same room, because she knew how much I detested it.
“That includes work travels in and outside the States,” I added.
“As long as you give me enough time in advance and Grav can come, I’m okay with that.”
“And…” I stopped. Bit my tongue until warm, thick blood filled my mouth. Still, I couldn’t stop the words from falling.
From completely passive and apathetic, I’d just become animated and on fire. For the first time in eight years, Dylan and I were in the same room, completely alone, allowed to finally take out our claws and teeth and be ourselves without worrying about offending Row and Cal.