Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance (67 page)

I choked behind my hand, laughing so hard I could barely breathe. Her horror was palpable. She fanned herself as though she had narrowly escaped a tragedy.

"I mean... I could have drowned!”

“Oh my god,” I gasped between convulsions and stomach cramps. “That sounds horrifying!”

“I barely escaped with my life,” she nodded seriously. “There is not enough good boy mama points in the world to make up for that.”

“Were you wearing that black cherry lipgloss by any chance? Maybe he was overwhelmed with hunger.”

She perched her fists on her hips and gave me a scowl.

“I really do not think that this is funny.”

“Yes you do,” I countered.

“Yeah, okay. It is kind of funny. But how does a man get to be 50 years old and not know how to kiss?”

“That's a good question. Little did he know he was dealing with a kissing prodigy.”

“Damn straight!”

“So you've exhausted the samurais and sorcerers on this dating site. What kind of sideshow freak could possibly be left?”

“Well!” she said excitedly, her fingers wiggling in a jazz-hands motion. “I found me a real country singer.”

“After our honky-tonk disaster experience, just last night? I can't believe it.”

“Well, maybe I was inspired. But he has a cowboy hat and everything. And a guitar!”

“Are you sure you want to be immortalized in a country song? You know those things never end well.”

“He is just the cutest thing, though. He actually has a picture of his ass in faded blue jeans. You know I love me some ass in faded blue jeans!”

“I know you do!”

She nodded vigorously, her lips pressed together and glistening under what I believed to be a permanent shellac of lipgloss. I had never seen her without it. It was like her superpower.

“Just be safe, okay honey?” I said, suddenly feeling serious and I reached out to tap my fingers on her knee. “You know you never really know somebody. Especially a complete stranger; you can't just believe everything that you hear.”

“I'm just trying to get laid, don't you worry,” she reassured me sincerely. “I don't think either of us is in much of a position to be giving our hearts away. I just want me a little white boy penis to play with.”

She shrugged as though that was the most natural thing in the world to say.

“You should get you some penis too,” she suggested. “That might be just the thing to clean out your cootchie real good."

I rolled my eyes and pulled the afghan up to just under my nose.

“I really don't think I'm ready for that. I just hope I didn't unintentionally make an offer to those men that I can't come through on.”

Melita's eyes went up to the ceiling.

“Unintentionally, you say? It sure sounds intentional to me.”

“Oh, come on, Melita. You know I'm not like that. I was just trying to be confident. Maybe I overshot the mark a little bit on the job thing, is all."

“Overshooting the mark could be really good for you. Maybe this is the new you! This is your chance to start over, after all. You should try being a slut for a while... you might like it!”

I pictured Whitney in my mind. Sluts sure do seem to get whatever they want, after all.

“So what are you gonna wear?” she said, getting up and going over to the closet, flinging the door open. Though this was the living room, its closet was full of clothes just like every other room in the small house. Melita had a lot of clothes.

“I’m more worried about where I’m gonna live,” I called across the room.

Her head popped out of the closet, sideways.

“What are you talking about? You’re gonna live here!”

“Melita, I couldn’t…”

“Well, not forever, but… I mean you’re kidding right? Of course you’re gonna stay here!”

“You’re sure?”

She disappeared behind the door and reappeared with four red dresses on hangers, two dangling from each hand.

“Of course I’m sure,” she said irritably. “You say the weirdest shit sometimes. Of
course
 you’re staying here! Now… which dress?”

I eyed them all skeptically. Though Melita was pretty curvy, she was also about five-foot-two. There was no way any of those was going to cover my ass cheeks all the way.

“Um, maybe something more formal?”

She nodded, her eyes half-closing in a thoughtful squint.

“OK,” she muttered, “that’s gonna be upstairs, back bedroom closet. You like purple?”

“Actually, uh,” I stammered, finding myself blushing, “Lyle said he liked the blue?”

I heard the hangers being snapped back onto the rod and she came out with her hands on her hips.

“Lyle said that?”

I nodded silently.

“And was he the one on your front side or your back side?”

I shrugged, making like I could barely recall, looking around the room as though the memory wasn’t as precise and present as a tattoo.

“Um. Back?”

“HOH. LEE. SHIT.”

“Melita…”

“Brienne, this really doesn’t sound 100% like a job thing.”

“Of course it’s a job thing!” I shot back, suddenly saucy and ticked off.

She snapped in the air, shutting me up immediately.

“Follow me,” she commanded.

Whirling toward the stairs, she marched up and toward the back bedroom, making a beeline for the closet. I hurried after her, trying to maintain my composure.

Well, it is a job thing, isn’t it? I mean, I may have used a little sex appeal to get the job thing, but it is definitely a job thing.

Melita disappeared into the closet. I heard a bunch of thumps and the sound of rustling dry cleaner plastic, maybe a dropped shoe or two. Then she finally came back out panting and sweating, brandishing a long plastic bag on a hanger.

She blew her bangs off her forehead with puffed out cheeks and ran the back of her forearm across her brow.

“This is it,” she said in a low, husky voice.

“This is what?” I replied, crossing the room slowly with my hand out. Something about the way that she held the garment bag up told me there was something wonderful inside.

"Open it," she said.

I took the end of the zipper in my fingers, relishing the anticipation for just a moment.

“This is the dress that is going to either get you hired or get laid,” she whispered into the sultry, dusty bedroom air. “And god willing, it will get you both.”

The taxi let me out on the sidewalk in front of the Avery hotel, and I just froze like one of those marathon runners who has stopped in the middle of the race, a hundred other people rushing by them on both sides while they stand there, completely bewildered, wondering just what the hell is going on.

This is a work function?

I felt like I had been dropped off at a Hollywood premiere. There were those car-sized searchlights aimed up at the sky sweeping ovals across the low, hot summer clouds. There was a red carpet — literally, a red carpet — going up the stairs to the entryway. Men in tuxedos and women in floor-length gowns climbed the stairs together, elbows intertwined, chatting to each other as though they did this sort of thing every day.

I felt ridiculously conspicuous. Stuffed into the dress Melita had given me, I tried to remember that I had to keep breathing in and out if I had any hope of reaching the top of the stairs without blacking out. In and
then
out, in that order. No messing up.

The dress was a midnight blue satin, as tight as a blood pressure cuff. It went precisely down to the tops of the silver Louboutin stiletto heels she had loaned me and then a generous slit gaped all the way back up my thigh.

The neckline swooped so low I was going to have to remember to not drop anything that I needed to pick up. Around the neckline were folds of fabric creating a cup—shaped decolletage that was remarkably supportive.

And I sparkled. Did I mention the dress glittered? I mean, it was not anything that could be described as "subtle." I looked like a starry sky.

But it was very hard to convince myself to get up those steps. I couldn't tell if people were looking at me, but I knew that if I had been someone else I sure would have been looking at me. Without a date I really stood out like a sore thumb.

“Just do this, Bree,” I muttered to myself.

And still I was standing on the sidewalk with everybody swirling around me, moving toward the event.

“Seriously, do it.
Now
.”

Somehow my feet began to obey. I plucked the satin off my knee between my shaking fingers and began to climb the stairs one by one. I could feel people's eyes on me, but I would not let myself stop. If I had any hope of moving forward in my life, I knew I was going to have to just keep climbing.

Two doormen stood on either side of the entrance, their eyes fixed on a point high above the heads of any of the people who were moving inside. Their raised chins gave them an extra air of seriousness and formality. I moved past them without breaking stride.

That’s it. I’m in.

The air seemed to change as soon as I entered the lobby. It was cool and thick like the air of a cave. Sconces hung on every wall, flickering with imitation candlelight. Above our heads were enormous discs hung from cables that washed a soft, powdery glow onto the couple hundred black-tie partygoers below.

I stood as regally as possible, scanning the crowd for some sign of either Owen or Lyle. Even though everyone looked slick and dashing I knew that they would stand out from the crowd. Yet I couldn't see them anywhere.

Making my way to the bar, I kept watch on my peripheral vision in case one of the Jacks appeared. The bartender leaned forward on the heels of his hands and dipped his chin to stare at me appreciatively.

“What can I get for you, miss?” he said in a voice as smooth as silk.

I found my breath had tangled up in my throat and I didn't know what to say. He was looking at me with such naked appreciation I felt myself expanding like an inflated balloon.

“I would like a, um —”

“She'll have the Armand de Brignac,” came a voice too close to my ear.

Instead of flinching I drew myself up as tall as I could go, trying to recapture some of the bombshell attitude I had managed earlier in the day.

Don't forget who you are. You are the brazen sexpot who is going to get this job!

Without turning my head I let a smile curl at the corner of my mouth and sighed, “I love champagne.”

“Who doesn't?”

The bartender nodded curtly, backing instantly away. “Of course, miss,” he said in a suddenly business-like tone.

I turned slowly, trying to seem as gracious as possible.

“Thank you so much for —”

Lyle held up both his hands.

“Don't say anything,” he said in a low rumble, his teeth gleaming in the flickering lamplight. “Just wait a few seconds for Owen to get here. I want him to see what I am seeing.”

I raised my eyebrows and perched my hand on my hip, shifting my weight to one side and rolling my shoulders back like I was Scarlett Johansson or something.

“And what is it you are seeing?” I countered.

His nostrils flared as though he was inhaling me.

“Oh, I think you know.”

It was like a bit of a staring contest, trying to stand there as Lyle unabashedly inspected me from my jaw to my ankles, his eyes scooping out the hollow between my breasts in an almost tactile way. I had never just stood and let someone look me over like that before. My heart beat a little faster at the challenge.

Well, I guess that's just how sexpots do it.

“Your champagne, miss,” the bartender said in a politely distant tone of voice as he slid the flute to me across the bar and immediately scurried away. Was Lyle that intimidating? Yes. Yes he was. Standing there in a custom tuxedo and tie, his hair swept off his forehead and gleaming in dark golden waves, he was a matinee idol. He was Justin Timberlake and Jason Statham. And Chris Hemsworth. Oh my.

I accepted the flute gratefully, happy for a distraction and something else to do with my hands besides fan the creeping heat that was advancing across my collarbones. It was nice to have a prop, though I was mindful that too much champagne was going to probably make me a little loose in the pelvic area, if history was any kind of indication.

Boy, do I wish Melita was here. She would keep me on track.

Who am I kidding? She would have me unzipped and greased up already.

As the seconds ticked by, Lyle's expression seemed to shift subtly from a pompous dare to a friendly grin, almost as though I had won some kind of bet with him or passed some kind of trial.

A few more long seconds, and I felt myself beginning to falter. How long was I going to be able to stand up to this staring contest? Then he wiggled his eyebrows at me once in a fast, knowing look.