Love, Chloe (4 page)

“Hey.” I smiled. “You good?” I stepped back, glancing up the street to make sure we weren’t all about to be run over.

“I was hoping for your number, didn’t get it in the club. I’m Tommy.” He smiled, a grin that probably made his girlfriend real happy.

“Nice to meet you Tommy.” I stepped back another pace. “I’m not interested.”

He scowled. Held up a hand that swayed slightly, his friends pulling at his shoulder, sending apologetic looks our way while failing to move Tommy. “Awww… come on. One kiss, princess. If it’s not incredible, I’ll give you a thousand dollars.” He fumbled in his suit pocket, pulling out a thick wad of hundreds and holding them out. “Come on.
One
kiss.”

I hesitated. Three months ago, I’d have laughed in his face. But with my low bank balance fresh in my mind, a thousand bucks was tempting.
More
than tempting. I stepped closer, Benta’s hand wrapping like a vise around my arm. “Chloe,” she warned.

I hesitated. When Benta barked, I normally listened. Her authoritative tone was that of the dominatrix variety. But there, on that street, I stood firm.

“One kiss,” I repeated, meeting his eyes. “For a thousand bucks.”

“You’re probably worth it.” He shrugged, smacking the cash across his palm as he swayed slightly, the action drawing attention to the shine of his watch, the same brand my father wore. Or rather, used to wear. Behind him, his friends stopped their efforts, suddenly interested in the late-night negotiation.

I examined him closer. He wasn’t
terrible
looking. Prep school pretty, I wouldn’t depend on him to protect me in a dark alley. I could tell you without looking that his nails were manicured, his palms probably smoother than mine.

I risked death, tugging my arm from Benta and stepped closer, looking up at him. “Okay, Romeo. Give me your best shot.”

He stepped forward with a smile, one hand gripping my shoulder, his lips pushing on mine and let me tell you right now, his best shot really, really, really sucked. A thick tongue forcibly rammed itself into my gum line, with a smack of extra saliva as he clamped his chops around my lower lip and slowly pulled away, my lip stretching out before popping free. He tasted like Red Bull and whiskey, sugary sweet with a foul aftertaste. I’d literally had gyno exams that I’d enjoyed more.

I jumped back, shoving off his chest, my hand wiping across my mouth as I glared at him. “
That
was your best kiss?”

He laughed, rubbing his own lips with a smile that reeked of asshole. I held out my hand, wanting the cash, and his eyes dropped to it with a sneer. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach, and it wasn’t from the four martinis I had downed inside.

“Let’s go, Chloe,” Benta spoke quietly from behind me.

“Gimme the cash. We had a deal,” I insisted, my palm still extended, my pride at an all-time low. The urge to cry pricked my eyes, and I swallowed hard, begging him with my stare.

“He’s not worth it. Come
on
.” Cammie’s hand wrapped around my forearm and pulled, my heels tripping over the icy curb, her driver moving to open the back door for us. Before climbing in, I glanced over my shoulder and caught the trio of assholes laughing.

The SUV bumped over a pothole, taking us home. I rested my forehead against the cold window, hoping to get the spinning to stop. That experience … it had been the first time in my life that I had ever felt cheap. God, the look in his eyes when he’d laughed at me. I must have looked so pathetic, holding out my hand, begging for his cash.

I shouldn’t have even turned when he grabbed my hand. I should have listened when Benta spoke. I should have laughed in his face like I would have done three months ago.

But instead, within a month of my trust fund’s disappearance, I had prostituted myself for a kiss. And hadn’t even gotten paid for it. I groaned against the glass window and felt the gentle pat of Cammie’s hand against my back.

Maybe the cultured, confident woman I was before was just a product of my parents’ money. Maybe now, with my new life a train wreck, I would discover the real Chloe Madison. And maybe, I wouldn’t like her.

Ugh
. I rolled down the window and tried not to vomit at the thought.

New Year’s Eve. The first holiday season spent without my parents, Christmas normally spent at our Aspen home, a picturesque cabin with six bedrooms, a hot tub, and theater room. Dad and I would ski through the Christmas tree fields until we found the perfect one; Mom and I would cook Christmas dinner in the chef’s kitchen, and we’d end the holiday with a pile of presents and lots of eggnog. That house, along with our Bahamas condo, was now the property of the government. I hoped someone was using it, the thought of our furniture under sheets, the hot tub frozen over, too depressing to consider. I didn’t even know where my parents were this year. They hadn’t called on Christmas Day, and we’d spoken once since my eviction, long enough for Mom to give me Nicole’s number, no apology or explanation given for their actions, their voices bubbly, lives busy, glamorous plans apparently still in effect.

“Ms. Madison?”

“Yes,” I said, stepping carefully toward the car, trying not to turn an ankle in my four-inch Brian Atwoods. “Are you the Brantleys’ driver?”

“I am.” He didn’t offer a name, just opened the Escalade’s back door with a polite smile, supporting my hand until the moment when I released it to grip the door frame. “I’ve already taken the Brantleys to the event. I have instructions to bring you to the house, pick up Chanel, and arrive at the party by eight.”

The same instructions Nicole had given me three times already, her over-enunciated words making it clear that she assumed I was an idiot. I nodded at the man, tucking my bag in the floorboard and bringing my feet in. He shut the door gently, then walked around to the driver’s side.

The large SUV felt small with just the two of us inside. I opened my compact and checked my lipstick, glancing up front to the driver. “How was your Christmas?”

“It was quiet.”

Well,
that
was a conversation starter. I had expected for him to politely return the question, giving me an opportunity to share my own story. Cammie, Benta, and I had failed in our attempt to play house. Our turkey had burned to a crisp on the outside, but was rare on the inside, my soufflé fell, and Benta’s try at haricots verts produced water-logged beans as limp as drunk dick. We’d ditched the food, and settled on the couch with a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates and two bottles of champagne. Adding Netflix to the mix, my first NYC Christmas had ended up being pretty damn awesome, my thoughts only flitting to my parents a handful of times. It had been nice, spending it with the girls. It felt so grownup, like we were finally adults, even if we had failed horribly in our cooking.

I fiddled with my necklace and tried another tactic. “How long have you worked for the Brantleys?”

“Three years.”

Talkative guy. Any more chattering and I’d need to put in earplugs. It was too bad. His voice had a layer of accent that made it absolutely delicious.

“Are they nice to work for?”

His eyes moved to the rearview mirror, our gaze connecting. He had a very direct stare, one that—once established—was hard to break. And his eyes … damn. A dark blue that picked up the lights from passing cars, causing a shimmer across their depths. “They’re fine.”

It was quiet. Three years. They’re fine.
Hell, I’d worked for the Brantleys for six days, and I could fill up a thirty-minute drive with stories. This guy was really committed to the strong, silent vibe he was rocking. Or he had taken to heart the lengthy confidentiality agreement that Nicole had made me sign.

I gave up on conversation and leaned back against the seat, watching the city go by, Christmas tree lights out, a sea of white and rainbow at every turn. It was my favorite time of the year, the New York streets turned into festive art, all of the dirt and grime of the city hidden by a layer of snow. Nicole was celebrating New Year’s Eve at an animal charity event, one where she would parade Chanel around for the cocktail hour before passing her back to me. At 10 PM, a holiday fashion show was scheduled, and Chanel would make two appearances: first in a red gown, then in a diamond-studded collar and a dusting of silver glitter. How PETA was encouraging the ethical treatment of animals by subjecting poor Chanel to this, I didn’t know. But then again, I wasn’t getting paid to think.

The car stopped outside the Brantleys’ home, and I waited a few long seconds, expecting the Driver-Without-A-Name to get my door. When he stayed buckled in place, the vehicle settled into park, I sighed, opening the door myself and stepping out into the cold night air.

The wealthy of the city lived in a different bubble than the rest of us. One where there were no worries of minor problems, the majority of which were easily solved by money. One comprised of beautiful women, powerful men, the drug of success heavy in the air, punctuated with diamonds, caviar, and ego. For the first time, I was an outsider, the Brantleys’ car driving down the back alley of the hotel, a gorgeous old building recently remodeled, its stop short at the loading dock, a flurry of white-coated cooks unloading a catering truck.

“Here?” I asked, looking out the window, my heart sinking.

“Mrs. Brantley said to drop you off here. Use your service provider pass to get in.” The driver casually tossed the barbs out, unaware of how they stuck in my thin skin.
Your service provider pass
. My visions of elegantly mingling, a champagne flute in hand, counting down the seconds as the ball dropped, a handsome stranger dipping me backward for a kiss, disappeared. A honk sounded behind us, and the driver looked back at me, his eyebrows raised. “You gonna get out?”

I grabbed Chanel’s bag and shouldered it, holding her close to my chest, and opened the door, a second honk blaring, more aggressive than the first. “Jeez,” I muttered, shooting an irritated look toward the vehicle, the driver raising his hands from the steering wheel in the universal gesture of asshole drivers everywhere. I elbowed the door shut and gingerly made my way around the back of the SUV, my heels uneven on the potholed street, one step slipping slightly, my recovery step putting me into a snowy spot. My heel sank, all the way to my ankle, and I gasped, half from the cold, half from the damage it would cause to my suede heels. Beside me, the Brantley’s driver pulled off, seemingly unconcerned over any plight to my Atwoods or me.