Chapter 4

The hottie walked by, hands shoved casually in his pockets, oozing that bad-boy swagger.

My eyes were glued to him. As we brushed past each other, I caught a whiff of a familiar sandalwood scent—that was it.

The same scent from that night messed with my already buzzed brain, and before I knew it, I grabbed his hand.

"We've met before?" I asked.

He tilted his head, letting out an unreadable "Hm."

I took it as a yes.

He was in a plain white shirt, looking like the gigolos I just called, except he wasn't dressed up with any extra flashiness.

So, I assumed he was one of the club's guys. "How about 1.5 million dollars for one night with you?" I asked.

White Shirt kept a straight face and replied, "No deal."

"Sure, you're good-looking and totally my type, but don't play so hard to get. There are guys lining up for 1.5 million dollars to spend a night with me. Miss this chance, and you won't get another offer like it," I said.

"Then go find someone else. Why are you still holding my hand?" White Shirt shot back.

I felt my face burn with embarrassment.

Furious, I snapped, "What are you acting all cocky for? You're just some cheap escort—God knows how many women you've been with. Don't play innocent. I'm still pure, and hooking up with someone who'll sleep with anyone for cash like you is just gross."

Feeling refreshed after my outburst, I tried to pull my hand away, but White Shirt grabbed it instead.

"You're quite something," he smiled. "Since you're so eager to throw yourself at me, I guess I'll have to make an exception tonight."

White Shirt was a total beast. He grabbed me and swaggered right into the elevator, not giving a damn who was watching.

The booze I'd downed turned into cold sweat, and all my liquid courage evaporated in a flash.

I screamed my head off, losing all my composure. But everyone around just kept walking, acting like they saw and heard nothing.

White Shirt dragged me out of the elevator, kicked open the door to a swanky top-floor lounge, and tossed me inside.

Watching as he popped open two buttons and came at me, I let out a scream and frantically grabbed my phone to call for help.

In a life-or-death moment like this, I didn't care who I called—I just dialed a random contact, whoever it was.

The call went through, but I didn't get a chance to say anything.

White Shirt was already on me.

As he lunged, I thought I heard Yonas's anxious voice coming through the phone. "Shelley, who's messing with you?"

*****

This was the most miserable and humiliating day in all 25 years of my life.

If I'd known White Shirt was bad news, I never would've tried to flirt with him after a couple of drinks.

I finally got what the Comments meant about screaming oneself hoarse.

And I truly understood what they meant by deathly passionate sex.

It was crazy, wild, and honestly, kind of awesome in a messed-up way.

When I woke up the next morning, White Shirt had vanished without a trace.

I wobbled to my feet, clutching my sore back, and reached for my phone, only to find it was dead.

I gritted my teeth, swearing I'd report White Shirt and make sure he paid for this.

Fuming, I opened the door, ready to leave, only to see White Shirt standing there with a tray in his hands.

We locked eyes, staring each other down. After a moment, I glared at him, teeth clenched. "You had the nerve to come back?"

"Why wouldn't I?" White Shirt said, one hand holding the tray, the other hauling me back inside.

He dropped me onto the couch and set the tray down hard in front of me. "Eat."

I was about to start cussing him out when I realized the breakfast was from my favorite five-star hotel. My stomach was growling so bad I had to bite my tongue.

I told myself I'd better eat up if I wanted the energy to settle the score with him later. So I lowered my head and wolfed down the food.

White Shirt sat right next to me, staring without blinking as I ate. After a while, he let out a soft snort. "You're really ugly."

What kind of gigolo is this? No fun at all, and not even a shred of professionalism. I was instantly pissed off.

"What did you just say? How dare you call your client ugly? That's so unprofessional. Believe it or not, I could report you," I snapped.

White Shirt seemed stunned, his face a mix of pure confusion. He stared at me in disbelief for several seconds before finally asking, slow and hesitant, "Client? You still think I'm..."

I yelled, cutting him off, "What else am I supposed to think, you damn gigolo? Just look at you—dressed like a total cheapskate. All you've got going for you is that stubborn mouth of yours."

White Shirt was left speechless, just staring at me with his deep eyes.

Feeling insulted, I couldn't help but snap at him all over again. Making sure he wasn't going to say anything else to piss me off, I finally stopped.

"Give me your bank info. I'll pay you," I said flatly.

Only then did I realize my phone was still dead. Embarrassment washed over me all over again.

In the end, I wrote out an IOU for 1.5 million dollars under White Shirt's emotionless stare. After signing and pressing my fingerprint on it, I finally managed to get away.

All that back-and-forth had eaten up my whole morning. I dragged myself back to my new place, only to find Yonas and Zelda blocking the door, both shooting me death glares.