Page 107 of The Price of Forever

“If you won’t call me,” he continued, “let me call you.”

My belly constricted. An even worse idea. “I’m not in the habit of mixing work with my real life.”

Eli thumbed through the bills again. “And I’m not in the habit of staying in seedy places like strip clubs long-term. So if we want to get to know each other, it needs to be in the real world.”

We were suddenly negotiating, and I felt like I’d shown up unprepared. I swallowed hard, watching him count out twenty hundred-dollar bills.

“Here. Give me your number.” He tossed the bills onto the floor. I didn’t race to pick them up, but I knew there was two grand on the floor right now.

I gripped the pole above my head and started another slow slide to the floor. Strippers were ready for moments like these. Amongst us, we had a communal number to hand out when pressed by men. I rattled it off. Nobody checked that phone; it lived permanently in the back room, turned off. Eli nodded as he typed the number into his phone.

And then he called it.

He tutted a moment later, swiping it off. “It went straight to voicemail, and the voice wasn’t yours.”

“You’re in the club, if you listen without bass thumping in the background you’ll hear differently,” I countered.

“Show me that it’s a real number.”

I blinked. “I can’t. All my things are in my locker. I’m working—”

He cleared his throat loudly, annoyance seeping out of him. He reached into his other pocket, brought out another wad of cash, and then began thumbing through the bills. “Truthfully, I don’t even think that number is real. But I’ll give you the rest of this”—he held up the money—“if you can prove to me it is.”

He must have caught me drooling over the cash, because he added, “You’ll be leaving with ten grand total.”

I swallowed hard, giving it one last shot. “Why do you want my number so bad, anyway? You look well connected. You’re clearly wealthy. You can have whatever you want.”

His grin turned a little evil. “And I want you.”

“You flatter me.”

“Sapphire, you’re the woman of my dreams. I want to get to know you better.” For all the yellow flags he’d been dropping, I did catch a note of sincerity in his voice. Except he didn’t even know me. I was the woman of his fantasies—made up, not real, completely fictitious.

“Don’t tell me no,” he said in a low voice. “I’m a good person to have around if you need something. Not just money. I am well connected like you said. In fact, you have no idea how well connected.”

“I’d love to find out,” I said.

He chuckled softly. “You ever had someone you hated? Someone who did you wrong?”

I shrugged, walking back to the couch when he patted to the open spot beside him. I sank onto it, just a few inches of space between us.

“I can make those people suffer,” he said, his voice going even lower, more threatening. “I can take care of you. Whatever you need done, I can do it for you, gorgeous. Do you believe me?”

I crossed my legs, pretending to think about it. I didn’t need anyone to take care of me. Not when I had Seven. No, I needed his money. But the more he talked, the less I wanted it.

“If you’d do me the honor of spending some time with me”—he grabbed my hand, rubbing his fingers over my knuckles before lacing our fingers together—“I promise I’ll take care of you. I just want to get to know you. And in return, I’ll take care of whatever you need done.”

“Like, bring down my foes?” I asked with a little laugh, trying to make a joke out of it.

He nodded. “I’ve brought down a foe or two. Three, actually.” He snort-laughed to himself. “I’ve brought down people they told me were impossible to bring down. Including a special little band of brothers on Wall Street that nobody likes.” The words dripped with condescension. “I could tell you some stories. But that’s for another time, gorgeous.”

Something about his comment struck a deep chord. There had to be plenty of brothers on Wall Street. Plenty of beef and warring factions among the elite.

But what if he’s talking about your brothers?

I was suddenly desperate to find out.

“I’ll give you my number,” I blurted. It wasn’t my real number. But it was a back-up number that redirected to my phone, with its own separate voicemail. I kept it around for emergencies like these – but had never used it until now. I struggled to remember the number I’d etched into my brain at the start of my career. “I like what you’re saying, Eli. We should get to know each other.”

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