Page 58 of The Price of Forever

You need to act fast. The longer you stick around, the harder it will be when you have to leave.

But at this point, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to leave.

CHAPTER TWELVE

SEVEN

The days dragged on, the awkwardness between Jordan and me fermenting into something new, something sour, like the most disgusting kombucha.

Every second she was unoccupied and safe at the apartment, I busied myself in my work. I had plenty to do. I’d gotten a few leads from the ad I’d posted last week, and I’d already met with three potential new hires, each with their own strong, unique background.

I couldn’t keep this shit up much longer, though. I needed Jordan out of my sight, at least for the majority of the day. Being around her only reminded me of all the things I liked about her. Of the things I wanted to do to her. The banter between us—when we allowed it—was too gratifying. The easy way we could co-exist—when we weren’t stewing in our awkward-as-fuck juices—was the type of thing that reminded me of the old days, back when I’d been engaged to Olivia. The glimpse at the sexual connection between us—I couldn’t even fucking think about it. Dangerously gratifying. Everything about Jordan promised to be a minefield of pleasure. I needed her under someone else’s care as of last week.

My phone vibrated on my bed next to me as I responded to the latest email with a job applicant in his late twenties named Chico. That wasn’t his nickname either. He’d won the hiring race—motivated, punctual, with a military background and complete flexibility. I extended the job offer, and now we were wrapping up the final contractual details. My head spun. My biggest dream was officially off the ground—my own bodyguard business. I was almost the boss. Only a few steps remained between me and my goal of CEO.

It took me a few minutes to remember my phone had buzzed. When I checked it, a text from Trojan waited. “You ready for this jelly?”

I smiled as I wrote back. “Must mean you’ve arrived in NYC.”

“Knife at the ready. And yes, that’s a fucking metaphor.”

I laughed, excitement replacing some of my existential dread. Trojan’s trip to Manhattan had worked out—and not a second too soon. I needed my best buddy to get my head straight. To replace it entirely with a brain that functioned on logic and reason again.

“Metaphor for your dick, right?”

“No, meatwad. A butter knife. To spread your sweet jelly.”

I laughed and sent him the address of the hotel I booked him. We were buddies, but we weren’t share-the-same-bed level of buddies. I booked him a stay at the Hyatt, because I was fucking nice and I missed him. Plus, I had a big favor to ask of him.

There had been one thought knocking around in my brain since Jordan’s surprise performance in the VIP room: she wanted more, just as much as I did. But my logical side accepted Jordan’s explanation. It was easy to tell myself I was the one who made things weird. That the sparks and feelings between us were one-sided. I couldn’t get past this until I knew, without a doubt, that Jordan had fucking lied to me about that “new routine.”

I needed to know that what happened between us wasn’t going to be happening for a few lucky guys on the side, like she’d claimed.

And the only person who could test this theory was my good buddy Trojan.

This was a big ask—go into a VIP lounge, provoke a stripper, swear to not touch her lest she take things further, and then give me every sordid detail afterward, no matter how tight my fists got.

I needed to get him nice and buttered up.

Jordan’s shift at the club started at seven that evening. I knew the drill. At five, I set my work aside and went to the kitchen for a protein shake. She was already there, packing her backpack. Without looking at me, she asked, “Feel like some rice noodles?”

The least surprising thing she’d ever asked me. I got this question at least three times a week. “If you insist.”

She shoved her heels in her bag, followed by a scrap of fabric I assumed she’d be putting on her body in mere hours. I gritted my teeth, trying not to imagine too much of what I’d be seeing that night. Every ounce of my energy was dedicated to keeping my thoughts off Jordan’s body, the way she felt in my arms, and the memory of her damp inner thighs against my fingertips. Those thoughts were forbidden.

Until I was alone in the shower each morning, when those thoughts slunk out of the shadows.

She still insisted on taking the subway every day, despite the fact that she had a fleet of private cars at her disposal. But who was I to complain? This was her show, and I was just a transfixed member of her audience. We headed for the door, turning off lights as I went. Our footsteps fell quietly in the hallway as we speedwalked to the stairwell. I knew what lay ahead. It was more than routine by this point; it was something I almost needed for my day to feel complete.

Once the door swung open, the race began. Our feet clattered down the metal steps and a delighted sound squeaked out of her. She elbowed me. I pulled ahead.

“Fuck you!” Her voice echoed in the stairwell as I bolted down the next few flights a few steps at a time.

I won with seconds to spare. I held the door open for her, my chest heaving.

“Sucks to lose,” I said as she walked past. I made sure to keep my win-loss ratio at about fifty-fifty. Couldn’t have her thinking she was hot shit. Even though plenty of those times, she’d beaten me fair and square.

The clamor of the street distracted us from needing to talk too much. The less interaction, the better. That’s what my logical mind knew, even though it felt disjointed and wrong. We walked a few blocks to her newest favorite rice noodle spot in my neighborhood, cramming into the bustling little storefront and joining the winding line to order. I knew what she was getting without needing to hear—beef slice rice noodle—while I got my own personal favorite…beef slice rice noodle.

---