Page 8 of Plum

What’s he doing, anyway? Paying with change? My foot wants to tap, but that’s a no-go in seven-inch platform stiletto sandals. I stop starin’ at the floor and check out pervert row, and shit—Clark Kent is handing an empty shot glass to Cue, and they shake hands. Guess he’s not banned. And now he’s comin’ for me.

Sometime while I was twiddlin’ my thumbs, doin’ mental math, Clark must’ve approached the boss. I glare at Cue, that naked-headed mole rat. He shrugs. Asshole. Guess I am all on my own. Story of my damn life.

I cross my arms, tilt my chin and stare into the middle distance, willing Beefy to stop fartin’ around and come rescue me.

“Hi.” Clark Kent stops right in front of me. He sounds like my ninth-grade study skills teacher, fake and way too friendly for the situation.

I crane my neck to meet his eyes.

“Do you remember me?”

“I ain’t givin’ you the money back.” Let’s get that clear from the get go.

His lips turn down ever so slightly, and his freaky electric-blue eyes darken. My pulse kicks up a notch. Never mind the overly nice tone of voice, the fancy suit, and the watch that looks like a secret decoder ring fucked an odometer. This is still a dude who can use his fists, and I ain’t stupid. I ease up on the bitch face and bat my eyelashes at him a few times.

See? I’m a poor, little, helpless bunny rabbit. Let me keep the cash. Come on, rich boy. You don’t need it.

“I’m not here for Eric’s money.”

Good.

Guess he’s here to get his dick sucked like his asshole friend.

“I ain’t suckin’ your dick for free, neither. This ain’t no pre-paid gift card deal.”

“I—” He exhales, frustrated, and rolls his shoulders back. Why’s he all disappointed? Is he really that pressed over a free beej? He shouldn’t be. I ain’t lazy or nothin’, but it ain’t like I’m goin’ for anything besides speed and efficiency.

He takes a deep breath and starts again. “My stepbrother. He hit you.”

He reaches up, cups my cheek, and lightly swipes his thumb under the bruise beneath my eye. Guess I sweated off my concealer. It cost eight freakin’ bucks at the pharmacy. That’s total bullshit. Had eighteen-hours written right on the bottle.

Clark takes his time messing with my face. His hand’s rougher than I’d expect from a suit. There’s a callous on his thumb. He’s gentle, though. Not tentative, but not gropey either, if that makes sense.

“Does it hurt?”

I can’t help it; I roll my eyes. My feet are crammed in seven-inch plastic shoes, my lower back aches so bad it feels like my kidneys are workin’ off a month-long bender, and I’ve got a partially-descended wisdom tooth that’s waitin’ on either winning the lotto or takin’ a much harder blow to the face thanEricdealt me to get fixed.

“I’m good,” I say.

Where’s Beefy? I scan the bar.

Oh, hell no. Angel and Danielle have him hemmed in at the stage bar, both purrin’ in his ear. I think they boughthima drink.

Angel sneaks a glance over his shoulder and winks. Bitches. See if I’m trading shifts with them for the foreseeable future. I swear, whenThe Bachelor’sbetween seasons, those sluts get up to no damn good. Drama llamas, the both of ’em.

“You sure?” His gaze is traveling lower now, resting on my tits, and then skimming down my belly. He gets that puffed up, restless stance that men do when they like what they see and want a taste.

Damn straight he should like what he sees. He’s lookin’ at fifty-dollar purple highlights, an eighteen-dollar a month spray tan membership, and ten-bucks a month and two hours every other day at Future Fitness. This is as hot and tight as a bitch can look and still be broke as a joke.

“Sure, I’m sure.” I cock my head back so I can get a really good look at his face. I’m thinkin’ maybe this ain’t what I thought it was. Maybe Clark Kent liked what he saw last time and wants a turn. A watch like he’s wearin’…he might say yes if I ask for a hundred out of the gate.

“That’s real sweet of you, comin’ to check on me.” I tug my lower lip with my teeth. “Why don’t you let me take you to the way back? Show you how sweet I can be?”

For some reason, he finds this hilarious. A smile breaks across his face, all white and even teeth. My Lord. Those are car loan teeth, right there. Those are pay-off-the-mortgage teeth. I don’t think they’re even veneers.

“Well? Shall we?” I figure a fancy man like him, he’ll like theshall.

“So, you’re sweet, are you?”

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