Page 27 of Never Date A Player
My supervisor Maryanne works the pit across from the lounge, adjacent to the bar where Jaeger’s friend Mason works. I catch Mason glaring at Drake as he leaves.
What’s up with that?
Mason was one of the guys Cali wanted to set me up with when we first started at Blue. I tried spending time with him. He was nice and cute—safe, because my feelings were never deeply involved. I would have dated him a couple of months ago, but the A-hole taught me that playing it safe can backfire. Mason tried to kiss me and I shut him down.
Damn that botched kiss. If things weren’t so awkward between Mason and me, I’d ask him why the look. But things are awkward and I’m too chicken to go over there.
Everything will be fine. I’ll serve a few patrons upstairs and earn good tips—pad the college fund. No big deal.
Thirty minutes later, I rap lightly on the door to Drake’s suite as a formality and enter using the key card he gave me. The ginormous room is sleek, decorated in beige with dark blue accents and blond, modern wood furniture; the focal point a picture window overlooking the lake and mountains.
Drake lounges across the room in a plush upholstered seat, his elbow over the back of his chair, swirling a clear drink in his hand. He’s all sophisticated nonchalance, hair lightly rumpled, eyes a bit glassy.
It’s only been thirty minutes since I last saw him. Could he get drunk that quickly?
The coffee table in front of him is cluttered with all manner of empty glasses, and it reminds me of the night at the Blue club when I drank way too much too quickly. So yes, it seems it would be possible for Drake to be drunk. But if he has access to alcohol, why does he need me?
Five men chat casually around the coffee table in front of Drake, but Drake’s the only one wearing a suit, his jacket removed, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The other men are dressed in business casual—khakis and polo shirts—like they’ve just come from the golf course.
Drake glances up, a hungry smile sliding across his face. “Gentlemen,” he says, grabbing their attention. “This is Genevieve. She’s here to offer her services.”
Whoa. Why would he say it like that? He makes it sound like?—
Gazes roll over my body like an oil slick, sticky and pervasive. A man with a puffy face swivels his chair toward me, crossing his legs at the ankle. A lazy smile plays on his thin, narrow mouth, his eyes half-lidded and focused on my chest.
My hands grow cold and I duck my head, fidgeting with my cash caddy. I’ve gotten used to the skimpy uniforms—being checked out is a part of the job, but this… It’s not right.
“Over here.” Drake gestures with two fingers.
I plaster on a fake smile and approach, determined to get this over with. “What can I get you?”
Drake’s eyes roam my neck, my breasts, to my hips and legs, and back up. I swallow hard. He leans forward, vodka fumes emanating across the short gap separating us. “Genevieve, you look radiant this evening.” I watch in slow motion as his arm snakes out and coils around my waist, bringing me to his side.
My heart sputters in my throat. I smile awkwardly, which is strange, given I’m convulsing inside. I dance on tiptoes in a ridiculous attempt to inch away. I don’t see, but sense—which is even creepier—his other hand drift behind my knee and up my thigh in a menacing manner.
I gasp right before his fingers slide beneath my short shorts, the material cutting into my thigh. His arm is so tight around my waist I can hardly breathe, and the requisite nylons aren’t a barrier from Drake’s fingers sliding over my rear and around to my crotch. I’m not wearing panties—none of the waitresses do, because they’d show beneath our uniforms, another reason for the mandatory pantyhose.
I press my tray over the front of my shorts to block Drake’s questing fingers, but the tray is bulky and it doesn’t prevent his hand from moving deeper. He rubs the crease of my leg and brushes over the slit of my body. I bend forward, jerking that part of me out of the way, but he has a lock on my middle and I don’t move far.
My chest seizes. I clench my thighs together. All the self-doubt from this day, Cali’s justified anger—it crashes into me, weighing me down. Whatever strength I gathered from telling Lewis what I thought this afternoon on the paddleboard vanishes. I clam up, verbally, physically, unable to defend myself.
Drake fingers me roughly, pressing, poking—trying to enter me.
A light cry erupts from my throat. I wiggle frantically in a series of spastic tugs and manage to dislodge his hand, but it immediately returns to cup my rear.
Somewhere in my subconscious, I register the click of the door opening behind me.
Another man? I’m already outnumbered.
The men chuckle, the clink of glasses piercing my ears. Chatter about holes-in-one and Drake—a dirty joke about me, I think—are murmured in low, delighted tones.
Drake’s arm tightens, angling my body for better access. “So pretty and soft, Genevieve.” He reaches around and flattens his palm to my belly, sliding lower.
My vision blurs… I can’t breathe.
A throat clears. Masculine, forceful. Not one of the men around the table. The sound came from behind—the person who entered last.
The murmur of excited voices dims, and heads turn. Drake stills, but the arm bracketing my waist doesn’t budge.
