
Boss: A Stepbrother Romance: Book One

Xciting Arrangements Series

By CLAIRE DONOVAN

Copyright © 2015 by CLAIRE DONOVAN

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from CLAIRE DONOVAN.

Cover art by CLAIRE DONOVAN

## Table of Contents

Title Page and Copyright

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Two Months Before

Chapter 2 - Late Night Calls

Chapter 3 - A Game of Chicken

Chapter 4 - Aggravation

Chapter 5 - Opportunity Knocks

Chapter 6 - Big Brother

Chapter 7 - Kelly's Secret Life

Chapter 8 - Bumper Pads

Chapter 9 - Social Circles

Chapter 10 - The Smoker

Chapter 11 - Playing Doctor

Chapter 12 - Two Girls, One Body

Chapter 13 - Escort, Me?

Chapter 14 - The New Girl

Chapter 15 - The Interview

Extras

## PROLOGUE

* * *

### Alyssa

IT'S JUST THE TWO OF us in his office. In all my life I've never felt such charged tension with a man and I know we're not fooling around anymore. A hush falls over the room and an unmistakable heat is rising in the narrow slip of space between us; any spark could set us off. He's standing right in front of my face while I sit unmoving in the interview chair, staring at an obvious outline swelling inside his pants leg. If I do anything at all, it's the same as throwing my life away. I'm breathing heavily, a little damp and silky from his provocation.

I don't know what takes over me, but I suddenly start unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. I'm angry, I'm aroused, and I'm damn sure not going to chicken out this time. I know I'm not in the same universe as him when it comes to sexual experience, but I get the general idea of what to do. My heart is racing and I feel a heady moment of satisfaction when a flicker of shock registers in his eyes. This is about to get real between us.

"I want something more, _Boss_ ," I tell him. Mace has never backed down or backed off from any challenge and I know he won't try to stop me. "If this is only way to a better life, then I'll do it."

I come off the chair and kneel in front of him, looking directly up into his eyes. He releases a held breath and I feel his tense body relax. I can tell he likes watching me but his silence makes me nervous and my cheeks redden. I smile and ask him if he's enjoying what I'm doing. His eyes burn brightly with lust and pleasure.

He pulls my hair back over my shoulder and takes it up in both his hands. I hear him moaning my name, 'Alyssa', as his fingers begin unzipping my dress. My top falls away and his hands cup my breasts beneath my black bra. The sensation of his rough fingers caressing my nipples makes me light-headed. The molten heat of my intense passion surprises me, sweeping aside any of my last regrets. I can't help giving him whatever he wants.

My one hope is that he'll come to realize he desires me only for himself, before he callously auctions my virginity away to a wealthy stranger.

## 1

* * *

## TWO MONTHS EARLIER

### Alyssa

TRENTON, NEW JERSEY, IN THE middle of winter, is not the place or time to have heater problems in your car. My defrost will work seven days in a row, then quit at the worst possible moment. Tonight my cold breath is fogging up the windshield and I can't even see thirty feet ahead. If I roll my window down I can actually see the road, but then the freezing night air blasts my cheeks. I desperately need a new car, or at least one built in this century.

My frozen hand furiously clears a small viewport in the icy windshield, but new layers of frost build up impossibly fast. I look for a place to stop where I can really scrape away at the thick sheet, but the mountains of snow lining the road's shoulder won't allow me to pull over. I can only crawl shamefully along as endless columns of dependable cars rush past me on the highway. I keep rubbing out circles, barely able to see the road in the black night.

I spot a strip mall parking lot where I can safely turn off the highway. There are about six stores in the lot, among them a dollar store, a dry-cleaner, and a hair salon. All the businesses are dark and empty, except for a seedy neighborhood bar named 'The Mousetrap'. An animated sign above its red door features a little neon mouse repeatedly caught in a trap. It's not the most reassuring sign I've ever seen. I shove open my car's sticky door and grab my plastic scraper to attack the ice.

The cars rushing by me on the highway spray slush at my feet, and one car's passengers even roll down their windows to laugh and yell at my skirt blowing up in their draft. I should have worn jeans to the concert in Philadelphia, but I wanted to dress up a little. The backstage passes drummer boy Tommy gave me to see his band don't seem very valuable at the moment. When I arrived before the show he was already drunk and entertaining three tramps, who he had also gifted with tickets. Turns out I wasn't as special as he made me feel when I met him at the university mixer. I spun right around and left the arena. Normally I wouldn't spontaneously drive a lonely hour to meet some rocker I had flirted with for fifteen minutes, but lately I've had the silly feeling that I might bump into Mr. Right anywhere, at any moment.

I hold my whipping hair back with one chapped hand and scrape, scrape, scrape with the other. Even warm gloves are a luxury these days. I feel like some struggling penniless orphan girl in a Dickens' novel and it sucks. I manage to clear a slightly larger hole in the layers of ice, but I can't endure the freezing wind another second. I dive back into my car and shut the door, or at least I attempt to shut the door. It won't close. The door catch is stuck, frozen stiff.

I kick the heavy door in frustration with my knock-off Uggs. Not one thing in my life seems to be working right now. Everything is either broken or worthless. My cell phone battery is clearly on the worthless list. It barely holds a charge and right now it's hovering in the red, just above empty. I might have enough power to make two or three quick calls for help.

I try my roommate Kelly first. She's dependable and reliable but she doesn't pick up her phone this time. I don't bother wasting power to leave a voice mail, because she never checks her box. Next is my other roommate, undependable and uncaring Gia. Her phone rings and rings and finally there is a pick-up, informing me that her mailbox is full. Surprise, surprise, she never checks her messages either.

My good friend Simon doesn't own a car. When I count my cash I find I have seven dollars and fifty-four cents on me, not enough for a taxi. Knowing that this is probably my last chance to call someone for help I reluctantly pull up the contact for my stepbrother, Mace, who is an ass. A cocky, skirt-chasing, testosterone driven, MMA fighting ass. I'm drowning in student debt while he's making millions doing things he won't talk about. I hate having to ask for his help, and I definitely don't want him back in my life. Even though there was a time when we actually had fun together, things are tense and complicated between us now. We've barely spoken, except during infrequent meetings at lawyers' offices, in the two years since our parents' funeral.

Our rupture began at our parents' funeral. It was a late November afternoon, and I clearly remember standing silently next to him at their gravesites, his untamed mane and beard hiding his mute lips and grinding jaw. I threw flowers in both graves but Mace, his dark eyes glowering, tossed flowers in his mother's grave and then pelted my father's coffin with a wadded hundred dollar bill.

"Why would you do something awful like that?" I yelled.

"My mother loved flowers but the only thing your father loved was fucking money," he said, turning to walk to his car. I ran to his side and yanked at his coat. I wanted him to face me.

"That was so vicious and disrespectful! Not just to him, but to me!" I shouted, my eyes brimming with tears.

"The truth hurts," he said coldly. "Your father killed himself and murdered my mother. Crashing his plane was a coward's way out. Don't you ever read the papers, Alyssa? Pull your head out of the sand."

"Why don't _you_ shove your head into the sand instead!" I screamed. "And keep it there until you suffocate!"

"You're really something," Mace laughed, continuing his trek back to his car, his shoulder length black hair and heavy dark coat bouncing in rhythm to his powerful strides. At the bottom of the hill he turned one last time and yelled up to me, "Fuck me if you aren't something!"

Then he drove off, leaving me alone on the crest of that gray hill in the middle of the cemetery. At that moment I hated Mace as much as I've ever hated anyone. Since then I've gradually unearthed a few of my father's buried skeletons. They aren't very pretty to look at. From the press and his many lawyers I learned that my father, billionaire Senator Theodore Carlyle of New Jersey, was deeply involved in the shenanigans of the recent financial crisis. His estate was insolvent. He was under criminal investigation. There was even suspicion that the crash of his Piper Saratoga was a murder-suicide, just like Mace said. The papers eventually declared that 'pilot error' was the cause and I think everyone in Washington, DC rejoiced to have a somewhat tidy ending to my father's very untidy career.

At the last lawyer's' meeting, six months ago, Mace didn't even bother to come. I had hoped there might be something left of the estate to pay for my Princeton education, but that was when I learned of its absolute insolvency. Even our family's lake house is to be auctioned off soon to help pay off legal judgments and debts. I sold my Mercedes to help cover this year's tuition and ended up with this crappy car. Now here I am in my third year of pre-med drowning in student debt, with no idea how I will ever afford medical school, even if I get accepted.

Mace will be pissed that I'm calling him for help. I'll probably have to apologize a thousand times, but I think he'll come get me. I hesitate before finally hitting the call button. I listen to it ring several times before Mace's deep voice answers, "This is Mace."

"Mace! I need your help! My car is broken and..."

"I'm probably listening to you right now, screening my calls. So start talking and if I want to speak to you I'll pick up the phone. Otherwise leave me a message at the tone..." Shit, it's his smartass voice mail.

"Mace, this is Alyssa. I'm in a grungy part of town, parked at a strip mall on 206, near I-95. There's a neon sign for a Mousetrap Bar. I need your help. My car's defrost isn't working and the door won't close. I can't drive it. If you're there can you come get me? My cell phone is dying.... " and with that my phone dies and powers down.... Now what? Sitting in a car that won't lock isn't a good idea. It's less than perfect but the Mousetrap is probably the best place to wait for him. Surely Mace will see my car and think to look for me in there.

A burly wind catches the Mousetrap's door when I open it, flinging me backwards and blowing a curtain of snow inside. I stumble forward and pull it firmly shut. Everyone in the dive is looking at me. There are only three booths and they're all taken. I take a seat on a dingy red vinyl stool at the bar, close to the door. I discover how lucky I really am when I realize that I'm the only woman in this bar full of horny desperate men. A paunchy older guy orders the bartender to set me up with whatever I want. "When it comes to a pretty girl, candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker," a man at his side whispers, loud enough for me to hear, and all the men within earshot laugh. Since I only have my seven dollars and change I decide that I'll accept a rum and coke, to sip slowly until Mace arrives. After about ten minutes a guy sitting near me makes a comment about my blonde hair and long legs. Not long after that, another patron, lounging in a booth with a friend, calls over. "Girlie, what are you doing sitting at the bar? Come join us in our booth."

"Thanks, I'm fine," I decline. "I like sitting at the bar."

Now his friend ambles over to try his luck. "Most of the women who come in here have a brown bottle in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. You look classy."

I can't imagine any universe where a meeting with Mr. Right is predestined to happen in a bar like this, and by now I'm pretty sure that Mace isn't coming. I just want to get home the fastest way I can. The rum is doing its job, lending me a little warmth and some liquid courage. I decide to head out on the long cold journey back to my apartment. I finish my drink and quietly slip out the door.

Scrunching down in my car's back seat I peer out the window. When no one leaves The Mousetrap after me, I pull my Under Armour leggings on and slide off my winter skirt. Now I'll at least look like I'm out for a purposeful late night run. I head off down the highway, jogging on the shoulder and staying away from traffic.

Five minutes later, some madman pulls his car over onto the shoulder and races up behind me, honking his horn and flashing his lights. He looks like trouble. I do everything possible to get away from him. I dash up and over piles of crusty snow to put distance between us. I run as fast as I can to reach the protected roadside where his car can't follow. Leaping a guardrail my foot catches, sending me tumbling down an embankment. I hear a ripping sound before a sharp sting slaps my head.

"Are you okay?!" a deep voice asks.

A mysterious woodsy scent rouses me back to consciousness. The twirling ground spins and wobbles like a top that's losing momentum. I'm not sure where I am. I'm wet and cold. A man is leaning closely over me. His rough hands are smoothing my damp hair away from my brow. He's covering me with a warm coat. I realize that the scent surrounding me belongs to him.

A mask of darkness covers his clean-shaven face, but somehow his eyes pierce through the shadows into mine. His shining white dress shirt strains to contain the bunched muscles of his chest and shoulders, its sleeves rolled up haphazardly over his thick forearms. His arms cradle me close to his warm body. I feel safe and cared for. His short cropped hair begs my fingers to ripple over its burry softness, and when I reach up to touch his lush hair he doesn't protest. He doesn't say anything at all. I wait in his arms for him to do whatever he's going to do next. Am I in a dream? I don't have complete control of my senses. His magnetic lips are full and passionate, drawing mine close. I must be moonstruck, because I impulsively press my lips to his. When I do, I feel something familiar and I'm even more drawn to him. I don't want to stop. I kiss him fully and deeply and our tongues brush. I feel him respond but then he suddenly pulls away. The warmth I felt is replaced with cold separation. A bark of his gruff voice brings me back to my senses, with a stinging lash.

## 2

* * *

## LATE NIGHT CALLS

### Mace

BUSINESS IS GOOD. I'M HAVING my best year ever, my best _money_ year ever, anyway. I grossed over five million dollars last year doing things most people probably wouldn't approve of at all. If they knew what I did for money, everyone would think I'm a real low-life. But, whatever, let's just say I fulfill people's fantasies.

I _arrange_ things between people.

I bring together the haves and have-nots and everybody's happy. Everybody gets what they want. Maybe I'm not a billionaire like my piece-of-shit stepfather was, but the money I make is cleaner. What a kick in the head that is.

So if I've got it all together, what am I doing alone on a Friday night? Taking care of business, making arrangements. Truth be known, I'm not exactly alone. My go to girl, Morgan, is here with me, somewhere in this hamster maze that I lease. Morgan is twenty-six, two years older than me. And yes we have hooked up in the past, but now we just work together.

Morgan's really more of a business partner than an employee. Truth be known, she does most the work. I have to give her credit where credit is due. It's not that I'm a lazy ass. I work hard, but Morgan is all about business, all the time. She finds the customers, and she finds our service providers. The whole business is really her idea. She came to me about four years ago with this brilliant plan for starting a high-end online escort business. She had it all figured out. Morgan has a lot of connections in the sex trades. Only catch was she didn't have the money to set the business up. I had the money, so it's my business. But if I ever leave the business I'll give it over to her to run. She's that good and she's earned it. But make no mistake, I'm the fucking boss.

I take my business seriously, and that's why I'm in my office almost every Friday and Saturday night. Those are our busiest nights. I troubleshoot and keep things running smooth. I don't like lame interruptions and when I hear my phone go off in the next room I'm thinking, "Who the hell can that be?" I don't give out my private number to many people. It's probably one of my garage friends wanting to go out to the clubs. Truth be known, I don't really like hanging out at clubs anymore. There's too much fucking drama brewing inside clubs.

I have to constantly deal with the club girl types in my business anyway, and I don't enjoy spending my free time with them as well. I don't have any great urge to chat the girls up and get to know them. There's nothing to know. Most of them only have about five things to say. They repeat things over and over, like parrots. I'm particular about the girls I hang out with.

If I want to hook up with a girl I usually go to New York or Philadelphia. I'm not looking for any involvement. Anyway things stay pretty busy around here at night. Like I can't even get to my phone to make sure it's not anything actually important, because the front door is buzzing like crazy to let someone in.

I always check the security cameras to make sure I know who it is that wants in, and that no one else is within twenty yards of them. Some people are fucking insane enough to want to try and jack us. Right now it's one of our girls wanting in. There's no one else with her. I'm sure she just wants to be paid. Our girls never discuss money with the customers. Dicking around about money is an excellent way to get busted, and it can start unnecessary arguments. Morgan takes care of pay-outs and charges. I get involved when there's a problem.

"Morgan!" I yell, after buzzing the girl inside. On the security feed I watch her enter and turn down the hall, headed straight toward my office, instead of left to Morgan's. What the hell is this? Why isn't she going to see Morgan? Maybe she's had some trouble with a customer.

"So what's up?" I ask when she waltzes in. She's a wavy-haired brunette wearing a tight red club dress and matching shoes. Of course I can't help noticing her figure. She's about to fall out of her top. But I'm not going there with one of our girls. Been there, done that, and it never works out well.

"Oh, I just wanted to pop in and say 'hi' to our Boss. Is that your black Audi, out front, Mace?"

"Fucking aye," I answer, wondering where she's going with this.

"Wow, it's gorgeous. I'll bet it's a super smooth ride. I wouldn't mind taking a spin in it sometime."

Well, fuck, here we go. Apparently it's also my job to entertain bored girls whenever they feel like it. Truth be known, chit-chat is not my strong suit. Not even close. I hear Morgan in my head telling me to be polite. The girl works for us after all. She probably makes some serious bank for the business. I'm pretty sure she's hinting she wants to go out, like I'm supposed to say, 'Sure, but let's stop by my place first,' and then we stay in all weekend. "Maybe another time," is what I do say.

"Okay, another time," she says, twisting her lip. "I really hate to bother you on a Friday night, but Morgan said we can get paid whenever we need money. Not that I need money, you know, but the weekend and everything."

"Yeah the weekend," I say. "Morgan's somewhere around here. Let me find her for you."

I would pay the girl myself, but I only have a few hundred in my wallet and a few hundred is chump change. It's not good for business if the girls see me low on cash. I'm sure whatever I have in my wallet won't be near enough for this girl. She looks like a star performer.

I head down the hall to find Morgan. I don't know why she's not answering when I'm clearly yelling for her. We need at least two lousy intercoms, so we can stop shouting down the halls to each other. "Morgan! A girl wants to get paid!"

This shit happens to me all the time. A lot of the girls we hire want to go out with me. I would put a fucking bag over my head or something, but it probably wouldn't help. With my luck this girl would like bad boys who wear grocery bags over their heads. Truth be known, it wouldn't kill me to spend the weekend with her, but a boss has to keep a little distance from his employees. She has a great body and I'm sure she knows how to use it. We wouldn't hire her to work for us if she didn't. She takes my arm as we walk down the hall. I finally remember her name – Jackie. I don't know why Jackie's attaching herself to me. I didn't give her a great big hug when she came in. She slides her hand down my jeans, curling her fingers into my belt loops.

"When do you get off?" she asks, twisting her fingers in the loops. "You do get out, don't you, Mace? I mean, you don't stay cooped up in here all the time, do you?"

"I'm really busy tonight," I remind her. "Maybe another time, like I said before."

"You're only saying that to be polite," she says.

Yeah, I guess I am just being polite. Truth be known, I'm kind of proud of myself for staying so polite. I finally come across Morgan in her second office, wearing her earbuds at her computer. I wave my hand in front of her face. She turns to greet us and yanks out her earbuds.

"Can I help you?" she says with a great big smile. Morgan has really thick black hair and icy blue eyes. She's a French-Caribbean bombshell who could be a supermodel if she wanted, with her long legs. They're about a yard each. She looks great in everything she wears.

"Jackie wants to be paid," I tell her, putting my arm to the small of Jackie's back and pushing her gently forward. Jackie looks disappointed, but Morgan makes her feel better when she takes out a strongbox full of cash. I wave goodnight and leave the room to hunt for my phone.

Money always makes a let down easier, but if Jackie really knew what a dick I was she wouldn't be so interested in me. Then a thought zaps me from out of the blue. What if Jackie and Morgan end up going out together tonight and getting drunk and naked and.... I should be there for that. I should look back in on them after a few. I find my phone and check my voice messages.

Fuck, it's a message from my stepsister, Alyssa. Some sort of car trouble. She must be in some hot mess to be calling me. We've been on the outs ever since our parents funeral. It's not my choice, but there's not much for us to talk about now, not until she decides to get real about her father.

There was a time when we were pretty close. In our teens we spent time together at the summer house on Lake Canandaigua. We used to have fun there, taking out the boats and goofing off the dock with our summer friends. Even though I was a couple of years older it was hard not to notice what a knock-out she was. She has this exquisite blond hair, amazing blue eyes, and a great figure. And when she isn't being annoying, or stubborn enough to train a cat, she's actually pretty good company. All through high school she was away at an all girls prep that her asshole father banished her to, an ice princess hidden away in a frozen white tower in the middle of fucking nowhere.

I tried to break her out of her ivory tower before, but it was no use. She's stuck there and I'm way outside, far below. Our worlds don't mesh. I thought I almost broke through once when she was home for Christmas her senior year. Everything was jolly. She'd just had a birthday and turned eighteen, an early admission letter from Princeton arrived the day before, and daddy gifted her with a hundred thousand dollar Mercedes. Alyssa's life was looking pretty much perfect. It hit me that we were moving in very different directions. And maybe I should just fade from her world, but at the time I didn't want to.

That night I really messed up. I kissed her when I was driving her to some rich kid's party. We'd been ice skating and holding hands while she guided me around the rink. The moon was just rising. It was really romantic or something and I leaned over and kissed her lips. I was surprised when she looked right into my eyes and kissed me back. Incredible. Neither of us was expecting that to happen and we went quiet the rest of the ride. Three hours later I'm picking her up at the party and she's kissing some jerk on the steps. But that's Alyssa for you. She doesn't know what she wants but I know for sure that I'm not it. I won't let my guard down with her again.

When I pop my head back into Morgan's office to let her know I'm heading out, Jackie folds her arms under her big tits and pouts like I should take her along. She sure as hell doesn't take it very well when I smile and wave goodbye. She seems certain that I'm giving her the blow off, which I am.

## 3

* * *

## A GAME OF CHICKEN

### Alyssa

WHAT THE HELL, ALYSSA? ARE you out of your mind? Why were you running from me? And why the kiss?" The white knight of my cock-eyed dreams is Mace. I didn't recognize him because I was knocked senseless, and he's totally changed his appearance. No more long hair; his beard is gone. Oh my god I can't believe I just kissed Mace again!

"Why was I running away from _you_?" I yell, going on the offensive. "I didn't know who _you_ were. You were driving like an idiot. I thought some mobster was trying to run me down!"

Mace is studying me and I think I see the hint of a smile cross his face. I'm so embarrassed that I kissed him, but even worse I think I actually enjoyed it. His lips are so... tempting. But I definitely don't like the way they're so arrogantly smiling at me. What could possibly be funny? I wonder what he's thinking. I've always had trouble reading him. His silence makes me nervous.

"Are you going to stare at me or help?" I ask.

"It's pretty hard not to stare at your ass."

I twist at my waist to look behind me, and discover my backside is hanging from my torn gym leggings. "My Under Armour is ruined!" I groan.

"That's all you're worried about? Your Under Armour? Let's get you to my car. We'll come back for that piece of shit car of yours in the morning."

Mace repositions his leather jacket to cover my shoulders and back. He scoops me up into his arms and carries me over piles of snow to the road. For some reason, even though he's an ass, I feel safe and warm in his powerful arms. It's not the first time I've felt this way. My father warned me against looking up to him but there's a lot to look up to. Maybe deep down I've been missing the warm connection we once had.

When I was a senior in high school he was my favorite person. Whenever I was with him I felt calm and excited, all at the same time. During my winter breaks home we would toboggan down the treacherous hill behind our barn, me laying on top of his strong back and shoulders, enjoying the feeling of being close and warm with him, gripping into his muscles with my nails, surrendering my fate to his sure-handed guidance of our rocketing sled. I wouldn't think of doing it alone, but with him I felt indestructible as we raced down the hill, toward the creek and the narrow bridge across it, impossibly dangerous, and yet we always made it safely over.

"You didn't know who I was," he smirks. "So kissing random strangers is becoming routine for you...it must be fucking embarrassing to be outed."

"Mace, please don't tease me. My head hurts. I must have hit it pretty hard," I tell him. "I think I was knocked out for a little bit. I didn't know what I was doing."

"No wonder. Christ. Let's get you to the emergency room."

"I'm okay. Just take me home. I can't afford a trip to the ER. I don't have health insurance."

"I'm taking you to the emergency room," he says flatly.

Mace opens the door and lifts me into his car. We pull onto the highway and once we're underway, I look at him with fresh eyes. He looks so different from the last time I saw him. I check out the lines of his clean shaven face. I've always liked his features; he's interesting to look at. With his beard gone I can see his strong jaw line and the many scars from his MMA fights. My palm remembers the feel of his cheek, bristly and warm.

"I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble," I say.

"No trouble at all," he says, another little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "So other than your head hurting and your ass hanging out of your pants, how are things going?"

At his question, I realize a good portion of my naked hip and thigh is still exposed to him. The rip in my leggings is huge. I take off his coat to cover my lap.

"When did you start wearing dress shirts?" I ask, trying to shift the conversation away from my odd behavior. "I've hardly ever seen you in anything but jeans and t-shirts."

"Truth be known, my business partner and I decided we needed to start dressing more professionally, at least when we're in the office."

Hmmm... whatever business Mace runs, he's always been tight-lipped about it. I don't ask and he doesn't tell. He works a lot at night and I think it's something really profitable that he runs underground. He's twenty-four and a multi-millionaire. Maybe he deals in drugs or sells illegal arms. I hope he doesn't end up rotting in jail. He's too young and he really is a good guy, underneath his intimidating size and appearance.

"Were you trying to kill yourself, driving with no defrost?" he asks. "That would be a ridiculous way to die. I'll bet you couldn't see a damn thing."

"It wasn't easy," I admit. "Really, Mace, we don't need to go to the ER. I'm fine. It was just a little bump on the head."

"Head injuries need to be checked out, even I know that much, _doctor_ ," he says pointedly. "Your lights went out. Sorry, but we're going."

I guess I don't have any say in the matter. He's driving really fast over the slush-filled potholes and black ice. "Mace, can you slow it down a little?" I yell as he flies through a traffic light turning red. "This would be an even more ridiculous way to die."

"Chicken?" he smiles, speeding toward the next yellow. Chicken is an ancient game between us. We don't back down from each other's challenges.

"No, I'm not," I shudder, looking away out my window. If something bad is going to happen I don't want to see it coming.

I only surrendered at Chicken once, years ago, when I refused to strip and go skinny-dipping with Mace and three of our summer friends, off the dock of our boathouse. When Mace dropped his swim trunks I was petrified. I don't know whether I was excited or mortified. I couldn't move an inch. All the boys jumped in and laughed at me from the water. I stormed back to the boathouse, hot tears of anger and pride salting my burning cheeks. I stayed inside for the rest of our vacation, watching from our picture window while the boys dove from the dock. I hate the memory. That defeat really punctured my pride. I hate being called chicken. I'm thankful Mace isn't bringing it up again. In fact I'm surprised he isn't torturing me with a retelling of the story.

We race the twenty blocks to the ER, screeching to a stop in the turn-around. Mace commandeers a wheelchair to rush me inside.

"And what is your chief complaint, young lady?" a hardened nurse asks me at the registration window.

"That I'm broke," I answer, and both the nurse and the registration girl beside her break out in laughter. It's not that funny and I can't even smile with them. I meant it to be ironic. I really can't afford this visit.

"That's our chief complaint, too, honey," the nurse smiles. "But what is your injury or symptoms?"

"I fell and hit my head..." I begin, "and..."

The nurse stands up from her chair to inspect me. She looks over at Mace.

"You fell and hit your head?" she repeats suspiciously. "Where did you fall and how?"

"I jumped over a guardrail on highway 206. I fell down an embankment and hit my head."

"What in the world were you doing out on the highway this late at night?" the nurse asks, baffled by my apparent lack of common sense. I want to explain that I do possess some judgment.

"I was trying to get away from him," I say, retelling my story in detail. "He drove up behind me, honking his horn and flashing his lights..."

The nurse's eyes go wide. I suddenly realize how it must sound to her and I try to backtrack, but Mace interrupts.

"Stop prying so much. She fell and she blacked out. That's all you need to know."

"I need to know more than that," the nurse glares. "We see cases of domestic violence and abuse every day..."

I sense Mace's shoulders stiffen, as if the nurse sucker punched him with her implied accusation. I can only hope he's not going to make a scene like the many I've witnessed before.

"Whoa, bitch," Mace says. "Are you fucking accusing me of hitting her?"

The nurse quickly picks up her phone, her eyes narrowing on Mace: "We have a patient with a possible head injury out front," she barks. "And I need security immediately. There's a man out here threatening me."

The lines of Mace's face grow hard and his eyes glow with a strange brilliancy, a ferocious joy, like he's going to enjoy this fight. I notice a quick expansion of his nostrils. He seems thrilled with the opportunity for battle. I can see the hot blood surging up in his veins, taking possession of him.

"Screw you," he laughs nonchalantly, mocking and defiant. In the next instant, the lobby floods with security guards and several other men, not in uniform. "A show of force," Mace scoffs, pushing his sleeves up higher, above his elbows.

The nurse darts out of her little room, seizing the handles of my wheelchair to take me inside. Mace attempts to follow but the guards step in front of him. "You're not going back with her!" the nurse exclaims incredulously. "These men are here to escort you off hospital property."

The men begin to circle Mace warily. He seems unaffected by any of this and everyone in the lobby senses a brawl brewing. People are moving away or getting closer.

"Mace, please go. I'll get a ride home from one of my roommates or call a taxi."

"Mace? Mace Combs? The MMA fighter?" a black security guard asks. "I thought I recognized you. I saw you fight last month."

"The same," Mace grins. "And I don't want any trouble. I just want to see my stepsister through her check-up and take her home."

"We'll take care of her from here," the indignant nurse sniffs. "Your language and behavior is unacceptable. You need to leave the hospital grounds immediately and stay off for twenty-four hours. It's policy."

"Policy? Fuck policy and you with it," Mace challenges.

"Mace!" I shout. "Stop it! Can't you, just for once, behave like a sane person?"

"Mace," the friendly guard intervenes, "we don't want any trouble. I don't want to get my ass whupped, but the nurse here, she has her authority. We're just following orders. If we can't handle you, then the police will get involved and it'll just keep escalating from there. The doctors will check your sister out, and if she's fine a taxi can take her home."

"Listen to him, Mace! He's talking sense," I add supportively. "Just go back to work. I don't need you here if all you're going to do is fight in the lobby."

Mace grins at me, like we've been united in cahoots this entire time. As if I bumped my head so we could go to the ER and start some trouble. He reaches out with two fingers, lifting the guard's name tag. The other men stiffen and coil, ready to pounce. Mace lets the man's badge flop back down.

"George, you seem like a righteous man and I'm going to trust you," he says, pulling out his wallet and handing the peace-loving guard a hundred dollar bill. "See that she gets home safe. This should cover her cab fare."

"She'll get home safe," George assures Mace. "I'll make sure. I'll call her cab myself."

Mace blows the stormy nurse a kiss, and she huffs at him before wheeling me through the doors. I smile in relief and wave a sheepish good-bye to Mace. The heavy doors rattle behind me and I'm rushed down a long hallway filled with moaning people on stretchers.

"We're treating you as a motor vehicle accident head trauma," a different nurse tells me. "Lie still. We have to cut everything off of you, it's protocol. The triage report is that you hit your head and a car was involved."

"Really? I just jumped a guardrail and fell."

"You were out on the highway. There was a car involved and we don't know what happened. Sometimes when people hit their heads they don't remember what happened. Until you're cleared this is how we have to handle it."

The nurses cut off my pants, bra, and underwear. There are men everywhere. I'm completely naked for at least half a minute before they snap a hard plastic collar around my neck, cover me in a blue hospital gown, and roll me like a log onto a backboard.

When the doctor interviews me, I'm embarrassed to admit I only have a scrape on my butt and a throbbing headache. They keep talking about protocols and then whisk me on a stretcher to get x-rays and a CAT scan. Alone in the emergency bay I'm trying to estimate the cost of this ridiculous evening. I'm sure I'm pushing fifteen hundred dollars.

While I'm laid out on my stretcher waiting in the cold hallway I start thinking about our kiss tonight and then I start thinking about the one before. Was I crazy then or now? My senior year Christmas break. Wow. I haven't thought about that night in years. I asked Mace to drive me to a holiday party because I was smart enough to know I would be drinking and I didn't want to total my car on its maiden outing. We decided to go skating first because we had a couple of hours to kill before the party. I wanted to show him how to skate, a little bit anyway. He was a terrible skater, so out of place in the middle of the rink, with pre-school girls whizzing past his legs. I took his hand and let him lean on me while he learned. It was fun and on the way to the party we were stopped at a light when Mace suddenly leaned over and pressed his lips to mine. His hand was warm on my cheek and he smelled so good. I lost my mind and kissed him back.

We drove on to the party without another word. When we pulled up in front of the Woolsey's mansion there were dozens of partiers sitting out on the steps drinking. Evan, my on-again off-again boyfriend, ran up to my window.

"You can let her off right here, driver," he smirked at Mace. "Pick her up in the morning."

"I'll pick you up in the morning asshole," Mace said, "off the fucking pavement."

"Mace, that's enough. I'll call. Before one."

I ended up drinking too much, probably because I was trying not to think about how much Mace's kiss had affected me. I wanted to put it out of my mind. It's not like a stray kiss in the middle of the street has to lead anywhere. When Mace came back to pick me up I made sure he saw me kissing Evan good night on the steps. Maybe it was mean but I didn't want him thinking his kiss had any effect on me. I didn't want the complication of having feelings for my stepbrother. What girl would?

An hour later the ER doctor gives me a clean bill of health. The nurse hands me a bag with my slashed outfit, bra, and panties. She also gives me two gowns to tie front to back for cover, and a folded bag from Subway with a sub and chips. My name is written in a bold hand on the wrap. I ask my nurse about the sandwich as she's helping me into my wheelchair.

"Your stepbrother insisted I give it to you when you were discharged," she smiles. "George, the security guard, has the money your stepbrother left for your cab ride home."

I stuff the Subway meal in the plastic belongings bag, along with my shredded clothes. Maybe I'll eat it when I get home. The nurse deposits me outside the ER entrance into a waiting taxi. Fifteen minutes later I step into the cold wind outside my apartment. My wayward hospital gowns whip around in the wild air, and I hold them down with a hand in between my thighs. Fixing my rowdy hairs behind my ear, I thank and pay the driver and watch as the cab's red tail lights recede into the black.

## 4

* * *

## AGGRAVATION

### Mace

IT'S EARLY IN THE MORNING, and the only other person in the gym is the old guy who unlocks the doors. I like getting to the gym early for my workout, especially when I'm fucking pent-up and frustrated. What's bugging me this morning is that Alyssa calls me up last night, out of the blue, to help her. Do I mind? No. No way. Glad to help. But it's been awhile since she's called me up for anything but trouble. I'm glad to be alone in the gym. It's just me and a heavy bag and I can pound it as hard as I want. When my fists hit the bag I feel relief. _Thump, thump, thump._ Alyssa can be so aggravating, like that kiss of hers last night beside the highway... _Thump, thump, thump._ What the hell was that about?

When I got home, all I could think about was her soft lips. _Thump, thump, thump._ Shit, like I need my bomb-ass stepsister kissing me again. It took me years to get over that first kiss. That perfect soft skin, those sincere blue eyes, and her kissable mouth. _Thump, thump, thump._ Truth be known, the kiss last night started things running around my head, things about her that she wouldn't want to know. _Thump, thump, thump._ Even I don't want to think about them. _Thump, thump, thump._

Alyssa's made it pretty clear that she'd rather not hang out with me, just to kick around and have some fun. That's fine. We're different people. She's all perfect and studious, and I'm not. But everybody's got issues. Her damn issue is that she's a daddy's girl, and daddy was an asshole. _Thump, thump, thump._ What does that make her? I don't mean it in any mean way. It's just that she's never going to find herself, unless she starts taking responsibility for her own decisions. _Thump, thump, thump._ Alyssa grew up taking all sorts of shit for granted, and now that everything she counted on is gone she's come up on hard times. She has to learn that whatever she needs is already inside her.

It's not like I want her all up in my business, but it would be nice to see her every once in awhile, when it's not some fucking crisis or emergency. She always calls me when it's time to see the lawyers about her father's estate. Otherwise she lives her life and I live mine. Sitting in a lawyer's office talking about her father makes me want to run, kick, or punch something. _Thump, thump, thump._ My mother's death in that plane crash was a stupid fucking riddle with no answer. _Thump, thump, thump._ Fuck this heavy bag. _Thump, thump, thump._ Hitting this bag isn't working. I need to get in the ring and fight some guy who wants a pounding.

I don't fight MMA for money, or fame, or to punish myself for being fucked up. I don't need any money, so I keep it strictly amateur. I fight because it wears me out on the days when I'm feeling tense and restless, like today. This crawling sensation comes over me and I know I have to find a fight. There's something intense and satisfying about punching a complete stranger.

I don't hate the guys I fight. Truth be known, I might kind of like them, because they're a lot like me. I just want to get this rage, this energy out of my system and so do they. Fighting relaxes and energizes me. It's strange I know. So I always throw my name in the hat when a local amateur promoter needs a fighter to step in for a match.

K'wuan, a young fighter I sometimes spar with, strolls in and waves to me. He's a quiet black guy from Harlem. His dad didn't give a crap about him either. He was raised by his grandmother. They still watch the Saturday fights on TV together. He's a street-fighter trying to learn all the MMA styles: kickboxing, judo, boxing, and wrestling. He's fought in the cage about six times. I hold up my four-ounce glove to him, beads of sweat trickling down my forehead, and ask him if he wants to spar. He says okay, just give him twenty minutes to warm up.

I smile and nod. I can wait. We like sparring with each other and I don't usually go all out on him. But this morning he's going to feel me. He'll be hurting some after this sparring match, because I'm going to dish out a dose of my aggravation on him. He won't mind too much. Maybe he feels the same way.

## 5

* * *

## OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS

### Alyssa

MY ROOMMATE KELLY AND I PULL into the stripmall parking lot where I left my car last night. On the ride over I couldn't help smiling when we passed the spot where Mace rescued me, but my smile is quickly gone when I don't see my car anywhere. There's just an empty car shaped silhouette cut out of the snow dust where it was parked. The Mousetrap is closed. Where is my car?

"Shit. My car's gone!" I yell. Really? People can't just leave other people's stuff alone? I jump out of Kelly's coupe and slam the door.

"Hey!" Kelly protests. "Don't take it out on my car! Let's go ask someone in that cleaners, maybe they had it towed. It's not like your car screams 'steal me!' or anything."

We barge into the dry cleaners next door to The Mousetrap. It's empty except for a tall weedy looking fellow behind the counter. Kelly gestures for me to step up and do the talking, because it is my car after all.

"How can I help you ladies?" the weedy guy asks, brushing back his hair and standing a little straighter.

"Do you know what happened to that white car parked out front by the highway? It broke down last night and I couldn't do anything about it then. And it's gone now. I didn't give anyone permission to touch it."

The guy shakes his head. "I don't know. It got towed a little while ago. It wasn't us that called though. Might've been the city."

I close my eyes and sigh heavily, whether out of relief or despair I'm not sure. It's probably a little bit of both at this point. Relief because it's not stolen, despair because I'll probably have to uncover some cash that I don't have to get it back.

"Do you remember seeing who towed it?" I ask.

"Yeah. I think it was Williamson Wrecker."

"Thanks for your help," I say, leading Kelly out the door. I borrow Kelly's cell phone to google the wrecker's phone number. After the third ring a gruff sounding man picks up the phone. "Did a truck of yours tow a white sedan from the The Mousetrap lot, on 206, near I-95?" I ask hopefully.

"We tow a lot of cars, lady. You got a license plate number for me?"

"No, but it shouldn't be that hard to look it up."

"I haven't taken a call on a white sedan. Maybe someone else in the shop did. Leave your name and number for me to get back to you later."

"Alyssa Carlyle..." I say, and then I rattle off my contact information. I hang up feeling utterly defeated. Kelly is watching me closely, having waited to start driving until after I got off the phone. She pulls out onto 206.

"What a crappy two days I'm having," I groan. "I'm going to get hit with a huge ER bill, and who knows how much money I'll need to get my car back and fixed. My physics class is putting my scholarship in jeopardy. I can barely afford living expenses and I still have this damn headache from hitting my head last night...." I turn away to hide my tearing eyes from Kelly. I feel completely and utterly overwhelmed.

"I feel for you," Kelly says sympathetically, accelerating to change lanes. There's a note of genuine compassion in her voice, even though I can't imagine her down to her last few dollars. She always seems to have more money than she knows what to do with. "You need a job that pays decent money and doesn't suck up all your time and energy. I think I can get you on where I work."

"I wish, but I don't have any qualifications for a professional job."

A small smile plays across Kelly's glossed lips. "My job doesn't require a degree. I work in luxury sales and marketing. My hours are great. I don't need to work at it very hard and I make a lot of money. Most of the work is in keeping up my personal appearance. My luxury product line sells itself."

"A lot of money would be nice," I admit, imagining myself retiring the debt threatening to topple over on me someday soon. "I could certainly put it to immediate use."

"I've been worrying about you lately. I want you to have this opportunity," Kelly says enthusiastically. "A dark cloud's been following you. Chase it away. You can make enough to buy a new car, and pay all your bills. I make more in one weekend than most people do in a month."

"For real? In one weekend?" I think Kelly is toying with me, but she arches her brow seriously and nods her head. When she pulls up to let me out in front of the Peretsman-Scully building, she slams her BMW in park, so we can talk before I run off to my class.

"Look, I'm working Friday night. Why don't you come out with me and get a feel for what I do? I think you'll be a killer once you get into the swing of things. I love my business manager. She doesn't take shit from anyone and our Boss is a real hottie." Kelly senses my uncertainty in the way I play with the door handle. I don't know whether I'm in or out. She reaches over and pats my arm reassuringly. "Just think about it, Alyssa. No pressure. I don't do high-pressure sales or cold calls. My customers want to work with me."

"Thanks. I'll think about it. I'm just wondering if I can handle a job and a full load of pre-med classes."

"I know you can do it. I have full confidence in you. Cya later." She flashes a smile at me, and races off in her flashy car to the other side of campus.

I have a hard time focusing on my classes through the rest of the day. A lot has happened in the past two days and my head's still spinning. Lots of Motrin helps to keep my headache down, but it doesn't remove my lingering obsessive thoughts about kissing Mace. Surprisingly I get a text from Mace's number while I'm in between classes. That's unusual. My first text from him in months. when/where r u done tnght?

I tap back two characters: y?

just tell me, he replies.

6pm @ Peretsman-Scully, I answer and hit send. He's obviously got something up his sleeve. I wonder what it is.

Coming out of my last class I run into my friend Simon on the front steps. He passes along a rumor that half the students in our physics class are flunking, and he heard my name was on the list. Great news, Simon, thanks. I adjust the zipper of my down jacket, one of the few remaining nice things I have to wear. It's been a real lifesaver this long winter. A loud and familiar honk across the lawn draws my attention. When I look up my eyes grow wide. My car is idling in the no parking zone with Mace leaning back in the driver's seat.

## 6

* * *

## BIG BROTHER

### Mace

SPARRING WITH K'WUAN CLEARS MY head, and afterward I feel energized and relaxed. I head home from the gym ready to deal with Alyssa's problems. I know she doesn't have any damn money. She's too proud to admit that what she's doing isn't working. Maybe she's a little crazy. She keeps doing the same thing over and over, even when it's not working. That's clearly insane.

I would never offer her charity. If it's one thing I've learned life doesn't hand you anything. Still, there's nothing wrong with helping someone out who's going through a rough patch. She'll have to figure her schooling out for herself. I'm not paying her way through eight more years of college. Alyssa chose Princeton, counting on her daddy to take care of all her expenses, before his house of cards fell down.

I have Williamson Wrecker meet me at my apartment, so I can ride with the driver to the shop that works on my Audi, MVC Garage. MVC stands for Mike, Victor, and Cisco. MVC's sort of an outlaw garage for select customers, high-rollers who want insanely cool custom cars and engines. MVC used to be MMC, before I left the business. The first 'M' stood for 'Mace' in the company name.

When I left MMC, Mike got promoted to first 'M'. That's my story and I'm sticking with it. I helped build the garage but I sold my stake to Victor, so I could start my new business with Morgan. MVC's hangar is hidden away and the guys are a little mistrustful of people they don't know. If a wrecker were to pull into their alley from the street, and they had no idea whose car it was, they'd send it on down the road. If I'm there they'll take Alyssa's car in and get started on it right away, because I always pay double for front-of-the-line service. Money talks.

Mike greets me when the wrecker pulls up, and orders the driver to back it right into an empty bay. Mike looks like you would expect him to look. Tattoos covering his arms, a full stubble beard, thick black hair. He's always running his fingers through it, combing it back like fucking Fabio.

"How's tricks?" he grins, fingers sweeping his hair back. All the guys know the kind of business I'm in. They also know that none of my girls are cutting them any price breaks, even if they are tribe.

"Business is really soft," I grin. "Easy to get in and out of."

"All that beauty around and you're so ugly," Mike says, shaking his head.

"Yeah. Hey, sorry _hombre_ , for not sending you a card."

"For what?"

"For when that long hair of yours pulled your face into that fan belt."

"You're thinking of someone else. When I'm working on an engine I keep my hair all tied up in a knot, under my cap. Safe and secure."

"What goes on around here these days, anyway? I had no idea you were running a pony tail hair salon on the side."

"Girls like long hair, Mace. But you wouldn't know anything about how to please a girl, would you?"

"None of my girls are complaining, Mike," I smile. "But enough of these bullshit pleasantries and on to business. This piece of shit is my stepsister's and I want it safe for her to drive. There's no heat, door won't close, and it probably needs almost every fucking thing done. Do whatever you think it needs."

"Right away, boss," Mike says. "Do you have her key?"

"Hell no," I groan.

"Doesn't matter. Cisco will cut a new one. It'll be a couple of hours before we're done, but you don't have anything especially important to do at nine in the morning, do you? Make yourself at home. The newest Heavy Metal is in and there's a Girls Gone Wild, too. "

I pick up the Heavy Metal, but when I finish the graphic novel and short stories I'm through. Nothing else interests me, not even Girls Gone Wild. I start thinking about Alyssa again. I could give her a job helping Morgan to plan events and make hotel reservations, but there's no way she wouldn't eventually piece together what I really do. Once she started seeing all the cute girls traipsing in and out of my office she would want to know what it's all about. She would catch on pretty quick.

I don't want her to know what I do. She thinks I'm a big enough dick as it is. What if she knew I was also a pimp? She would think I was the biggest dick in the world and, even if I am, I don't want her to think it. Truth be known, despite what anyone else may think or believe, I care about Alyssa a lot. Even during the past two years, when we've been on the outs, I've kept a distant eye on her. I've always looked out for her safety.

When Alyssa was a high school freshman at that St. Mary's there was this fucked-up competition at a nearby boy's prep school. The seniors kept count of how many underclass girls from St. Mary's they could seduce. There are plenty of creeps at private schools, same as everywhere else. So I drove over to that prep school the first Saturday it was in session, spreading the word around campus to keep away from her.

This one big football jock steps forward to tell me he's a black belt in karate, and to go fuck myself. I didn't hesitate. I smashed his mouth and he went down. I didn't let up after that first punch and I just destroyed the asshole. There was blood everywhere. Being a black belt doesn't help much if you're fucking stone cold on the ground. After that guy took his beating word got out to stay away from Alyssa. I think the rape competition might have stopped altogether after that. It's not like I was a bully or anything. He was a year older than me and thought he was a bad-ass. You ask me, he was just a punk-ass.

Anyway, after a couple of hours Alyssa's car is fixed so that it's safe and driveable. A car's defroster shouldn't be the palm of your hand. A heater should work when you need it to work. I text her to find out when she's out of class, so I can pick her up. I stop in at the ER to pay her bill, breaking hospital policy by returning to the campus before twenty-four hours are up, big fucking deal. Do they want to get paid or not? Then I drop by a sporting goods store to replace the Under Armour she ripped.

I'm waiting on campus, in a no parking zone, when I finally catch sight of Alyssa coming out of her class. She looks great even in a winter jacket and hood. The thing about a great-looking girl is that she always looks great, with or without make-up, whether her hair is perfect or mussed, twenty layers of clothes or none at all, step-sister or counter girl, doesn't matter. Alyssa is just like that. She walks into a room of a hundred people and you notice her right away.

I see her zipping her jacket on the front steps of the building. This tall guy with blonde hair, cut all different lengths in some sort of fancy style, approaches her. I honk to get her attention. At first it's just like last night. She doesn't seem to recognize me, even though I'm sitting in her crappy car. Then she realizes it's me and turns to hug the guy she's with. I control my hands by gripping the steering wheel tighter. I take a deep breath and throw my gym bag in the backseat, to make room for her when she piles in. I hand her the sporting goods bag with her new gym clothes.

"What's this?" she asks, opening the bag and pulling out her new gear.

"It's nothing, don't sweat it," I say.

"And my car is fixed?" she asks in wonder, putting her hands in front of the warm air pouring from the dash vents. It feels good to see her smile.

"It was minor shit, heater blower resistor, clean and grease the door hinge. I also had the guys flush your coolant, clean the engine, change the oil and wipers, new brakes, new tires. You're good to go."

"Mace, I'll pay you back, as soon as I can."

"No, you won't. I also paid your ER bill. Just letting you know, so you don't worry. You have enough worries with school."

She starts crying. Christ. Maybe I went overboard. She looks out her window and I start driving to get us off campus. Two minutes pass before she breaks the silence and starts talking again: "I love looking out my defrosted window." It's all she says, but she has this sad smile on her face that's just amazing to look at.

I don't know what else to say. We drive another couple of silent miles. I hadn't planned on doing anything besides heading into the office, but maybe we need to spend some time together. "You want to head to Starbucks for coffee?" I ask.

"A mocha latte would be great," she says.

Alyssa directs me to a Starbucks she knows on Nassau Street. I can hardly find a parking space and there are a shit ton of students inside, losers surfing on their Macs. I tell Alyssa to grab the last table while I get in line. I add a blueberry scone to the order, because I know she likes them. I get a double shot of espresso in my latte. I need the jolt.

"I've been on edge all day," she says, sipping her latte. "I don't know if coffee is the best thing to calm my nerves. I wish you had texted me that you were having my car towed. I went with my roommate to get it this morning and it was gone. I worried about it all through my classes."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to worry you. Sparring this morning cleared my head. I was thinking about your situation and I just started taking care of business."

"Well, thank you. I appreciate your help," she says. I notice her eyes staring at my hands when I pick up my cup. When I put my cup back down she suddenly reaches out and grabs my hand.

"What the fuck?!" I practically shout, pulling away. Her eyes go wide. "Sorry, you surprised me is all. Reflexes."

"I'll remember that in the future. I just wanted to look at your hand," she says, taking my hand again to gently inspect it. "Your knuckles are red and swollen. Is that from fighting?"

"What do you think? Of course it's from fighting."

"You're going to end up with bad arthritis if you don't stop soon. You're always so ready for a battle, like last night in the ER."

"That nurse was a bitch."

"Mace! That's just my point. You overreact to minor insults. You can't punch your way out of every problem. That was so embarrassing. It makes me uncomfortable being with you in public. Even coming here to Starbucks is a risk. I never know when you're going to go off. You're a walking timebomb."

"Sorry again," I apologize, but then I'm a little pissed. She's always wanting to know what I'm feeling? Here goes. "Why am I always saying I'm sorry when I'm with you? It's like you're constantly picking apart almost everything about me. I'm sorry I'm me."

"I don't know. I'm sorry I make you feel like you have to say you're sorry."

I start laughing at that and then she starts laughing. This is how I like being with her. We shoot the shit for another fifteen minutes and then she announces she's got to get back to studying.

"I am way behind in physics. Last night I was supposed to read two chapters and I didn't read a single word."

"Yeah, we should get going. You can drive me to my apartment and drop me off there."

"So I finally get to see your secret batcave?" she asks.

"It's not a state secret or anything. You're welcome to drop by anytime," I say, knowing she won't.

When Alyssa pulls up to let me off she leans over the seat to hug me. I hope I'm not messing things up again. I hand her one of my two key fobs, just in case she ever does want to visit. No one else is using it. "It'll get you inside the building, but you still have to knock. It's apartment 405."

I get back in my apartment and realize I left my fucking gym bag in her backseat. I text her to drop the bag by as soon as she has time. It has my lucky pair of fight trunks in it and I have a bout coming up.

## 7

* * *

## KELLY'S SECRET LIFE

### Alyssa

KELLY LOOKS COMFORTABLE AND CONFIDENT in her tight midnight blue backless dress. I like it, but the short hemline makes me wonder what kind of business meeting we're going to. Her glossy red coupe laces its way through traffic. iPhone hooked in, playing her favorite tunes, she suddenly asks: "Are you dating anyone?"

"No," I laugh, looking out the window at the commercial buildings zipping by. My thoughts drift back to Mace and _the kiss_. His lips have been on my mind all day. Everytime I find myself with a free moment the memories of the kiss return. I know I shouldn't be having these feelings but I can't shake them. Occupying my thoughts with silly and trivial stuff helps clear my mind of this troubling new obsession. "I did meet some great guys at that Mousetrap bar the other night."

"Oh, I'll bet they were real winners."

It's nice to be out, having fun. When Kelly asks if my week ever got any better, I tell her about the new visiting professor in my psychology class.

"He's a well-known expert. He'll be teaching the abnormal psych section in my Personality Psychology class. His name is Dr. Sterling Priestley. He's _very_ handsome and smart, probably in his thirties. Today he was giving a lecture about the madonna-whore complex."

"What's that?"

"It's a Freudian theory that men fear expressing affection for women, because they unconsciously desire to have sex with their mothers or sisters."

"Yuck," Kelly says, scrunching her nose. "I don't think I would like that class."

"But I do," I say excitedly. "I like knowing what makes guys tick. Men are so strange, so easily wounded. Anyway, I raised my hand and pointed out that women have similar issues. When I was walking out of the lecture hall I felt Dr. Priestley's eyes on me. I think I made a positive impression on him."

"More likely it was your ass that made a positive impression on him," Kelly says cynically, switching lanes and racing past anyone going less than ten miles over the limit. "Why _do_ guys expect us to have perfect hair and perfect bodies and perfect everything when they usually look like apes?"

I stare out the window. It's important to me that guys realize I have a brain. It's one of the reasons I've had trouble dating and never been in a long-term relationship. Most guys don't want to talk about anything serious or substantial. I find myself deep in thought, my finger twirling in my hair. My stepmother, Eva, Mace's mother, always told me it was an unsightly habit. I only play with my hair when I'm anxious or nervous. Once I catch myself doing it, I stop.

My thoughts keep returning to Mace and I'm wondering why he's decided to help me out so much. I certainly don't want to be a bother, and I know I need to learn to take care of myself. A part of me wants to hand my problems over to him, so that he can steer me though this downhill slide I'm on. I don't want him thinking I'm weak or needy, but maybe Mace needs me too. I'm the only family he has left. Maybe we need each other and we're both too stubborn to admit it.

But now there's this complication of _the kiss_. I should probably pretend like it never happened. Mace seems to have moved on from it. I don't know what's best. I'm so confused these days. I'm having trouble trusting my own feelings and judgment.

Twenty minutes later, Kelly pulls up to a huge building nestled among vast numbers of aluminum-sided warehouses. It's a hopping place and the parking lot is brimming with cars. A gigantic lit sign emblazons its name in the dark: 'The Show Club'. A sign strung on ropes across the front encourages passers-by to 'Party With Us Every Night!'

Security smiles and waves us inside through a set of huge garage doors into a vast open space packed with men, women, and couples. Kelly and I are in the minority, about three guys to every girl. The atmosphere is fun, not sleazy. The bartenders are filling mugs and pitchers for all the beer-drinkers. The DJ is playing rock. It's a decent place but I'm disappointed. I don't want to work in a bar or restaurant.

"Is this where you work? I didn't think you worked in a bar."

"Some nights I do," Kelly assures me. "I'm early. Let's check and see if the couple I'm meeting is at the bar. She'll be wearing a purple dress and he'll have on a western tie and boots. They're from out-of-town. Colorado, I think."

Kelly takes my hand and we squeeze through the crowd to the bar. Scanning the room we don't spot a woman wearing a purple dress who is hanging out with a cowboy. It's odd to me that Kelly's job involves finding unfamiliar couples in clubs. I follow her to the end of the bar where she takes a nickel plated stool with a good vantage point. She warns me quickly: "If they see us before I see them, let me do the talking."

My brow furrows. Easy-going and confident Kelly is nervous. This is all very strange and I look at her suspiciously. "What's all this about?" I ask. "Does this couple run a business you're going to market?"

"Let's have a drink before we talk," Kelly suggests. She flags a bartender over and orders us margaritas with salt. We sip our drinks and watch the bar. I'm feeling the tequila when she turns to me seriously. "I'm afraid of hurting our friendship," she says, taking a long thoughtful sip. "It's complicated." She looks away from me, finishing her drink, shaking it and sucking on the ice. She orders a second round. I'm dying with curiosity. I've never seen her so nervous and uncertain.

"What could possibly hurt our friendship," I reassure her. "Whatever you tell me I promise we'll still be friends."

"Okay, here goes," she warns, leaning into my ear to whisper conspiratorially. "I am a professional escort. I'm going home with the couple I'm meeting tonight. The manager I told you about arranges everything. She checks out and refers all my customers, and after I meet with them she pays me. All I have to do is show up and perform. I get to support myself in style."

I feel the burning heat of a sinner in church spreading through my sizzling cheeks. Did she honestly just say what I think I heard? "I could never do that," I murmur, stunned.

"Oh now, never say never. It works for me and I think it could work for you," Kelly insists, taking my hand. She's a bit sparkly from the margaritas. "I started a year ago. I didn't have a boyfriend, a job, or any money. I was just like you. I was only going to do it for the short term. Well, my first assignment hooked me."

"You go with couples?" I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. "What do the women do?"

"I like women," Kelly admits. "I like dates with couples. I don't get many of them, believe me, but they make for great memories. I get lots of good reviews on the website. My clients are very loyal and they recommend me to others."

"Reviews?" I almost scream. Kelly quickly presses her fingers to my lips, laughing. I lower my voice to an urgent whisper. "You're on a website and you get reviewed?"

"Discretion is as important to me as it is to you. Only members and employees can see my photos or read reviews on the site. My boss interviews every member and employee personally; approved members pay a big lifetime fee and post huge bonds that they lose if they ever violate privacy or confidentiality. Customers who have a verified session with me can post their reviews and experiences. They're usually flattering. I like reading their reviews of our sessions."

I stand up from my bar stool, but suddenly remember I have no way home. Kelly gently tips me back into my seat.

"Alyssa, hear me out," she pleads. "I've never said anything about this to anyone outside the business, but I thought maybe I could help you. I'm not a whore. I like what I do and so do the other girls. I consider it a well-paid hobby."

"I don't think this is for me," I say. So this is what Kelly does to earn her fabulous car? No wonder she sometimes mysteriously leaves on short notice.

"I just don't see the problem. I work a few hours a week and I have fun. My boss pays his girls well. The business manager looks out for us and handles the financial end. They regularly test everybody for drugs and disease. Let's face it, when a guy takes you on a date and buys you dinner he expects something in return. This service just makes sure everything is up front."

"Kelly! You know it's not that clear cut!" I'm so pissed at her for bringing me here, captive, to listen to her pitch for me to become a whore. I can't believe this is how she earns her magic money. Kelly's eyes search my face as if I'm a difficult child she's trying to reason with.

"You can just be arm-candy if you want, Alyssa," she continues. "It doesn't pay as much and it isn't as much fun, but it's always your decision. We have lots of clients; sometimes they need a date to a social event. Sex isn't part of those agreements. We're very clear with our clients regarding limits, so that there's no confusion."

"I don't know what you expect me to say," I protest. "You know I need money. You're trying to convince me it's okay to be paid to entertain men. You're the devil whispering in my ear."

"You never know," Kelly smiles. "It could be that you really like a particular assignment. He might be a man you're aching to go to bed with anyway. Let me show you the website."

Kelly opens a browser on her phone and goes to the xcitingarrangements site. She shows me her profile and I see a list of services she provides, beneath a portfolio of sexy pictures. In one picture she's leaning against a penthouse window in garters and nothing else, smiling at the camera. It's so... _naughty_.

My heart races with excitement as I read over her profile and reviews for the next five minutes. The combination of her revealing bio, mixing with the tequila, arouses my libido. The effect on my body is unexpected and embarrassing. My thin bra barely hides the playful projection of my awakened nipples.

Kelly suddenly looks past me and smiles. She waves across the bar to an attractive woman in a purple dress and a handsome man in a western tie. Both are waving back to her in timid recognition.

"My couple just arrived," Kelly informs me. "I won't be home tonight. They'll drive me home in the morning. Take my car. Here's the website address and a guest name and password."

She writes the website information down on a napkin, folding it neatly and tucking it into my hand with her car keys. "Look it over as a guest member but please burn the napkin. You can submit a job application with my name as a referrer and the guest login. Sleep in my room tonight to escape Gia and Matt's noise, if you want. Bye."

Kelly smiles at me and crosses the dance floor to the excited couple. I look down in my lap at the white knuckles of my fist holding the crumpled napkin. I open my hand, staring at the napkin and the key to her slick red BMW coupe. I'm a good girl. This can't be for me.

I drive home in a dense fog of emotion, close my bedroom door, and stand frozen for a few minutes. I hear Gia and Matt playing _League of Legends_ in her room. His loud shouts snap me back to reality. I don't want to listen to them. I roll into Kelly's room to sleep in her bed, sliding in between her mulberry silk sheets.

## 8

* * *

## BUMPER PADS

### Mace

MORGAN HANDS ME A HUGE fucking stack of folders to take home and look over. She's wearing a sly smile and I'm wondering, is she the boss or am I? It feels like she's a teacher dishing out assignments to me. The folders are full of photo print outs because I don't like messing around with this shit on the computer. She's updating our website and she wants my opinion on new photos for the girls. We try to keep the photos up to date. A lot of the girls' photo galleries are over a year old.

Morgan is taking care of updating all the girls' personal preferences and stuff like that. Tastes change. Like a girl might think she doesn't like a certain type of guy, or a certain type of sex, and a little time goes by and she changes her mind. Maybe she breaks up with a boyfriend, maybe she used to want to do just parties, but now she's okay with sleeping with a businessman, every once in awhile.

So I'm at my dining table, naked photos and shit spread all the hell over everywhere, when someone comes knocking at my door. Truth be known, I never get visitors, so I'm going wild ditching the pictures under a tablecloth. It could be the feds for all I know, here to bust me. I doubt it, because they would just yell out 'The Feds' and bust the door in. They wouldn't knock and say pretty please, to give me time to clean up.

The tablecloth looks like there's a pile of trash underneath but what the hell. I open the door and it's Alyssa. Fuck me for telling her that she could come over any time. She should have at least let me know she was dropping by, but this is Alyssa. No text. No call. Nothing. She's got my gym bag in her hand and she passes it over to me.

"Hey," she says, pecking my cheek during the bag exchange. She smells nice and fresh like she just stepped out of the shower. I like how she has her hair pulled back into a long ponytail. It's easy to see the natural lines of her face. She's never worn much makeup. She doesn't need to. She looks fan-fucking-tastic in her leggings and sweater.

"Thanks for dropping it off," I say, trying to close the door on her. "I'm fighting next Friday night at my gym and my lucky trunks are in this bag. Cya later."

"Aren't you going to be polite and at least ask me in?" she asks.

Not really, I'm thinking to myself. Unless you want to look over a bunch of photos of naked girls with me. "Well, I would but I was just heading out to eat."

"I'm hungry," she says.

"Are you hungry?"

"I think I just said I was."

"Oh, well...want to tag along?" It's the best I can come up with. I have to get her out of here.

"Where to?"

"Somewhere. Anywhere," I say, because really I was going nowhere. I was planning to sit at home drinking beer while I looked over pictures of naked girls. I obviously can't tell her that.

"How about Ricardo's?" she suggests. "I like the chicken marsala."

"A Ricardo's steak sounds pretty fucking good," I say. "Stay here, let me get my coat, and we'll go."

I mean for her to stay at the door and wait for me, but I guess I wasn't explicit enough. I should have said, 'Stay fucking here', because she follows me into my apartment and starts picking shit up. She looks at the rumpled tablecloth.

"We could order in and clean your apartment."

"Is that even polite? Do I come over to your apartment and insinuate that you live like a pig?"

"It's just... well, look around. Look at your table. You can't even eat at it."

"That's how I like things. It's art. It's a sculpture I'm making, 'Mount Fucking Vesuvius'. Let's go."

"I don't mind helping you," she says. "You help me and I help you. That's how things work."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," she says. "That's how things work."

What the hell. Maybe I could get used to having her around, _sometimes_. My hand pushes against the flat of her back and shoves her out into the hall. I lock the door behind us.

Ricardo's is near a bowling alley so, yeah, in the middle of dinner she suggests we go bowling after we eat.

"What is this?" I say. "I thought we were just going out for dinner."

"You have some other big plans?" she asks. "I don't and I haven't been bowling in a long time."

"Actually I do have some work I still need to get done tonight."

"Really? That's what bothers me. All you do is work, workout, fight, and sit on your couch. It wouldn't hurt you to go bowling for an hour or two."

She has me there. It's a stupid argument anyway. I guess I have to go bowling with her. "Okay, so we'll go bowling. After we eat."

I see a soft smile spread across her lips. I've made her happy. I have no idea why bowling with me would make her happy. A great looking girl like her probably has guys falling all over themselves for a date. I remember seeing that same soft smile the night I kissed her. I should have known she was just clowning around when we were skating. It wasn't really a date in her eyes but I like to think it was. This isn't a date either. It's just bowling. It isn't that I mind bowling. I like to bowl. I like the atmosphere. I like the pins clattering and booming. I like going to the concession area for nachos and cokes. I'm a pretty decent bowler.

The counter guy assigns us a lane next to a young kid and his grandmother. Poor kid. He reminds me of how K'wuan probably grew up. He looks bummed out. He can't keep the ball in the lane and the old lady's no help. She can hardly move. I tell them about the bumper pads and turn the pads on for their lane. That makes the kid's day. He knocks pins down with every ball and I give him high fives. His grandmother looks relieved that he's finally having a good time.

"That was nice of you," Alyssa tells me, taking her ball from the return. I watch her ass as she approaches the line. It's a terrific view. She hits a strike, jumping up and down like a cheerleader, yelling all the way back to her seat. She's really having fun. It's Thirsty Thursday and pitchers are half-price. We share a pitcher. I've never seen her drink before and I learn she can keep up with me. I've always thought she was kind of rigid and snooty, even prissy. She's actually pretty good at bowling. I'm beginning to think she knows something about letting loose.

When we get back to my place, I pull up next to her car and turn mine off. Alyssa just stays in my front seat like she's got nowhere else to go. I get out and go around to her side to open her door. She stares into my eyes like she's waiting for something.

"Do you need help getting out of the car?" I ask.

"No. I just don't want to go back to my apartment," she says. "I didn't expect to enjoy myself so much tonight. It felt good to get out."

"Yeah, I had a good time too. But I really do have to get this work done."

"Me too. I have a lot of studying waiting for me back at my apartment. But this was a needed break. Thanks for spending time with me. I forgot how much fun we can have together. Like that time we went ice skating, when I came home from St. Mary's for Christmas break."

"Yeah I remember that. I was actually thinking about that night while we were bowling. I spent most of the night flat on my ass while you showed off. Some things haven't changed, you're still an ice princess and I'm still the dick I've always been."

She starts laughing. "Mace, I'm not an ice princess and you aren't a dick. Okay, maybe you are a little bit of a dick."

"A big dick you mean," I say, grinning.

"Yeah, like that right there," she says, rolling her eyes. "You really are a big dick, Mace."

"Yeah, I am," I say. Truth be known, her flirting is starting to get me hard. It's just not right to have a stepsister who's so kissable. I can't do anything about it. I wonder what Alyssa's thinking. She's probably wondering what I'm thinking. So all we're doing is wondering what each other is thinking. It's like some endless mindgame.

"Maybe we should do something again," she says, sliding into her car and starting it up. "Bye, Mace."

"Are you okay to drive?" I ask.

"I'm good, really. I had my last beer an hour ago and we had a big dinner."

She leaves me with a funny look. What is she thinking? I know what I'm thinking. My stepsister is sexy as hell and I have a long sleepless night ahead of me.

## 9

* * *

## SOCIAL CIRCLES

### Alyssa

MY HEART CLAMORING VIOLENTLY IN my breast, I search the browser to make certain these are my records, that there isn't some huge mistake. I can't believe my eyes.

"Four A's and an D in physics...." I say, slumping in my chair. "Oh shit, Simon, what am I going to do?" My scholarship is in big trouble. I'm sitting in a booth at the Frist Student Union with Simon, my classmate from physics.

"Really?! That has to be wrong," he says. "Let me have a look." I slide my open phone across the table to him. He unwraps a plaid scarf from around his neck and sets it aside. He's an oxford shirt-and-jeans fashionisto, who always looks marvelous. I watch his eyes darken with concern as he pours over the screen, before handing it back to me. "I'm so sorry. I'm a jerk," he apologizes. "I didn't know it was so serious. I was only teasing you about flunking."

"I know, I know; it's okay," I say. "A 'D'? I've never even had a 'C'! I feel like such a dunce."

"What are you going to do?" he asks earnestly. "Twenty thousand dollars of scholarship money is hard to replace."

Sunlight from the Union's high expansive windows drenches us. Kelly's napkin offer looks more appealing to me now. I need to talk to somone and Simon's always been terrific at saving me from bad decisions. I wish I were somewhere else, like a warm Caribbean island. "I don't have many options," I say. "But there is one I'm trying to avoid."

"Really?" he asks and his eyebrow lifts. "What is it? I'm thinking something dirty, illegal, or immoral."

"All three," I blurt out, and Simon's mouth drops three inches.

"Prostitution?!" he gasps, his mouth forming an 'O' of mock horror. He doesn't know how close he is to the truth.

"Simon, what's the worst thing you've ever done for money?"

He considers my question for a moment, before leaning toward me confidentially. "Last summer I had a job at a civic center and I took cash to let people through, instead of selling them tickets."

"Simon!" I gasp. Simon's not a criminal type at all. He's an Iowa farm boy, as honest as a summer's day is long.

"I only did it for a day and I did it with good intentions, trying to help some couples get into a sold out concert. I worried every night that I would be found out. I was never so glad to see a job end. I was sure I was headed straight to jail."

"Simon, why didn't you just let them through for free?"

"Because I didn't want them talking about it. That's even worse."

"Well I'm not impressed by your sin. It's almost a virtue. You were trying to help people out."

"Maybe, but I don't think a judge would care. I'm not going to work there again, too much temptation," he says. "So what is this gig you're thinking about doing?"

"Will you think worse of me if I tell you? Even if it's a bad bad thing?"

"You're almost out with it anyway," he coaxes. "What I'm thinking is probably worse than what it really is."

"I've been offered an opportunity to become a party girl..." the words dribble away when I see Simon's expression of shock, but I go on with my admission. "I would attend parties and entertain businessmen, but nothing more than some socializing and dancing..." Simon silences me with a hand gesture.

"It sounds like people have done a lot worse, for a lot less. You do whatever you need to do to stay in school as long as you stay safe. I just don't want you calling me to bail you out at three in the morning, and I don't want to read about you in the morning paper." His easy benediction lifts my spirit.

"So you think something morally questionable is okay, as long as I intend good?"

"I would say so," he pronounces, pausing, "if you invite me to the parties."

"You know that won't be happening," I laugh. "As a matter of fact I'll have to de-friend all my old acquaintances. I'll be moving in totally new social circles."

"No, no, keep your old friends! Make new friends but keep the old," he smiles, lifting his soda in a toast. "The new ones are silver, the others gold."

"Thanks, Simon," I say, kissing his cheek, before seizing my book bag to leave. "You're one of my golden friends. I better get moving on this opportunity before I lose it."

Simon is right. I've got to do whatever I have to do to stay in school. I've always played by ' _The Good Girl Rules_ ' and I'm just not seeing the rewards. I feel unsteady and rootless, as if the least wind could topple me over. My life shouldn't be something I'm enduring without any joy. I'm glad I decided to pop over to see Mace at his place. I think we're starting to reconnect and that makes me happy. Mace is a really sturdy guy and I have to be careful not to lean on him too much.

When I finally get home to my apartment, I'm tired and done for the day. I make myself comfortable and change into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. I lay on my bed holding Kelly's napkin above my head. If the napkin were a daisy in my hand I would pluck its petals: ' _Do I, do I not..._ ' Eventually I decide _'I do'_ and I open my laptop. Using Kelly's guest account information I log in to the xcitingarrangements website. I'm immediately asked to create my own private account. I stare at the blank white form fields as if they are windows opening into a new world. I'm Alice in Wonderland about to go down her rabbit hole. Crawling feathery sensations tickle my insides. I tell myself you only live once, girl. I need a username and I type in: 'YoloGirl'. I follow with a new password 'what3v3ruwant'.

The second page welcomes me and asks me to upload a profile picture. I have two decent options on my laptop to choose from. In one I'm in a bikini with sunglasses, my face partially hidden beneath a brimmed sun hat. My body looks good but I don't feel like that girl right now. Then there's a photo of me scrunching a grey scarf tightly below my chin. My cheeks are rosy and my complexion appears spotless. Maybe my eyebrows need some work but I look cute. Smiling directly at the camera I look like an All-American girl. I choose the second picture.

A text field further down the page asks me to describe, in two-hundred fifty words, why I want to join as one of the 'xcitingarrangements girls'. The first thing that pops into my head is 'I need money'. But I don't think that would go over well. I formulate some decent sounding reasons and make up a fake name, abbreviated from my last name, Carlyle:

> _Hello, my name is Carly. I am a full time student. I own a car that barely runs and I'm looking to improve my financial situation (school and housing). I am a young, fun, non-judgmental girl who gets along with just about everyone she meets. Girl next-door type. I am responsible and my education comes first. I love shopping, animals, art shows, traveling, movies, and much more. If you would like to know anything else please ask._

Now to check these sexual service boxes. What will I consider doing - yes, no, or undecided? How do I know? Obviously, I've never considered doing much of anything. I'm a virgin. Oh, I have my turn-ons. I've given hand-jobs and even let a few guys slide into third base, but no home runs. Looking at some of these questions makes me blush. I know I'll never get an interview if I say no to everything. I remind myself to stretch my comfort zone as far as possible.

> Massage? I like touching, and I can go that far, _check_. 
> 
> Kiss? Okay, _check_. 
> 
> Vaginal Sex? I check undecided.
> 
> Give Oral Sex? Undecided.
> 
> Swallow Cum? Yikes! Undecided.
> 
> Receive Oral Sex? I can't think of a good reason why not, _check_. 
> 
> Touch Pussy? _Check_ , I guess.
> 
> Two Girl Action? I blush. These questions are so bold and direct. Undecided.
> 
> More Than One Guy? OMG! Undecided.
> 
> Anal Penetration? NFW, I think to myself, but check undecided.

I review my profile before submitting it, but once I send it off I want to take it back. Despite my instant regrets I feel better. I did something for myself, whether it's a good or bad thing. I close my laptop and surprisingly drop off to a nap almost immediately. When I wake up I feel rested and refreshed, like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. It's Friday night and I want to do something.

I remember Mace mentioning to me, when I returned his gym bag, that he was fighting tonight. I've never liked that he enjoys fighting. He looks better in his white-collared shirt than he does in his sweaty gym trunks. Although maybe not. But either way, I wish he would hang up his fight gloves for good. Even if his fights are not illegal, they're not sanctioned and they're poorly supervised for safety. It's all kind of a seedy gray area. Fights pop up with a week or two's notice. This one is at the gym where he trains.

I want to see him fight but I can't very well go alone. Not dressed nicely, but maybe I could go just like I am right now: my hair all haphazard, baggy sweats, and no make-up. The girl I see in the mirror looks like a real hot mess. She would fit right in at one of these fights. It's worth a try, I smile to myself. I'm not doing anything else.

## 10

* * *

## THE SMOKER

### Mace

I'M NOT LIKE THE OTHER MMA fighters here tonight. I don't want to get ahead in the rankings. There's no where I'm going. I just want to fight; all I need is a cage and another guy to hit. I like my fights rough, nasty, and exciting. I leave it to the promoter to get me an opponent and a crowd. All I want to do is step in and fight at the smoker. It's simple: no corner men, no judges, and no ambulances.

And no medics. That's what Alyssa reminded me at Ricardo's the other night. She said, 'Have you ever thought about the health risks of fighting? There's blood everywhere. What if you get infected with a disease? No one tests these guys before you fight them. They could have hepatitis or AIDS.' What the hell? That stunned me. Now I have to think about getting AIDS when I punch a guy.

But maybe I need to think about things more. Alyssa makes me think, and there's good and bad in that. Lately, I've been a little more awake when I'm sparring, a little more open to opportunities to land a blow, to finish a guy quick, and not just slug it out mid-ring.

The guy I'm fighting tonight is a real Domo, a master of disaster and destruction. He reminds me of my stepfather, thinking he's all badass and everything. When I step into the cage the crowd goes wild. I have sort of a reputation at these gatherings. Most of the crowd is a blur, but sometimes you can actually pick out faces in the mob.

Tonight, I recognize that security guard from the hospital, George. I hold out my glove to him in salute and he salutes back. I keep scanning the crowd and I see a ragamuffin girl in sweats, who looks a lot like Alyssa. I yell over the crowd's noise to the mystery girl, but then she dips out of sight behind some big guy. Is it Alyssa? If it is, she's pretty fucking distracting.

The dude across the cage puts up his fists, pounds them together and starts for me. Let's go fucker. You or me. One of us is going down.

He's a granite monster. About six-five, two-forty, a little bigger than me. Hits like a twelve pound sledge hammer and he drives a few home, let me tell you. l just laugh and enjoy it. There's a thrill to it, a heady spice about it, a rush in becoming a ferocious animal.

I'm helping this idiot out by giving him purpose. He has something to do, which is to pound me to a bloody pulp. If he doesn't, I'm going to beat the shit out of him. Maybe he even hopes to kill me. I envy him when I see him raging to knock me senseless.

Screw you, asshole. I can punch too. Fighting is true to what I am, true to what is inside me. I am honest with myself at least, most guys are not. When I feel my strength and rage at its red peak I let loose, springing across the floor and driving my fist into the bastard's stomach. I feel his sickened shock.

I follow with a flurry of fists and crushing blows. I catch the monster with three straight right hands, and it's over and done with between the ticks of two seconds. He bobs back like a cork, his head crashing against the cage. He kneels to the floor, half stunned for the moment, breathing heavily. He blinks his eyes in a stupid sort of way. Then he totters and crumples up, his body going limp, like a wet towel. His head and shoulders strike the canvas-covered floor.

The crowd outside the cage cheers savagely and when I turn around, a moment later, the promoters are dousing him with a few buckets of cold water. I see the beast staggering to his feet. His face is bloody and twitching with pain. I'm through for the night. I'll sleep good. I leave the smoker and get dressed in the locker room. I find myself wanting to meet that girl I spotted before the fight started. I felt a connection. I go back out into the crowd looking for her but I can't find her. I leave the gym to the ring of restless lost souls still needing to earn their freedom from whatever won't let them rest.

Not five minutes after I'm home from fighting, I'm laying naked on my couch. I'm sore and tired, icing my head, when there's a banging at my door. It's almost midnight. Who the hell could it be? I go to the door, still zipping up my jeans, and who's standing there? Alyssa, in her baggy sweats.

Shit. I realize she was the elusive girl at the fight who caught my eye. Even with no makeup and tousled hair, in a hoodie, I can't help being attracted to her. Then I notice the shock on her face, when she sees my face. "Were you at the fight tonight?" I ask accusingly.

"Yes, I was. I wanted to see you fight at least once, to know what it's like. It's terrible. I couldn't stand seeing you get beat up like that."

"Beat up? I knocked him out!"

"Did you? I wouldn't know. I had to leave after the first minute. The spectacle made me sick to my stomach. Even if you are an ass, you're the only family I have. I don't want to see you die in the ring."

Die in the ring? I guess I do look pretty fucking scary. I haven't even checked myself in the mirror yet. She rushes inside, gathering ice, washcloths, and clean water. She sets it all on the end table, before insisting I lie down on the couch for examination.

"You're going to ruin your face if you keep fighting."

"What do you care about how I look?"

"I'm the one who has to look at you. Why do you do this to yourself anyway?" she asks, dabbing water to my nose and cheek.

"I didn't. The other guy did."

She ignores my joke. Truth be known, I don't think she finds it very funny.

Leaning over me, I feel like she's playing doctor. I can smell her, her real smell, not her perfume. She suddenly tips off balance and plunges onto my chest, her soft cheek pressing against mine.

"Ouch!" I shout and I mean it. Her hundred and twenty pounds falling on my chest feels like a cartoon anvil on my bruised ribs. That Domo could really land some body blows. She pushes herself back up, with her hands against my bare chest.

"Sorry, I didn't meant to lose my balance."

"What happened to your natural grace?" I say, rubbing my ribs.

"I said I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I want you to get on top of me," she directs, lifting my head, before scooting her lap beneath me. She studies my face under the lamplight, fretting and worrying. She's poking, prodding, and spreading my eyes open.

Good thing my pants are loose around my waist and there's a little room for the boys to move around down there. This could get very embarrassing very quickly. A girl doesn't know the effect she has on a guy, when his head is in her lap. It's very comforting and exciting at the same time. My head is right near where she's soft and warm.

## 11

* * *

## PLAYING DOCTOR

### Alyssa

THE FIGHT CROWD IS SCREAMING for blood, Mace's blood or the blood of the huge man he is fighting. It doesn't seem to matter to them. After seeing Mace get hit five or six times, I have to leave. I couldn't stand to see him get knocked out, or beaten until he's unrecognizable. I slip out and wait in my car, in the parking lot, until I see him leave with his gym bag. I follow him back to his apartment, at a distance. Just to make sure he doesn't go suddenly unconscious from a blow he took in the fight. Sometimes people get a slow bleed in their brains and the effects of a hit don't always surface right away. He doesn't seem particularly glad to see me when I show up at his apartment door.

His appearance shocks me. His face is caked with dried blood, his left eye swollen and puffy. He's moving slow and stiff. His broad back and muscular shoulders turn away from me as he shuffles back to the couch. I see a Calvin Klein waistband peeking above jeans that are loosely hanging from his hips. Even wounded he's still very commanding. He looks like he might be a werebear, who spent his night fighting a pack of wolves and just changed back into human form. Mace isn't bloodless like most the men I meet, and even though his fight was awful to watch my adrenaline was pumping. My own excitement scared me.

I let him rest his head in my lap, while I sponge the blood from his face. When he finally falls asleep, I slip out from beneath from him and continue my inspection. God knows what the rules are at these amateur MMA fights. I don't think there are any. They don't even have referees, much less a medic, standing by. I see a bruise on his hip bone. I wonder what other injuries he might have that I can't see. My experience tells me I need to find out.

I end up having to strip his pants off, strictly to examine him for any hidden injuries. I've never seen Mace naked before. Well, only once before, at the dock. And then only briefly. This time I get the full view. I can look as long as I want. Not that I want to but I can't really help it, can I? He's very well-built. Looking at him stirs me. The muscles of his flat stomach angle into a defined 'V' at his groin, tempting me to run my fingers all the way from his hips to his pecs. I don't think I should be having these thoughts. Maybe Mace's bad boy mojo is rubbing off on me. I've always known he's dangerous. My father warned me against looking up to him in any way.

I cover him and let him rest on his couch. I'm certainly not strong enough to carry him to his bedroom, and I don't have the heart to wake him. He looks so peaceful. But I'm still worried so I decide to stay overnight, and sleep in his bed. I turn down his bedcovers before undressing. Near the head of Mace's bed I find shelves filled with books. I glance through them - Shakespeare, Hemingway, and Clive Barker mixed in among science and astronomy magazines. I thought he only watched TV. Hot shame washes over me. I always assumed I was the only one who read for pleasure.

How much more does Mace keep to himself? He's always led others to believe that he only cares about fighting, drinking, and screwing. He's such a puzzle. If he was just one way or the other, I could easily understand him, but his conflicting sides bewilder me.

I pull Mace's covers to my chin and wrap myself warmly in them, soon falling into a deep sleep. I dream about our lake house at Canandaigua. I'm shut inside a huge pink scallop shell, raised on its edge, like a stiff curtain backdrop. I can see out but Mace and our friends can't see in. They all strip and dive into the lake, teasing me to follow suit. The water is absolutely crystalline and pure. I can see their cocks hanging down clear as day. The sight doesn't disturb me at all. I take off my bikini and discover that the seashell has opened around me; when I step out, brilliant light rays shoot out from behind me, blinding the boys. I join them in the perfect water, like Venus returning to her birth element. They stretch out their arms to find me. It's like we're playing Marco Polo but no one is shouting. I start up the game.

"Marco!"

"Polo!"

The boys follow my voice. I want Mace to be the one who finds me, who touches me first, and I lead him toward a hidden grotto where my voice echos all around, and only he can hear me. Finally he catches me in a deep lagoon, seizing me into his arms. I feel joined to him, melting into his embrace. The thick tendrils of my hair envelop his face and shoulders. I press my breasts into his broad chest and wrap my legs around his waist. I thrust my throbbing mons against his firm thighs. We kiss deeply, exchanging terrible passions in our kiss.

I've never felt so close and personal with anyone, so free, so predestined. The power of our kiss, the power of the moment, wakes me. I'm gloriously happy until I realize this isn't how it happened those long years ago. Instead, I chickened out and cried alone in the boathouse. I feel only loss and deep pain, not joy.

The fleeting glimpse I catch of Mace's other side makes me feel like I should talk to him about the dream and the lake house, at least indirectly. Maybe it's all an illusion, but I sense there's something more between us. I want to know what it is. I broach the subject while he cooks pancakes for us in the kitchen.

"Good morning," I say. "How are you feeling?"

"I woke up without any pants on. Do you know anything about that?"

"I took them off to examine you. You had visible bruising. And it's not like I haven't seen you naked before. Remember when we went swimming at the boathouse with our summer friends?"

"I remember skinny dipping," he corrects. "But I also remember you didn't join us. What a chickenshit."

"I wasn't chickenshit, Mace."

"Then what would you call it?" he asks.

I explain how I thought our friends would laugh at me, and how I cried later in the boathouse. I even tell him an abbreviated and edited version of my dream from the previous night. He smiles at my retelling. I know now that he's capable of understanding how I must have felt that day. I experienced his tenderness in my dream. I know it exists. I wait for a response while he flips a flapjack.

"Chickenshit," he concludes. "Everyone's scared, don't you know that? Do you think I wanted to drop my trunks in front of you? I was scared shitless. I didn't let it stop me."

I can feel the quiet superiority in his words, and it wounds my pride again, just like it did that day. I feel the urge to punch him.

"You were very well developed and more than two years older than me. I was a skinny girl. It was very traumatic."

"Lame excuses. You need to dive in, even when you're scared. Anyone who chickens out will never make it in this world."

Oh, he makes me so mad! He's such an ass! I'll be damned if I _ever_ chicken out in front of him again!

"So how do you make your way in this world?" I counter.

"I keep moving as long as I can. This world is a messy pile of crap. You have to be tough to survive."

"Don't you dream at all?"

"I do dream," he smiles, sliding a pancake onto my plate and handing it to me. "About food. Let's eat."

"I think there's more to life than eating and drinking and whoring..."

"You don't know anything about my life!" Mace says harshly. There's no more fun in his voice. I've touched a nerve. "It must be pretty fucking easy for you to sit in judgment, from your throne, Miss High and Mighty."

"Why are you so hateful sometimes?" I ask. I see a hurt look flash in his eyes before he looks away.

"Sorry. Sometimes when you say things, I think you're putting me down, like your father always did," he says regretfully. "But you're not like him, at all."

"What was it between the two of you?" I ask.

"There was nothing between us," he says, dropping his arms and moving away. "Nothing at all."

"Then why talk about him? Why can't you just get past your anger?"

"I'm tired of talking about this shit," he says. "I'm going to take a shower."

I turn on the TV and a minute later I hear him in the bathroom, loudly cursing.

"Did you cut yourself?" I yell, but he doesn't answer. I'm confused about where the day is going from here. I need to clear my own head. "I'm going out for a run. I'll see you in a bit."

Even in my sweats it's freezing outside and puffs of white smoke billow with each breath. I stop at a crossing light, jogging in place while I wait for it to change. I can't stand running in place, going nowhere. That's what it feels like I'm always doing these days, going nowhere at all. Maybe I can still salvage the semester if I buckle down. I hear Mace shout from behind me. His black Audi is in the line of cars waiting to move through the light. I wait for him to pull up beside me.

"It's fucking freezing outside. Way too cold to run," he suggests. "Hop in and let's get some coffee."

## 12

* * *

## TWO GIRLS,  
ONE BODY

### Mace

ALYSSA WON'T LEAVE WELL ENOUGH alone. We were having a good morning, I'm cooking pancakes because I know she likes them. Then it all starts up again about her father. I don't even remember how we got on the subject of the bastard. I tell her I'm done with talking about him. Then she suddenly announces she's leaving to jog, of all things. It's fucking freezing outside, and she left her warm pancakes still steaming on her plate. The sight makes me sort of sad. It's like I can't do anything right. I go out after her and find her, jogging in place at a light, two blocks away.

"How about coffee?" I suggest, and she gets in. I'm still trying to figure what our argument was about. Damn, she's hard to figure out. What does she want from me?

We go to the nearest coffee shop, and luckily a group of three bandwidth thieves are just leaving a table. We sit in god-awful silence for about fifteen minutes. I'm reading the paper when she suddenly says:

"Sometimes I feel like I'm two different girls, living in one body."

What does that mean? Truth be known, she's being very mysterious and complicated. I take a sip of my coffee and look in her eyes. I guess what she's saying is supposed to explain something to me. Maybe about this morning? I don't know because she's not two different girls. I only see one in front of me.

"That's a strange thing to say," I reply.

"I know it is," she says. "I've been under a lot of stress lately. I'm having a hard time making decisions."

"The only thing you can do is your damndest. I think you make great decisions. Life is hard sometimes," I say, and that's all I got at the moment.

"Mace, I want to thank you again for repairing my car, and paying my ER bill. You've helped me so much."

"I told you it's fine. No need to keep thanking me."

She looks at me with her eyes wide open. "Mace, how _do_ you make your money?"

Oh, boy. She's really unstoppable. "I sell shit," I answer, picking my winter coat up off the back of my chair. I finish my coffee in one gulp. I guess this meeting is adjourned. "Online shit. Maybe I'll fill you in some other day, when we have more time."

"But you never answer my questions," she says. "Maybe there's something I can do there to earn money."

"We'll discuss it some other time," I repeat firmly. "Let's get going."

"I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I'm not trying to pry."

I nod like I understand her completely. "I get it," I say. "Let me take you back to your car. Forget jogging. It's 'schweinekalt'."

"Father always used to say that," she says. "He picked it up in Germany. It means 'pig cold'. He said pigs are disgusting, and so 'schweinekalt' means 'disgustingly cold'.

I'm going to let that go. I don't want to go there. Alyssa is always trying to get me to talk about her father. Instead, I watch as she stretches her old grey sweatshirt down over her head. I can't help noticing her perfectly shaped breasts, and thinking that whoever wins her is holding Aces. Her head pops through and her delicate fingers quickly rearrange the stray strands of her electrified hair. We walk outside together.

"Can I drop by again next Saturday?" she asks. "I know we argue, but can't we try to get along better? I would like to have a better relationship with you."

"Maybe," I say. "I have to get on with the rest of my day, Alyssa. Let's go. I'll take you back to your car."

"You go on," she says as she starts running away. "I'll jog back."

Damn her. I watch her grow smaller and smaller until she's just a dot vanishing on the horizon.

## 13

* * *

## ESCORT, ME?

### Alyssa

MACE DOESN'T SEEM VERY OPEN to the possibility of my helping him in his business. More proof that it's something shady. There's no good reason he can't at least give me some general idea of what he sells over the internet. It has to be illegal; he makes so much money.

Late that afternoon I sit down and pour out a glass of Kelly's Madeira wine, before I check my email. In my Inbox I find a message with the subject 'Re: Your Application'. I open the email and read the message:

> "Dear Carly, Thank you for your application to xcitingarrangements. Your application suggests you are motivated and have a healthy work ethic. Although you seem undecided on a number of important matters and details, we found your initial application appealing and we would like to learn more about you. Please contact our office, at your earliest convenience, to arrange a personal interview. We look forward to meeting with you and hope we can agree to the particulars of a mutually beneficial working relationship. Cordially, Morgan."

I create a contact on my cell phone 'Madeira', because I can't very well have a contact called xcitingarrangments. I call the attached phone number.

"Xciting Arrangements," a woman's throaty voice answers. "How can I assist you?"

"Hi, my name is Carly," I lie. "I received your email response to my application. It should be on file, under my screen name, YoloGirl. I would like to set up an interview." I congratulate myself on my poise so far.

"I'm so glad to hear that you're interested, Carly. Thank you for calling," the woman says warmly. "I went over your profile. I would like to meet with you and discuss our available opportunities. Can you make it over to my office tomorrow?"

"That quick?" I ask, surprised. I wonder if I'm really ready for this.

"Sure, why not?," she says. "I'm always available, even Saturdays. Would another day work out better for you?"

"No, I can make it work," I tell her. I remind myself I am positive and intentional. I accept responsibility for my choices. "When and where?"

"Okay, then," the woman agrees. "Let's set up our interview. My name is Morgan. Do you have a navigation device? Our office is a little difficult to find without help."

"I do," I say. I grab a pen and paper. "Okay. I'm ready. Go ahead."

"We're at 4024 East Ninth," she informs me. "Suite 172. If things work out in the interview we'll get started with blood tests, and completing your profile and application. What time tomorrow?"

I notice my hand shaking a little. I need to do this, something is telling me I need to open this door. "How about two o'clock?" I suggest.

"Two is open," she says. "The real boss comes in about that time and I'm sure he'll want to meet you also. So, that's perfect. I'll put you down in my book and I'll see you tomorrow, Carly."

I end the call. Later that evening, I find Kelly in her room. I turn up her music and shut the door behind me. I want to let her in on my new secret. I run my hand over her downy coverlet. I love her bed. A small black dress with spaghetti straps is laid out on the mattress, waiting impatiently to slip over her shoulders.

She's dressing for a date and I'm pretty sure it's related to her escort job. Before our talk at The Show Club Kelly's secretive dates puzzled me. Now I like knowing what she's up to. She's leaning forward on her left palm, detailing her eyes, and looking back at me in her mirror. "I want to curse the Egyptians for inventing eyeliner," she says. "Nothing frustrates me more than trying to even the strokes of my brush." She's wearing a small black thong with tiny strings in the back.

"Where do you buy your lingerie?" I ask curiously.

"I've got a few different sites that I buy from because I know how their sizes fit me."

"I love your thong and bra."

"Cute underwear puts me in a good mood," she laughs.

"Who's your date tonight? Tell me something sexy and romantic about being an escort."

Kelly pulls a tight black lace choker across her milky white throat, and fastens it in the back. She sits on the edge of her bed, pulling black thigh-high silk stockings over her freshly pedicured feet and up her silky smooth legs. She rises to pull the snug dress up over her thighs and torso. "Zip me in back?" she asks. I rise to my knees and zip her, before falling languidly backwards. Her lavish cleavage fills out the tiny dress. She slips on black strapped heels, and inspects her gorgeous figure in the mirror. "I'm meeting two guys at a piano bar," she says finally. "From now on, I'll always be completely honest with you so be careful what you ask me. Do I look okay?"

"You look amazing," I breathe. "Why two guys? Is another girl meeting you there for a double date?"

Kelly looks at me hard in the mirror, as if she doesn't know what to make of me and my questions.

"I'm not going to dignify that silly question with an answer," she says with a smile. "Why do you think?"

I blush when I imagine two handsome men waiting for her at an elegant, dimly lit piano bar, shining with polished brass and wood. They've been waiting an hour for her, sitting on bar stools and sipping whisky and sodas. Kelly arrives and the men gasp as she strolls toward them, their eyes drinking her in, more eagerly than the whisky they hold in their hands. They set their sweating glasses on the high bar and stand to greet her. She receives their compliments with grace and dignity. She is their entertainment for the evening and there is no need to hurry.

"I joined today," I say suddenly. The admission leaves me feeling nervous and excited. My stomach dips as if I'm sweeping down the first hill of a giant roller coaster. "I'm going to be an xcitingarrangements girl. I'm meeting Morgan tomorrow."

Kelly rushes to me with a squeal and a hug, "Oh, I don't believe you! You're teasing me?"

"No, really; I put in an application," I say, grinning. "Morgan wanted me to call right away and I did."

"I love you, I love you, I love you!" Kelly shouts. "It'll be so nice to have someone to share with!"

"Kelly, I'm a long way from where you are," I caution. "I don't think I'll be joining you at any piano bars."

"You never know!" she winks slyly. "You might be a natural."

My cheeks fire up like fresh coals in the furnaces of hell. They burn even more when she laughs and pecks them both with her warm lips.

"Ta-ta!" she sings gaily, snatching up her small black bag of essentials. "Don't wait up. I may be gone all weekend. If I don't see you again before your interview, good luck!"

## 14

* * *

## THE NEW GIRL

### Mace

MORGAN IS IN A GOOD mood today. I wonder what that's about? Not that she isn't normally in a good mood, but today she's especially all bubbly and everything. Truth be known, there are only two things that make Morgan really happy: making money or spending someone else's. Which is it this morning? She's always good with spending my money. Money differences was one of the big reasons things didn't work out between us. That, and I'm a dick. I call her into my office and she's humming some tune that sounds vaguely familiar.

"What's that tune you're humming?"

"Am I humming? I didn't realize," she laughs. "What _am_ I humming?" She lifts her eyes to the ceiling and hums a few bars. "Oh, it's an oldie. I must have heard it on the radio getting ready this morning."

"Well, stop it. I don't want to know. I don't want to get it stuck in my head."

"'Rich Girl'," she tells me anyway, "you know: 'You're a rich girl, and you've gone too far, 'cause you know it don't matter anyway'..."

"Thanks, a lot," I say. "Now it's stuck in my fucking head... can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Get the revolver from my drawer there and shoot me right here," I point to my temple. "To blow your song out of my damn brain."

"Let me put another thought in your brain, instead. How about this one: we're going to make a lot of money."

"And just how is that going to happen?" I ask. Truth be known, I'm always interested in making money. I just don't like to throw my money away on shit, like most people do. I invest it.

"I think we have a virgin on the line!" she screams, clapping her hands in excitement. "Hook, line, and sinker. I have an interview with her later this afternoon. Nice voice, educated. A real virgin! This girl is pure as snow! Really sweet, really smart, but really innocent. As innocent as a girl can be these days, anyway."

"So, what's her deal? If she's so goddess-like how did she even find out about us, to apply?"

"Kelly referred her."

"Kelly?"

"You know, the redhead with green eyes?"

"Oh, yeah. That Kelly."

"Like you know so many."

"I do. I know lots of Kellys. I just don't think about them a lot." Morgan waves me off. Screw her. I do know lots of Kellys. I knew one in the second grade. I let this argument go. Despite what both Morgan and Alyssa think, I don't overreact to everything. I can let things go. I just proved it. "Okay, so what makes you think she's a real virgin?"

"I just know. I can tell. It's not exactly something girls brag about."

"So, you don't really know."

"Don't tell me what I know," Morgan says, crossly. "I know. The only problem now is we have to reel her in. I think I've established rapport. I think she likes me."

"And what do you think she'll say when you tell her what we do with virgins? That we auction them off to the highest bidder? What will she think of you then, Miss Morgan?"

"She needs money. She wouldn't be calling us if she didn't need money. Money will pave the way, especially when she learns how much she can make."

"How much did the last virgin bring in? It's been so long, I can't even remember who she was. Is she still with us?"

"One hundred fifty thousand. Her name is Marguerite and she still works for us. That was about two years ago."

"What's this girl's name?"

"Carly."

"Carly? Is that her real name?" I snort. Unbelieveable, these girls.

"Probably not," Morgan laughs. "Does it matter?"

"I guess not," I say. "Do I get to meet her?"

"Of course! You're going to be a central player in her orientation. I'll bring Carly around to your office to introduce her, after the interview. So don't go anywhere. When I say this girl's a virgin, I mean, _she's a virgin_. I'm not sure if she's even kissed a guy."

"I think you're going too far with that."

"Whatever, she's going to need training before the auction," Morgan says. She shoves a finger in my face, "But you better not fuck her and I mean it! Keep everything you own out of her vagina! She's certainly going to need _some_ experience, _some_ familiarity and ease with a man's body, and you're the only man I trust. You'll be her Lord Protector."

I have to say there's something sort of touching in the way Morgan says it. After all she knows me pretty well, so I take it as pretty awesome that she would say that. I take it very seriously, but I act casual about it.

"Sure. No problem. After all, I'll be her pimp. Who else is going to look after her in this jungle?"

Morgan smiles, "You're the only one, Mace. You're the best pimp any girl could ever ask for."

## 15

* * *

## THE INTERVIEW

### Alyssa

DRIVING TO MY APPOINTMENT AT Xciting Arrangements I can't concentrate. My thoughts are everywhere and I'm in an unsettled mood. The very thought of interviewing with Morgan rattles my nerves. The road signs dart before my eyes like minnows in a shallow pool. My attention wanders out the window, following pedestrians crossing the streets in the snow and slush.

I spot a young girl wearing a lime green rain jacket, holding a red balloon in one hand and a gift, wrapped in yellow paper and tied with a blue bow, in the other. She looks like she's going somewhere fun, like a friend's birthday party. Her cheerful energy reminds me that spring is on the way.

When I pull into the office parking lot I feel brighter and more focused. I knock on the solid metal door of suite 172. A buzzer sounds but the door sticks. I push hard against it before it opens, revealing a bright interior with hardwood floors and a seating area. A tall dark-haired woman with light sapphire blue eyes and long legs, about twenty-five, intercepts me before I can sit down. She's attractive and pleasantly businesslike. I can tell she's evaluating my every line and curve, every breath I take. This is all wrong and I'm already preparing polite words of refusal, for when she offers me a job. "My name is Morgan," she introduces herself. "And you are...?"

"Carly," I manage. "Carly Olson."

"Right on time, Carly," Morgan says matter-of-factly, leading me past the waiting room to the rear of the building. "Do you have any problems I need to know about? Drugs? Boyfriends? Family problems?"

Morgan's directness jolts me. I know my eyes go wide and I'm more than a little shocked. I don't know how to answer such a broad and blunt inquiry. My discomfort must be obvious because she clears her throat, gently takes my elbow, and leads me to her office. She opens a second door and closes it behind us. "I'm sorry. My questions caught you off guard. I'm in business mode and I apologize. I'm sure you understand that a lot of girls come to me with difficulties." With a motion of her hand, Morgan invites me to sit on a black leather couch. There are several paintings of reclining nudes hanging on the walls, some partially draped in feathers and silk, and one nude plays in green ocean waves. Morgan sits at an angle to me on the L-shaped couch. I cross my legs self-consciously, waiting for her to begin. "How old are you, Carly? Twenty-one, twenty-two?"

"Twenty-two, just," I stumble. "I just turned twenty-two."

"Where is your family?"

"Tennessee. I don't have contact with my family," I say. "Not since I graduated high school."

Morgan nods as if she understands my situation perfectly. I'm glad she's not probing too deeply. I don't want to reveal my entire family history. "You're a student at the university," Morgan says confidently. "What are you studying?"

"Pre-med. I think I might want to go into family practice or psychiatry, specializing in children and teens. I'll be in school a long time."

"So you need a good job while you finish school," she ties up my situation in a neat little box, with a bow. I nod in agreement and she continues. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No," I shake my head. "I'm not really invested in guys right now."

"Have you ever modified your body?" Morgan's eyes examine me with what feels like x-ray vision. "Tattoos? Piercings anywhere, besides your ears? Breast implants?"

"No, nothing," I insist. This interview is very personally focused. She hasn't asked anything about my previous job experiences.

"Your dress is pretty," she compliments. "But it doesn't flatter you especially, and it draws attention to itself and not your figure. Rather than accentuating your long legs and perky breasts it gives you a high waist. Disproportionate."

I don't know what to say, so I nod. What would I wear? It's off the rack but I think it looks nice.

"Our clients demand the highest level of class and taste. There are labels and designers we insist on you wearing. Would that be a problem?"

"I shop where I can afford to shop."

"You'll have a clothes allowance," she smiles. "Carly, I like you. You're the kind of girl we want working for us: motivated, pleasant, and attractive."

Morgan leans forward to hand me a business card and I can't help feeling some rising excitement. It's always nice to be wanted.

"You can earn three thousand dollars or more weekly," Morgan smiles.

Three thousand dollars! I'm stunned. Kelly wasn't exaggerating.

"That's at a minimum. Better performers earn much more."

This is too good to be true. I remind myself that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. "What could I ever do that's worth three thousand dollars a week?"

"I'm offering you interesting employment," Morgan smiles with assurance. "We run a modern version of the world's oldest profession. Our web database of gentlemen, we call them 'hobbyists', are interested in experiencing the charms of beautiful young women. We're very selective in hiring our girls and accepting clients. Many times our girls become quite popular with our hobbyists, and the gentlemen might ask them to travel across the country to cities like Las Vegas, New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago. We're a dating and escort service. If you're interested..."

As Morgan speaks, my face remains fixed in a polite smile, but inside my brain there's a warning siren screeching. She rises from the couch and looks out her window to the world outside.

"Kelly recommended you highly for a position," Mogan informs me. She studies my reaction for a moment. "Kelly is one of my best performers. I trust her judgment, but something is very different about you, Carly. In your application you only endorsed comfort with a few of the services we offer. Most of my girls understand the great opportunity in front of them, and are eager to jump right in, so to speak. There's fear in you and I can only guess your fear is a lack of experience with men. If I may ask a personal question, are you a virgin?"

Morgan's deadly analysis is like a dart into my chest. The truth paralyzes me. All the heat in my blood flows to my burning cheeks. The blood loss leaves me frozen to the couch. How did she know? My eyes are as big as teacups and I'm just speechless. She nods to herself and returns her gaze to the world outside the window.

"Most of my clients highly prize virginity," Morgan continues. "It is a very precious jewel in my line of business. Some hobbyists will wine and dine a virgin as ardently as if they hoped to marry her, spending tens and hundreds of thousands of dollars over time with only the hope of success."

A man would pay tens of thousands of dollars for my virginity? I can't believe any man would pay so much for a brief time with me.

"Why so much?" I ask timidly. "I'm not worth that. I almost gave it away after a football game in my junior year of high school."

"Most girls do 'give it away' after a football game," Morgan explains. "Or after a prom, or parked on a lover's lane. Few women your age are virgins. Most men have never taken a girl's virginity, and that realization burns in the heart of any man who prides himself on having everything. Those same men are rich and powerful."

Rich and powerful men want to possess me. This a topsy-turvy world I can't begin to imagine.

"Virginity isn't a terrible curse. It's a beautiful gift," Morgan rhapsodizes. "It's plain to me, Carly, that you're a dedicated student. The right guy has simply never come along. Men are complicated and sometimes dangerous. Certainly, it's wise for a girl to be wary. I admire your good judgment."

Morgan is much more sensitive and understanding than I imagined. I thought she'd be hard and shrewd, but now I see her softer side, her wisdom. She knows me. I don't want to risk a pregnancy, infection, or even a messy break-up. I want to succeed in school and in life.

"Have you worked as an escort, Morgan?" I suddenly ask. Maybe she understands my situation because she was once in my shoes.

"Yes, I have. I enjoyed working as an escort," Morgan says proudly. "One night I made forty thousand dollars. At Cannes, Middle Eastern princes carry money around in rolls of ten thousand euros. It's like a village of the damned. My only regret is I might have enjoyed it too much. We can't live two lives."

Morgan motions me to mount a scale. She quickly assists me in slipping off my dress. I find myself standing on her scales in only my plunging bra and thong. Morgan wraps a tape carefully around my waist, breasts, and hips.

"We do this every three months," Morgan explains simply. "The hobbyists can be very particular. Five-six, one hundred eighteen pounds. Very nice. Thirty-four inches at the chest, c-cup, twenty-five waist, thirty-four hips..."

I'm on the edge of a precipice, about to tumble into a free fall. In this dazed moment of watching myself evaluated like prize livestock, I focus in on a disconcerting green door across the room.

"What's behind the green door?" I ask Morgan.

"Oh that. I'll take you through that door later."

Now the green door looks foreboding. What else is waiting for me? A private viewing room? A sex dungeon? I can't do this. I have to find some polite way out of this interview.

"I... I... are... are..." I repeat like a stuttering pirate. I'm at a loss and I can't move. It seems like the room is swimming around me, as if I'm underwater in a dream. Morgan's helpful hand is on the small of my back, zipping up my dress, and shooing me through a door to meet her boss, the real boss.

"He's waiting for you in the next room," she encourages me. "I think you'll like him. I do."

There's a taunting rhythm in the back of my mind as I follow Morgan down the short hall, to meet my new boss:

"Never say never, never say never, never say never... "

### THE END OF BOOK ONE   
( FOUR BOOK SERIES)

#### The Next Xciting Arrangements Novella:

Boss: A Stepbrother Romance: Book 2

## Extras and Upcoming Books

* * *

## MAILING LIST

KEEP YOURSELF POSTED FOR UPDATES, DISCOUNTS, AND OPPORTUNITIES TO RECEIVE ADVANCED REVIEW COPIES OF MY NEW BOOKS!

If you're a member of my mailing list, you will not receive any spam. My list will never be sold or given to any other person or organization. I will send members advance notifications of my book launches. Advance sales receive discounts!

Click here or use this link to subscribe:

<http://clairedonovanromance.com/freebies/>

Keep reading to learn about all my current books and a bonus excerpt from Boss: A Stepbrother Romance: Book 2 in my Xciting Arrangements Series, also available.

## MY OTHER BOOKS

XCITING ARRANGEMENTS SERIES

Boss: A Stepbrother Romance: Book One   
Boss: A Stepbrother Romance: Book Two   
Boss: A Stepbrother Romance: Book Three   
Boss: A Stepbrother Romance: Book Four

_**Keep Flipping Through the Pages to see what's next!**_

_**Hilo - Coming Soon!**_

_**Continue To Learn More!**_

## Hilo

#### Maybe I'm making too big of a deal of this virginity thing. Love and romance are not always a forever thing.

* * *

Brooklyn

**I'm a spirited, athletic community college student from New Jersey, traveling on holiday to Hawaii. I'm here to attend my mother's wedding to a wealthy land developer, and if I meet a hunky man who piques my interest while I'm on the beach or in the pool, I might just take a chance...**

You know the rest... when I hook-up with a gorgeous bronze surf instructor any caution remaining in me drops straight to the bottom of the sea...

I'm an eager audience for his sweet words. I'm convinced he adores my show-stopping red hair and my unsinkable style, on both land and water...

His lagoon blue eyes bedazzle me so completely that the word regret loses all meaning for me...

until later that same night when I discover his father is the man marrying my mother...

And that he's escorting a tall gorgeous blond in a strapless sheath dress to the rehearsal dinner...

And that he still has enough brass in his balls to hit on me at the wedding reception...!

When I feel his molten arms around my waist, my blood heats up so quickly that I vent steam whiter than his dinner jacket into the blue night...

Just who does my new stepbrother Adam Seabrook think he is?

He even makes it impossible for me to scream at him in frustration. How can I, when our lips are locked together as tight as a chowder clam?

My best solution is to put a wide ocean between us. But my plan isn't dialing down my summery heat even one degree...

My heart argues: Give Adam a chance. My head answers: No stepbrother deserves a first chance, much less a second...

**_***Hilo is an XOXO Stepbrother MC Novel. HEA. No cheating. Standalone.***_**

### Continue on for an excerpt from Boss: A Stepbrother Romance: Book 2

#### Boss: A Stepbrother Romance: Book 2

#### Alyssa steps into my office, eyes to the floor, and when she looks up I can practically see her face go white from across the room.

* * *

Mace

**So my stepsister wants to be an escort, is that it?**

Boss, that's what she'll call me from now on.

It's not like she can look down her pretty nose at me for being a pimp, not if she's applying to be an escort.

She has a lot to learn about me, and a lot of sex training ahead.

I hope I can make it through her training. Because right now her hands and lips are the only ones I want on me.

Alyssa

**I can't believe how easily and quickly I've become caught up in Mace's web. I'm still not sure he didn't plan this whole scheme of luring me into his operation.**

I remind myself that it's just routine business to him, even if it's not to me. I can't concentrate in my classes. My thoughts keep returning to our hook up in his office, everything else passes by in a dream.

I'm frustrated he hasn't called, because I want to talk with him about what happened between us.

It's been four days since I last saw him. I knew this would happen. I knew it. I knew it. I knew it. He's pulling away from me.

When we were in his office I saw passion in his eyes and felt his desire for me. I'm not going to let him seal up our relationship in a box.

**_***Boss is an Xciting Arrangements MC Novel. HEA. No cheating. Series.***_**

## Chapter 1 - Book 2

* * *

## SILVER LININGS

### Mace

HERE I AM, ON MY side of a one-way mirror. On the other side my stepsister is stripping down to her underwear. I feel like a fucking peeping tom. It's almost impossible for me to stop looking, but I do force myself to stop. Before I close the shades I see enough to know she's wearing a black demi-cup bra and a thong.

Fuck. Alyssa is really something else. I sit back at my desk and look at the ceiling, twirling in my chair, blowing off steam. What the hell is she doing here saying her name is Carly Olson? Is she really this hard up for money? I've got to knock some sense into her head, scare her straight. Morgan is sending her into my office in the next few minutes, _for escort training,_ to improve her skills. I'm supposed to give her some experience in dealing with men, so she can earn top dollar.

So I'm my stepsister's pimp, is that it? Boss, that's what she'll call me from now on. I can't get out of this, not without Morgan getting all up in my business, not without letting her know my stepsister wants to be an escort. I'm sure Morgan will blame me for corrupting my own sister, even though I've always tried my best to protect and take care of her. This isn't any of my idea. I didn't start it but I will finish it.

Once Alyssa figures out that I'm not backing down or easing up on her she'll chicken out. This will be the last time she ever comes in here, if I have anything to say about it. It might be the last time she ever talks to me, but I've got to set her straight. She's just making a really bad choice. She doesn't really know what this business requires a girl to do. She probably thinks all she needs to do is wear pretty dresses and say goodnight at the door. She can't know much. I don't think she's lying about being a virgin. So I'll just scare the shit out of her. She'll probably faint from the embarrassment.

I'll send her on back to school, and after a few days I'll find her some cushy job here in the business. In a few minutes she'll find out what I do for a living, and there won't be any need for me to keep my business a secret anymore. So that's a silver lining. It won't matter what she thinks of me. It's not like she can look down her pretty nose at me for being a pimp, not if she's applying to be an escort. I just don't want it to seem like I'm giving her any charity. She needs to earn her own money. I really don't want her in this business, but I do want to know what possessed her to think this was a good idea. She's worth a whole lot more to other people as a doctor, and she'll earn plenty of money.

I groom myself to greet Alyssa, brush my sleeves off, straighten my tie. I'm ready and waiting when Morgan pops her head inside my office.

"The new girl, Carly, is here to see you. We've had a productive interview. I think she'll work out very well."

Alyssa steps over the threshold, eyes to the floor, and when she looks up I can practically see her face go white from across the room. An earthquake just rocked New Jersey. She's in total hellacious shock.

"Miss Olson," I step forward to take her limp, cold hand. Her face is frozen. "Come inside. Carly, is it? We're going to get to know each other very well. Very, very well. Thank you, Morgan. You can leave us alone."

Morgan smiles and slides back behind the closing door, leaving her new recruit behind for me.

## CONTACT ME

_**I would love to hear from you!**_

Email: claire@clairedonovanromance.com

Website: clairedonovanromance.com

Facebook

Goodreads

Claire Donovan Newsletter

twitter:  @donovanromance
