Shut Up and Model for Me (49 page)

When I leave, I keep the promise I made to myself and take off my heels. Luckily, Mom and Dad are off in a cocktail corner with some important-looking people and Cam is drunkenly shmoozing up to someone's wife. The dinner plates have been swept away. Some people are dancing now, including Ava and Jaime. He must have swept her up right when she left the bathroom.

A waiter stands by my table with my drink, condensation sliding down the edges of the glass. I mutter a thanks and take it from him, taking a huge gulp immediately. Vodka tonic. How boring and
white girl.
My fault. I didn't specify.

I finish the drink in thirty seconds flat. When I set the glass on the table, I look around to see if I can spot my date before realizing he's chatting up my parents.

I catch Jaime's eyes over Ava's shoulder.

I look around for a waiter to get me another drink, but the chamber orchestra ends their song. Jaime separates from Ava and makes his way back to the table, sitting down in the seat in front of me.

I plop down next to him. "Ava is so cool, you know."

He chuckles. "So
that's
what you were doing in the bathroom. And here I was thinking that business called."

I glare at him. "There were no sexual shenanigans taking place in the bathroom, okay?"

He shrugs. "I wouldn't blame you."

"She's hot."

"Pretty hot. I like that you're the kind of person who isn't afraid to admit that."

"I like that you're the kind of person who isn't afraid to agree with me," I say.

He smiles crookedly. "I'd rather be honest with you."

I raise an eyebrow. "You weren't so honest with me back in Boston."

"And I learned my lesson," he counters quickly. "Keeping secrets... hiding the truth from you wasn't exactly easy. You'd probably hate me forever if I told you upfront that your father fired me for stealing."

"You're right, I probably would have. But that doesn't mean it was ok."

He shakes his head. "It wasn't okay. Remember the string of tampons outside your bedroom window? I resort to childish shit to get your attention." His dark eyes are practically glittering with amusement. He looks over to the ballroom floor before I can say anything in return, and takes my hand. "Dance with me."

I guffaw. "I can't dance," I say, which is a lie in itself. Mom taught me how to dance properly at these events when I was thirteen, because the young heirs of rich men were cultured and well-behaved and would want to dance with me. They weren't cultured or well-behaved. They spent the whole time with their hands on my ass, stepping on my toes and whispering to me about the coke they had stashed in the bathroom.

"Well you're in luck, because neither can I." He grins. "We'll look like fools together."

"I'm not wearing shoes."

"I won't step on your feet."

I scoff. "You can't dance and you won't step on my feet. Unlikely. Plus, what will Ava think?"

"She already knows how badly I want you."

A shiver runs down my spine, but before I can say anything, he adds, "Don't be a poor sport." He tugs on my arm and I give in, padding barefoot after him in my slutty dress to the floor filled with important men and women in the
most
expensive ballroom attire. Jaime's tie is gone and his collar is popped. I can feel a bobby pin coming loose somewhere on top of my head.

"We fit right in," he says, and I fake a laugh that sounds all too nervous. I catch my parents eyeing me from the cocktail corner. Even Cam has pulled his eyes away from his hot cougar to watch us.

His hand slinks across my back, resting high against my bare spine. I can't decide whether or not wearing a backless dress was a mistake—I'm about to melt like butter just at the feel of his bare skin against mine. In half a second, all of the hot, delicious things he could do with those hands flash through my mind.

Jaime's a liar. He's a great dancer. Or at least, he knows the right steps to make and when to take them. We don't waltz; we sway like everyone else, enough to look formal but not so invested in our feet that we can’t hold a conversation. But we don't talk. I don't want to talk, not with his hand pressed to my back, holding me tight. Without shoes, I am just tall enough to rest my head on his shoulder, which I do, because I don't care that I am here, in front of all of these people, a semi-sloppy daughter of a millionaire. I don't care that I have a deal with Micah. I only care that I'm with him.

"I like how you feel against me," he whispers. "It feels natural."

I hum. "Like we should have been doing this forever ago," I say so my lips, wet with gloss, barely flutter against his neck. "We've already discussed this."

"How even if I did proposition you, and even if you were fantasizing about me, it would have never happened."

"I was insanely self-conscious and would have thought that you were screwing with me, like that time you tried to kiss me." It had been at a party. He was trying to prove to all of his friends that I'd never been kissed. Because if I had, then I would have let him. No big deal, right? God, he used to be such a jerk.

"I
did
want to kiss you, Brit."

I lift my head so our eyes meet, our noses nearly brushing. "But you were being an asshole about it."

"Would I be an asshole now?" he asked. "If I kissed you?"

"Yes," I murmur, thinking of who's watching us.

"Then I won't," he says with a straight-face. "Even if I disagree."

It's my turn to shoot him a deviant expression. "You'd kiss me right now? Here, tonight? Before your job is secure with my dad?"

"I am not here only for the job. Sometimes, I'm uncertain that you speak English."

"Maybe," I begin, leaning in dangerously close. "If you knock it off with the sass, I can promise you something better than a kiss."

"Bathroom blowjob?" he fires back instantly.

"Classy, but no."

His eyebrow rises with intrigue.

I continue. "Get drunk with me from the overpriced liquor at the bar and you'll have to stay at my parents' house tonight, which means I may have to fuck your brains out."

The song ends.

"May I cut in?" says Micah from somewhere behind me. The only thing I want to do right now is turn around and throttle his neck, not be polite like Jaime, who steps away and kindly says, "Of course."

I will my eyes to burn holes in him.
How dare you give me up.

Jaime leaves the dance floor and Micah sweeps me into his arms. Unlike Jaime, Micah's hand rests on my lower back.
Lower
lower back. If we want to get technical, he's touching my ass in a way that classy men touch asses.

"You were getting awfully cuddly with Mr. Rivera," he says. But he doesn't sound amused. It almost sounds like a warning.

"I had to keep myself busy while
you
were getting cuddly with my parents."

"I thought we had a deal," he says.

I pull back enough to look at his face. "The deal was that I'd be your date for these sorts of things, and I'd kiss you every so often so our parents got the hint that we were together, because somehow, our fake relationship will coax them into the merger, and then your daddy will be so happy with you that he'll unlock your inheritance."

Saying it out loud sounds so. Fucking. Stupid. I agreed to it without thinking because I wanted his house, but really, the entire deal makes no sense at all.

His hand slides down to my ass, and he gives it a light squeeze. "Seems like our parents already sealed the deal with the merger weeks ago, and daddy isn't so impressed with you." Another squeeze, and I stop dancing. "So how about you come back with me to the beach house tonight so I can get what I paid for?"

This was never about our parents or his money.

His lips are on my neck, and I'm shaking with so much rage that I can barely utter the words, "Get your fucking hands off me.
Now
."

"Come on, Brit," he says in my ear. "For a slutty girl who loves sex so much, I thought you'd love the opportunity to suck my dick."

I shove him. Hard. Micah stumbles away and suddenly every eye on the dance floor swerves to me, the heiress, the girl with the cleavage, the girl with no shoes who just shoved her date. Mom covers her mouth with her hand. Dad polishes his double scotch off in one gulp.

And I run away.

No, I don't run. I walk fast. "Pardon me," I say politely to the waiter, weaving around him and snatching a champagne flute from his tray. With my free hand, I grab my clutch from our empty table and make for the exit as fast as I can without causing a bigger scene. Not like it would matter. I should take this opportunity and scream and kick shit because there is no way that anyone at this benefit will let my father forget his daughter's behavior. These kinds of people feed off of petty gossip.

It's a gorgeous California night. The concrete beneath my bare feet is still warm from the sun. I plop down on a stone step next to a cliché statue of a lion.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out of my clutch.

Micah: You're lucky I signed a contract or your models would be sleeping on the street tonight.

I try to think up something clever, something that will punch him in the gut and remind him of the scum he is.

Mom interrupts my thought process. She's the first outside after my escape. The sound of her clacking heels stops as she halts in front of me and places her hands on her waist.

I sigh. "He grabbed my ass and told me to suck his dick," I say honestly.

She winces like I've just muttered the filthiest sentence imaginable, but then her eyes drift to my cleavage, and she shrugs. "Well..."

"Well what?" If this woman were anyone other than my mother, I'd tell her to go fuck herself. "You think I deserved it?"

"I think you are showing off your body in a way that tempts young men, particularly the one who thinks you are dressing for him."

Should I have expected better from her? Probably not. But that doesn't excuse the fact that she's trying to slut shame me. I want to tell her that I didn't dress like this for Micah, I dressed like this for the one man—the
only
man—who is allowed to grab my ass. And even if Jaime weren’t here tonight, I should still be allowed to dress like this and not have to worry about anyone grabbing me.

But I'm too late.

Mom sighs again. "I need to talk to your father." She begins to make her way back inside. "And for god's sakes, put your shoes back on."

I don't even know where my shoes are.

I pull my knees to my chest and rest my forehead on them. I nearly fall asleep like that until someone sits next to me. I look up, and Jaime's holding out two shots of tequila both rimmed with salt and garnished with a wedge of lime.

"I'd reckon this tequila's about thirty bucks a shot."

"You reckon?" When my laughter fades, I notice the sympathetic look on his face. I take the shot from him. "He isn't gay, by the way."

"I know. I was only kidding, you know. To make you banter with me. Because it's my favorite thing you do with me."

"Your favorite?" I try to sound suggestive.

"Yes, my favorite."

I pull off the wedge of lime and clink my shot glass with his. We both down our shots simultaneously, and after I bite my lime, I say, "He told me to be a good little slut and suck his dick."

Without a beat of hesitation, Jaime says, "I'll kill him."

"You won't, because I don't want to spend the night bailing you out of jail."

His finger is beneath my chin, lifting my face to look at him. He's biting on his lower lip again. He does this when he's thinking about me. "I did what you asked. I'm probably too drunk to drive home and will end up crashing at your parents' house. But if you don't want to..."

I rest my hand on his thigh. "I want you."

His mouth snaps shut.

"Not just in bed. I want to be with you and I don't want to hide it. You know who else thinks I'm a slut? My mother. It took twenty-two years and one night of me wearing a sinful dress. That's it. I've been stressing out about them finding out the real me the entire time I've been here and it's been such a waste of energy. I'm an adult and I'm done playing games. So fucking kiss me."

He does. It's soft and sweet, and when he pulls away, he says, "Welcome to your real life, Britain McCulley."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

We don't get shit-faced drunk, mainly because sex isn't fun when you're shit-faced drunk. But the forty-a-pull scotch goes down smooth like water, and even though my parents don't speak with me or Jaime for the remainder of the evening, they get the hint that he shouldn't drive home.

It's near midnight when we leave the benefit dinner. Ava left with her family and Micah is nowhere to be seen, so we only take one car back to the house. In the limo driving back, my father nods to the drink in Jaime's hands (one in a glass he took from the bar) and says, "Looks like you'll be cozying up in one of our guest rooms."

"If that's okay," says Jaime.

"Of course it's okay. Hell, you respect me enough to still have your shoes on."

I wiggle my dirty toes, and Mom's eyes travel from my breasts to my feet. But I don't care about my passive-aggressive parents. I'm kind of tipsy and Jaime Rivera is sleeping over.

When we leave the limo and enter the foyer, the house is dark and quiet. Dad directs Jaime to the room he can use, which is in mine and Cam’s wing. When me, Cam, and Jaime head upstairs, Cam stops in the hall and stares at the both of us, almost like he knows what's going on. When neither of us say anything, he says, "Soooo, Dad said your room was upstairs."

"Right," says Jaime. He holds his arms out to me, expecting some weird sibling-esque hug. I give it to him, making it look as awkward and uncomfortable as possible for Cam. "Night all. See you in the morning."

"Night," I echo back.

When Jaime heads up the hall, I walk to my room. Cam watches me, waiting until I shut my door.

He totally knows.

The same time I think it, I receive a text from Jaime.
He knows.