Praise (Salacious Players Club, #1)(3)

“I know.”

“At least you broke up with him.”

“Yeah. Too bad I still don’t have my money.” Fishing my phone out of my purse, I open the text from Beau.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m an idiot and messed up. So now I have to go pick it up from his dad, and I’m willing to bet that asshole didn’t fall far from the asshole tree.”

“So, let’s go get it,” she replies, looking a little too pumped to go pick up money from a complete stranger.

“I have no clue where this guy even lives. I’m not taking you to the ghetto.” As I click on the address in the text, it pulls up the map app and shows a red pin on a street directly next to the oceanfront. “That can’t be right.”

“What is it?” she asks, leaning over.

“It says his house is over in the Oceanview district.”

“Let’s goooo.”

I laugh again and ruffle her short, faded blue hair. It’s still growing out from the buzz-cut she gave herself last summer, so now it hangs just below her ears.

“Nice try, little Smurf, but you have piano lessons, and Mrs. Wilcox will have my head if you’re late again.”

Sophie rolls her eyes and gives me a dramatic pout as we pull out of Beau’s driveway and head across town to the high school where Sophie gets her lessons. The entire way, I replay every moment of the fight with Beau, his harsh tone etched into my memory. And a feeling of dread settles in my gut as I think about having to confront his dad.

Beau rarely spoke about his family when we were together, and whenever I asked about them, he would just change the subject, as if he was ashamed or embarrassed. Getting his dad to co-sign for us last year was hard enough, but shortly after, there was a rift between them and Beau stopped talking to him altogether. At first, we bonded over our mutual disdain for our fathers. And if Beau’s dad is anything like mine, the whole interaction is sure to be a fucking blast.





RULE #2: NO POUTING.





Emerson





Why is she giving me that look? The Bettie Page lookalike with blunt black bangs and quite lovely curves is kneeling on the floor next to my desk, and she’s…pouting. Her ruby red lips are pursed, and she’s just gazing up at me as I drink my coffee. Everything that she should not be doing.

This is a cry for attention, which makes sense, considering my attention is exactly what brought her here in the first place. I’m literally paying her to earn a soft pat on the head or a little affirmation—earn being the operative word. So far, this girl has done nothing but patronize me with all the fucking theatrics, and I’m about two seconds away from tossing her out the door. Literally.

If you want my attention, you have to earn it first. Behave. Do as I say. Otherwise, stay silent. That’s not me being a dick, that’s literally the scene we’re playing, but this girl isn’t playing by the rules. She knew exactly what she was signing up for when she took this job.

“Stare at the floor,” I command without looking at her.

There’s a disgruntled sounding huff that escapes her lips before she turns her gaze down to the floor. I sure hope she’s not interested in being a brat because that is definitely not my style, and it said so quite clearly in the application.

The next three hours of her shift are practically insufferable, but I’m a gentleman, so I let her stay. She brings me my lunch, rests her opulent tits on my thighs when I kick my feet up during a boring conference call, and even earns a good stroke of her cheek when she manages to be completely silent while I write out an email.

But she’s growing restless, and I can tell. Out of the corner of my gaze, I catch her pouting again, and I glance down to see her roll her eyes. That’s it. Reaching down, I grab her jaw in my hand and turn her to face me. Her eyes go wide—she’s nervous.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“No, Sir,” she murmurs, and I catch a hint of excitement hidden under the delicate tremble in her voice. Yep, she’s definitely a brat.

If punishment was my thing, she’d have earned it by this point, but even I know punishment is exactly what she wants. So instead of laying her over my lap or making her suck my dick for her blatant disrespect, I say, “Stand up. Gather your things. Have a good day.”

“But—"

“Goodbye, Rita.”

Turning away from her, I focus on my computer, dismissing her entirely.

With a scoff, she marches away, slips on her shoes, grabs her coat, and slams the door as she leaves. The moment she’s gone, I dial Garrett’s number.

“Let me guess. You didn’t like her,” he says by way of greeting.

“She just kept pouting. Do men really like girls who pout so much?”

Garrett laughs on the other end of the line. “We don’t like what most men like, remember? It makes my job hard, sure, but I’m just trying to find you the right girl, Emerson.”

“Apologize to Rita for me, and never send her back to my house.”

“You got it.”

The line is silent for a moment as I look over the emails from Maggie on the new app update from the developers.

“That’s not true, you know,” I mumble as I scroll through her messages. I can hear the white noise in the background, which means Garrett is in the car.