Praise (Salacious Players Club, #1)(7)

I quickly lick my lips. Fuck, I don’t know. So I’ll just go with the price of the Anime Fest with VIP passes. “Two-fifty.”

He glances up at me as if he’s surprised. Too much? Too little?

“Two hundred and fifty?”

I nod. He seems to contemplate that for a moment before going back to filling it out. Again, he rips it from the book and holds it out for me.

Quickly, I cross the room, and I notice the way he’s watching my body as I hurry toward him. Then he meets my eyes, but he doesn’t let go of the check right away. Instead, he looks like he wants to say something. I wait, hoping he’s not about to argue with me again.

Finally, he lets it go.

“Thank you.”

He nods his head, and I turn to run out of his office. I don’t stop until I reach my car. Dropping into the driver’s seat, I finally let out the heavy breath I was holding.

I glance down at the two checks in my hand. The first for one thousand, and the second for five thousand.

What the…

Is this a mistake? I keep re-reading the number written, wondering what exactly I’m missing. For a second, I actually consider running back into the house to tell him he made a huge mistake. Then I notice in the memo of the check, there is a phone number followed by three letters: SPC.

They aren’t his initials. But something about that note makes me think he wrote the amount out on purpose. So I don’t go back in. I mean, he’s loaded. Five thousand might be a mortgage payment and tickets to Anime Fest for me, but for him, it’s probably nothing.

I let out a squeal of excitement and drop the checks into the passenger seat as I start my car and hurry home.

Was humiliating myself worth five grand? It sure fucking was.





RULE #4: AFTER A HUMILIATING DAY WITH YOUR EX’S DAD, TACOS AND MARGARITAS ARE ALWAYS THE ANSWER.





Charlie





Sophie is in heaven as the waitress places a serving of fried ice cream bigger than her head on the table. Meanwhile, my mom is next to me sucking down a margarita that’s even bigger than hers.

My sister offers me a spoon, and I take it with a smile. We dig in, barely breathing between bites of the sugary caramel vanilla concoction.

“Wow, Charlie. Thanks for taking us out to dinner,” my mother says with a tipsy smile. It’s nice to see her so relaxed. With the extra shifts she’s been picking up at the hospital, I know she’s been stressed.

“My pleasure,” I mumble around a mouthful of ice cream.

“Freeze brain!” Sophie shrieks, clutching her forehead. Mom and I laugh at her misspoken phrase, which she’s been using since she was a toddler, and we never had the heart to correct her. So we all call it a freeze brain now.

When I came home with five thousand more than I expected to, I immediately told them to get dressed for a dinner out. It’s Taco Tuesday, after all.

I didn’t bother to mention how I came to have the five grand, but it wasn’t important. As far as they’re concerned, the extra cash was just the security deposit, and that was that.

Why did he leave me his number?

Why would I need to call him?

And what is SPC?

I googled it. I came up with a lot of responses that didn’t seem helpful. There’s a Sicilian Pizza Cafe eight miles away from my house, though, so that’s good to know.

I zone out while shoveling ice cream into my mouth, thinking about the way he touched my cheek, how strangely gratifying it felt when he said that one word: lovely. He didn’t call me pretty or say, ‘you look nice.’ This was different. It was…approval.

What a ridiculous thing to feel so good about, some stranger’s praise. Not even a stranger, really. Beau’s dad. I get a full-body cringe every time I think about it. I mean, yeah, he’s a good-looking guy, but he has to be like…twenty years older than me. He’s literally my dad’s age. Double ick.

And what exactly was he praising? My face. I hate my traitorous body for how turned on I felt in that moment, but that’s just a natural reaction, right? Because I am a full-fledged, card-carrying, fist-pumping feminist. The last thing I need to be satisfied with my life is a man’s approval.

It just felt nice. That doesn’t mean anything.

And the fact that being on my knees for him was comforting is just ingrained generational misogyny. Thanks, patriarchy.

After mulling the situation over in my head, I’ve come to the conclusion that Beau’s dad thought I was a prostitute. It’s the only thing that makes sense. And, apparently, he’s into submissive sex workers, which is cool—I mean, to each their kinky own, right?

So why can’t I stop thinking about it? Why does my brain seem to think there’s something worth hanging on to from this experience? And why did he bother leaving me his phone number?

“To breaking up with Beau,” my little sister announces, holding up the last spoonful of ice cream like she’s making a toast.

“Sophie!” my mom scolds her.

“It’s okay,” I reply. Then I clink my spoon against my sister’s. “He wasn’t any good for me. It’s better to be alone than to be with someone who’s bad for you.”

The table goes silent, and the memory of my dad fills the air like an awkward fog. He left about a year and a half ago, because he couldn’t let his ignorance go. He didn’t approve of the way my sister lives her life, and his own stupidity cost him his family. But we’re better without him, something I remind Sophie of as often as I can.