Good Girl(32)

"Just tell me, was this always your plan?"

What? "No, of course not." This plan is less than two days old, so no. It's hardly even a plan, more of an irrational crazy idea.

"A goddamned virgin. I thought you were different, but fuck, Lydia."

"Wait, you're mad at me for something I haven't done? That's not even fair. It's discriminatory. You can't discriminate against me for being inexperienced."

"You let me whisper filth in your ear thinking you knew what the fuck I was talking about."

"I liked the filth!"

"Jesus Christ." He takes a hand off the wheel and drags it across his jaw as if he's stressed.

"Okay." My voice catches and I steady myself so I don't cry. "You're mad. I'm sorry. I just thought—" I stop myself from saying more. "Just take me back. You're obviously not interested in me. I don't know why you bid on me. Just take me back." Vince is going to kill me. Maybe literally, I don't know. He'll have to refund Rhys and he'll probably make me reimburse him for the money he lost which I'll never, not ever, be able to do. He'll charge interest and the balance will just keep getting bigger and bigger—as it does when you owe the mafia money—until I'm forced to make a deal that involves me burying a body or lying to the feds.

I literally cannot believe the effort I've gone through for this jerk.

"Take you back?" He laughs, but I don't particularly care for his tone. "I've paid in full. I'm keeping you."

"Whatever! Fine, if you want to."

"If I want to?" He exhales like I've exhausted him in the few short minutes we've been in the car together. "I don't have time for this right now, Lydia. In case you haven't noticed, I've got a lot on my plate right now."

"I know, but I looked it up on the internet and read that on average most couples have sex for seven to thirteen minutes and I don't mind if it's closer to seven minutes. We can be quick."

We're at a stoplight and he finally turns to look at me. "What?" His eyes flash in the dark, questioning, the tiny lines at the corners creasing as he tilts his head a fraction in my direction.

"You said you were pressed for time," I say slowly, not sure what he's not getting. "But it'll only take seven minutes." He doesn't say anything so I keep talking, wondering if I misunderstood what I read. "Maybe you could skip seven minutes of sleep tonight and you'd still be right on schedule." I think that sounds like a very reasonable resolution but he bends over the steering wheel and laughs so hard I'm afraid he's going to miss the light. "Or we can wait till after the opening," I offer and shrug, trying to pretend I'm not disappointed, like it's no big deal. But it's a very big deal. I am never losing my virginity. Like ever.

"This might be the best half mil I ever spent," he mutters but I'm not sure he's speaking to me. "What are you going to do with it anyway? The money?" The fingers of his right hand tap rapidly on the steering wheel as if he's agitated. I'm not sure if it's with me or the red light.

"Student loans," I reply, crossing my arms as I lie. I don't feel like talking to him about the money. I never wanted it, I only wanted Rhys. I only wanted more time with him. An opportunity to understand him a little better, to explore the connection I felt with him at the bar, the connection I know he felt as well. Maybe he wasn't as enamored with me as I was with him, but I know he felt something.

Besides, my plans for the money were small. My deal with Vince was for fifty percent. I was thinking fifty percent of ten thousand, not fifty percent of five hundred thousand. My plans will require some re-working.

"You know how it is. Those interest rates are no joke," I add, looking out the window to avoid looking at him.

"Okay," he says, but his tone indicates I'm full of it. That he doesn't believe me. That I'm a conniving money-grabbing hoe-bag.

We've arrived at the Windsor and Rhys guides the car into the employee parking section of the garage, but to a section I've not been to before. We access it though a lift gate marked ‘private’ and he slides into a numbered space and kills the engine. We sit in silence for a few seconds, Rhys staring straight ahead at the cinder block wall, me side-eyeing him from the passenger seat.

"Okay, well." I un-click my seatbelt and open my door. Rhys follows suit and we meet at the trunk of the car, toe to toe. I glance up at him under my lashes but he's already turning, walking towards the elevators.

He punches a series of numbers into a keypad and the elevator doors open. We step on and I notice this elevator only stops at a handful of floors. The parking garage, floors two through four and thirty-four, where the executive suites are. I'm not even sure where this elevator lets out on four. Clearly it's private and meant as a personal elevator for the executive staff.

The doors open on thirty-four and it looks pretty much like the rest of the guest floors I've seen. Rhys leads the way, his footsteps near-silent on the plush carpet, before coming to a stop at a set of double doors. And then we're inside, standing in a large marbled foyer. Straight across, past a seating area with a large sectional sofa, are floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Strip. It's nice. It's also a little sad. It looks like a combination of a model home and a hotel suite. It doesn't look very lived-in.