For Love or Money by Tara Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

and regret my entire week. In some ways, the foot pervert
is still in my dorm. In some ways, he’s there reminding me how much I deserved
what I got. I paste a smile on my lips. “I’ll use the guest bathroom and
collect my underwear before your mom finds it.”
    He
nods. “I’ll see if I can find you some knee socks to go with that skirt.” He
winks and walks out, adjusting his underwear.
    We
are bad people—naughty people.
    I
slip up the stairs, picking up my underwear and my blouse–my own trail
back to the bathroom. Andy’s mom is done screaming and bleating for the night.
I can only assume the young man has left the building with a wad of cash and a
soul as tainted as my own.
    I
open the door to the bathroom, pulling off my bra, and flicking on the lights
before getting into the huge stone shower that is a wall of rock instead of a
door. It makes me nervous to use it—no glass door means I can’t see who
is coming in. I don’t like not being able to see anymore.
    I
almost wish I’d taken Andy up on the shower and am about to go find him, when I
hear him come in as he closes the door. It makes me relieved enough that I can
fully step under the water and close my eyes.
    He
climbs in, pressing against me and using a cowboy accent. “When you’re done
sucking me off, I have to get going.”
    I
scowl. “I thought we were going to play psychiatrist—” I spin and open my
mouth to say something else but his hand covers mine. He growls. “What the shit
are you doing in here?” The crabby guy who was mean to me at Nance’s is in my
shower. James Holland. His eyes are wide and panicked.
    I
shake my head, trying not to give into the anxiety attack I feel coming on as
my brain chants, Oh God, he’s the foot pervert. Oh God. Oh God.
    My
knees buckle and the room spins, going dark. I hear him swear again, but it’s
the last thing I hear.

 
 

Chapter Six
    The
gigolo and the whore

 
    James
    I
hold her against my chest as the cab stops. My heart is racing and my mouth is
dry.
    Why
was she there, I thought her and that wanker Chad had a thing? Was she with
Andy? Why does she do these things to herself?
    I’m
wracking my brain for an answer as to whether or not Andy knows I was there. I
shake her again, hoping she’ll wake up. “Lana!”
    Damned
crackheads. I never should have left the party with her still at it.
    I
climb in and give the cabbie the crumpled card in my pocket. He snorts and
drives, no doubt laughing at the filthy shit on the invite card alongside the
address of the party.
    His
eyes dart in the mirror to the girl in my arms. “Is that Lana Webber? She
okay?”
    “Yeah,
she’s just drunk off her ass.”
    He
rolls his eyes. “If she pukes you’re paying to have it cleaned.”
    I
give him a hard look. “She pukes, she’s paying to clean it. Hell, if I were
you, I’d make her clean it.”
    He
laughs. “You sound like my kind of kid. These Ivy League brats are a menace.”
He must think I’m a townie or a barfly.
    We
make it all the way to the apartment building before she starts to stir. I’m
preparing a mental speech as to why I need the doorman to let me in, but when
his eyes lower to her face, he just opens it.
    God,
even passed-out drunk, doors just open for her.
    I
carry her up to the elevator and press the button. Looking down at her sleeping
face I can’t help but want to brush the hair from her face. She’s pretty
perfect—when she’s sleeping.
    Her
eyes flutter a bit before one lid cracks and a blue eye starts to take it all
in. She opens her mouth to scream and my hands are full with her so I can’t
cover her mouth, so I press her face into my chest, smothering her a bit. She
starts to struggle. I realize I look like a serial killer so when the elevator
doors close I pull her back. “Stop, Lana. Just stop. I’m not gonna hurt you.
Stay calm.”
    She
thrashes about, kicking and making noise so I put her down and point. “We’re in
the elevator at your friend’s