Page 10 of Dirty Work

“Then what?”

She flips her long inky-black hair over her shoulder, and I swear two guys at the table next to us start visibly drooling. That’s Mia. Everywhere we go, she attracts attention, with her Cher-inspired locks, flawless olive skin and statuesque figure. The chart at the doctor’s office says I’m average height and weight, but next to her I feel like a bridge troll. If she wasn’t so stinking nice, and so oblivious to her effect on the male of the species, I’d have to hate her just on principle.

The waitress comes with round number three, and I hand off our empty glasses before taking a sip from my new one. “Let’s just say it wasn’t my finest moment.”

“Come on,” Mia whines. “Spill. You can’t leave me hanging.”

“Well, since you put it that way...” I let my words trail off, hoping she gets the general idea without me having to fill in the dirty details.

She cocks a perfectly shaped brow at me. “Stop being so evasive and spit it out.”

So much for subtlety. I try again, still tiptoeing around the subject but a little less delicately this time. “Leaving people hanging seems to be my MO today.”

“You did not get your jollies and leave him all hot and bothered, did you?” She takes one look at my face, which must have guilt written all over it, and knows the answer. “Oh my God, you totally did. You filthy little tease.”

“Hey, I told you it wasn’t my finest moment.” I take a hit of prosecco. This conversation definitely requires more alcohol. “Roscoe fell off the couch, and when Jake went to check on him, I bolted.”

“Roscoe?”

“The dog.” I bury my head in my hands with a groan. “It was humiliating. I couldn’t look him in the eye after grinding on his thigh like it was a stripper pole.”

“The dog?” she teases.

I lift my head long enough to shoot daggers at her. “Very funny.”

“Hey.” She takes my hands and pries them away from my face. “If I know men, you have nothing to be ashamed about. I guarantee he enjoyed it as much as you did.”

I’m starting to feel a tad bit better about my porn star performance when she throws in a zinger. “Of course, he probably would have enjoyed it more if you stuck around for an encore.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” I reach for my drink. I seriously don’t know how I’m going to face Jake again. Maybe I can pass this job off to one of my assistants. Aaron loves dogs. He’d probably jump at the chance to hang out with Roscoe.

“I have idea.” Mia whips out her cell phone. “You said this guy Jake owns a club, right?”

“Yeah. Some high-end place in Chelsea.” Not my scene, for sure. Mostly celebs and artists, mixed with a smattering of uptown girls and downtown finance boys. Too crowded. Too noisy. Too stuffy. I prefer joints like the one I’m in now. Quirky. Cozy. And quiet enough to have an actual conversation.

“What’s it called?” she asks, tapping her screen to open her internet browser.

I try to dredge the name up from the recesses of my memory. Brie must have mentioned it a million times. She’s inordinately proud of her brother and his pull-himself-up-from-his-bootstrap success. “Top...something. Drawer, maybe. Or Shelf. Why?”

“We’re going there. Tonight.”

It’s a good thing I’m not mid-sip, or I would have spit prosecco all over Mia’s brand new chili-red Kate Spade canteen bag. “Why in hell would I want to do that?”

“So you can apologize.” She taps away on her phone, presumably Googling the name and address of the club.

“That is so not going to happen.”

“This must be it,” she says, continuing to stare at the screen as if she hasn’t heard me. “Top Shelf, 455 West 17th Street. I’ll order us an Uber.”

“Earth to Mia.” I reach across the table and snatch her phone. The woman is a force of nature once she gets rolling, so it’s imperative I stop her before this crazy idea of hers becomes a full-fledged plan of action. “I’m not Ubering anywhere.”

She stands and slings her purse over her arm. “Fine. We’ll catch a cab. Or take the subway. It’s only a few stops.”

“You’re not hearing me.” I don’t budge from my seat, hoping Newton’s first law will work in my favor. A body at rest tends to stay at rest, and here’s where I’m staying.

“I hear you perfectly fine. I’m just not listening. There’s a difference.” She holds out a hand for her phone, but I pull it out of her reach. “Seriously, Ainsley. Trust me on this. You’ll feel better once you’ve cleared the air.”

She may have a point. But it’s not one I’m willing to concede just yet. “I’ll text him.”