Praise (Salacious Players’ Club)

Charlie

“I was only trying to protect you,” he mumbles quietly on the drive home.

“What?”

I can’t stop picking at the chipped black polish on my nails since that incident in the throne room. I hate how naive I feel. I hate how controlling Emerson is and how small I am in his presence when he tells me what to do. And dammit, I want him to acknowledge that.

“You have to be careful around those guys, especially Drake.” His eyes glance over to my body, and I realize he’s referring to my scandalous outfit.

“Is he bad?” I ask, knowing full well I have no interest in him. He was handsome beyond words, but he just didn’t feel like my type. Of course, after Beau, I’m not quite sure I know what my type is.

“Drake isn’t bad at all. He’s a good friend, but he’ll fuck anything that moves and you’re too young, Charlotte.”

I clench my jaw and turn away. “If you’re going to keep treating me like a child, then you really shouldn’t have hired me.”

I spot the muscles of his jaw clench in unison with mine. We stay silent for the rest of the drive. After he pulls into the garage, he climbs out and turns toward me.

“Have you spoken to Beau lately?”

I catch his expression over the top of the car, and I see a hint of desperation on his face. “I saw him at the mall yesterday.”

His eyebrows lift, and his spine straightens. “How was he?”

I consider my answer for a moment. Should I sugarcoat it and tell him Beau is great and not the overgrown man-child without direction that he is? Would that make him feel better? I settle on cutting to the chase instead. “He wants his half of the security deposit. He was pretty mad at me for not getting it for him.”

Emerson’s brow flinches at my words. “Mad at you?”

“Yeah, in Beau’s eyes, I’m nothing but a fuck-up. A loser and an idiot.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this, the words just seem to pour out of my mouth.

His expression hardens from confusion to anger. “He does not think that.”

“Yes, he does.”

I circle around the car, meeting him near the trunk. He’s silent, as if he’s deliberating. And I’m sure he’s thinking of ways of getting Beau here to get his half of the check. It’s really a great piece of bait if he wants to see his son.

I’m a little surprised by his next words. “You’re none of those things, Charlotte.”

I scoff. “You barely know me.”

His hand grips me tenderly just above my elbow, drawing my attention to his face. “Stop it,” he commands me, his voice deep and jarring as I nearly stumble backward, his grip on my arm keeping me upright.

Somehow I’m closer to him, nearly pressed against his chest and staring up at him. Did he pull me closer?

“You are not a loser or a fuck-up or an idiot, do you understand me?” He seems almost angry, and if his words weren’t so complimentary, I’d be frightened.

“Okay,” I mutter.

“I’m sorry he made you feel that way.”

“It’s okay,” I reply. The neurons in my brain have stopped firing as I’m overwhelmed by his nearness. His breath is on my face, warm and masculine, and if I were any other woman, I’d want him to kiss me. I think he would.

But I’m not any other woman, I’m Charlie. Too naive. Too clumsy and immature and insignificant.

“And I’m sorry for reprimanding you today at the club. Garrett and Drake were out of line. That wasn’t your fault.”

What happened to Mr. Bossy Asshole? He was easier to deal with than Mr. Compliments and Apologies. I’m not sure how to respond to this, so I back away, pulling my arm from his grasp. “I understand. Yes. Thank you,” I stammer.

“If Beau wants his money, he can come get it himself,” Emerson adds with a bite to each syllable as he marches into the house. I follow after him, feeling a little shaken.

Somewhere between the garage and the kitchen, where Emerson shows me the coffee maker and the water and where I can find everything I need, I think about my own father.

Emerson probably hasn’t spoken to Beau in four months. I haven’t spoken to mine in almost five times as long. He doesn’t call or text or hire my exes to try and get me back. He’s never forcibly made me accept that I wasn’t a screwup.

And later, as I’m filing paperwork, I let my gaze linger on Emerson as he works. And I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Does he really see a girl young enough to be his daughter?

Then I mentally try on what it would feel like to have a man like Emerson Grant look at me as a woman good enough for him. Warmth floods my lower belly as I think about him in that way, to be his woman. To feel his hands on my body, his lips on my skin. To walk into a building on his arm and know that no matter who is in that building, I am the most important one to him. And everything shifts in my brain from seeing him as a father to seeing him as a man.

After work, I’m pulling up to the curb next to a blue-haired teenager who is so engrossed in her book, she doesn’t even see me coming.

“Get in, punk.”

My sister turns, her blue hair flying in her face from the harsh winter breeze as she walks home from school. I usually start work around this time and can never pick her up, so it’s nice to be able to surprise her during her mile-long hike.

After climbing in, she looks at my outfit and laughs. “You look like a hooker.”

“Thanks. You look like a Smurf.”

“Thanks. How was your first day at your new job?” she asks, as I pull away from the curb and head toward the shopping plaza on the opposite side of town.

“It was…interesting.” I’m not really planning on sharing all the gritty details of my new job with my fourteen-year-old sister. She may be wise for her years, but she’s not ready for all of that. I have also decided not to disclose the fact that I’m working for Beau’s dad. She was never much a fan of Junior and wouldn’t be too keen on me working with Senior.

“Wait, where are we going?” she asks when I miss the turn for our house.

“Didn’t that new anime comic come out today?”

Her eyes light up. “It’s called manga, and yes, it did…but they probably sold out already.”

“Well, it’s worth a shot.”

As we pull up to the strip mall with Sophie’s favorite comic book store, I suddenly wish I had gone home first to change. There’s a gaggle of teen boys, all clearly in the throes of puberty, huddled outside. You can tell by the acne, ill-fitting clothes, greasy hair, and metal-filled smiles.

Oh well. It’s for Sophie, I think as we climb out of the car. She side-eyes me as we walk up to the shop, my heels clicking against the oily, cracked concrete of the parking lot.

“Geez,” she mutters under her breath.

I can literally feel their eyes as we pass. Inside the shop, there’s a lot of chatter, the excitement from the new release today clearly filling the empty spaces. A group of giggly girls with K-pop T-shirts and Hello Kitty backpacks browse the back wall as Sophie heads toward the empty endcap where the new book should be.

“See.” Her shoulders slump and my heart breaks. “They probably sold out hours ago.”

“Not today, Satan,” I reply, turning toward the heavy-set, bearded man behind the counter. “Excuse me.”

When he looks up from the video game console he’s currently dismantling, he freezes. His eyes lock, and I mean lock, on my breasts. Granted, my shirt is see-through, and my bra is black. It’s a display…I know that, but he is looking at my tits like they’ve put a trance on him and he’s incapable of seeing anything else in the room.

“Hi,” I bark, trying to tear his attention away from my chest. And just as I’m about to cover it with my folded arms, I realize this might work to my advantage. So instead, I lean forward, letting my cleavage pop as my elbows rest against the glass counter.

“Oh my God,” Sophie mumbles quietly behind me.

“Can— Can I help you?” the man asks.

“Yes, my sister and I are looking for the new book in the Wonder Boy Cosmo series. I think it came out today.” I flash him a toothy grin.

“Oh, that sold out at ten a.m. this morning.” He manages to look me in the eye this time, but his gaze dances between my lips and tits like little ping-pongs in his head.

“Really?” I ask with a pout. Then I heave a long sigh, glancing toward the back of the shop behind him, noticing unopened boxes stacked along the wall. Pinching my bottom lip between my teeth, I stare up at him through my lashes as I ask, “Any chance you have just one more back there for us? I really, really wanted it.” Then I spy his name tag and add a flirty, “Travis,” in for good measure.

He swallows then forces a tight smile for me. As he seems to deliberate his options for a moment, I consider that this guy is actually pretty handsome. If he trimmed up that unruly beard and combed his hair, it would go a long way. Plus, he has a nice smile.

He must notice me quasi-checking him out because he grins. “Let me go check in the back.”

He’s gone for a while, and I turn toward Sophie, who only shakes her head at me with a blank expression on her face as she scans the Funko Pop wall.

A few minutes later, Mr. Beard returns with his hands behind his back. Leaning toward me on the counter, he passes me a thick book with a bright illustrated cover and what looks like a corgi dressed up like an astronaut. “You didn’t get this from me,” he whispers.

“Oh my God, you’re the best, Travis!”

Leaning forward, I plant a quick kiss on his cheek, leaving the red-lipped stamp there as he blushes. Hiding the book from the girls at the back of the store, I pull out my credit card and hand it to him discreetly. He’s still smiling as he gives me my receipt and wishes us a good day.

In the car, Sophie beams at her new book and my heart swells. “Oh my God, you are a hooker, but I’m not complaining!”

“I am not!”

“Well, just keep dressing like one.”

My laugh dies down as I think about what Garrett said in the throne room today. What is there to be ashamed of? Everyone does it. Everyone enjoys it. What a waste of a good life to pretend you don’t.

I’ve never considered myself a sexual person, but I can’t deny that it felt good to sit on that throne, to think about someone—a certain someone—finding ways to pleasure me while I was up there. It excited me to be so admired in the shop, to use my body in a way that worked for me. To be comfortable in my own skin and flaunt that. To know that I may not be a twig or have perfect skin, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be sexy.