Free Beneath a Blood Moon by R. J. Blain Page A

parents would forgive me despite knowing they wouldn’t, encouraging me to rip off the blindfold and run away back to the place I had once called home.
    If I had a single grain of integrity, I would tell Desmond the truth. The boss had played him for a lot of money, and I was to blame.
    I sighed. “I’m not worth what you paid. He charges five hundred a shift to let girls out early. The girl’s supposed to get a hundred an hour. You were ripped off. Cheated.”
    “He said you wouldn’t accept at his regular hourly rate. Called you a high-class hussy who didn’t know what was good for her. You, Miss Sara, are apparently in high demand,” Desmond replied. I heard the steady drumming of fingers on leather. “While I agree you are of high class, I think the fact you don’t go home with just any man proves you are not a hussy—or a slut, hooker, whore, or any other derogatory term you may wish to mutter under your breath when you think I can’t hear you.”
    “Have you forgotten I’m a stripper?”
    “Lots of women strip to help pay their way, including young mothers, college students, and those who simply live in an expensive town.”
    “Why the blindfold and the dress?” I blurted.
    “Well, I certainly couldn’t take you out and about in what you were wearing. While I am not one to tell a woman what she can or can’t wear, I was concerned you might expire if you attempted to wear that outfit on the streets. Since we are going to a rather nice show after dinner, I thought you’d feel more comfortable wearing something venue appropriate. As for the blindfold, I’m really not sure. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
    “Charles, you’re terrible. Where is Sanders? It doesn’t take ten minutes to find the elevator,” Wendy complained. I once again heard a phone ring. “Sanders, where are you? I’m starving, and if I don’t get something to eat soon, you’re on the menu. Okay, okay. Fine, maybe it does take you ten minutes to find the elevator. Where are you? Go to the big staircase in the middle, turn left, and go to the wall. When you reach it, turn right and take the first left. The elevators to the garage are there. Third level, Sanders. Don’t get lost this time. You’ll be sitting on my side of the car, as your present is currently on the driver’s side.”
    I bit my lip at being called a present, but kept my mouth shut. My wolf, however, was interested in why we were a present and who we were a present for. In her opinion, if two of his friends were willing to spend so much money on us, he fit many of my criteria for a mate.
    That was good enough for her.
    Charles laughed. “He really got lost?”
    “So he claims. I think he was scoping out the casino looking for the lady,” Wendy replied, giggling. “We should make bets on how he reacts.”
    “Fool’s bet. He’s going to be shocked and dismayed, then completely incapable of figuring out how to handle the situation I have put him in.”
    “He’s not the only one who is trying to figure out this situation, dear. My apologies, Miss Sara. He gets carried away.”
    “Hey, this was your idea, Wendy.”
    “So? You’re the one who ran off like a looney—giggling, I’ll remind you. I should take your credit cards away so you can’t do any more impulse shopping tonight.”
    “It’s Sanders’s fault.”
    Someone tapped on the glass of the driver’s window. “What’s my fault?”
    I didn’t know who he was, but he had a nice voice, his tenor fringing on baritone, with the faintest hint of a rumble when he spoke. My wolf liked the sound, so much like a growl.
    “Oh, made it, did you?” Desmond asked. “Couldn’t find the lady in the casino?”
    “Damn it, Desmond!”
    “Get in the car. Wendy’s side.” There was no mistaking the command in Desmond’s voice.
    The door opened. “Desmond, I swear I’ll—”
    Wendy burst into laughter. “Happy belated birthday, Sanders. He didn’t have the heart to let you go to dinner