Blind Spot

Selena

I blink at the silver tray suddenly shoved into my line of sight. A crystal bottle of top-shelf bourbon sits at its center, flanked by two glasses that catch the club’s low light.

“Quick, Lena. These people don’t take kindly to waiting,” my manager says when I don’t take it from him right away.

He sounds irritated, as if he’s the one being inconveniently intercepted nearly ten minutes after his shift ended. But he’s the boss, and what’s another thirty minutes when the imbalance is already this skewed?

I’ll just have to trim it off somewhere else, probably from sleep.

Five hours is already a luxury if I want enough time to prepare for my presentation tomorrow morning, and I need this job. Strutting around in skimpy skirts and strappy tops, serving entitled wealthy men, pays me more in a single night than three days at the DA’s office ever could.

Taking the tray, I inhale slowly and try to shove my exhaustion aside with the next exhale. The low, sultry beat pulses through the floor, vibrating through the plush carpet and up through the soles of my shoes, straight into my bones. It’s a thick, intoxicating kind of energy that automatically transforms you into somebody else.

There are no real-life troubles here. None of these people need to know how I survive, so I paste on a sultry expression and strut forward.

Paragon, mostly referred to as a gentleman’s club, is one of the city’s high-end, exclusive establishments. It’s where big names come to unwind and indulge in things their wives or mothers would never approve of. And because of that, privacy is a sacred rule here.

At booth seven, I balance the tray in one hand and draw the red curtain aside.

A man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties and younger than most of the regular clientele, sits in the center of the black leather couch with his legs spread wide. A blonde woman straddles him, kissing down his neck as she grinds against his lap. Her pink dress rides higher with every movement.

But he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to her because his eyes are on me.

I step farther inside and set the bourbon and glasses onto the table, the soft click unnaturally loud in the enclosed space. Then, for some reason, I just stand there, the now-empty tray tucked under my arm.

“Are you going to just watch?” the woman purrs over her shoulder. “I don’t mind sharing. You know what they say—the more, the merrier.”

What she’s suggesting isn’t unheard of here. Still, I make it a point not to engage in anything that could come back to haunt me later. I have a career to build, and keeping your name clean in places like this is already tougher than I predicted the day I decided to apply for this job.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the man.

He hasn’t looked away from my face since I stepped inside. He isn’t checking me out the way most men do. He’s assessing me, his plain expression giving nothing away about what conclusion he’s drawing.

Unlike men who undress me with their eyes, this look is unsettling.

The man leans in toward the woman and murmurs something into her ear. Whatever he says makes her stiffen before she turns to look at me like I’ve just peed in her candy cocktail. Without a word, she slides off his lap and drifts out of the booth, her movements loose and unfocused, and I can’t help wondering if she’s high on more than just the cocktails.

“Pour for two,” the man says, gesturing at the crystal bottle with his chin.

Since that’s what I’m here to do, I move forward and pour three fingers into each glass, the amber liquid catching the light. Once I’m done, I step back, ready to leave.

His next word stops me.

“Sit.”

Yes, that’s definitely a command. I dig my middle finger into my palm so I don’t present it to him.

“I don’t drink with clients.”

That’s not actually true. It’s required of me to keep the client company if he asks for it, so long as he doesn’t cross a line I’m not comfortable with. But not when I’m working unsigned for overtime. I need to get home.

“I asked you to sit, not drink.”

I stay where I am, shoulders squared. “If you need anything else, I can get one of the floor staff to take care of you.”

He leans back against the couch, tilting his head as if he finds my refusal amusing. The first two buttons of his white shirt are undone, displaying a dusting of chest hair, and his sleeves are rolled up to reveal strong, veiny forearms. His onyx-black hair is perfectly styled, not a single strand out of place.

“Marry me.”

A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. It’s sharp and surprised. Surely he has to be joking. However, the expression on his face doesn’t change, and his eyes remain clear, focused.

That sobers me.

“That’s not among the services Paragon offers,” I say, keeping my voice light—customer care and all.

“If I wanted services offered by the house, I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you.”

“Right,” I mutter. “So you’re insane.”

He picks up one of the glasses I just poured and takes a measured sip before setting it back down with deliberate motions. “And yet, you’re still standing here.”

He’s right, and that irritates me more than the proposal itself. I should have walked out the moment he opened his mouth, but my feet haven’t moved.

“Sit.” He gestures to the other end of the couch.

I do, if only because it’s been a long day of mind-numbing monotony and this is the first thing that’s made me laugh. The leather is cool beneath my thighs as I settle in, hands in my lap.

“You hate being here,” he says, not unkindly.

“What gives you that idea?”

I stiffen, which he takes as a cue to continue.

“You’re exhausted from running yourself into the ground—law school, two jobs,” he states, as if listing facts off a page. “But you’re disciplined. You don’t drink, you flirt just enough to keep your job, but don’t give anything away. That level of control takes effort.”

“Are you a stalker or something?” I ask, every part of my body on high alert. That’s too much accuracy from a stranger.

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled. “So what’s the dream you’re killing yourself for?” he asks, ignoring the question.

This close, I can see that his eyes are blue. A piercing blue that I can swear sees through me. Which could be the reason I answer honestly.

“A prosecutor.”

“DA’s office or federal?”

“DA’s office for now.”

“Hard field to break into, and law school isn’t cheap. Which means your student loan is piling up.”

Of course he knows this too.

I remain silent as he lifts his glass and takes another unhurried sip. I’m oddly curious where he’s taking this.

“How long until you’re free of it?”

“Eight years, maybe ten if I’m realistic.”

“That’s optimistic even for the lucky scenario.”

“I can be intentional.”

“I can see that.” He shifts closer, angling his body toward mine. “Let me simplify my earlier proposition. Marry me, and I’ll clear your debt. You’ll have the time to focus on your degree, and access to the kind of connections that turn good prosecutors into great ones. When you’re ready, you’ll be able to walk into any DA’s office in this city and be taken seriously.”

My mind races, flipping through risks and hidden clauses. Offers that sound this good always come with a trap.

“What do you get out of it?” I ask.

“A wife.”

“A wife. I don’t think you lack women who’d do anything just to earn that title.”

“No.” His voice stays calm, controlled. “I want someone intelligent. One who won’t embarrass me at a board meeting or quit when pressure gets ugly. Someone who understands marriage is a contract, not a fairy tale.”

It’s insane. Like that deal is designed to ruin me in ways I won’t see until it’s too late.

But it’s also the first real exit I’ve seen in three years of living like a machine.

“You don’t know me,” I point out.

More to myself than him — if only to halt my mind before it jumps to life-altering decisions.

“Selena Navarro, but you prefer Lena Navarro. Twenty-four years old, paralegal aide at the DA’s office, second-year student at Umberfel Law.” He says it evenly. “You’ve been working here nights for eleven months, and you’ve never once taken a client outside this building.”

My stomach tightens, the air suddenly thinner in my lungs.

“Have you been watching me?”

“I’ve been paying attention.”

He stands, even taller than I expected—over six feet. He retrieves his jacket from the couch. From the inside pocket, he produces a card and holds it out between two fingers.

“You have one week. Call me once you decide against killing yourself for a degree you’ll spend the next decade paying off.”

He places the card on the table beside the tip and steps past me, close enough that I catch his cologne — cold and sharp, like cedar and snow. The curtain swishes behind him, carrying the scent with it.

I sit there in the empty booth, the bottle of bourbon and the two glasses still on the table. One almost empty. One untouched. My heart beats as if finally catching up to what just happened.

The card stares up at me, silently taunting. And I give in, crossing the space to pick it up along with the crisp notes, then flip it over.

Edmund A. Thorne III

Thorne Petroleum Holdings

I let out a slow breath.

Probably a trust-fund baby trying to escape an arranged marriage.

It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.

I slip the card into my skirt pocket, reclaim the tray, and step back into the hallway where music and laughter crash over me again. I manage not to run into my manager as I clock out, change back into jeans, a T-shirt, and sensible shoes.

On the walk to the subway, my fingers trace the edge of the card in my coat pocket. Marriage has never been on my list of life goals, but what Edmund suggested wasn’t a real marriage.

It was business.

My life has always felt like a hot pan under my ass, and I’m tempted to jump even with the knowledge that I might be heading straight into the fire.