Over the next two weeks of training at Crossroads, the exhibitionism steadily increases. The private parties grow bigger, louder, and kinkier. After a series of mild shocks—two words, cattle prod—I grow mostly immune. I no longer blink when an ass or other body part is slapped, whipped, or paddled. I do, however, have to occasionally remind myself consent has been given.

Now, as I’m getting ready to head home from my last shift before the grand opening, I’m feeling pretty confident I can keep my wits while working here. The remainder of them, anyway. I don’t think about tomorrow, or tomorrow’s tomorrow. Just the present.

One foot in front of the other, I keep moving.

A walking dead woman.

Waving goodbye to the two other bartenders on duty, I skirt around a few patrons and head into the now-familiar administrative hallway. Sometime in the last weeks, the fluorescents have been replaced with mellower lighting, and the carpet is now plush instead of industrial.

The walls are still white and bare, though, and the second door on the left still ominous. Unfortunately, that’s where I’m headed—at Charlie’s instruction—to pick up my first paycheck. As I approach the door, I hear the low tones of his voice.

Cross.

My physical attraction to him hasn’t dimmed, which is disappointing, but thankfully I don’t see much of him. If Crossroads were a circus, Charlie would be its ringleader and Cross the behind-the-scenes talent scout. He rarely partakes in the festivities. When he does appear, it’s for a Whiskey Sour and silent, brooding appraisal. Not of me, though. He’s barely glanced at me since that first night.

When he stops talking, I wait a few moments to make sure he’s off the phone. Then I knock lightly on the door.

“Come in.”

Goosebumps ripple down my exposed arms. Ignoring the urge to bolt, I open the door and step inside. For some fucking reason, I can’t bring myself to look at him. I stare at the floor in front of his desk instead.

“Charlie told me to come see you for my paycheck.” I risk a glance up, barely registering his face, before looking back down. “Hopefully not my last one?”

He doesn’t speak for long enough that my armpits prickle. To my horror, my panties are damp. What the hell is wrong with me?

“You have a Master’s in Journalism from NYU?” he asks abruptly.

Startled, my head jerks up. “Yes, but—”

“Close the door.”

“Uhh—”

He huffs. “I’m not going to bite. Get in here and sit down. And stop acting like you’re a submissive. It’s not earning you any points.”

At long last, I remember what a douche he is. “Are the words please and thank you even in your vocabulary?”

His expression turns positively flinty. “Yes, thank you for asking. Now, please, London.”

My jaw drops. “Did you just make a joke?”

“For the love of—”

“Fine, fine.”

I take another step inside and shut the door. Cross sits behind a sleek mahogany desk to my right. Hands clasped behind his head. Bitchy look on his face. Opposite the desk is a small coffee table and couch. Presumably the location of auditions.

Other than the laptop and the mess of paperwork on the surface of his desk, the space is utilitarian and utterly devoid of personality. Not really surprising, given that the man occupying the office has the personality of wet plaster.

Making an effort to wipe my previous, inex-fucking-plicable passivity from both our memories, I settle on the dark leather couch and lean back. Crossing my legs and shifting, I try not to think about whether the surface beneath me has been cleaned recently.

When His Majesty doesn’t say anything, merely continues staring at me with an unreadable expression, I clear my throat.

“So, boss, why are you asking about my degree?”

His right eyelid twitches. I suppress a smile of pure, wicked glee.

Instead of answering the question, he says, “I Googled you.”

I have to be imagining the undertone of embarrassment in the words. What I’m not imagining is the instant sinking in my stomach.

Fuck.

“Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet,” I reply with forced levity.

“I don’t,” he says shortly, “but I do have a question for you.”

The muscles in my shoulders coil with tension. “What’s that?”

Please don’t ask—

“Did you do it?”

—that.

Fighting for calm, I stare him in the eye. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I don’t want a criminal working here.”

Anger unfurls in my gut. I uncross my legs and straighten. “No charges were filed because the accusations were bullshit.”

His hard expression doesn’t waver. “And the photographs of you and Ivan Reznikov?”

“I was interviewing him,” I snarl through my teeth.

With the last of my dignity, I stand and walk to the desk. Even sitting, he radiates danger—a wild predator pretending to nap while his prey stupidly saunters close. At least my guiding emotion right now is fury—despair will come later.

I hold out my hand, hoping he can’t see it shaking. “Since I’m about to go postal on you, why don’t you hand me my final check and we can forget we ever crossed paths.”

His brows lift. “I’ve offended you.”

I shake my head in bafflement. “You can’t possibly be that stupid. Of course you’ve offended me. You insulted my credibility and my character.”

Dark eyes scan mine. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Wanting something so badly and knowing you’ll never have it?” He doesn’t wait for me to decipher the loaded question. “Sit down, London. I believe you.”

Beyond confused, I blurt, “Why?”

In a rare show of humanness, he drags a hand through his hair. “Your reaction. You wear every emotion on your face.”

My hand finally falls to my side. Staring at him, unable to look away, I have the oddest sensation of falling. Not the scary part of it, either—the freedom. With the sensation, a bit of his Tight-Ass-mystique fades. He becomes more real.

And infinitely more threatening.

“Do you play a lot of poker, Mr. Cross?”

A hand swipes lazily across his jaw. My gaze follows the movement and gets stuck on his mouth. Shit, stop staring at his mouth. A smirk tells me that my flush doesn’t go unnoticed.

“No, I don’t,” he replies. “Are you trying to intimidate me by standing while I’m sitting?”

I consider the question, this dangerous dance we’re performing. I don’t want to be enjoying myself, but I am. My sister was the one inexplicably attracted to assholes when we were younger. Not me. But can I really blame myself? This man sighs and women think about his cock moving. And I’m 99 percent sure it’s a huge cock. Like the ones you read about but never see except in porn.

Horrified by the direction of my thoughts, I snap, “Maybe. Is it working?”

When he looks up through his eyelashes, my knees go liquid. And I have my answer. There’s nothing remotely soft or weak about this man. He is decisive, exacting, and uncompromising. The idea that I intimidate him is laughable. My defiance intrigues him much as a mouse intrigues a cat.

Both scenarios end the same way—being eaten.

“What do you think?” he murmurs.

I take a step back. “I think that’s enough of your eyeball-voodoo.” I keep backing up, not watching where I’m going, until I smack into the wall beside the door.

The bastard laughs. Keeps laughing as he grabs an envelope from the desk and stands, then crosses the space between us. The smile on his face is short-circuiting my brain, but not enough to prevent me from grabbing my check as his hand rises.

“Thanks,” I wheeze.

Cross tilts his head, smile falling, and that predatory darkness spreads once more through his eyes. With a final cataloguing of my features, he turns toward the desk. I grip the doorknob and ready my escape.

“You’re still on probation, London, and for the record, I still don’t want you working here.”

My idiot mouth blurts, “Seriously? What have I done wrong?”

He doesn’t look at me. “Another thing you can’t have, kitten, is the answer to that question. Good night.”

I’m dismissed.