When Corden Nash took over as the crime lord of New Jersey, he swore he'd never fall in love. His one goal in mind has been to burn Rafino Rossi and everything he's ever built into the ground after murdering his father. But when Carmen Abdullahi sho...
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I can feel Corden long before I see him.
The hairs on the back of my neck tingle with recognition. With a glance over my shoulder, the breath gets sucked out of my lungs from the heat of Corden's stare. He's in another pristine suit, but unlike the other, I'm unfamiliar with the designer. All I do know is that gray is his color.
"Hadari," he greets me formally like I'm a business partner rather than a woman he watches on the pole. "It's a pleasure to see you again. Would you like a drink?"
I shouldn't, but the gin martini last weekend helped me loosen up. I take him up on his offer, and when the drink lands in my hand, I take a large gulp. The man doesn't seem to be able to take his eyes off of me. Normally it'd be alarming, but Corden eyes the baby pink two-piece like he wants to peel it off of me. Selfishly, a part of me wants him to.
And that's completely ludicrous considering the conversation I overheard between the girls after our last experience in the Red Room together. Nobody knows what Corden does for a living, so that fact alone should be steering me clear of him, but he hasn't given me a reason to fear him. All he's done is make me ten thousand dollars richer while being nothing but respectful.
I down the drink with two more gulps before placing it back gently on the bar.
"Nervous?" Corden flicks his eyes to the drink and then back to me.
Yes, because I have no idea who you really are and I think I'm getting myself into deep and utter shit.
"Why would I be nervous? We've done this before, right?"
"Right." Extending his hand out for me to lead, I walk us into the Red Room for the second time. I glance over my shoulder again to find Corden's eyes glued to my ass, but he doesn't check me out in a way that creeps me out. He stares at me like he's...admiring. Worshiping.
"Pink is your color," he says as he takes his place on the couch.
The compliment throws me off guard. "Oh?"
"It makes me wonder what you'd look like in a luxury set," he hums. "Have you ever wanted one?"
My grip tightens on the pole. "I love fashion. Designer brands have always been a dream of mine, but like many of us who work here, we can't afford it."
He arches a brow. "I'm sure ten thousand every weekend changes that, no?"
Wrong. I'm using the money for more important things, like supporting my parents and community back in Nigeria. They need the money more than I do. With this extra income flow—however long it lasts—I can put the money towards building my parents a home with running water or giving the children a school to attend if this keeps up long enough. No matter how much I beg and plead with my parents to come to America, they're comfortable in Nigeria surrounded by those they've grown up with their entire lives. I can't fault them for it, but I can ensure they never have to worry about money. At least for the time being.
