Hot Chick for Hire

  HOT CHICK FOR HIRE

  For Hire Duet Book 1

  CAT JOHNSON

  New York Times & USA Today Bestseller

  I thought I was interviewing to be an escort . . .

  The position I accidentally ended up getting might be even more dangerous.

  Me, Chelsea Bridges, working for a private military contractor. Although I figure SEALs and spies have to be preferable to the lowlife's I encountered at my former job at the “gentlemen’s” club.

  If I had any doubts about my new employment, Mr. MI6 in the GQ suit with the British accent to swoon over was enough to sway my decision.

  Now my only concern is when I'll see him again, because one night with Tristan Fairchild was definitely not enough.

  The For Hire Series

  A Hot SEALs Series Spin-off

  Billionaire for Hire–Brent Hearst (Standalone)

  Hot Chick for Hire–Chelsea Bridges (Duet Book 1)

  Spy for Hire–Tristan Fairchild (Duet Book 2)

  ONE

  Six months ago

  "How did this happen?" My words came out sounding muffled. Unavoidable, I suppose, given the combination of my numb fat lip and the bag of frozen peas I had pressed against it.

  My roommate Trina leveled a glare at me. "Chelsea, seriously. You can't figure out the answer to that question on your own?"

  Trina didn't pull any punches. She knew me too damn well for that. Hard not to after living together for two years in an apartment not much bigger than a hamster cage.

  I sighed. "I guess I can."

  Too many bills and too little money had made getting a job waiting tables at a strip club seem like a good idea at the time.

  As it turned out, it was a very bad one. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty, and all that.

  Apparently, my Jersey attitude didn't mix well with the men who frequented the gentleman's club—and I use that term gentlemen very loosely. Believe me.

  The location on M Street in midtown Washington, D.C. meant the Camelot club attracted a lot of diplomats. Rich dickheads who usually proved to be epically crappy tippers.

  And what the hell was that about? Fancy jobs, fancy cars, fancy clothes, yet they can't part with a few extra bucks to show their appreciation of a job well done?

  It's bad enough I had to wiggle my barely covered ass in front of them as I delivered drinks. The least they could do is throw me a little something extra. How's an out-of-work actress supposed to pay her student loans serving cheap guys like that?

  Anyway, tonight there was one dickhead who thought he could get handsy with the waitresses without any consequences. Only one of the waitresses—me specifically—had other ideas.

  Trina shook her head. "You're lucky he didn't press charges."

  "I'm lucky? Ha! He's lucky. They should deport his ass." I pulled away the cold wet plastic bag to gingerly touch my swollen lip with the tip of my finger.

  Trina cocked one brow high. "You know it doesn't work that way."

  "I know." I scowled. Diplomatic immunity protected these guys and meant they could get away with murder—probably literally. "But he hit me."

  I pointed to my battered face as the proof of how serious the situation was.

  "Weren't you attacking him at the time?" Trina asked.

  "Well, yes. But he deserved it. He grabbed my ass."

  The he in question was an entitled asshole who also happened to be some sort of foreign ambassador or something. And the grab was more of a grope, with a definite finger to ass-crack invasion. Even the strippers didn't have to put up with that shit.

  He deserved the drink I threw in his face and—after he stood and started yelling at me in some language I didn't understand while he grabbed my arm—the knee to the groin I delivered. That was the move that got me backhanded across the mouth.

  Of course, management sided with the customer. It's their philosophy. The sleaze bag customer is always right. That policy is even on the website—written in less accurate terms, but there nonetheless.

  "Chelsea. It's a strip club. What did you expect?"

  "But it's supposed to be the best strip club in D.C.," I reasoned.

  Trina widened her eyes and I didn't need her to say what she was thinking. It was still a strip club.

  She was my best friend and I didn't need an attitude from her right now. I needed sympathy. I needed commiseration.

  I needed a damn job.

  I was unemployed and soon-to-be penniless because my checking account had a whole one hundred and twenty dollars in it. That wasn't nearly enough to even start to cover my portion of the bills. I couldn't expect Trina to spot me the money.

  Trina had a decent job—but it paid shit. In this town, recent graduates were supposed to be thankful for the opportunity. And Trina was grateful for it. The competition was fierce to get a position on Capitol Hill. And it was an incredible opportunity.

  Too bad opportunity didn't pay the rent.

  I sighed again, feeling every ounce of the world that had turned against me pressing down on my shoulders.

  It wasn't paranoia. The world was against me and my whole generation.

  Millennials had this bad rep we didn't earn and don't deserve. I saw the articles all over the web. I knew what people said. We're lazy. We're entitled. We'd rather live with our parents as jobless cell phone addicts than get a job and a place of our own.

  It's all a bunch of bullshit.

  Here's the truth, and I didn't know all this because I read it online—which I did—but because I was living it.

  We're the first generation in modern history to be significantly less financially secure than our parents were at the same age. Student loans have never been higher. Rental costs were sky high and forget about ever saving enough to put down a deposit to actually buy something.

  And don't get me started on the insanely competitive job market.

  We're far from lazy. Hell, I work damn hard. At least I did—before tonight when I got fired.

  Fired. Ugh. That was a new low in my life.

  I was used to not getting every acting job I auditioned for. I was used to not earning enough to pay the rent on the few modeling gigs I could book each month. That's all expected in that business. Par for the course in the career I had chosen.

  But to get fired from a crappy waitressing job at a strip club? Seriously? I had a Masters Degree from George Washington University. If I couldn't hold onto a menial job I might as well go home to Mom and Dad's.

  Cleaned up, their basement might not make a bad little apartment. Would the old ping pong table be the right height for a dining table?

  I pushed that thought out of my mind as I shoved the bag of baby green peas back against my sore lip and tried to look on the bright side.

  My situation wasn't that pitiful. Not yet anyway. Even though it felt like I was currently at a whole new low, I hadn't hit rock bottom. I'd have to fall a bit further to be willing to live in that suburban subterranean time capsule my parents called a basement.

  Feeling my formerly hard peas getting soft, I stood and walked to the freezer. Frozen peas were fine as an ice pack substitute, but holding a bag of gross squishy defrosted vegetables on my face just felt pitiful.

  I made the short trek from the kitchen back across the tiny apartment, threw myself into the living room chair and kicked up my feet over the arm.

  I had put on my softest leggings and a sweatshirt when I'd gotten home. We didn't have much in the way of comfort food in the apartment, but luckily I'd managed to do laundry last week so at least I had comfort clothes to soothe me.

  "So what are you going to do now?" Trina asked, looking concerned.

  I didn't blame her. There was cause for concern.

  "Find a job," I an
swered.

  Trina pressed her lips together and didn't comment, but she didn't have to. Once again I knew what she was thinking. Finding a job was going to be easier said than done.

  I swung my legs back around. My feet hit the worn carpet and I stood.

  "And I'm going to open that bottle of wine under the sink." I glanced back at her. "You in?"

  She laughed. "Sure."

  At this point I figured getting drunk wouldn't help but it sure as hell couldn't hurt. I'd worry about finding a job in the morning.

  Things would definitely look brighter tomorrow. They had to.

  TWO

  By the pale light of morning my hope for a bright new day faded fast.

  I woke with a red wine headache and ringing in my ears. In denial, I rolled over and pulled the covers higher.

  As my brain and my body regained full awareness I realized two things. My lip hurt like hell—somehow worse today than it had yesterday. And the ringing was not in my ears but coming from my cell phone, wherever the hell it was.

  Pawing through tangled sheets and too many pillows—the one indulgence I could afford in quantity were the three-dollar bed pillows from Walmart—I finally hit upon the square hard outline of my phone.

  I freed it from its pillow prison and groaned at what I saw on the display.

  It was my boss. Make that ex-boss. The memory made me groan again.

  I clearly had a choice to make. I could answer or I could ignore the call, which is exactly what I wanted to do. My small rebellion against the man who'd supported the grabby-handed customer instead of his loyal employee, who also happened to be on the right side of the dispute.

  But there was the not insignificant matter that he had my last week's paycheck hostage.

  Poverty had me swiping to answer, but I made sure I had plenty of attitude in my voice as I said, "Yeah?"

  "Chelsea. How are you?" Frank's tone sounded loaded with genuine concern for my wellbeing.

  The bastard.

  I was mad at him and he was worried about me. I scowled at the turn of events. "My lip hurts and I look like hell."

  "I'm sorry about that. Did it need stitches? Did you go to the doctor?"

  "No."

  "If you decide you need to go, please give me the bill."

  Dammit. Why was he being so nice? It was making it too hard to stay mad. "Oh, don't worry. I will."

  "I'm sorry how things worked out. He was wrong."

  That comment reignited my mad nicely. "And yet you fired me and paid for his party’s entire bar bill."

  Frank's sigh came clearly through the phone. "The customer is always right."

  "Even when they're wrong." I screwed up my mouth at that, and paid for the action with the pain it caused me.

  "Unfortunately, yes."

  I heard the regret in his voice and drew in a breath. This conversation was going nowhere. All it had managed to do was make me more unhappy.

  With Frank being so damn nice I didn't even have my anger to keep me warm.

  I sighed and decided to end the torture for both of us. "Can I come by and pick up my check?"

  "Of course. Unless you want me to mail it to you instead."

  Mail would take a few days. My financial situation was too dire for that. I kind of needed it now. Not that it would cover the rent but it would help get me closer to the total. The rest I could get by—I don't know—begging on the Metro or the street maybe.

  "No need to mail it. I'll stop in."

  "Sure. It'll be in my office."

  "Okay."

  "Chelsea?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I really am sorry."

  I pressed my lips together. The move hurt but the pain helped my resolve as I refused to say thanks. Instead, I said, "I'll see you in a bit," and hit to end the call before I let myself feel sorry for my boss because he felt bad for firing me.

  The urge to wallow was strong. It would be so nice to be able to look on the bright side of being unemployed. To be able to take advantage of my newfound freedom. Lay around all day in yoga pants and rewatch the old seasons of Gilmore Girls while I could still afford internet and Netflix.

  Unfortunately, I didn't have the luxury of being lazy. But more than that, the Jersey girl in me wouldn't stay down for the count.

  Deep down I was a fighter. It was what had gotten me fired in the first place, but it was also what would get me back on my feet now. As hard as that seemed at the moment.

  I resigned myself to the fact I had to get up, flung the covers back and swung my legs over the edge of the mattress.

  Bare footed I wandered out of my closet of a bedroom and into the living area of the apartment. Trina was already gone for the day. Having a real job meant she was up and out early.

  It was rare my modeling or acting—or cocktail waitressing, for that matter—had me out of bed early. I wasn't an early bird but it looked as if I might have to become one to make ends meet.

  I considered that and how much an office job might pay as I put on the teakettle and headed back to my bedroom to get dressed.

  I could work as an assistant maybe.

  How hard could that be? Making reservations. Answering phones. Emailing. Hell, it was all stuff I did for myself so it wouldn't be any harder getting paid to do it for someone else.

  In fact, I'd start to look today.

  Fueled with determination, hot tea and a forgotten stale muffin I found in the drawer of the fridge, I arrived at Camelot a short time later.

  Putting on my game face, I strode inside. The morning shift was already working. I saw Brandi on stage, naked except for the G-string holding her tips. Carlos, looking as large and stone-faced as ever, was working security.

  The time of day held no meaning in a club with no windows. There were already a few men seated around, their eyes glued to the stage. They were all clad in the D.C. uniform—navy blue business suits with red power ties.

  "Hey, Chelsea." The familiar voice had me turning to see Morgan.

  Tall and slender, she and I could be sisters if I wasn’t as fair as she was dark. She was one of the waitresses and, sharing similar frustrations, we'd become sort of friends.

  She and I both hated that we made crap tips compared to the dancers. But neither of us could bring ourselves to take the leap from waitressing while scantily clad, to dancing totally nude, even though Frank had offered prime time shifts on stage to both of us if we wanted them.

  Morgan was gorgeous with caramel skin, long black curly hair and even longer legs. Lean where it looked good but curvy where the men liked it, and all natural. I was tall and blonde and had only the attributes God gave me, as well. In a business where fake boobs and bleached hair was the norm, to have au naturale dancers set a club apart.

  I won't lie. I was tempted to take him up on it a few times when I saw the dancers struggling to shove all their cash into their purses at the end of the shift.

  "Hey, Morgan," I said.

  She leaned her head to try and see my lip and hissed in air between her teeth. "Ouch."

  "Yup." Ouch was right.

  I'd covered the cut and bruise the best I could with makeup but it was still visible for anyone who knew to look for it. Even though Morgan hadn't been working last night, I was sure the story had spread through the crew.

  "I heard what happened. The guy totally deserved it. It sucks you got fired. I'm sorry."

  "Thanks." What else could I say? It did suck, but it was nice to know at least that the story circulating was favorable to me and not to mister grabby hands.

  "Do you know what you’re going to do now?" she asked.

  That seemed to be the big question. I wish I had an answer. "I'm going to start looking around. I need something. I'm just not sure what yet."

  She hesitated, her lips pressed tight, before she said, "I did hear of something. I'm not sure if you'll be interested—"

  Was she crazy? At the moment I'd take just about anything. I couldn't afford to be choosy.

&nbs
p; "I'm interested." I figured I could get picky about my employment later. After I'd covered this month's rent and student loan payment, and padded my checking account with enough money the greedy bank would stop charging me a monthly fee for having below the minimum balance.

  I could look for something better while I was working whatever job I could get immediately. That was the smart plan. The responsible thing to do.

  "What is it?" I asked, when she still looked reluctant to tell me. Her hesitation only made me want it more.

  "Okay, I'll tell you, but keep in mind this is second-hand knowledge. I can't vouch for the agency personally. I heard about it from one of the dancers on the night shift."

  Agency? I liked the sound of that. I was well versed with agents and agencies thanks to the years I'd spent modeling and acting.

  This was sounding better by the minute. Maybe getting fired was the best thing to happen to me. It shoved me out of my comfort zone, where I was surviving on tips at a job I'd never wanted in the first place, and forced me to be proactive to do what I was meant to do. What I'd gotten my very expensive degree in.

  My bad luck might just lead to my dream job.

  Excited and hopeful, I nodded. "Okay. I understand. Where is it?"

  Biting her lip, she hesitated once again.

  Was this job so good she didn't want to share it? My pulse raced as I waited, feeling desperate, afraid now she'd change her mind and not tell me at all.

  Finally, she put down her tray, pulled out her pad and pen and scribbled something. Ripping off the top sheet, she handed it to me. "This is all I have. Just the name. But she said if you search online it'll come right up."

  I glanced down and read what she'd written. "Angel Escort Services." Frowning, I looked up at her. "Escort?"

  Morgan drew in a breath. "It's not as bad as it sounds."

  That was good because it sounded pretty bad. I was desperate but not enough to start hooking.

  She continued, "It's an agency that sets up men—and women—with escorts. You know, for parties and fundraisers and stuff like that. No sex. Just public dates. A lot of the guys are foreign diplomats. She said they're always looking for pretty girls to be arm-candy for events. And they want blondes in particular."