Page 89 of Shark’s Edge

Cinnamon straightened with an affronted pout. “Gee, don’t get too excited on my account. I never send a client away unsatisfied. Ever.”

“Oh, I’m sure he was satisfied.”

Both sides of my jaw were aching from tension now—but I wasn’t relaxing them anytime soon. Cinnamon picked up on that message fast, making a concerted effort to address me first when she swiveled back around.

I was appreciative, and noticed Sebastian was too—but now I was more baffled than ever before. This was the woman who’d scrawled that desperate letter to Bas? This bright-eyed bombshell with the va-va-voom one-liners, who claimed she only recalled him five minutes ago?

And yes—this woman who now took one look at my face and perceived the bewilderment likely painted across every inch of it? To the point that she finally glanced at Sebastian and asked, “But reminiscing over the good ol’ days isn’t why you’ve come to see me . . . is it?”

There was a long pause. I didn’t answer her question, and neither did Sebastian. Instead, he dipped his head and then quickly straightened, seeming to have come to a major decision.

He pulled out the letter I’d read back in the office.

Quickly yet carefully, he unfolded the paper.

But he didn’t hand it over to Cinnamon yet. He seemed to be assessing her . . . maybe wondering if the woman’s flippant attitude was as fake as the glitter on her face and the breasts on her chest.

Through the closed door, we could hear a Prince medley cranked up to full volume. So, at least all the music didn’t suck in this place.

“Hey, Sebastian?” The prompt came from the woman with her legs now crossed, one stilettoed foot jiggling with an impatient rhythm. “You hear that? It’s the middle of Contessa’s set. That means I’m up next. Shoot your wad now or forever hold your peace.”

In another time, under other circumstances, I would have given in to a good laugh at that. Sebastian didn’t seem to share my demented mirth. But he was the one still holding the letter that this crazy-pants had written.

Or so we’d thought.

“Cinnamon . . . ” His tone was a perfect blend of understanding and firmness, but he only got one word out before stopping and grimacing. “Can I just get your real name?”

Now Cinnamon looked like the one debating if she sat here opposite a dangerous creeper. After a nervous side-eye, she replied, “Sarah.”

“That’s so pretty.” I meant the compliment, but Prince was jamming even louder out in the showroom. I deferred back to Sebastian.

“Sarah,” he echoed, finally holding out the letter to her. “Why did you write this and send it to me?”

The woman quit rocking her foot as soon as her gaze got deeper into the note. “What . . . ” Then she uncrossed her legs. “The . . . ” Then lurched all the way to her feet. “Hell?”

I rose along with her. I was a freshly melted puddle as he stared at Sarah with a mix of firmness and compassion. “We’re—I’m—just here because I want to help, okay?”

“Why?” she shot back.

“Because this letter is a cry for it.”

“Dude.” She spurt-laughed it. “Are you serious?”

“Uh, yeah.” His glower was as raw and dark as a Prince guitar riff. “I am. I mean, if you feel like things are out of control, or like you’ve got to talk to someone, or even need deeper help than that—”

“Stop.” The stripper backhanded the middle of his chest, giving back the letter as if the thing had caught fire in her grip. “Just freaking stop, okay?” She flung off her robe and started rubbing glitter gel across her breasts and stomach. “Bas, baby, I’ll try to be gentle here. I mean, you’re hot and all”—she glanced over at me—“Sorry, chica. He is a fine, fine man and fucks like a machine, but no way in hell does that mean I’ve been pining away for him like Little Miss Lost Lamb here.” She stabbed a finger toward the letter. “Look. I’m supporting my little boy and trying to get my own degree at the same time. I don’t have the time nor the inclination to mope over the guy I screwed last night, let alone last year.”

“Wow.” I didn’t try to hide my surprise—or honestly, my awe. “What are you studying?”

“Environmental Science—which is not a cheap field of study, especially at Pepperdine. But this job is paying for it.” As if summoned by her perfect invocation, there was a rap at the door and a voice giving her the five-minute call for her performance. “So, if you both don’t mind, I’ve got to go make sure I can buy my books in September.”

As soon as she clacked out the door and down the hall, Sebastian and I stood mute and motionless inside the tiny dressing room. As the final strains of “Let’s Go Crazy” filled the building, we finally looked back to each other again.

And recognized one distinct fact again.

We were in a deeper hole of what the hell than ever before.

If Cinnamon hadn’t written the letter . . . who had?