The Price of Forever, page 1
The Price of Forever
The Bad Boys of Wall Street
Ember Leigh
The Price of Forever © 2024 by Ember Leigh
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means.
This book is a piece of fiction. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
Published by Ember Leigh
EmberLeighAuthor@gmail.com
Cover Model: Maca
Photographer: Reggie Deanching
Cover art: Covers by Combs
Editing: Elisabeth R. Nelson
Contents
Content Warnings
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ALSO BY EMBER LEIGH
Content Warnings
Mentions of drug usage
Mention of sexual assault
Mentions of past assault
CHAPTER ONE
JORDAN
“Outta my way, bitch.”
The hunched man threw his shoulder into me before storming past on the sidewalk. I barely stumbled—I had a lot of practice keeping my balance under pressure—and didn’t offer a response. By now, I knew better than to take it personally. Or maybe I should take it personally, since he seemed to only regularly snipe at me. Like he knew me and loathed me, just from sight alone. He said the same thing to me whenever I made the morning commute to my coffee shop job.
A poetic way to start the day in NYC. It was one of the many things to expect in this grand and gritty place—getting harassed by the unwell on the street. Along with eating delicious thin crust pizza. Being regularly boggled by prices and the sheer diversity of human life throbbing around you. Buying a hot dog off the street. Finding a prized Pokémon on your commute to work.
I hoisted my backpack strings, needing to readjust the contents since my eight-inch heels were currently stabbing the middle of my back. My regular hard-sided backpack broke unceremoniously last night after my shift at the club; this soft drawstring bag was the only thing I’d been able to find last minute this morning. Not a great bag for stripper heels.
I resettled everything, weaving through pedestrians as I beelined for Columbus Park. I had about five minutes of leeway this morning—early for my tardy ass—and I planned on taking full advantage it. I pulled out my phone, loading the app to see if there were any new Pokémon this morning. I usually hunted them in the fringes of my days, like now. On my way to or from work, since that was the main reason I left my apartment. That and goddamn delicious rice noodles.
As my account loaded, I scanned the plaza, looking for any red flags, creeps, or other signs I should move the fuck on. Even half past seven wasn’t too early for fucked-up shit to happen. I knew from experience. Nobody stood out save a few early risers playing mahjong along the edges of the sidewalks, and a few more practicing Tai Chi on the grassy part. The mid-September mornings and nights were getting chillier, but plenty of people still gathered outside in the crisp air. By four p.m., New York would collectively be sweating—but I wouldn’t have to worry about my makeup melting off because I had stripper-grade finishing spray.
I rolled my shoulders back, checking out a loner near the huge bronze statue of Dr. Sun Yat-sen in the center of the park. He pinged my radar for some reason—seemed familiar. It was the red hair, the curved shoulders as he hunched over his phone. He turned slightly, and that’s when my stomach twisted.
Fuck. Dustin.
I didn’t have time to talk to Dustin this morning. I didn’t really want to talk to him, even if there was time.
I lifted my backpack again, the damn heels still scraping my vertebrae, and tried to spin slowly, without looking like I was running away from him—which I was.
Before I’d finished swiveling on my heels—which surprisingly was not easier in regular old black tennis shoes than the eight-inch mama jammas in my backpack—I could feel Dustin’s attention prickle over me. I was barely two steps in the other direction before his gruff voice broke the calm morning air.
“Jordan!”
He thudded up to me a moment later, a goofy smile on his face. “Jordan. Hey.”
I offered a tight smile, waving my fingertips at him. “Sup, Dustin? Looking for the Snorlax, huh?”
“It was here earlier,” he confirmed. I started walking toward the main sidewalk. My Pokémon window had officially closed, and I hadn’t even gotten to hunt like I’d wanted. “But it’s gone now. Were you looking for it too?”
“Yeah. Bastard keeps escaping me.” I heaved a sigh. Pokémon Go had been one of the main things that kept me from spiraling into a complete mess as my life unraveled around me through middle school and high school. Now, it was one of the small comforts I had in my life. I was an orphan—a single girl drifting through the boroughs of New York. No attachments. No roots. No nothing.
Except a space to call my own and the lure of the Snorlax.
To be honest, I didn’t want to change a thing.
Mostly.
“I’ve heard from some of the other guys that it’s been showing up around three,” Dustin said, his words coming out smashed together, like he couldn’t get them out fast enough. His elbow bumped into me as he followed me into the throng of pedestrians. I walked quickly as I resumed my commute. “You wanna meet here and we can team up? Throw a lure?”
“I’ve gotta work all day,” I said.
Curious gazes swept across us as we walked. I had the trifecta of attention grabbing—clothes like a nerd, face like a stripper, and a guy who looked like he might still live in his mother’s basement. I adjusted the backpack again—these fucking heels!—and Dustin shouted with something like glee a moment later.
“Whoa there! What’s that?”
I stopped mid-stride, twisting to follow his gaze. My backpack. I groped blindly behind me, hand connecting with the actual spike of my work heels. I sighed, swinging the bag around front to assess the situation. In doing so, a translucent eight-inch heel went tumbling to the cement. I swore under my breath and scooped it up as quickly as I could, stuffing it back into its home.
Maybe Dustin didn’t notice. But as I looked sheepishly up at him, his saucer-wide eyes told me there was no getting out of this one.
“Are those shoes?”
No, I wanted to say. They are weapons, and they will kill you if I’m provoked.
“They are shoes. I don’t have time to explain. I have to go.” I picked up my pace, but Dustin kept stride.
“You can walk on those?” He snorted, and an unpleasant waft of body odor reached me across the cool, humid morning. “Did you have to take classes or something?”
“It’s not really important.”
“Something like that kinda makes you look like a stripper,” he said.
I grimaced. I was a stripper. No kinda about it. An actual, real-live, full-on stripper.
“So do you dance in these?” he barreled on. His elbow jostled mine again, and my annoyance was breaking through to resentment. We’d been Pokémon buddies. That was it. He didn’t need to know shit about my life, and I didn’t talk about things I wasn’t ready to share.
I pushed my stride as fast as I could. Luckily, I was toned as fuck, and Dustin was huffing soon enough. These were the benefits of becoming a serpent on the pole two to three nights per week, as well as walking the equivalent of five miles each day—and in eight-inch heels on occasion. I hadn’t even broken a sweat. Dustin was flushed.
The sign for my subway station loomed up ahead. Canal Street. I popped a hand up—“Bye, Dustin!”—and took the steps two at a time, my footsteps echoing off the damp walls.
“We should really hang out more,” Dustin called, peering down the staircase. His voice became softer as I sped away. “I can help you find that Snorlax and we can chill after!”
Oh, right. Snorlax and chill. Honestly, it sounded like my dream date. But not with Dustin. Not with anyone.
I didn’t know who I was truly fit for in this world. It seemed like the answer was nobody. And maybe my role in life was just to become okay with that.
I raced through the tunnels to the waiting train and skated throug
It didn’t matter how dressed down I got. How hunched I became, or how much I tried to blend into my surroundings. The creepers always arrived, the men sniffing for something more. The weirdest part was that these guys didn’t even know I worked as a stripper at night.
What was the tip-off? My immaculate eyebrows? The falsies I had in place for tonight’s shift at the club? I couldn’t tell, and it irked me.
All I wanted was to be left alone.
The train rumbled through one stop before I got off at the next station, unapproached on the train. Score. My morning job, barista at Black & Brewtiful, was filed away in the Regular portion of my life. It’s what I did to feel normal. Why yes, I can hold a regular job interacting with the public! Based on the money I made stripping, I didn’t need this job. But it was smart to have savings in the city.
I had nobody else looking out for my ass. Only me. I needed to be not only smart, but ahead of the game.
I breezed through the doors. The blast of coffee bean and mocha coated me in a pleasant bubble, bringing a smile to my face. As soon as I crossed the threshold, my coworkers’ faces lit up.
“Hey, Jordie!” Mitchell tipped his head toward me as he steamed some milk.
“Jordan’s here, the party can begin!” Lillith announced to the person she rang up, winking my way.
A few regulars beamed at me as I glided toward the back room, waving at everyone. It was almost eight on a Thursday morning; a hefty line meant I needed to drop my things and clock in fast. Once I’d stowed my things and punched my time, I paused by the swinging doors to give myself a once-over in the mirror. I pulled my dirty-blonde hair back into a quick ponytail, checking that my morning makeup still looked good—a simple lip gloss and basic eyeliner to make my blue-gray eyes pop. They reminded me of Kaylee’s eyes—it was one of the ways I still felt connected to my big sister, even though she’d passed away a decade ago. I entered the fray, scanning the coffee shop to see who was here.
But this time, it wasn’t because I feared for my life every second inside these walls. It was a safe spot for me. At least, it had been.
Until my brothers Axel and Damian showed up last week, along with the older guy Trace they also called a brother. Well, I hoped they never expected me to do the same.
Every shift I worried they’d come back.
I squeezed Lillith’s shoulders as I sidled past her, snapped Mitchell’s apron string, then busied myself at the espresso machine. We fell into a quick rhythm, cranking through customers more quickly with three of us. I had a quip and a smile for every person I saw. New York was chaos and volume, which I thrived on. No, required. It was one of the only ways to get my thoughts to quiet down. I needed to be busy, or I needed bass thumping so loud I couldn’t think about all the shit that threatened to drag me under.
My brothers might not drag me under now, but they had certainly never thrown me a life preserver when I fucking needed it most.
Time melted away as the three of us took orders and served coffee. I bumped hips with Mitchell, laughed raucously with Lillith while grinding beans. I barely noticed the door jingle each time a new arrival came in anymore. Except for one newcomer in particular, right after the morning rush started to die down.
“Oh, he’s back,” Mitchell murmured, wiggling his perfectly sculpted eyebrows my way as he tipped his head toward the front door. Then he ran his tongue along his top lip. “Mitchell likey.”
I laughed, my gaze sliding to the newest arrival. He walked deeper into the coffee shop, his fists bunched as he scanned the room. Brawny, tall, impossibly built, which was obvious in a way I couldn’t even explain. I just knew that if I tore off his button-up shirt and black slacks, I’d find pure steel beneath. Hills for biceps. Thighs with muscled cliffs. His dark, nearly black hair was clipped short at the sides, almost buzzed, and longer near the top. Though he was dressed like an office worker, the squareness of his shoulders suggested something far different than office work.
A shiver raced through me. I gulped. His head moved like the Terminator as he looked around the shop. He came toward the line, finally sliding his hands into his pockets and relaxing a modicum. Veins popped along his forearms, sending a very hot spiraling sensation through my core.
Haven’t felt that in a long time.
“I’m gonna need to be on the register now,” Mitchell hissed, bumping past me.
Lillith shot him a look that said you’re crazy. “I’m logged in!”
“It’s time for your break,” Mitchell said.
Lillith huffed but conceded. After seeing his forearms, I thought maybe I should be on the register.
But no. As a rule, I disliked men. Heterosexual men, at least. Physically speaking, they were all I was attracted to. But my track record left a lot to be desired. Men were to be avoided—as partners. As interests.
They could pay me. They could exist near me. But that was it.
The line slowly moved forward. I didn’t even need to look up to know that Mitchell had finally begun waiting on his hottie du jour.
“Oh, hello there,” he said, extra sugar in his voice. “Now what can I get started for you today?”
I bit back a smile; he was laying it on thick. The vocal equivalent of preening his peacock feathers.
I forced myself to focus on my task—cleaning the milk containers—as the Terminator ordered. He ordered an Earl Gray tea, no sugar. His voice came out like rough velvet—gritty and lower than I expected. I was so surprised by the order—I’d pegged him for a red eye kind of guy—and unnerved by the way his voice echoed inside me that my gaze slid back to him.
And found soulful brown eyes already looking at me.
Heat zipped through me again, and I buried myself in my task. While Mitchell tried to make small talk, I started brewing the tea. An easy order. I had it ready for the likely robot practically by the time the guy stepped to the far end where the orders were picked up. I flashed him a breezy smile, steeling myself to meet his gaze again. This time, though, I noticed the eyelashes.
Fuck. They were far too long and luxurious for someone so beefy. Terminators weren’t supposed to need an eyelash curler. I almost choked on my words. “Earl Gray for…” I double checked the name. “Sven?”
He cocked a smirk. “Close enough.”
I handed him the insulated container, my fingers trembling as his hand came near. Energy surged between us; this felt far too momentous, practically preordained. Why could I almost hear angels singing? The ridiculousness of my bodily reaction to this man made me falter. My fingers relaxed just as he reached for the tea…and the cup crashed to the countertop.
Hot. Tea. Everywhere.
Heat flooded my cheeks, and I clamped a hand over my mouth. He stepped back quickly. Didn’t even look surprised, much less perplexed. And somehow, that was even more mortifying.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I thought you had it. I’m so, so sorry.”
My cheeks had to be the color of apples. I grabbed a rag and started mopping up the countertop. I couldn’t even look in his direction. I hadn’t dropped a drink since my first week on the job two years ago. “Did any of it get on you?”
“All good,” he responded smoothly.
My heart thudded in my chest. “Just give me a second. I’ll make you another one.”
As I faced the hot water dispenser, Mitchell sidled up to me. “Too hot to behold in the flesh, isn’t he?”
“Shut up,” I hissed. “It was an honest slip.”
“He came in earlier today. I hope he becomes a regular.” Mitchell bumped my hip before returning to the register. I took a deep breath and popped in the tea bag and lidded the insulated cup. Round two. I could do this. I would not even look at this man until his beverage was securely in his hands. I would walk up to him with my eyes pinched shut and some sort of protective suit on, so his testosterone didn’t get on me.
Jordan, when was the last time you were attracted to a man?
I couldn’t remember. Probably back when I was naïve and dumb, in my late teens. Life had sure beaten the naivete out of me. A little too hard, I’d say. I made sure the lid was extra secure before stepping back toward the counter and offering a glossy smile.
