The Billionaire's Command
Page 15
“Of course you can go,” I said, even though I’d been counting on her getting a job to help out. “I’ll kick your ass if you don’t. Cece, don’t stay here for the rest of your life.”
“But you need help,” she said. “You can’t do this alone.”
“I can do it,” I said stubbornly. “We’ll be fine.”
She looked down at the letter again. “I can’t afford it anyway. I’d have to buy books, and food, and find a place to live, and—”
“We’ll make it happen,” I said.
That was why I moved to New York. Looking back, it was a stupid decision, and I wasn’t prepared, and there were definitely easier ways to make money, but I was nineteen then, and I wanted an adventure. I was convinced that I could find work, and that it would pay well enough to be worth it, and that I would be able to send enough money home every month to take care of everyone and send Cece to college.
Nobody I knew had ever been to New York. It was a mythical place you saw in movies, not somewhere that real people actually lived. So when I told my parents about my plan, they didn’t know enough to talk me out of it. Maybe it seemed reasonable to them: you went to New York to make your fortune, and the streets were paved with gold there.
I took the bus: eight hours to Richmond, a transfer, and then another seven to New York. Cece drove me to the terminal in Bristol, and we both cried in the parking lot when we said goodbye. I had a duffel bag and a hundred dollars to my name, and when I arrived in Manhattan the next afternoon and walked out of Penn Station onto the crowded sidewalk, I was sure I had made a mistake.
But there was no going back.
The first few months were rough. I found a job right away, stripping at a run-down dive on the Lower East Side, but I didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about finding a place to live, and I bounced between hostels and homeless shelters. Then I found a better job, and an even better one after that, and one of the girls I worked with offered me a bedroom in her apartment, and Cece called me from her dorm room on the first day of school with so much joy in her voice that I started crying. I knew then that it was all worth it.
I was a Kilgore: tough, resourceful. I made it happen.
* * *
I had a hard time falling asleep on Saturday night. The Thai food sat in my stomach like a lump of clay, and I lay in my bed and stared up at the ceiling and tried to make my mind go blank. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Turner’s fingers felt between my legs.
Or whatever his name actually was.
I was afraid of him. If he fired me, it wouldn’t be the end of the world—there were plenty of places that would be happy to hire me on as a dancer—but it would suck a lot. The Silver Cross was the best place I had ever worked. I actually had benefits. I had health insurance. I had a boss who didn’t grope me. There was minimal co-worker drama. I didn’t want to leave.
Best case scenario, I would never see Turner again. He would leave me alone and I would keep stripping at the Silver Cross until I was too old and wrinkly to continue.
Problem was, I wanted to see him again.
I sighed and turned over, closing my eyes and forcing myself to think about something, anything, else. Fluffy white sheep jumping over a fence. The list of things I needed to do tomorrow before work. The contents of my purse.
It was a long night.
Sunday wasn’t much better. I woke up a little before noon, ate breakfast with Teddy, cleaned my room, cleaned the bathroom, went grocery shopping, and spent the whole day torn between anticipation and terror. Would he be there? What if he wasn’t? What if he was, and he didn’t want to see me again? What if he was, and he did?
By the time I got to work, I was such a wreck that I didn’t know what I wanted. I sat at the bar for a few minutes and drank a Coke, and then loitered around Germaine’s office door until she asked me if I needed something. I realized then that I was half-hoping Turner had requested me again. He obviously hadn’t, and I felt like an idiot. I muttered something about my paycheck and slunk off to the seraglio.
At least I hadn’t been fired.
At least not yet.
The main room was empty except for Scarlet, who was sitting on one of the sofas in her street clothes, painting her toenails. She looked up when I came in, grinned, and pulled her flask out of her purse, holding the little polish brush in her other hand. “Let’s get this party started,” she said.
“You’re an idiot,” I said. “What if someone comes in?”
She shrugged. “What are they going to do, tell on me? Don’t be such a little bitch, Sassy.”
Easy for her to say. She had a college degree and was only working at the club because she thought it was “fun.” I resented her for it, sometimes, and then felt guilty. It wasn’t any of my business what Scarlet chose to do with her life. “I’ll have one sip,” I said, sitting down beside her. “One. And then you’re partying with yourself.”
She shrugged. “I’ll be partying with Sorensen, later.”
“Ugh, he’s a creep,” I said. She handed me the flask, and I took a swig and passed it back to her. Cheap whiskey. It burned all the way down. I didn’t drink hard liquor very much. Not for any particular reason; I just didn’t like it.
“They’re all creeps,” Scarlet said.
“So quit, then,” I said. “Nobody’s forcing you to work here.”
She shrugged, and went back to painting her toes instead of replying. Whatever. We’d had this conversation before, and it never went anywhere. I didn’t understand Scarlet at all. I was pretty sure she didn’t understand herself.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Scarlet finished painting her nails and put the polish away. She took a sip from her flask, and then said, “What are you doing tonight?”
“Dancing, I guess,” I said. “None of my regulars show up on Sundays. I don’t even know why I keep telling Poppy to schedule me.”
“Masochism,” Scarlet said.
“Money,” I said. “One of those M words.”
“Masturbation,” Scarlet said.
“No, that’s the clients,” I said, and Scarlet laughed.
The door to the seraglio opened, and Scarlet shoved her flask back into her purse. I looked over, certain that we looked guilty as thieves. It was only Fresh Meat, though, duffel bag slung over her shoulder.
“But you need help,” she said. “You can’t do this alone.”
“I can do it,” I said stubbornly. “We’ll be fine.”
She looked down at the letter again. “I can’t afford it anyway. I’d have to buy books, and food, and find a place to live, and—”
“We’ll make it happen,” I said.
That was why I moved to New York. Looking back, it was a stupid decision, and I wasn’t prepared, and there were definitely easier ways to make money, but I was nineteen then, and I wanted an adventure. I was convinced that I could find work, and that it would pay well enough to be worth it, and that I would be able to send enough money home every month to take care of everyone and send Cece to college.
Nobody I knew had ever been to New York. It was a mythical place you saw in movies, not somewhere that real people actually lived. So when I told my parents about my plan, they didn’t know enough to talk me out of it. Maybe it seemed reasonable to them: you went to New York to make your fortune, and the streets were paved with gold there.
I took the bus: eight hours to Richmond, a transfer, and then another seven to New York. Cece drove me to the terminal in Bristol, and we both cried in the parking lot when we said goodbye. I had a duffel bag and a hundred dollars to my name, and when I arrived in Manhattan the next afternoon and walked out of Penn Station onto the crowded sidewalk, I was sure I had made a mistake.
But there was no going back.
The first few months were rough. I found a job right away, stripping at a run-down dive on the Lower East Side, but I didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about finding a place to live, and I bounced between hostels and homeless shelters. Then I found a better job, and an even better one after that, and one of the girls I worked with offered me a bedroom in her apartment, and Cece called me from her dorm room on the first day of school with so much joy in her voice that I started crying. I knew then that it was all worth it.
I was a Kilgore: tough, resourceful. I made it happen.
* * *
I had a hard time falling asleep on Saturday night. The Thai food sat in my stomach like a lump of clay, and I lay in my bed and stared up at the ceiling and tried to make my mind go blank. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Turner’s fingers felt between my legs.
Or whatever his name actually was.
I was afraid of him. If he fired me, it wouldn’t be the end of the world—there were plenty of places that would be happy to hire me on as a dancer—but it would suck a lot. The Silver Cross was the best place I had ever worked. I actually had benefits. I had health insurance. I had a boss who didn’t grope me. There was minimal co-worker drama. I didn’t want to leave.
Best case scenario, I would never see Turner again. He would leave me alone and I would keep stripping at the Silver Cross until I was too old and wrinkly to continue.
Problem was, I wanted to see him again.
I sighed and turned over, closing my eyes and forcing myself to think about something, anything, else. Fluffy white sheep jumping over a fence. The list of things I needed to do tomorrow before work. The contents of my purse.
It was a long night.
Sunday wasn’t much better. I woke up a little before noon, ate breakfast with Teddy, cleaned my room, cleaned the bathroom, went grocery shopping, and spent the whole day torn between anticipation and terror. Would he be there? What if he wasn’t? What if he was, and he didn’t want to see me again? What if he was, and he did?
By the time I got to work, I was such a wreck that I didn’t know what I wanted. I sat at the bar for a few minutes and drank a Coke, and then loitered around Germaine’s office door until she asked me if I needed something. I realized then that I was half-hoping Turner had requested me again. He obviously hadn’t, and I felt like an idiot. I muttered something about my paycheck and slunk off to the seraglio.
At least I hadn’t been fired.
At least not yet.
The main room was empty except for Scarlet, who was sitting on one of the sofas in her street clothes, painting her toenails. She looked up when I came in, grinned, and pulled her flask out of her purse, holding the little polish brush in her other hand. “Let’s get this party started,” she said.
“You’re an idiot,” I said. “What if someone comes in?”
She shrugged. “What are they going to do, tell on me? Don’t be such a little bitch, Sassy.”
Easy for her to say. She had a college degree and was only working at the club because she thought it was “fun.” I resented her for it, sometimes, and then felt guilty. It wasn’t any of my business what Scarlet chose to do with her life. “I’ll have one sip,” I said, sitting down beside her. “One. And then you’re partying with yourself.”
She shrugged. “I’ll be partying with Sorensen, later.”
“Ugh, he’s a creep,” I said. She handed me the flask, and I took a swig and passed it back to her. Cheap whiskey. It burned all the way down. I didn’t drink hard liquor very much. Not for any particular reason; I just didn’t like it.
“They’re all creeps,” Scarlet said.
“So quit, then,” I said. “Nobody’s forcing you to work here.”
She shrugged, and went back to painting her toes instead of replying. Whatever. We’d had this conversation before, and it never went anywhere. I didn’t understand Scarlet at all. I was pretty sure she didn’t understand herself.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Scarlet finished painting her nails and put the polish away. She took a sip from her flask, and then said, “What are you doing tonight?”
“Dancing, I guess,” I said. “None of my regulars show up on Sundays. I don’t even know why I keep telling Poppy to schedule me.”
“Masochism,” Scarlet said.
“Money,” I said. “One of those M words.”
“Masturbation,” Scarlet said.
“No, that’s the clients,” I said, and Scarlet laughed.
The door to the seraglio opened, and Scarlet shoved her flask back into her purse. I looked over, certain that we looked guilty as thieves. It was only Fresh Meat, though, duffel bag slung over her shoulder.
