The Billionaire's Command
Page 16
“What’s up, Fresh Meat?” I asked.
“Germaine wants to see you,” she said.
My heart did a nose-dive inside my chest. So much for wishful thinking, then. So much for things working out.
“Uh-oh, you’re in trouble,” Scarlet said.
“Thanks for pointing that out, asshole,” I said, and stood up, adrenaline making my hands shake slightly.
“Jeez, touchy,” Scarlet said. “You sit down with me, Fresh Meat, and I’ll explain why you should always avoid Sassy while she’s on the rag.”
“I’m not on the rag,” I said, and then hustled myself out of the room before I said something I couldn’t take back.
Germaine looked very serious as I walked into her office and closed the door behind me. Bad sign. She wasn’t a bubbly person, but she didn’t ordinarily look so grim. Fuck. The Owner had definitely told her to fire me, and I was going to be out on the street.
It wasn’t the end of the world, I reminded myself, but I didn’t really believe it.
“Sassy, thank you for coming so promptly,” Germaine said. “As you know—”
“Look, just give it to me straight,” I said. “You’re firing me, right?”
Germaine sat back in her chair, eyebrows drawing together. “Where did you get that idea?”
Me and my big mouth. “So… you’re not firing me?”
“Of course not,” Germaine said. “I know the dancer gossip mill runs overtime, but I can’t imagine who put this particular bug in your ear.”
“It wasn’t any of the girls,” I admitted. “I was just—well. After I was with the owner last night, I sort of thought—I mean, you know how I am, I can’t keep my mouth shut, and he probably wasn’t too happy with me, so—”
“You’re still worrying about that? He had no complaints,” Germaine said firmly. “Put it out of your mind. You’re an asset to this business, and I told you he’s never meddled with my hiring decisions. I asked Tempest to send you in because Mr. Webster requested that you attend his party tonight.”
“Oh,” I said, deflating like a popped balloon. “Um. I didn’t know he was having a party.”
“He only called this afternoon to schedule it,” Germaine said. “He’ll be here at 6:00. Now get out of my office and stop worrying. Your job is secure.”
“Sorry, Germaine,” I said, feeling sheepish, and scuttled off before she could decide to fire me for being too dumb to live.
Poppy had scheduled me to dance at 4:30, 8:00, and 1:30, so I had to tell her to strike the two later slots, but I still got ready to go on stage at 4:30. There was no reason to sit around on my butt until Webster’s party started. Might as well keep myself busy and make a little extra money. I styled my wig, applied my lipstick, and had Scarlet lace me into a black silk corset. I was going for Vampire Goth Barbie that night: sugar laced with poison. The clients always loved it.
When I went out onto the floor before my dance, I could feel the energy of the gathered clients shifting to focus on me. I strolled toward the stage, the spotlight following me, and I saw heads turning out of the corner of my eye. They were all looking at me. They all wanted me.
I stepped onto the stage, into my skin.
I stood straight and tall, looking straight ahead, unmoving, untouchable, waiting for the music to begin.
In that last moment of silence before the music started, my eyes drifted a little to the right, and I saw him sitting in the audience, staring at me with burning eyes.
The man in the dark suit.
Mr. Turner.
5
I danced in a daze, only dimly aware of the gathered clients watching me, and painfully, achingly aware of Turner’s presence in the audience. My limbs moved without conscious thought, and I was grateful that I had performed this exact dance so many times that it didn’t require much of my attention. I couldn’t think about anything except Turner.
Finally, after about a million years, the music ended, and I stumbled off the stage and beelined for the seraglio. I didn’t even stay to work my way through the audience and collect tips. I just bolted.
Running away from Turner was getting to be a common theme in my life.
I didn’t like it.
But what else was I supposed to do? Deal with him face-to-face like a grownup?
Fat chance.
I was almost safe. The door was in sight, and then I was there, so close, my hand on the door, pushing it open, almost inside the safety of the seraglio—but then a hand settled on my shoulder, big and solid, and a voice said, “Going somewhere?”
I froze. Maybe if I held really still, he would forget about me, or get bored, and go off to find a woman who was less confrontational. I watched nature documentaries sometimes, late at night when I couldn’t sleep, and everything in the world that got hunted by something else had the same response: remain motionless, and hope the predator moved on.
I wasn’t used to being hunted, but I had that prey instinct in me anyway. Don’t flicker, and it will all be over soon.
But I was no terrified baby gazelle, and Turner was no lion. He was worse: smart, and ruthless on top of it. “I’m sure you have a moment for a devoted client,” he said.
I didn’t want to talk to him. Christ, if I’d had the balls for it, I would have shaken him off and kept walking, and if he had the balls to follow me into the seraglio—well, let him deal with Poppy and the rest of the dancers, descending on him like enraged harpies. Well, I had balls, sure enough, but not when it came to men who could fire me as easily as taking a breath. I wasn’t much for tact, but I had a decided interest in keeping my job.
So instead I turned to face him, his hand sliding across my shoulder and down my arm as I moved, and gave him my best, brightest smile. “I didn’t expect to see you again,” I said, dropping my eyelids and gazing up at him through my lashes, pretending to be sweet and flattered when really I was mainly scared.
I couldn’t say why that was. He was tall, and unreadable, and he had power over me. He could upend my life with a single sentence. And I wanted him to touch me, longed for it, and at the same time, I wanted him to disappear and never come back. That was hardest thing: the conflict between what my body wanted and what my brain knew.
I looked over his shoulder, at the crowded room behind him, all of the clients arranged around the stage watching Xanadu as she spun effortlessly around the pole. Nobody was watching us. He could have hit me, or kissed me, or shoved me the floor, or pulled my clothes off, and nobody would have paid any attention at all.
“Germaine wants to see you,” she said.
My heart did a nose-dive inside my chest. So much for wishful thinking, then. So much for things working out.
“Uh-oh, you’re in trouble,” Scarlet said.
“Thanks for pointing that out, asshole,” I said, and stood up, adrenaline making my hands shake slightly.
“Jeez, touchy,” Scarlet said. “You sit down with me, Fresh Meat, and I’ll explain why you should always avoid Sassy while she’s on the rag.”
“I’m not on the rag,” I said, and then hustled myself out of the room before I said something I couldn’t take back.
Germaine looked very serious as I walked into her office and closed the door behind me. Bad sign. She wasn’t a bubbly person, but she didn’t ordinarily look so grim. Fuck. The Owner had definitely told her to fire me, and I was going to be out on the street.
It wasn’t the end of the world, I reminded myself, but I didn’t really believe it.
“Sassy, thank you for coming so promptly,” Germaine said. “As you know—”
“Look, just give it to me straight,” I said. “You’re firing me, right?”
Germaine sat back in her chair, eyebrows drawing together. “Where did you get that idea?”
Me and my big mouth. “So… you’re not firing me?”
“Of course not,” Germaine said. “I know the dancer gossip mill runs overtime, but I can’t imagine who put this particular bug in your ear.”
“It wasn’t any of the girls,” I admitted. “I was just—well. After I was with the owner last night, I sort of thought—I mean, you know how I am, I can’t keep my mouth shut, and he probably wasn’t too happy with me, so—”
“You’re still worrying about that? He had no complaints,” Germaine said firmly. “Put it out of your mind. You’re an asset to this business, and I told you he’s never meddled with my hiring decisions. I asked Tempest to send you in because Mr. Webster requested that you attend his party tonight.”
“Oh,” I said, deflating like a popped balloon. “Um. I didn’t know he was having a party.”
“He only called this afternoon to schedule it,” Germaine said. “He’ll be here at 6:00. Now get out of my office and stop worrying. Your job is secure.”
“Sorry, Germaine,” I said, feeling sheepish, and scuttled off before she could decide to fire me for being too dumb to live.
Poppy had scheduled me to dance at 4:30, 8:00, and 1:30, so I had to tell her to strike the two later slots, but I still got ready to go on stage at 4:30. There was no reason to sit around on my butt until Webster’s party started. Might as well keep myself busy and make a little extra money. I styled my wig, applied my lipstick, and had Scarlet lace me into a black silk corset. I was going for Vampire Goth Barbie that night: sugar laced with poison. The clients always loved it.
When I went out onto the floor before my dance, I could feel the energy of the gathered clients shifting to focus on me. I strolled toward the stage, the spotlight following me, and I saw heads turning out of the corner of my eye. They were all looking at me. They all wanted me.
I stepped onto the stage, into my skin.
I stood straight and tall, looking straight ahead, unmoving, untouchable, waiting for the music to begin.
In that last moment of silence before the music started, my eyes drifted a little to the right, and I saw him sitting in the audience, staring at me with burning eyes.
The man in the dark suit.
Mr. Turner.
5
I danced in a daze, only dimly aware of the gathered clients watching me, and painfully, achingly aware of Turner’s presence in the audience. My limbs moved without conscious thought, and I was grateful that I had performed this exact dance so many times that it didn’t require much of my attention. I couldn’t think about anything except Turner.
Finally, after about a million years, the music ended, and I stumbled off the stage and beelined for the seraglio. I didn’t even stay to work my way through the audience and collect tips. I just bolted.
Running away from Turner was getting to be a common theme in my life.
I didn’t like it.
But what else was I supposed to do? Deal with him face-to-face like a grownup?
Fat chance.
I was almost safe. The door was in sight, and then I was there, so close, my hand on the door, pushing it open, almost inside the safety of the seraglio—but then a hand settled on my shoulder, big and solid, and a voice said, “Going somewhere?”
I froze. Maybe if I held really still, he would forget about me, or get bored, and go off to find a woman who was less confrontational. I watched nature documentaries sometimes, late at night when I couldn’t sleep, and everything in the world that got hunted by something else had the same response: remain motionless, and hope the predator moved on.
I wasn’t used to being hunted, but I had that prey instinct in me anyway. Don’t flicker, and it will all be over soon.
But I was no terrified baby gazelle, and Turner was no lion. He was worse: smart, and ruthless on top of it. “I’m sure you have a moment for a devoted client,” he said.
I didn’t want to talk to him. Christ, if I’d had the balls for it, I would have shaken him off and kept walking, and if he had the balls to follow me into the seraglio—well, let him deal with Poppy and the rest of the dancers, descending on him like enraged harpies. Well, I had balls, sure enough, but not when it came to men who could fire me as easily as taking a breath. I wasn’t much for tact, but I had a decided interest in keeping my job.
So instead I turned to face him, his hand sliding across my shoulder and down my arm as I moved, and gave him my best, brightest smile. “I didn’t expect to see you again,” I said, dropping my eyelids and gazing up at him through my lashes, pretending to be sweet and flattered when really I was mainly scared.
I couldn’t say why that was. He was tall, and unreadable, and he had power over me. He could upend my life with a single sentence. And I wanted him to touch me, longed for it, and at the same time, I wanted him to disappear and never come back. That was hardest thing: the conflict between what my body wanted and what my brain knew.
I looked over his shoulder, at the crowded room behind him, all of the clients arranged around the stage watching Xanadu as she spun effortlessly around the pole. Nobody was watching us. He could have hit me, or kissed me, or shoved me the floor, or pulled my clothes off, and nobody would have paid any attention at all.
