The Billionaire's Command
Page 2
Finished, he glanced up at me, and something in his dark eyes made me blush again and look away.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m not finished,” he said. He pulled out a tube of antibiotic ointment and smeared it onto my scrapes, and then he took out a box of Band-Aids and covered basically the entire surface area of my knees, layering each bandage on top of the one beneath it so that no raw skin was exposed. “They didn’t have anything larger,” he said. “This will have to do.”
“It’s, wow,” I said. “Way better than I would have done. I probably would have just taped on some paper towels and called it a day.”
“Extremely unhygienic,” he said, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.
Christ. I had to leave, now, or I was going to do something really stupid, like ask him to marry me. I cleared my throat and rearranged the straps of my bag. “So, thanks,” I said. “I’m really—I owe you. But I’m going to be super late for work, so…”
“Of course,” he said, and climbed to his feet. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper, and handed it to me. “Just in case you run into any further emergencies.” He looked down at me for a moment, tall as a statue, and then strode off down Bleecker Street.
I gazed after him, a little wistfully, and then looked down at the paper he had handed me.
It was his business card.
Right in the middle, in tiny black numbers, was phone number. That was it. I turned it over, expecting to see something more informative on the back, but it was blank.
What kind of weird guy had a business card like that? Was he a spy or something? Maybe he was so rich that he didn’t need to work. Maybe he was so famous that he expected everyone to already know who he was.
It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like I was going to call him.
I stood up and slung my bag over my shoulder. My knees hurt, but not too badly. I took a few tentative steps, feeling things out, and decided that walking the rest of the way to work was no big deal.
I tossed the business card into the first trash can I passed.
Dating was a bad idea. Sooner or later, they all found out what I did for a living.
And nobody wanted a stripper for a girlfriend.
* * *
Stepping into the Silver Cross Club transformed me.
I did it five times a week, sometimes six or seven: walked through the door and became someone new.
Outside of the club, I was ordinary Sasha Kilgore, who loved makeup, yoga, parrots, and brunch.
Inside the club, I was Sassy Belle.
I didn’t like Sassy very much. She wasn’t smart, for one thing. Not that I was a genius, but I could string three words together. Sassy mainly giggled.
Men liked her, though. The men at the club liked her. The clients. That was all that mattered.
Maybe someday I wouldn’t need Sassy anymore. I could shed that skin like a snake and leave it behind.
But not yet.
After my eventful commute, the club’s dim, cool lobby was a welcome relief. I took off my sunglasses and smiled at Javier, the doorman.
“You look hot,” he said.
I struck a pose, one hand on my hip, head thrown back. “Thanks!”
He chuckled. “I mean you look sweaty. Hot as the devil’s nutsack, isn’t it?”
“You shouldn’t use language like that around a lady,” I said.
“Sassy Belle, you are no lady,” he said with a wink, and held the door open for me.
I stuck my nose in the air and walked past him into the club, purposefully wiggling my hips as I went. Javier was lucky that I liked him.
The heavy door closed behind me, and I was inside the main room of the club. Things were quiet at this time of day: it was 3:00, and the club didn’t open for another hour. None of the waitresses had arrived yet, and the only other person I spotted was a fellow dancer, perched at the bar eating a sandwich out of a styrofoam container. I waved to her as I headed for the unmarked door at the back of the club that led to the private area for the dancers.
I gave myself a little shake, settling fully into Sassy’s skin.
Sassy’s sticky, clammy skin. I really needed a shower.
Germaine’s office door was open. I slowed as I passed by, peering inside—just being nosy—but she spotted me and flagged me down.
I hesitated, thinking about the glorious shower that was waiting for me, but I couldn’t exactly ignore her. I leaned against the doorframe and said, “What’s up, boss?”
There was a girl sitting at the desk who turned around and looked at me when I spoke. She had long, curly black hair and wide eyes: fresh meat.
“This is Tawny,” Germaine said. “She’s going to be dancing here now.”
I looked the girl up and down. “You don’t look much like a Tawny,” I said. “We need to pick a better stripper name for you.”
Tawny turned back to look at Germaine, who coughed, probably trying to hold back a laugh. I knew her pretty well after working at the club for two years. “Well,” Germaine said. “That’s certainly something to consider. Sassy, I’m going to ask you to show Tawny around. She’ll be observing tonight, and will begin dancing tomorrow. Please do your best to make her feel at home.”
“Sure,” I said. “That’s me. Homey. Come on, new girl, I’ll show you where to get ready.”
Tawny stood up and joined me in the doorway. I was glad to see she was wearing sensible shoes and street clothes. The ones who showed up ready to go on stage never lasted long. They wanted to make it a lifestyle, and that was the kiss of death. It was just a job.
“One other thing,” Germaine said, and I turned back to look at her. She folded her hands together on top of the desk. “The owner will be here tonight.”
Well, shit.
I led the new girl toward the back of the club, muttering to myself the whole way. Germaine was clever: she didn’t want to have to tell Poppy, so she would make me do her dirty work, and then I would have to deal with Poppy’s inevitable meltdown.
Being a team player sucked.
I slammed through the door into the dancer’s area. Scarlet called it the seraglio, and the name had stuck. She told me that it meant the private quarters where concubines lived, which I thought was appropriate. We had a pretty nice setup: a seating area with couches and a mini-fridge for snacks, nice showers, and a large dressing room with lighted mirrors. Way nicer than the last place I worked, where all the dancers shared one unisex bathroom and there were usually about five of us crammed in front of the sink trying to do our hair.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m not finished,” he said. He pulled out a tube of antibiotic ointment and smeared it onto my scrapes, and then he took out a box of Band-Aids and covered basically the entire surface area of my knees, layering each bandage on top of the one beneath it so that no raw skin was exposed. “They didn’t have anything larger,” he said. “This will have to do.”
“It’s, wow,” I said. “Way better than I would have done. I probably would have just taped on some paper towels and called it a day.”
“Extremely unhygienic,” he said, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.
Christ. I had to leave, now, or I was going to do something really stupid, like ask him to marry me. I cleared my throat and rearranged the straps of my bag. “So, thanks,” I said. “I’m really—I owe you. But I’m going to be super late for work, so…”
“Of course,” he said, and climbed to his feet. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper, and handed it to me. “Just in case you run into any further emergencies.” He looked down at me for a moment, tall as a statue, and then strode off down Bleecker Street.
I gazed after him, a little wistfully, and then looked down at the paper he had handed me.
It was his business card.
Right in the middle, in tiny black numbers, was phone number. That was it. I turned it over, expecting to see something more informative on the back, but it was blank.
What kind of weird guy had a business card like that? Was he a spy or something? Maybe he was so rich that he didn’t need to work. Maybe he was so famous that he expected everyone to already know who he was.
It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like I was going to call him.
I stood up and slung my bag over my shoulder. My knees hurt, but not too badly. I took a few tentative steps, feeling things out, and decided that walking the rest of the way to work was no big deal.
I tossed the business card into the first trash can I passed.
Dating was a bad idea. Sooner or later, they all found out what I did for a living.
And nobody wanted a stripper for a girlfriend.
* * *
Stepping into the Silver Cross Club transformed me.
I did it five times a week, sometimes six or seven: walked through the door and became someone new.
Outside of the club, I was ordinary Sasha Kilgore, who loved makeup, yoga, parrots, and brunch.
Inside the club, I was Sassy Belle.
I didn’t like Sassy very much. She wasn’t smart, for one thing. Not that I was a genius, but I could string three words together. Sassy mainly giggled.
Men liked her, though. The men at the club liked her. The clients. That was all that mattered.
Maybe someday I wouldn’t need Sassy anymore. I could shed that skin like a snake and leave it behind.
But not yet.
After my eventful commute, the club’s dim, cool lobby was a welcome relief. I took off my sunglasses and smiled at Javier, the doorman.
“You look hot,” he said.
I struck a pose, one hand on my hip, head thrown back. “Thanks!”
He chuckled. “I mean you look sweaty. Hot as the devil’s nutsack, isn’t it?”
“You shouldn’t use language like that around a lady,” I said.
“Sassy Belle, you are no lady,” he said with a wink, and held the door open for me.
I stuck my nose in the air and walked past him into the club, purposefully wiggling my hips as I went. Javier was lucky that I liked him.
The heavy door closed behind me, and I was inside the main room of the club. Things were quiet at this time of day: it was 3:00, and the club didn’t open for another hour. None of the waitresses had arrived yet, and the only other person I spotted was a fellow dancer, perched at the bar eating a sandwich out of a styrofoam container. I waved to her as I headed for the unmarked door at the back of the club that led to the private area for the dancers.
I gave myself a little shake, settling fully into Sassy’s skin.
Sassy’s sticky, clammy skin. I really needed a shower.
Germaine’s office door was open. I slowed as I passed by, peering inside—just being nosy—but she spotted me and flagged me down.
I hesitated, thinking about the glorious shower that was waiting for me, but I couldn’t exactly ignore her. I leaned against the doorframe and said, “What’s up, boss?”
There was a girl sitting at the desk who turned around and looked at me when I spoke. She had long, curly black hair and wide eyes: fresh meat.
“This is Tawny,” Germaine said. “She’s going to be dancing here now.”
I looked the girl up and down. “You don’t look much like a Tawny,” I said. “We need to pick a better stripper name for you.”
Tawny turned back to look at Germaine, who coughed, probably trying to hold back a laugh. I knew her pretty well after working at the club for two years. “Well,” Germaine said. “That’s certainly something to consider. Sassy, I’m going to ask you to show Tawny around. She’ll be observing tonight, and will begin dancing tomorrow. Please do your best to make her feel at home.”
“Sure,” I said. “That’s me. Homey. Come on, new girl, I’ll show you where to get ready.”
Tawny stood up and joined me in the doorway. I was glad to see she was wearing sensible shoes and street clothes. The ones who showed up ready to go on stage never lasted long. They wanted to make it a lifestyle, and that was the kiss of death. It was just a job.
“One other thing,” Germaine said, and I turned back to look at her. She folded her hands together on top of the desk. “The owner will be here tonight.”
Well, shit.
I led the new girl toward the back of the club, muttering to myself the whole way. Germaine was clever: she didn’t want to have to tell Poppy, so she would make me do her dirty work, and then I would have to deal with Poppy’s inevitable meltdown.
Being a team player sucked.
I slammed through the door into the dancer’s area. Scarlet called it the seraglio, and the name had stuck. She told me that it meant the private quarters where concubines lived, which I thought was appropriate. We had a pretty nice setup: a seating area with couches and a mini-fridge for snacks, nice showers, and a large dressing room with lighted mirrors. Way nicer than the last place I worked, where all the dancers shared one unisex bathroom and there were usually about five of us crammed in front of the sink trying to do our hair.
