The Billionaire's Command
Page 24
Too late now.
“The terms are as follows,” Germaine said. “I’ll simplify, for expediency’s sake, but I won’t omit anything important, or attempt to lead you astray.”
“I know,” I said. “I trust you.”
She nodded and said, “The duration of the contract is one month, starting today. You will not work at the club for that time, or entertain any clients. Each week, you will be available to Mr. Turner on four nights of his choosing. You will give him your phone number, and he’ll notify you at least two hours in advance. You will not discuss the terms of the agreement with any third parties, or even mention that you know him. And he specified that your, ah—ground rules are void for the duration.”
Poor Germaine, having to tell me that Turner expected to fuck me. That went without saying, didn’t I? Why else would he pay me the big bucks? He obviously wanted everything set in stone, though, so I couldn’t wiggle out later. I remembered what he had said about there being loopholes in my rules; maybe he was afraid that I would find some loopholes of my own. “Okay,” I said. “What about my money?”
“Yes,” Germaine said, and cleared her throat. “That. Half up front, and half on successful completion of the contract.”
I felt like I should try to negotiate, or something, but I didn’t really see the point. “Sure, okay,” I said. “That all sounds good to me.” I looked down at the contract again, and flipped through the pages until I saw the numbers I was looking for: $250,000, printed in black ink. I realized that the contract wasn’t just to make sure that I didn’t fink out: it was also meant to protect me. If Turner didn’t pay, I would have this piece of paper with both of our signatures on it.
“Do you have a pen?” I asked Germaine.
She gave me one, silently.
I leaned over her desk and hesitated, pen hovering above the paper. “Do I have to sign my real name?” I asked.
She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
I felt weird about Turner maybe seeing my name, but there was no helping it. I scrawled my signature and passed the contract to him.
If he read my name, he did it silently, and didn’t gloat or try to hold it over me. He signed the contract and gave it to Germaine, who tucked it away in her filing cabinet.
“Well,” she said. “That’s done. Sassy, best of luck. I expect to see you back at work in August.”
“Thanks,” I said vaguely. I had stopped caring about the contract, or anything else that would happen in Germaine’s office that night. I was watching Turner, trying to figure out what he would do next.
He looked at me, eyebrows raised, and said, “Go get anything that you need from your locker. You won’t be back here for a while. We’re leaving.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
His mouth curled into a rich smile. It didn’t look happy or friendly. It looked like he planned to eat me alive. It shouldn’t have turned me on as much as it did. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
7
Turner strode out of the club and hailed a taxi. I scurried to keep up with him, my bag slung over one shoulder. I’d stuffed it with some of my makeup and a few pieces of slinky lingerie—not the elaborate costumes I wore on stage, but the slips and robes I wore when I entertained clients. I needed every weapon in my arsenal. I’d never had a client that I so badly needed to impress.
Turner didn’t look at me as he stood on the curb, hand thrust in the air. I was sure we made a strange pair: he was wearing a suit, and I hadn’t changed out of my street clothes. A passing taxi pulled over, and Turner opened the door and stood there, waiting.
I didn’t move at first. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t getting in, and then I realized that he was waiting for me to get in first. Blushing, I scrambled in. I had to remember that I wasn’t hanging out with one of my brothers. Turner had manners and class. He’d probably been holding car doors for women since before he could walk.
He gave the cabbie an address, and then leaned back against the seat and turned to look at me.
“I’m surprised you don’t have your own car,” I said.
“Parking in Manhattan? My time is more valuable than that,” he said.
“Yeah, but can’t you hire a driver?” I said. “I thought you were rich. What’s the point of being rich if you can’t hire someone to drive you around?”
“That’s what taxis are for,” he said. “I see no need to add unnecessary complications to my life.” That settled, he took his phone from his pocket and tapped it a few times, frowning. I pitied whoever had sent him a message that made him frown like that.
He obviously wasn’t interested in talking to me, so I looked out the window as the car navigated through rush hour traffic. The streets around Union Square were almost at a standstill, and our cabbie honked and edged into the bike lane and generally drove exactly like a New York cabbie should. Turner was getting his money’s worth, at least.
“We should have taken the subway,” Turner said, sounding disgusted, and I glanced over at him, surprised.
“I thought rich people didn’t take the subway,” I said.
“You have some very odd ideas about rich people,” he said. “I can’t imagine that your clients spend much time discussing their transportation choices with you.”
“Well, I watch television,” I said.
He laughed. “Is that it? I suppose I can’t say you’re entirely wrong. I certainly know people who think the subway is full of vermin and disease. But I find that it’s often faster than driving. Efficiency is key, in business. Time is money, and I detest wasting time.”
“Business,” I said. “You’re a businessman? I thought you just owned the club.”
“The club is a business,” he said slowly, like I was an idiot. Compared to him, I probably was.
Whatever. I shrugged, refusing to apologize for my ignorance. If he wanted someone sophisticated, he shouldn’t have gone sniffing around a strip club.
He made a slight scoffing noise in the back of his throat, but said, “Yes, Sassy. I’m a businessman. Not all rich people fritter away their time with art philanthropy and charity fundraisers.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” I said. “How can you be a philanthropist for art?”
“The terms are as follows,” Germaine said. “I’ll simplify, for expediency’s sake, but I won’t omit anything important, or attempt to lead you astray.”
“I know,” I said. “I trust you.”
She nodded and said, “The duration of the contract is one month, starting today. You will not work at the club for that time, or entertain any clients. Each week, you will be available to Mr. Turner on four nights of his choosing. You will give him your phone number, and he’ll notify you at least two hours in advance. You will not discuss the terms of the agreement with any third parties, or even mention that you know him. And he specified that your, ah—ground rules are void for the duration.”
Poor Germaine, having to tell me that Turner expected to fuck me. That went without saying, didn’t I? Why else would he pay me the big bucks? He obviously wanted everything set in stone, though, so I couldn’t wiggle out later. I remembered what he had said about there being loopholes in my rules; maybe he was afraid that I would find some loopholes of my own. “Okay,” I said. “What about my money?”
“Yes,” Germaine said, and cleared her throat. “That. Half up front, and half on successful completion of the contract.”
I felt like I should try to negotiate, or something, but I didn’t really see the point. “Sure, okay,” I said. “That all sounds good to me.” I looked down at the contract again, and flipped through the pages until I saw the numbers I was looking for: $250,000, printed in black ink. I realized that the contract wasn’t just to make sure that I didn’t fink out: it was also meant to protect me. If Turner didn’t pay, I would have this piece of paper with both of our signatures on it.
“Do you have a pen?” I asked Germaine.
She gave me one, silently.
I leaned over her desk and hesitated, pen hovering above the paper. “Do I have to sign my real name?” I asked.
She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
I felt weird about Turner maybe seeing my name, but there was no helping it. I scrawled my signature and passed the contract to him.
If he read my name, he did it silently, and didn’t gloat or try to hold it over me. He signed the contract and gave it to Germaine, who tucked it away in her filing cabinet.
“Well,” she said. “That’s done. Sassy, best of luck. I expect to see you back at work in August.”
“Thanks,” I said vaguely. I had stopped caring about the contract, or anything else that would happen in Germaine’s office that night. I was watching Turner, trying to figure out what he would do next.
He looked at me, eyebrows raised, and said, “Go get anything that you need from your locker. You won’t be back here for a while. We’re leaving.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
His mouth curled into a rich smile. It didn’t look happy or friendly. It looked like he planned to eat me alive. It shouldn’t have turned me on as much as it did. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
7
Turner strode out of the club and hailed a taxi. I scurried to keep up with him, my bag slung over one shoulder. I’d stuffed it with some of my makeup and a few pieces of slinky lingerie—not the elaborate costumes I wore on stage, but the slips and robes I wore when I entertained clients. I needed every weapon in my arsenal. I’d never had a client that I so badly needed to impress.
Turner didn’t look at me as he stood on the curb, hand thrust in the air. I was sure we made a strange pair: he was wearing a suit, and I hadn’t changed out of my street clothes. A passing taxi pulled over, and Turner opened the door and stood there, waiting.
I didn’t move at first. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t getting in, and then I realized that he was waiting for me to get in first. Blushing, I scrambled in. I had to remember that I wasn’t hanging out with one of my brothers. Turner had manners and class. He’d probably been holding car doors for women since before he could walk.
He gave the cabbie an address, and then leaned back against the seat and turned to look at me.
“I’m surprised you don’t have your own car,” I said.
“Parking in Manhattan? My time is more valuable than that,” he said.
“Yeah, but can’t you hire a driver?” I said. “I thought you were rich. What’s the point of being rich if you can’t hire someone to drive you around?”
“That’s what taxis are for,” he said. “I see no need to add unnecessary complications to my life.” That settled, he took his phone from his pocket and tapped it a few times, frowning. I pitied whoever had sent him a message that made him frown like that.
He obviously wasn’t interested in talking to me, so I looked out the window as the car navigated through rush hour traffic. The streets around Union Square were almost at a standstill, and our cabbie honked and edged into the bike lane and generally drove exactly like a New York cabbie should. Turner was getting his money’s worth, at least.
“We should have taken the subway,” Turner said, sounding disgusted, and I glanced over at him, surprised.
“I thought rich people didn’t take the subway,” I said.
“You have some very odd ideas about rich people,” he said. “I can’t imagine that your clients spend much time discussing their transportation choices with you.”
“Well, I watch television,” I said.
He laughed. “Is that it? I suppose I can’t say you’re entirely wrong. I certainly know people who think the subway is full of vermin and disease. But I find that it’s often faster than driving. Efficiency is key, in business. Time is money, and I detest wasting time.”
“Business,” I said. “You’re a businessman? I thought you just owned the club.”
“The club is a business,” he said slowly, like I was an idiot. Compared to him, I probably was.
Whatever. I shrugged, refusing to apologize for my ignorance. If he wanted someone sophisticated, he shouldn’t have gone sniffing around a strip club.
He made a slight scoffing noise in the back of his throat, but said, “Yes, Sassy. I’m a businessman. Not all rich people fritter away their time with art philanthropy and charity fundraisers.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” I said. “How can you be a philanthropist for art?”
