by Whitney G.
He stares into my eyes as he makes love to me, hard and deep, more slowly and more sensually than we used to fuck. He runs his hands up my sides as he kisses me softly—whispering words against my lips that I don’t quite comprehend.
All I can interpret is, “I did all this for you…”
As he continues to move in and out of me, I moan and dig my nails into his back. I feel something hard underneath me and start to reach for it, but he kisses me harder and makes me forget.
“Fuck, Meredith…” He thrusts into me one last time—his stroke hitting my spot at just the right moment. He grips my hands as he stiffens, and I call out his name as we reach our climax at the same time.
Still inside of me, he bends down and kisses my forehead. Then he kisses every inch of my neck—still saying sorry for moments earlier.
We remain entwined for what feels like forever, until he slowly rolls off me.
“Water?” he asks.
I nod and he leaves the room. I wait until I hear his feet against the steps. Then I reach under me to see what was rubbing up against me during sex.
It’s a cell phone. Swallowing, I stare at it for several seconds, unsure of what to do. I roll over and grab my slip from the floor, pulling it back over my body. I tuck the phone into my bra and sit up, hoping like hell that he won’t notice.
He steps into the room mid-thought, two glasses of water in hand. Holding one out for me, he waits on me to take a few sips before sitting next to me.
“You should get some rest,” he says. “I still need you to give me a hundred laps in the pool later this morning.”
“Are you ever going to tell me why you’re making me do that?”
He lets out a sigh. “I will at the end.”
“By ‘the end’ do you mean, the end of my life?”
“Only figuratively.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You’re pretty well-read,” he says, downing the rest of his water, as I stand up from the mattress. “I’m sure I don’t have to define what a simple word like that means.”
“Are you implying murder?”
“It’s a little too late to kill you, Meredith,” he says. “If that was the plan, I would’ve done it weeks ago.” He shakes his head. “Do you have any other questions?”
“Several.”
“Well, that’s quite unfortunate,” he says. “I’m all out of answers.”
I turn away and walk toward the door.
“Wait,” he says, triggering my heart to race overtime. “One second.”
“Yeah?” I turn around.
“Your ring fell off.” He holds it out to me, then slips it onto my finger. He looks as if he wants to say something more, but he simply sighs and returns to his room, shutting the door behind him.
I rush to my room and immediately pull the phone from my bra. No service bars, just roaming. I debate risking a 9-1-1 call, if that would even work, but I know I need to think this all the way through.
Instead, I open the recent calls list and my stomach falls to the floor. I know the number of the last few calls by heart.
101-088-8076…
I know it all too well, and I know now, more than ever, that this man has something extremely dark and ugly up his sleeve for me in the future…
Meredith
Before
“Where to Miss?” The driver smiled at me as I slipped into his cab.
“120 Park Avenue.”
He nodded and pulled onto the street as I buckled my seatbelt. Pulling my phone out of my purse, I turned on the selfie camera and took one final look at my makeup.
With my eyelids coated in shimmering pink and my lips coated in a red that stood out against my freckle-concealing foundation, I almost looked like one of the girls in the magazines. At least, I was trying to convince myself that this was the case.
As I was adding a tad bit more highlighter to my cheeks, the phone buzzed against my fingertips with an incoming call.
101-088-8076…. Bzzzz! 101-088-8076…
Ugh.
It was the same number that called me morning, noon, and night for no reason at all. For several months in a row. I’d blocked it numerous times, but somehow, someway, it still managed to get through.
Blocking it again, I checked my email to make sure my boss hadn’t sent me any last-minute requests. Not that I’d be able to do anything about them for the next two hours, though.
Tonight was my night to dance on the premiere stage at Club Swan, and I couldn’t afford to miss it. Literally couldn’t afford to.
No matter how badly I tried to convince myself that I only danced for myself—to deal with the pain, I knew that was a lie. I was dancing for far more than that these days.
My future was on the line, and I was willing to do whatever it took to make sure I’d have enough to set it up exactly how I wanted.
However, I’d fallen for the worst part of the game somewhere between my mother’s death and my job at Vogue. I’d started using my photographic memory to my advantage and adopted the unfortunate habit of stealing from some of the wealthiest clients, whenever they handed over their credit cards.
At first, it was just a few twenties here or there, a fifty to cover my cab fare home, a hundred to replace the silver strap on a shoe. But over time, I realized that fifty dollars to these men was like fifty cents, and contrary to most people’s beliefs, working as an editor for Vogue didn’t pay shit. (The true value was in the “exposure,” and “lasting long enough to get noticed and poached by a company willing to pay more”.)
From the outside looking in, most people assumed that my lifestyle was the stuff of dreams, but they didn’t know the half of it.
Every piece in my “six-figure wardrobe” was on loan from Vogue’s overstuffed back-order closet. My million-dollar condo was a guilt gift from my father, and by the time the lawyers sorted out my mother’s estate and paid her taxes, all that was left was a few small debts that fell to me.
I had nothing.
Sure, I could’ve easily accepted the inheritance from my father’s estate, but I knew there were strings attached to those millions. It wasn’t just, “Here you go, claim your funds and walk away.” It was, “Here are these drip payments and they can stop anytime you stop playing” my father’s game. Anytime I refused to show up to an event where he wanted me to be, anytime I refused to hang out with fellow socialites for a warm reception in the press. Even if we were slowly getting on better terms, I knew my father would never let me use his money to live my own life; I would pay him for it, in one way or another.
I had huge dreams outside of this city, and at the rate I was saving (Okay, stealing), I’d be able to start my own design house and work for myself by the end of next year.
As I was adjusting my earrings, my phone buzzed in my lap again. Michael.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hello, Meredith,” he said, his voice deep. “I’m returning your call from earlier. Was something wrong?”
“No, I was just wondering what you were doing tonight.”
“You.” He let out a low laugh. “But before that, I’m going to a private production of Wicked at Gershwin Theater around ten o’clock. You’re more than welcome to join me, if you’d like.”
“Since when does a Broadway play offer private productions?”
“Since one of the executive producers asked for it.” There was a smile in his voice. “One of the companies that I own invests a lot of money into Broadway shows. This is just a small way that they say thank you.”
I raised my eyebrow. This was easily the twentieth time he’d said, “one of the companies I own,” that had a completely different function than any of the others he’d mentioned. It was yet another thing he owned outside of Fahrenheit 900. Although I knew that he was wealthy from the way he dressed, the way he carried himself, and the way he implied it, I honestly had no clue what he really did for a living.
“What are you doing tonight?” he as
ked.
“Um…” I cleared my throat. “I’m going to hang out at my secret job for a while.”
“You once told me that you were going to reveal what this so-called ‘secret job’ is.” He paused. “Is tonight a good time for you to finally do that?”
“Another night would be better…” I said. “One day, I’ll invite you to see me.”
“On that day, I’ll sit in the front row.”
I bit my lip at the thought of him ever coming to Club Swan. I highly doubted that I’d be able to focus for more than five seconds with him watching me dance and I could easily picture me beckoning him with my fingers, as I lay on my back just for him. Could easily picture crawling into his lap, in front of everyone, and letting him be the first and only man in that club to ever touch me.
“Are you still there, Meredith?” He was laughing. “It’s been three minutes and you haven’t said anything.”
“Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I think I’ll take a raincheck on Wicked, since I’ve already seen it, but I’ll call you later tonight.”
“Talk to you later.” He ended the call, and I let out a breath.
When the cab pulled up to the entrance of 120 Park Avenue minutes later, I handed the driver a fifty and stepped out. I took the elevator up to the top floor and was immediately met by the security guards.
“Evening,” they said in unison, motioning for me to walk past them.
I walked straight through and my second life unfolded in front of me with bright blue and white flashing lights.
With seven main stages and five smaller ones, this club was by far, one of the most sought after places for high-profile businessmen in New York. Their credit cards were checked at the door, all verified by me on the nights that I worked, and the charges always appeared as “Business Suite Rental,” so no one who ever glanced at their bills would know the truth.
This place was their dirty little secret. Drugs and liquor were easily at their fingertips, and they paid top dollar to be entertained for as long as they wanted to stay.
I dressed in my favorite outfit—a shimmering black bodysuit with matching feathers, and I buckled a pair of sparkling silver stilettos around my ankles.
I made my way to the stage opening, right at the moment my set-list was about to play. I moved from behind the curtains and strutted to the center pole—looping my leg around the metal before hoisting myself up as far as I could go.
I used my thighs to hang on and tilted my body backwards, letting my arms and curls fall toward the floor—hanging free until the music changed tempos.
When my routine began, I pretended like I couldn’t see anyone else in the club except Michael. He was sitting in the front row, leaning back, fat cigar between his lips.
As the smoke unfurled from the tip of his Cuban, I slowly twirled around the pole—making my way down to the ground. Arching my back against the pole, I moved my hips to the beat—teasing him with every move.
For a moment, I thought that he really was here, that my imagination was drawing him a bit too clearly. But when the music stopped, the lights in the room brightened a bit and he wasn’t there. It was the same suits as usual, the same Wall Street men I was seconds away from stealing a few grand from.
Sliding off the pole, I picked up the tons of bills that landed and headed backstage.
Twenty five hundred dollars…
Thrilled, I wrapped my silk slipcover over my outfit and walked to the dressing room. As I was stuffing my belongings into my bag, the club owner—Mr. Heights, stepped into the room.
“Good shit as always,” he said, crossing his arms. “You want to make tonight the night that you actually become a part of the team?”
“Depends,” I said. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve got a really special client coming in a few minutes,” he said. “He just dropped one hundred grand to buy all the tables and booths for his friends, and he wants a private dance in the grand VIP suite.”
“In that case, I’m sure any of the other girls would love to get a tip from him.”
“He’s specifically requested you.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “His exact words were, I want The Black Swan. So, since he just paid me in fucking cash and every bill is legit, he’s going to get to watch you dance in private.”
I swallowed, shaking my head. “We agreed that I would never have to do that.”
“That was the arrangement for the first few months,” he said, glaring at me. “It’s been way longer than that. If you don’t like it, you can quit, and then see if any of the other clubs in this city will let you treat their business like a goddamn hobby. Meet him in the VIP Suite in fifteen minutes or walk your ass out of my building and don’t come back.”
I said nothing. I’d been lucky enough to fly under the radar so far, and from what the other girls had told me about the private rooms, these clients always thought that a few extra hundreds meant more touches. A couple thousand meant a blow job or a hand job so good, it felt like a blow job.
I couldn’t imagine what a guy who dropped one hundred thousand would think he was entitled to receive. And the thought of touching any man other than Michael was enough to make my skin crawl.
If this asshole even thinks about touching me, I’m going to press charges.
I dropped my bag onto the bench and sighed. “I can stay for one more hour.”
“You can stay for as long as he needs you to,” he hissed and handed me my cut—a couple thousand. “Some of us don’t have the luxury to decide when we want to work or not.”
He crossed his arms and watched me freshen up my make-up, as if he didn’t trust me. Then he grabbed me and personally walked me to the best VIP suite.
“You better do a damn good job,” he said, double checking the liquor spread on the table.
I waited for him to call in a security guard, but he didn’t.
As if he could read my mind, he looked over his shoulder as he walked toward the door. “The customer paid an extra fifty thousand to not have a security guard in the room.”
I swallowed, feeling my heart crash against my chest in fear.
“You can still hit the panic button,” he said. “And Donovan will be outside the room, so if you scream loud enough, if something goes wrong, he’ll still be around.”
I bit my tongue. This man was an asshole of epic proportions.
He shut the door and I sucked in several deep breaths. I stepped onto the platform at the center of the room, and hoped like hell that his mystery man was just someone who had nothing better to do with his millions. That he would watch me dance and request nothing else.
The door opened minutes later, and a man in a dark grey jacket and jeans stepped into the room. He had tattoos inked under his eyes—teardrops, clouds, and small cursive names. The Virgin Mary was drawn onto his neck in impressive shades of black and red, and as he slowly took off his jacket, I noticed that tattoos owned every inch of his arms.
He stood still and gave me a menacing stare, instantly scaring the living shit out of me.
Unsure of what to do, I avoided eye contact and started to move around the pole, like an awkward first-timer.
Grabbing the neck of a vodka bottle, he poured himself a shot and tossed it back before slumping down onto the plush leather couch. He watched me dance for all of two songs, and then he held up his hand.
“Stop,” he said, his voice terse. “Have a goddamn seat.”
“It’s club policy that I’m not supposed to ever—”
“Have a fucking seat, Meredith Alexis Thatchwood. Or would you prefer if I call you The Black Swan and pretend to buy into whatever bullshit pity story all your coworkers believe?”
I froze at the sound of him saying my real name, stepping down and obliging within seconds.
He poured himself another shot, and then he extended one to me.
Too scared to reject it, I tossed it down my throat. The small glass slipped from my fingers, shattering on the floor.
&nbs
p; “I’m glad I’m finally getting to meet you in person,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Although, I never would’ve guessed that an heiress would work in a place like this. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s one of the nicest places in the city, but doesn’t Daddy Dearest give you enough of your inheritance every month, so you don’t have to come here?”
I didn’t answer. I’d never seen this man a day in my life, and the mere sight of him was setting me on edge and making me wonder if tonight would be the end of my life.
“Are you deaf?” He glared at me. “I just asked you a fucking question.”
“I’m not an heiress anymore…” was all I could think to say.
“Well, that actually makes some sense,” he said. “But not enough for me to forgive you for what you’ve done to me.”
I swallowed, unsure of what the hell he was talking about. I watched as he calmly rose to his feet, as he poured himself a glass of whiskey and took his time sipping it.
“I’m not a man who gets surprised too easily these days, Miss Thatchwood,” he says. “But any person who is willing to blatantly steal from me and ignore all of my fucking phone calls, always gives me quite the shock.”
“No, I…” I shook my head, now realizing that the annoying number must’ve belonged to him. “I’ve never stolen from you…”
“Oh, yeah?” He raised his eyebrow. “Maybe you thought that by taking a few thousand from these stuffy ass suits, that you were just being a slick bitch and it would never catch up to you. That taking money from them was just easy money that they could work overtime and replace before their wives found out, huh?” He walked over to me and pulled a gun out of his pocket, placing the barrel under my chin and gently tipping my head up to look into his eyes. “What you should know is, that’s my fucking money, and I owe it to the A brothers—two people you don’t cross or dare to pay late in this city. They’re the only two people outside of my own group who I actually respect, and they don’t offer payment plans or understand the words, I can’t pay you on time this week.”
