by Bec Linder
And then my sister got into college, and dreaming turned into planning.
I didn’t even know that she had applied until she came to me with the acceptance letter: admission to Tech with enough financial aid to cover her tuition, and I was so proud I could have cried.
“Don’t tell Daddy,” she said, the two of us sitting at the little kitchen table, alone in the house for once—the boys still at school, and our parents gone down the road to the store. “I know I can’t go. I just wanted to—I don’t know. I guess prove to myself that I could do it.”
“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.
“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.
I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid, or more turned on.
It was definitely some combination of the two.
And then, finally, I looked up and met his eyes, and what I saw there set the ground shaking beneath my feet.
He was wild, and awake. Alive in a way that most of the people I encountered on a day-to-day basis definitely weren’t.
And he wanted me.
“I’m supposed to work a party,” I said. “At 6:00. So I really don’t have time for this. Sorry.”
“I already spoke with Germaine,” he said. “Your previous assignation is no longer a concern.”
Assignation, really? Who talked like that? Assholes who had too much money and more education than was good for anyone. “You mean my party,” I said. “I don’t accept assignations.”
His mouth quirked to one side. “Very well. If you insist on using your common vernacular, I suppose I’m willing to sink to that level. You’ll be working my party, now. There are two attendees. I’ll let you guess who they are.”
“You,” I said. “And me.”
“What a clever girl,” he said, in that dry way he had, meaning that I wasn’t so clever after all.
“All right,” I said. I straightened my spine and drew back my shoulders. “You got it. I’m yours for the evening. I hope you’re going to pay me this time, though.”
“Maybe if you don’t run off quite so fast,” he said.
I blushed and looked away. He had a point. I hadn’t exactly given him a chance to tip me, last time.
“I won’t run,” I said.
He drew his hand up my arm and back down to my wrist, a deliberate caress this time. His fingers curled around my wrist and held me there. Like handcuffs. He wasn’t fooling around. “I asked Germaine to reserve a room,” he said.
I drew in a breath and let it out again, feeling myself stretched out and buoyant as a helium balloon. I would float right away if I wasn’t careful. “Lead the way, then.”
He did. He gripped my wrist more firmly and guided me down the hallway, trailing a few paces behind him, until we came to an empty room and he pushed the door open and drew me inside.
I recognized the room, of course. I had been there before, many times. But it seemed different now, like I was seeing it with new eyes, or seeing it for the first time. Like Turner had the power to make everything new.
I moved into the center of the room and stopped, feeling my heels sink into the thick carpet.
Behind me, Turner closed and locked the door.
“It’s just you and me now, s
weetheart,” he said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said, without turning around to look at him.
He laughed, low and dark. “What do you think it is you need to be worried about?”
I did turn to face him then, and let my face show all of the worries I’d gathered to me over the last two years of dealing with hungry, eager men who didn’t always want to listen when I said no. If Turner was going to ask a question like that, he was going to get an honest answer. “Why don’t you tell me?”
He must have accurately read my expression, because he huffed out a breath, half of a laugh, and said, “I’m not a monster, sweetheart. I’m not going to force you. You can walk out the door right now with no repercussions. I’m not going to fire you because you don’t want to touch my prick.” He paused, and cocked one eyebrow. “Or maybe that’s what you want. You want me to hold you against the wall and use you like my own private jungle gym, and make you come screaming when I touch you.”
His words send a terrible, wonderful shiver up my spine. Somehow he knew every unwanted thought that had crawled up my backbone and made a home in the base of my brain. “That’s not what I want,” I said, and knew the words were a lie even as I spoke them.
His smirk told me that he knew it too. “That’s exactly what you want, but we won’t quibble over the details. You haven’t left, so I’ll take that as blanket permission to do anything to you that I want. Come here.”
What could I do but obey him? I took one step toward him, and then a second, and a third, and then I was close enough that he could slide a hand around my waist to settle in the small of my back and pull me against him, hip to hip. We were close enough to share breath and maybe even thoughts. He slid one wool-covered thigh between mine, pressing firmly against the hungry heat between my legs, and I arched my back and leaned backward, a dramatic curve, and his hand slid up my spine to hold me in place.
I was caught, then, between him and gravity. There was nowhere to go but up.
Or down, if he dropped me.
“You’re the perfect whore, Sassy Belle,” he said. “Beautiful and mysterious.”
