by Bec Linder
When I found him waiting for me in Germaine’s office, well. That was a different story.
“Sassy,” Germaine said, beckoning me inside. “I’m glad you found us.”
“Beth told me you were looking for me,” I said. I glanced at Turner without meaning to. He stood behind Germaine’s chair, hands clasped loosely behind his back, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. My dumb heart leaped in my chest, and I forced my eyes back to Germaine. “You didn’t really leave it up to chance.”
“Be that as it may,” Germaine said, calm as a mill-pond. I had never seen her irritated, and sometimes that irritated me. It wasn’t natural to be so unflappable. Scarlet and I had spent one slow evening trying to figure out what we could to do make Germaine mad, but we weren’t able to come up with anything. “Mr. Turner has a proposal for you.”
I looked at him again, surprised. Was Turner his real name? I couldn’t imagine that he had given Germaine a fake name—unless he’d asked her to use his alias, to hide his real identity from me. Thinking about it made my head hurt. He met my gaze, and his eyes crinkled slightly, like he was smiling without moving his mouth. Like he could tell exactly what I was thinking, and it amused him.
I realized that Germaine was waiting for me to say something. I swallowed and said, “Yeah, I know. He talked to me about it last night.”
“Sassy, I need you to understand that you are free to refuse,” Germaine said. “Your job is in no danger. Mr. Turner has no interest in holding the threat of unemployment over your head.”
“That’s what he keeps saying,” I said. “I’m not sure I totally believe him, though.”
“You should believe me,” he said, with that low voice that sent shivers up my spine.
I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on Germaine, and said, “I guess it doesn’t really matter, because I accept.”
Germaine’s eyebrows flickered upward. I wondered why she was surprised: that I had agreed, or that I had done it without much prodding? But being Germaine, she recovered quickly. “Well. That simplifies matters,” she said, and handed me a sheaf of papers. “Mr. Turner requested that I draft a contract. Please take a look to see if the terms are agreeable.”
I glanced down at the top page. Contractor agrees to indemnify, defend, and save harmless, I read, and blinked a few times, trying to make the words turn into plain English. It didn’t work, and I looked up at Germaine and said, “You realize there’s no way I’m going to understand this, right?”
“It’s not all that complicated,” Turner drawled. “You do what I say, and we both walk away happy.”
Germaine sat up just a tiny bit straighter. She disapproved of Turner, I saw. Or didn’t like him? Didn’t trust him? I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly, but she had some kind of negative emotion toward him. She’d been weird about him the first time she spoke to me about him, the first time he requested me, but I’d interpreted that as her being uncomfortable about knowing that he was the owner; but maybe there was more to it than that. I wondered, then, what exactly I was getting myself into.
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?”
“That’s an excellent question,” he said, but instead of answering it, he went back to tapping at his phone.
I sighed, and went back to staring out the window.
Finally, after about a million years, traffic cleared out, and we turned north. I tried to figure out where we were going. Even after three years in the city, I still didn’t have a terrific grasp of the geography, but I was pretty sure the address he’d given the cabbie was on the Upper East Side. It made sense. That was where rich people lived, and I couldn’t imagine Turner settling for anything less than the absolute best.
He’d picked me, after all.
Lord. You could peel paint with that sarcasm.
“So where’s my up-front money?” I asked, breaking the silence in the cab.
He glanced up from his phone. “I’ll wire it to you,” he said.
“You don’t have my bank account,” I said.
“Of course I do,” he said. “It’s in your file. Germaine gave it to me.”
My face flushed hot. I couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or anger. Maybe both. “You looked at my file?”
He frowned at me. “Of course I did. I look at all of the employees’ files.”
That made sense. He was the owner. But it still felt like a violation, like he had seen some private part of me without my knowledge. “So you know my real name.”
“Yes,” he said.
“But you’ve never used it,” I said.
“I didn’t think you would want me to,” he said.
I could not figure this man out. He had no qualms about paying me for a month of sex, but using my real name crossed the line? “You know, you’re kind of weird,” I said.
He only raised an eyebrow.
“So, if we’re talking about names,” I said. “I thought Turner was a fake name.”
“It’s not,” he said. “You caught me off guard when you asked. I couldn’t think of anything plausible on the spot. I knew you would assume it was an alias.”
I cocked my head, considering him. He took the subway, and didn’t mind telling me that he had a hard time thinking on his feet—and yet he was the most commanding person I had ever met. Maybe being willing to admit vulnerability was part of that. He was so confident, so assured of his own power, that confessing to the occasional weakness didn’t matter. He would still be able to control any room he walked into, just by existing inside of it. “What’s your first name?” I asked.
“Alex,” he said. “Alexander.”
“Alex Turner,” I said. Oddly plain. “I thought you’d have some name like Maximilian Reginald the Eighth.”
He laughed again, like it had been startled out of him. “If my parents had burdened me with a name like that, I would have changed it as soon as I turned eighteen.”
“So I can call you Alex, right?” I asked.
He sighed. “I suppose so. I don’t imagine I would have any luck stopping you.”
“Probably not,” I said. “I’m pretty stubborn.”
“Christ, I’m going to regret this,” he said, and went back to his phone.
I turned back to the window, feeling smug. I had scored a point against him. An imaginary point, that didn’t count toward anything, but still. An empty victory was better than no victory at all, right?
The cab glided up 5th Avenue, Central Park on the left and fancy apartment buildings on the right. I gawked up at the elaborate facades like a tourist. I didn’t get up to the Upper East Side much, so it was still kind of a thrill to see the old mansions and imagine the glamorous people who lived inside. In a way, it was hard to imagine Turner living among them. Alex. He seemed too—well. I wasn’t really sure. Too something. Too blunt? Too unconcerned with what other people thought about him? He knew who he was, and what he was worth, and I couldn’t picture him going through the motions of upper-class society. Or, okay, what I imagined upper-class society to be like. It wasn’t like I really had any idea what rich people did. Bought tiny dogs. Rode horses.
“We’re here,” Alex said, and the cab pulled over to the side of the road and came to a stop.
The sort of giddy disbelief I’d felt since we left Germaine’s office evaporated abruptly. It was like waking from a dream, and then cold reality set in. I was sitting in a cab with a man I barely knew, about to go up to his fancy apartment and have sex with him. We weren’t friends. We were barely acquaintances. And I had sold myself to him for the next month.
Well. It probably wouldn’t be boring, at least.
* * *
The doorman let us in with such a bland expression on his face that I was sure he was judging me for my flip-flops and raggedy cut-off shorts. I shot him a bright smile as I followed Turner into the building. I didn’t give a shit what he thought about me. That was one of the advantages of occupying a spot at the bottom of the social totem pole: no reputation to worry about. I was trash, and I didn’t care who knew it.
The inside of the building was pretty nice, but not any fancier than the club. I’d been hoping for a tiger-skin rug or something. Turner walked directly toward the bank of elevators at the back of the lobby, so I didn’t have much time to gawk. I had to scurry to keep up with Turner’s long strides.
As soon as we were in the elevator, he turned to me and slid his hand beneath the strap of my bag. “What’s in here?”
I frowned up at him. “That’s your seduction technique?”
“I don’t need to seduce you, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ve already got you.” He tugged the bag from my shoulder and opened it. “Very nice. Are you planning to wear all of these for me?”
“You told me to clear out my locker,” I said. “So I did. I don’t know what you’re going to ask me to do. Maybe you’ll want me to wear some lingerie. It’s not like you gave me any guidelines.”
“Touchy,” he said. He passed my bag back to me, and I hiked it back onto my shoulder. “Surely you know that I’ll provide any… necessary accoutrements.”
I didn’t even know what that word meant. “I like to be prepared,” I said. “Time is money.”
He huffed out a breath, and then the elevator doors slid open.
The elevator opened into a small entryway, kind of like the front room of the club. He went out into the marble-floored foyer, and I followed him, curious, glancing around at the mirrors and vases and elaborately arranged flowers. A large wooden door was set in one wall, with a doorbell beside it. Turner unlocked the door and immediately headed inside, without looking to see if I was following, and there was nothing I could do but trail after him like a little lost sheep.
The door opened onto a short hallway, which quickly opened into
a large room. I paused in the doorway and took my bearings. We had come out into the living room—or at least, I thought it was the living room. There was a couch in it, and a coat rack, and a floor lamp. And that was it: no other furniture, no decorations. Not even a rug on the bare parquet floor.
Turner sat on the sofa, and I waited for him to say something, to give me some cue, but he just sat there and watched me. Okay, fine. I wasn’t interested in playing guessing games with him. If he wasn’t going to give me any orders, I would take the chance to snoop around.
He didn’t stop me. I dropped my bag on the floor and then walked through the whole apartment, opening closets, peeking in cabinets. The building was old, and the apartment had the high ceilings and big windows to go with it. And the place was huge, especially by New York standards: three bedrooms, plus a large terrace overlooking Central Park, and an empty room with nothing in it but a small trash can. One of the bedrooms showed some signs of a life—some clothes folded in a dresser, a single toothbrush in the attached bathroom—but nothing that made it seem like someone lived there. Even the fridge was empty except for a pitcher of water.
It was really weird. My tour finished, I went back into the living room and said, “This place is like a creepy hotel.”
“Thank you,” Turner said. “What a delightful compliment.”
“Oh, are you offended?” I asked. “Did I upset you? Your apartment is weird. Nobody lives like this. You don’t even have any food!”
“It’s New York,” he said. “I can have Ethiopian food delivered to my door in thirty minutes.”
“It’s not healthy to eat takeout all the time,” I said, and then realized I sounded like a nagging mother, and shut my mouth.
He just sat there and looked at me. I shifted my weight onto one foot and shoved my hands into my pockets, then took them out again. I was nervous. It was stupid, but there it was. We were supposed to be having sex, but I didn’t know how to get there from where we were now: bickering like teenagers, and him sitting on the couch like a statue.
