by Bec Linder
Christ. What the fuck had I been thinking? I must have been in some sort of fugue state. That wasn’t me. I didn’t exploit women, or take advantage of their weaknesses, and yet my actions over the past couple of weeks indicated that I most certainly did. The cognitive dissonance was unpleasant, to say the least. It had been easier when Sasha was just an object.
I was man enough to admit that at least part of it was the result of injured pride. She had looked so helpless and sweet, that first day I met her, and I gave her my business card thinking that she was the sort of girl I might like to take out to dinner. And then when I saw her on stage at the club later that night, showing herself off for a roomful of men, I had felt foolish. Like she was mocking me, somehow.
I hadn’t treated her well.
And so maybe the ultimate reason I went to the club that afternoon was to enact a sort of penance. Atone for my sins, somehow. Return to the scene of the crime and undo it all.
I wasn’t thinking in those terms at the time, of course. And it’s difficult to ascribe motives post hoc. But there was certainly an element of guilt involved.
I decided to walk to the club. The weather report claimed that the temperature and humidity had dropped overnight, and I lived close enough—a little over a mile—that walking wasn’t a hardship in good weather. I’d spent the last week cooped up indoors, sweating over the Bywater documents, praying I hadn’t missed something that would turn a profitable buyout into a fiscal disaster. It would do me good to get some fresh air.
I arrived at the club shortly before opening. I didn’t recognize the man at the front door, but he seemed to recognize me, because he nodded politely and ushered me inside. I wondered if Germaine had a picture of me somewhere in her office that she showed to the new employees. I wouldn’t put it past her.
My eyes were sun-dazzled after being outside, and once I was within the interior of the club, I paused for a moment to let my vision adjust. A small group of dancers and servers clustered around the bar, laughing at a story the bartender was telling, and they all turned to look at me and began giggling and whispering behind their hands. One of them peeled off from the group and headed for the dancers’ dressing room in the back—probably to notify Poppy. I really had to get Germaine to do something about that shrieking harpy. Fire her ass, maybe. Demote her to dishwasher.
When I could see again, I headed for Germaine’s office, ignoring the silence that fell at the bar as I passed. It was good that they were afraid of me. Fear was a useful tool: it kept people from trying to talk to me. The less idiotic yammering I had to listen to, the better.
Germaine was typing on her computer when I walked into her office, but when I shut the door behind me, she looked up. Her face settled into a carefully neutral expression as she recognized who had interrupted her. I knew that Germaine disapproved of me, although I had never quite figured out why; but I didn’t really give a fuck as long as she stayed professional. And she always was—almost to a fault.
“Mr. Turner,” she greeted me. “I trust you’re doing well.”
“As always,” I said. “How are you, Germaine?”
“Very well, thank you,” she said, and then, pleasantries taken care of, folded her hands on top of her desk and gave me a bland, expectant look.
I realized I had no actual reason for being at the club, and consequently had nothing of substance to say to Germaine. Part of me liked the idea of baiting her into lengthy, pointless small talk, but most of me wanted to get the fuck out of her office before she could figure out that I was full of shit. “I’ll let you get back to work,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know I was here. It’s good seeing you, Germaine.”
I turned to leave, but her voice interrupted me. “Is your arrangement with Sassy working out to your liking?”
Slowly, I turned back to face her. “All right, Germaine. Let’s hear it. It’s clear that you’re unhappy about my relationship with Sasha. Kindly explain the nature of your objections.”
She said nothing, her lips compressed into a thin line.
“Well, let it out,” I said, amused now by her obvious discomfort. “I’m not going to throw a tantrum, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’d have to be an idiot to fire you.”
She sighed. “Very well. I think it’s unprofessional to mix business and pleasure. Sassy is one of my best and most reliable dancers, and you’ve eliminated her from the schedule for an entire month. Her regulars are unhappy. The other dancers are suspicious about her sudden disappearance, and I’ve been wasting far too much of my time quelling rumors. And frankly, Mr. Turner, I’ve always considered you to be something of a wild card. I appreciate your company’s investment in the club, but your unannounced visits always seem to spark panic amongst my workers, and I don’t appreciate your constant nosing about in my bookkeeping, as though I’m doing something illicit.”
She stopped speaking, and I waited a moment, eyebrow raised, to make sure she had finished her outburst. I could see in her eyes that my silence made her wonder if she had gone too far, but she didn’t attempt to apologize, which increase my respect for her.
“Thank you, Germaine,” I said. “You’re completely correct. Sasha was an error that I don’t intend to repeat. Rest assured that I’ve grown quite fond of her, and she’ll be back at work in a few weeks, no harm done. As for my visits, it was never my intention to question your management. I prefer to take an active approach with my business investments and work to maximize efficiency and profit. We’ll discuss a way for me to do this without interrupting your day-to-day operations. I’ve never doubted your competence.”
I wasn’t, as a general rule, a fan of apologizing, but the look on her face made it worthwhile. “Well,” she said, and then snapped her mouth shut like a fish catching a hook. “Mr. Turner, I’m—”
“I’m sure,” I said. “Draw up an outline of my ideal role in the club’s management. We’ll set a meeting to discuss it sometime next week. For now, I won’t disrupt your dancers, but I am going to visit the control room to see about the equipment upgrades Clarence mentioned. After that, I’ll leave.”
Germaine stood up, then, and extended one hand to me across the desk. I took it, and she gave me a firm handshake and said, “Mr. Turner, I think we’ll work together very well in the future.”
I gave her an approving nod. “I’m looking forward to it.”
I walked out of her office feeling a little like I had bearded the lion in its own den. Germaine was quite a woman. If I were twenty years older, or if she were twenty years younger—well, it was rare I met someone who was willing to go toe-to-toe with me, and she had done it with very little hesitation and her job on the line. I was impressed.
I headed for the control room. Clarence, the head of security, had told me that the surveillance equipment was out of date and starting to screw up at inopportune moments. It was vital that the hidden cameras worked properly so that the security guys could make sure none of the clients pushed the dancers too far. Rape wasn’t something I was willing to tolerate, and so I wanted to get some details about what upgrades were needed and how much it would cost. Money was no object, of course, given what was at stake, but I preferred to have a rough budget before making any decisions about purchasing.
The control room was tucked away in the back of the club, a narrow, dark, cramped room that was the heart of security operations. The man seated at the bank of monitors wasn’t Clarence, but it was his second-in-command, Kevin, which was the next best thing to talking to the man himself. He turned to look at me as I came in the door, and then grinned and said, “What’s up, Mr. Turner?”
“How are you, Kevin?” I asked. “Anything exciting happen recently?”
He shook his head and turned back to stare at the monitors. “Nah, it’s been real quiet the last few nights. ‘Scuse me if I don’t look at you while we’re talking. There’s a girl in with a client. But that’s how we want it, right? Boring. Excitement means somebody’s putting his hands where they
don’t belong.”
“I know all the girls feel better with you watching over them, Kevin,” I said, and he beamed. Kevin wasn’t the fluffiest towel in the closet, as my father would say, but he was honest and a hard worker, and he took his duties very seriously. I knew that Clarence had complete faith in him, and Clarence struck me as a man with his head firmly screwed onto his shoulders. I took a seat in the extra chair and said, “Do you know if Clarence will be in tonight? I wanted to speak with him about the equipment upgrades.”
Kevin shook his head, still staring intently at the monitors. “He’s off tonight. But he wrote up a list of the stuff he wants, if you’d like to take a look at that, Mr. Turner. It’s on that clipboard hanging on the wall.”
I leaned behind Kevin to snag the clipboard. I had expected a thick sheaf of papers, but Clarence had evidently decided to take pity on me and make things as uncomplicated as possible. He’d typed up a list of what he needed, and included an estimate of prices and installation costs. It all looked very reasonable to me, and I trusted Clarence to have done his legwork in terms of sniffing out competitive prices. “Tell Clarence I’ll approve all of this,” I said. “I’ll speak to Germaine before I leave tonight.”
Kevin glanced at me briefly, grinning wide. “That’s great, Mr. Turner. Clarence will be real happy, and the girls will sure be happy when the feeds quit cutting out. That’s real good of you, Mr. Turner.”
“I want all of the dancers to be safe,” I said. “There’s a reason this is the best gentleman’s club in Manhattan, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, for sure,” Kevin said, and then leaned toward one of the monitors, frowning.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Well, I can’t say for sure,” he says. “It’s probably okay. I thought maybe this girl wasn’t too happy, but now she’s touching his arm, so that’s okay.”
I leaned forward, peering at the monitor he was watching. The image was grainy, black-and-white, and taken from a high angle near the ceiling, but the proceedings were all too clear. A man stood in the middle of one of the private rooms, looming over a woman who was looking up at him, head tilted, her hand settled on his arm just above the elbow. She made a gesture with her other hand, and the man shook his head and seized her around the waist, pulling her close.
I frowned. Her hair, and the way she held her head—
Jesus Christ.
It was Sasha.
My blood ran cold. I had never understood the expression until that moment, but the sensation was unmistakable.
I stood up. “What room is that?”
He looked at me, bewildered. “I think she’s okay, Mr. Turner. Really.”
“I’m sure she is,” I said. “But I’d like to speak with her later, after she’s done.” That made no sense, but I hoped Kevin wasn’t sharp enough to question me.
“Oh,” he said. “Sure. That’s room 8.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “Have a good evening, Kevin. Please give my regards to Clarence.”
“I sure will,” he said, and smiled at me. “See you later, Mr. Turner.”
I didn’t respond. Sasha was in trouble.
Or, if she wasn’t in trouble, she would be soon enough.
I stalked down the hallway toward room 8, fear and anger warring in my chest. Sasha was in there with a man who wasn’t me, and Kevin didn’t seem to think she was there under duress. And I had fucking paid her. She wasn’t supposed to be touching anyone’s arm but mine.
At the door to room 8, I stopped for a moment and tried to get my racing heart under control. It was possible that the situation was completely innocent. One of her regulars had asked to speak with her, and she had been too polite to refuse—
Who was I kidding? There was no fucking way it was innocent.
I flung the door open, and she and the man both turned to look at me, eyes wide.
“Get the fuck out,” I said to the man.
He drew himself up, face reddening, and said, “I absolutely won’t! I don’t know who you are, sir—”
“I own this club,” I said, hearing my own voice cold and hard. “Get out or I’ll call security.”
“That’s no way to treat a paying client,” the man blustered, but he grabbed his jacket from a chair and shouldered past me, muttering to himself under his breath.
And then it was just Sasha and me in the room, nothing between us but air.
The door swung shut behind us.
“It isn’t what you’re thinking,” she said, her face pale. She was so small, standing there, looking up at me. “His daughter’s sick, and he said he just wanted to talk to me about it, and—”
“You know it’s never just talking,” I said, her excuses fueling my rage. “You signed a contract. You aren’t even supposed to be here.”
“I just came by to hang out with Scarlet, okay? And then he saw me and he asked if we could talk for a few minutes. I didn’t fuck him,” she said, scowling at me, “and I didn’t intend to, and that’s the truth. You don’t control me. I can still talk to people—”
“Let’s be realistic about this,” I said. “You had no intention of merely talking to him.”
“That isn’t true,” she said, so small and furious that I couldn’t bear to look at her any longer.
“Sassy,” I said, a cold certainty settling within me, “you’re nothing but a whore.”
13
I went home that evening and drank myself into oblivion.
The only other option was spending the night interminably replaying my confrontation with Sasha, and I had no desire to torture myself like that. I knew, even as I was storming out of the club, that I had fucked up, maybe irrevocably. I didn’t actually believe that Sasha would have so blatantly violated the terms of our contract. And it seemed like something she would do—take pity on a client in pain and offer to spend a few minutes as his listening ear. For all her rough edges and bad temper, Sasha had a kind, open heart, and I knew she cared for people more than she let on. It wasn’t unreasonable to expect that she was fond of her regulars and wouldn’t want to completely alienate them while she was away.
Rationalizing her behavior didn’t do jackshit to ease the hard knot of anger and jealousy that had set up camp in my gut.
So I drank until I couldn’t think straight, and then I passed out on my couch, and woke early in the morning with a raging headache and nausea churning in my belly alongside regret and self-hatred. I drank a bottle of Gatorade, popped a couple of painkillers, and went to bed.
I slept again, deep and dreamless, and woke close to noon with a hangover, but not as bad of one as I expected or deserved.
Worse than my headache was the shame that no hangover remedy could cure. I had made an ass out of myself, and Sasha would be well within her rights if she never wanted to see me again.
But self-pity would accomplish nothing.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my aching head cradled in my hands, and tried to figure out what to do next. My skull felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I wasn’t in any shape to make decisions.
I called Sasha. Stupid, but I wasn’t thinking rationally. I was acting on impulse. The call rang over to voicemail. “Sasha,” I said, “it’s Alex. I fucked up. Give me a call.” After I hung up, I texted her for good measure.
She responded within a few seconds. Fuck off
Well. Sasha wasn’t one to mince words.
Christ. I would fix it; women always responded well to a little groveling. The question was how long she would make me grovel before she forgave me, and how many expensive presents I would have to buy her in the meantime.
My phone buzzed again, and my heart jumped in my chest. It was only Will, though. Lunch w the fam?
I thought about it. It was impossible to predict whether spending time with them would make me feel better or worse. I decided to go. It was better than staying home and staring at my navel, and my parents’ housekeeper was a great cook. And I wanted to see how Will was doing.
I took a cab to my parents’ penthouse on Central Park South. They had the entire top floor of the building, and an expansive rooftop garden overlooking the park. They had only moved into the apartment within the last year. My mother claimed they were “downsizing” now that Will and I were out of the nest. It was a nice apartment, but a small, juvenile part of me was still angry that they had moved out of my childhood home.
The doorman recognized me and waved me inside with a smile. I slid off my sunglasses and hooked them in the collar of my t-shirt. I entered the elevator and punched in the security code, and the doors slid shut and the car began to move.
My father was standing there when the doors slid open again, waiting for me. “Alex,” he said warmly. We shook hands, and he slung one arm around my shoulders as we moved into the apartment. “I’m so glad you could make it. Lumusi won’t tell me what she’s making for lunch, but it smells delicious.”
I smiled. Lumusi was my parents’ Ghanian housekeeper; she had been with the family since before I was born, and she was essentially a second mother to me. My parents ate West African cuisine almost every day of the week, because that was what Lumusi liked to cook, and nobody was willing to argue with her. “We’ll just have to wait and find out,” I said. “How’s Will?”
“Better than expected,” my father said. “I was afraid—well, you remember how he was before he went to rehab.”
I nodded. It wasn’t an experience I cared to relive.
