by Holly Hart
“Sit.”
My hands are shaking. I clench my fists. There’s no danger here: just a washed-up drill sergeant in an empty office. “You know, a good lawyer might even make a case for human trafficking—a poor woman forced to choose between prostitution and humiliation....”
Katrina snorts. “Try it. See how far you get.”
“I can see the press conference, now: ‘In the end, my freedom meant more to me than my reputation. More than any amount of money’.” I draw myself up to my full height, more to still my trembling knees than in any show of defiance. “Freedom. What’s more American than that?”
“Uh-huh....” She fixes me with a steely gaze, clearly unimpressed with my theatrics. “So your answer’s no? That’s all you had to....“ Katrina cocks her head, like she’s listening to something only she can hear. I spot a Bluetooth earbud tucked into her right ear, almost hidden by her hair. “Why are you so determined to keep your blog?”
“Well, to—” To blow the fucking whistle, of course. What can I say? “I mean, it’s a brand I’ve spent three years building.” I sound like a social marketing tutorial. “I’ve put a lot of myself into it.”
“A lot of...yourself.”
Yeah. I’m not impressed, either. I need some fire, some passion. “Look, it might seem silly to men who have billions, but for me... This is a steady living that’s all mine. Something I’ve built from nothing—my own little empire.” Better.... “Countess BeeBee’s given me independence. A voice. Contacts I can use.” I look past Katrina, straight into the camera. The light’s not on, but I’m sure they’re watching now. “I won’t lie. I was going to out your little arrangement. It’s naughty, it’s hilarious, and you guys are hot. You’d have got me a zillion hits. But I’ll sign away my right to post about you. Just not my right to post at all.”
Katrina listens again, then shoves another set of papers at me. “Agreed.”
Really? I sag in my chair, dizzy with adrenaline withdrawal.
“You’ll take these home. Read them carefully. Bring them back tomorrow, signed, same time. We’ll have a new social media contract waiting.”
That’s it? “Don’t I at least get to meet—”
“At the appropriate time.” She pulls out her phone and turns away.
I stare, slack-jawed. Something’s wrong. I got what I wanted, so why do I feel so...manipulated? Was this all a test?—a setup, to see what I’d do? Did anything I said even matter? They were probably laughing their asses off on the other side of that camera: some nobody blogger, threatening three billionaires with the law?
It’s all I can do to stand up slowly—to make myself stride, rather than scurry, out of the room. If I’m going to join this game, I’ll have to be smarter. Already, I’ve given too much away.
I hurry back past the cubicles, the bulletin boards, the empty lobby with its dripping water cooler. My mouth’s dry as a bone, and I’m nearly running by the time I reach the elevator. Getting off at the lobby feels like re-entering the real world: almost too much, an onslaught of light and color and people. I need fresh air, space. The sun on my face.
The sliding doors open before me. I close my eyes and suck in a deep, fragrant whiff of the city.
“Your bag, ma’am.”
I open my eyes. My purse—of course. I take it back, far more meekly than I turned it over. “Thanks, Jeeves.”
“Starkey.”
“Hm?”
“You’ve got the contracts. You might as well have my name. Which is Starkey. I’ll be your...assistant, should you choose to sign on.”
Bodyguard, maybe. Babysitter, for sure. Assistant? Not bloody likely. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you.” He gestures at the limo, still parked in the loading zone. “Where can I take you?”
I shake my head. “Nowhere. I....” Have no intention of getting back in that car. “I think I’m actually—the Leroux Gallery’s just down the street, right?”
“I could check for you.”
I’m already backing away, ready to be done with this place. “No, that’s... I think I saw it on the way over. I’ll just be—yeah. Bye, Starkey!”
Safely tucked into a nearby cafe, I break out my phone. Google Maps tells me I’m thirty miles—and two entire boroughs—from my destination. I give up on the gallery and sign into Wordpress instead.
Chapter Four
Jack
Stella flounces out like she hasn’t a care in the world. I watch her stalk from monitor to monitor till Magnus interrupts.
“I’m not crazy about another brunette. Plus, isn’t she a bit overripe?”
Overripe.... “She’s thirty-one.”
“Exactly. We’re still young and hot. No need to settle for cougars.”
Erik scoffs. He’s staring out the window like he’s too good for this shit.
Time to get this ship back on course. “Cougars like younger guys. We’re thirty-nine.” I switch off the monitors as Stella steps out of range. “Besides, if I have to sit through one more dinner with some simpering debutante....”
“Hey, now! Anne’s sweet.”
“Sweet, right.” It’s my turn to sneer. “Last night, over nine excruciating courses, we discussed...let’s see.” I count off the subjects on my fingers. “Whether there’ll be any more ‘Harry Potter’ books. Taylor Swift’s Instagram. If ‘Catfish’ is real or fake. How Donald Trump gets his hair to stay like that. The difference between ‘ghetto’ and ‘ghetto-fabulous’.” I shudder. “I haven’t had sex in a year, ‘cause it’d be too much like sticking it in my high-school girlfriend. In high school!”
Erik full-on guffaws, finally turning from the window. “I like her. Stella, not Anne. Sexy accent.”
Magnus frowns. “Too much the wildcat for me.”
“I’m sure she’ll play the pussycat, if you stroke her just right.” Erik squares his shoulders. “Anyway—we about done here? Magnus?”
He glowers. “Does it matter?”
Really, it doesn’t. He’s outvoted, two to one. Besides, we can’t let her go. No telling what she might do, given time to stew on it. I’ve seen that blog of hers. Kitty has claws.
“You know what? Fine. Whatever. You guys have your fun. I’ll—I don’t know. Invest in a scratching post.” Magnus gets up too. “Coming?”
I shake my head. “Going to work here for a while. Text you when her contract’s back.”
As soon as I hear the elevator ding, I fire up my laptop. Countess BeeBee’s posted already.
Who Wore it Breast? – A Tale of Three Dresses
Oh, the humanity! A perfect red-carpet debut for silver-screen upstarts Betsey Heywood (Bite Me, Cowboy!), and Jeanette Thibodeau (The Barman’s Tale) went up in FLAMES, when they both showed up in this fiery Valentino (Neiman Marcus, $4,299).
There’s a slightly off-kilter shot of Betsey and Jeanette, at what must be the precise moment they realized their predicament. Betsey’s lips are pursed, Jeanette’s brows beetled. They’re staring each other right in the cleavage, comparing identical plunging necklines. Whoever took the photo had impeccable timing. Stella herself?
As is so often the case, high tragedy devolved into low comedy, when this little sweetheart crashed the party.
I chuckle at the sight of a chihuahua pup snuggled into an equally red pullover.
Boop the snoot. You know you wanna! ;-)
A cursory check of the comments reveals...nothing of substance. No one seems to have noticed the scandal that wasn’t.
“Nice save, Countess,” I murmur.
My phone chimes. Twelve hundred hours. Time to wrap this up.
Chapter Five
Stella
The contract’s ridiculous. The code of conduct alone covers three pages, with subsections on table manners, dress, and...when I’m allowed to speak, and to whom. I’m supposed to turn in my phone, in exchange for one loaded with a pre-approved set of apps and contacts. Submit to weekly inspections of all personal spaces and effects. Use the “supplied
birth control regimen,” whatever that is.
It’s offensive. Hilarious. Terrifying.
3.3 – Personal Presentation and Grooming – Signatory shall not, at any time,
1) Present herself in any public or semi-public venue in heels less than three (3) inches in height;
2) Wear any article of clothing, or any accessory, from a designer not on the approved list (Appendix C);
3) Present herself in any public or semi-public venue in a condition of fatigue or disarray, or without adequate cosmetics and styling, as defined in Appendix D;
4) Convey the appearance of boredom, discontent, or animosity;
5) Present herself in any public or semi-public venue dressed in a manner deemed inappropriately sexually suggestive by co-signatories Brightman, Gunnarsson, or Moss.
So I can’t...be tired in public? Dress off the rack? Go to the gym...unless I want to risk the treadmill in heels? Maybe there’ll be a gym provided. Judging by the boys’ impressive physiques, they’ve got to be working out somewhere. But even if I can stay in shape, I still won’t be allowed to...interrupt or contradict co-signatories Brightman, Gunnarsson, or Moss, either in person or through written or electronic communication. Or use public bathrooms, apparently.
And the dress code!—Appropriate cosmetics include, but are not limited to, foundation of a shade complementing signatory’s natural skin tone, concealer, bronzer—blah, blah, blah—lash extensions, filler.... Wait, filler? Isn’t that, like...what morticians use, to hide unsightly gouges and scrapes? And spray tan on olive skin? Yeah...no.
Violating the contract means, let’s see—forfeiture of salary and/or benefits; possible prosecution; disclosure of employee conduct records, and any pertinent evaluations. Nice.
It’s a nonsense contract. Watertight as a colander. But it’s not the contract I’ll have to worry about, when it’s time to go public. It’s the lawyers that come with it. They’ll have my assets frozen. Bury me in motions for years. Drown me in debt till I give up and go away.
If I can’t come up with something truly damning, it’ll all be for nothing. I’ll spend the rest of my life sitting on the scandal I couldn’t break.
I grab a pen. I can sit here and pretend to agonize, or I can do what I decided to do, the second I looked into that camera and defended my voice. There’s something behind all the menace and intrigue. Something beyond silly rules and boudoir games. I’m more certain of it than ever. Whatever happens, I won’t back down.
I initial each page, and sign on the dotted line.
Starkey shows up two days later. I’m in my robe and slippers, fixing breakfast. He knocks like he’s trying to break the door down. My egg falls off the spoon and smashes on my knee. I hop to the door, swearing and squidging, hot yolk pooling in my slipper.
“So. Sneaking past the doorman now?”
He looks me up and down, taking in last night’s makeup, this morning’s mess. “I’ve come to collect you for the spa.”
I blink. “The spa?”
He sidles past me, uninvited. “Tonight’s your meet-and-greet. You need to be made...presentable.”
Oh, fuck you, Jeeves!
“No need to be a dicknose about it.” I nod toward the kitchen. “Seeing as my breakfast’s currently running down my leg, you can make me a fresh egg. Soft-boiled. I’m hitting the shower.”
Starkey opens his mouth, like he might have an opinion on that, but whatever it is, he thinks better of it. I hear him going through my fridge as I lock myself into the bathroom. Good. Maybe he’ll clean up in there, while he’s at it. Something about him screams neat freak.
When I emerge, scrubbed and dressed, he’s made himself comfortable in my breakfast nook, with an egg of his own. Coffee, too. I slide in across from him. “By all means. Help yourself.”
He pushes the tabasco sauce my way.
“Thanks.” The bottle’s almost empty. I shake out the last few drops. “Hey—how’d you know?”
“Hm?”
I hold up the bottle. “The sauce. How’d you know?”
Starkey raises a brow. “Instagram. Under ‘Hangover Food’—one soft-boiled egg. One slice of toast, cut into strips. Red tabasco. Sometimes with a side of caviar, though I didn’t see any in your fridge.” He manages to turn the word fridge into an indictment all its own, dripping with disgust and affront. I decide against telling him the “caviar” was stage dressing: tiny balls of vinegar and gelatin, sprayed with olive oil.
“If I wanted caviar for my toast....”
Starkey looks up, questioning.
“I could ask for that? After, uh...once the arrangement starts?”
He nods. “There’ll be an app on your new phone. I’ll show you, when the time comes. You put in your grocery selections; they arrive within the hour.”
Within the hour? Faking the lifestyle of a Countess is about to get much easier.
It’s only at the spa that it dawns on me I won’t be faking it—not any more. This place is the real deal. The reception area’s all gilt and white marble. Ferns and ivy cascade from recesses in the walls. There’s a lily pond set into the floor, stocked with tiny, darting fish. Actual sunlight dances on the water’s surface, pouring in from what’s less a skylight, and more a...soaring crystal dome. I Instagram it for the Countess (All-day spa day Tuesday! Jealous, worker bees?), feeling almost furtive, like I’m sneaking photos in a museum.
By the time I’m blogging my nails being airbrushed a deep, glistening red (Getting reclawed!), I’m starting to feel like I belong. Melting into it all—like I’m melting into this foot massage! Holy fuck!
I get my hair done like I’ve always pictured BeeBee’s: a sweeping updo, with tight, bouncy ringlets framing my face. It’s every bit as striking as I’d hoped. Whatever happens tonight, I’ll certainly look hot for it.
There’s a dress waiting when I’m done: a stunning black thing by Alexander McQueen, with a flared, asymmetrical hem. Flashes of rich, blood-red lining peek between the folds, shifting as I move. When I reach down to flick off a stray thread, I notice the silk’s a perfect match for my nails.
I catch myself wondering if I’ll get to keep it. The tags are already gone, so it’s not like they can return it the next day. Maybe just this once....
An attendant pokes her head in, interrupting my reverie. “Miss Rossi? I’ve been asked to inform you Starkey’s outside, at your convenience.”
Starkey.
Fuck.
The bottom drops out of my delusion. I sit down heavily. What am I doing? Admiring myself in the mirror, dreaming of a closet worthy of nobility? One day of pampering, and I’m ready to...what? Vanish into the lifestyle?
Get it together!
I cram my feet into a pair of punishing Louboutins and head for the exit. I’ll need a place: somewhere outside all of this, somewhere I can be sweaty and tired and uncomfortable, and remember who I am.
A clock chimes as I pass through the foyer. Six o’clock already—can’t believe it’s so late. I’m starving, and shaky with nerves. Starkey wouldn’t cough up any details on the meet-and-greet, and my imagination’s providing all sorts of unsavory options. Like...there’s three of them—but what if there’s twenty of us? What if we’re supposed to compete, Bachelor-style, for their affections?
Or—or it could be...a cross between an interrogation and a job interview. Three titans of industry firing questions at me, while I sweat under a spotlight. Or an orgy—what if it’s an orgy? Couldn’t help but notice the underwear that came with the dress: lacy, clingy, red and black—designed to end up on the floor.
I purse my lips. Stupid...it won’t be an orgy. I’d have been warned of an orgy. Prepared for it. Anointed with, I don’t know...ceremonial oils. Pheromone perfumes. Something a little racier than a clay mask. It’ll be, I don’t know. A dinner. A dance. A scene from Eyes Wide Shut.
Ugh!
My face feels tight under the makeup. I can feel Starkey looking at me, comparing my dolled-up self to the just-rol
led-out-of-bed version. Seeing right through me. But he only nods as he ushers me to the limo.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Relax. The hard part’s behind you.” Is he trying to comfort me?
“You’re really not going to tell me anything?”
“Wait twenty minutes, and you’ll see for yourself.”
Outside, rush hour’s in full swing. A Prius starts a honking match with a Jetta. A woman trudges by with a dog in a shopping cart. A heavyset man hoses dead leaves off his stoop. I could be part of that—shopping, eating, daydreaming. Instagramming my shoes. A week ago, a day ago, I would’ve been.
It’s not too late to jump out at a stoplight. Run screaming into the crowd.
I close my eyes and stay put.
Chapter Six
Jack
Eighteen thirty-seven. All systems go. Magnus reaches past me to activate the cam display. I bat his hand away. “Not yet.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“Eighteen forty.”
He flops into my chair. His elbow catches a stack of iPhone boxes, setting them skew-wiff. “Can you believe this guy?”
Erik shrugs.
“I fuckin’ hate both of you.”
