by Whitney G.
“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 asked.
“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 do
wn 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.
“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.”
I sucked in a breath as he moved the barrel against my neck, cocking it.
“If you’d only taken a few thousand, maybe I could’ve lived with that. Maybe I would’ve made you give me your night’s wages for a few months and made sure you never stole from me again, but—” He paused, laughing and shaking his head. “You’ve stolen a bit too much for that to be an option.”
“Please don’t kill me…”
“Kill you?” He laughed, even harder this time. “I’m not going to kill you. I can’t pay anybody with a dead body.”
“I can give you your money back.”
“I know,” he said. “You’re going to do it right now.” He called out for someone and the door opened, allowing another guy to walk into the room. “Take Miss Thatchwood down to the car. We’re going to hold her overnight and then take her to the bank in the morning.”
“No, wait.” I felt my voice cracking. “You don’t need to do that. I can give it all back to you right here.”
“You’re walking around this city with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars of my money in cash?” He moved the gun away from me. “Please tell me that you’re not that fucking dumb.”
“No.” I swallowed. “It’s in different bank accounts…I stole from each client’s personal bank account. I know all their account numbers by heart and I can just transfer it back.”
He blinked, looked over at his guy.
His guy pulled out a phone and showed him a screen, then he looked at me.
“Anthony Sorenson,” he said. “Thirteen thousand eight hundred thirty-five dollars. Tell me his bank information.”
“Bank of Hudson,” I said. “Routing number 4500017. Account number 2387907. The business account, not the checking.”
His guy tapped the screen a few times, and then he nodded. “It’s legit, sir.”
“Make Miss Thatchwood a drink, Kep,” he said, taking a seat. “She’s going to give us the account numbers for all our clients, and then she’s going to tell us where exactly these transfers will be coming from. We’re going to be here for at least half an hour.”
I downed the alcohol within seconds of him giving it to me, and rattled off the accounts as he listed the names of all the men I’d stolen from over the past couple of years. Every now and then, he’d say, “You’re a goddamn waste of talent…” but there was no other conversation between us.
When he reached the last name—a Mr. Tanner Yardley, he sat up and lit a cigarette.
“Now, give me your account number, so I can take it directly from there.”
“I know all the accounts,” I said. “I thought you would trust me to do it on my own.”
“Then you thought fucking wrong. Account number. Bank. Now.”
“There’s more than the money I owe you in this account, though…” I looked at him. “You’re only taking the money I stole, right? There’s sixty or so there that’s not yours.”
“I’m taking all of it,” he said. “It’s called interest, and if you don’t start spouting out the fucking numbers within the next few seconds, you’re going to lose a lot more than that.”
“Cadence River Bank.” I felt tears pricking my eyes, but I didn’t dare let them fall. “Account number 4123483.”
His guy nodded once he confirmed it was the right account, and then he stood to his feet.
“There’s an underground ecosystem in this city, Meredith.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “One that I don’t think you’ll ever know anything about, and I don’t think you should ever fuck with it again.”
I was too stunned to say a word. I swore on my life that I was done coming here forever. It was time to let this lifestyle go.
“Glad we could have this little chat tonight.” He walked to the door. “Now, I suggest you put in a notice of absence and take a vacation from this life. Go find somebody to fuck over who isn’t me. In a month, after I make sure my money is returned and accounted for, you can come back and dance off as many Daddy issues as you like. We clear?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He walked over to me, placed his gun under my chin one more time for good measure. “I’m glad I never had to tell the A brothers about you.” He smiled. “You’d be dead by now, and that would be a damn shame. Between you and me, I think you’re too pretty for a casket. Then again, so are roses, and we throw those at caskets all the time, huh?”
He looked me over again before leaving the room with his guy, and all the tears I’d been holding inside, started making their way down my face.
Rushing back to the dressing room, I grabbed my bag and rushed out of the dressing room. I took the stairwell, running down several flights, until I made it to the lobby, out of the club and down the block. I was running without a destination, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop for a while…
An hour later, my heart was still racing out of fear, and I couldn’t help but feel like someone was watching me.
Instead of hailing a cab, I made my way to the closest subway station and took a seat near the back. As the train made its way across the city, I tried not to think about what had happened at Club Swan. How everything I’d built over the past couple years was a complete and utter lie, and I’d los
t it in a single night.
“Now stopping at Broadway and 7th.” The subway’s system called out. “Broadway and 7th.”
I stood as the train slowed, and stepped off. I made my way up the steps and walked two blocks to Gershwin Theater.
“We’re closed, Miss,” the security guard said as I approached. “Come back tomorrow.”
“I’m here to see Michael Anderson,” I said, and he immediately opened the door. I stood inside the empty lobby for several seconds—taking in all of the beautiful green and black designs, then I took the steps to the next level and opened the double doors to the theater.
Onstage, Glinda the Good Witch was reciting a monologue, while wearing a sparkling blue. gown—addressing the villagers of the fictional town.
Squinting in the darkness, I looked around the empty theater. In the center, on the balcony level was Michael, staring straight ahead.
He was leaning back in his seat with the top buttons of his shirt undone, looking sexy as fuck, as always.
I made my way up to him and took a seat on his right.
“Did you have a good time at your secret job tonight?” he asked.
“No,” I said softly. “I won’t be going to my secret job anymore.”
He turned to face me, raising his eyebrow. “What happened?”
“Nothing…I just made a few critical mistakes and they finally caught up to me.”
He pressed his fingers under my chin, tilted it up a bit to where his eyes met mine. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Not unless you’re a crime boss or know some people called the A brothers…”
“What?” He looked beyond concerned now. “Why would you ever need to know who the A brothers are?”
“No reason, I um…” I shrugged. “I got off pretty easy. I needed a break from this side job anyway.”
He stayed silent, staring at me intently.
“How’s the play so far?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Are they convincing you that the villain isn’t as bad as we always thought he was?”
“No,” he said. “True villains never change.”
