Big Brother Billionaire (Part Two)

by Ray, Lexie

  “Yes, that’s all I want.”

  “Then honestly, I want you to stop,” I said. “Stop pressuring me to be with you. I’ve told you no. Why do I have to continue to tell you that I won’t be with you? Accept it, Marcus.”

  “You don’t want to be with me?”

  “I’ve told you that I can’t,” I nearly shouted. “That it’s not right!”

  “But you don’t want to be with me,” he said. Something about the small differences between my words and his was important to him.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I don’t.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

  He kissed me briefly on the forehead, then turned around and walked right out of my life. The door shut, and that was it. Years of angst and attraction and promises and hopes…simply done.

  Finally, then, finally, finally, finally, the tears began to fall. I almost felt human again, only I realized I wasn’t crying about the death of my mother. Not at all.

  I was crying because I’d just killed the love that Marcus had for me. I’d killed his love for me, but my love for him burned on.

  Chapter 2

  Dear Parker,

  I understand why you think I should wait, why I should continue to apply myself at the university. If you could only read the letters I’d written to you before I came here, while you were still living with the parents, you would understand why such an idea is so difficult for me to agree to.

  I’ve missed you so much. It helps a lot to get your letters. It’s not distracting, I promise. And when I do finally graduate and get a good job, it will be your turn. There are things that you can do right now to help further your education and secure your future. You could start with getting a GED, seeing if there are any night classes at a community college there. I’ll support you in anything you want to do, anyone you want to be.

  Even though you’ve asked me not to, I have to implore you to come to Boston. I don’t mean to imply that you have less of a commitment to Miami than I do to my place of residence, but maybe I can see about getting off-campus housing for next year, and we can finally be together as we’ve always wanted.

  We may not see each other all the time, but it would certainly be more than never. I’m afraid that if we maintain these two different homes in these two very different cities, it will be impossible to reconnect.

  There’s a company that has inquired about me interning with them this summer. My professor has told me it’s too good to pass up, but it’s in London, of all places. How can I put an entire ocean between us?

  I love you. I just miss you even more since you are just out of reach.

  After all of the drama with my mother’s death, all of the stress with the lawyer and the realtor and the arrangements that I had to make—not to mention my falling out with Marcus—it was good to get back to Miami. Even if I wasn’t living in the greatest apartment ever, I realized that it was the first time that I really considered the city home. Up until then, I’d only thought of it as a refuge, an escape away from my real home.

  But Miami was my real home now. If I had truly burned all of my bridges with Los Angeles, with Marcus, then this place was going to provide for me.

  I might never be able to afford to book a company jet, like my illustrious stepbrother, but that wasn’t exactly a goal for me.

  The money I’d gotten from the sale of the house was practically all but spent after the funeral expenses, but there was a small nugget left so that I could catch up on some bills and sock a little bit away. It felt good, that money. Maybe it was Patty’s final gift to her beautiful broad so I could start treading water again instead of sucking it all into my lungs.

  It was time to get on with my life—after telling Marcus that it was time he should get on with his own life.

  I was in my late twenties by that point, looking at thirty dead in the eye. Had I squandered the last decade wishing for something that could never be possible?

  Maybe I hadn’t been that emotional at my mother’s death, but it forced me to reassess things all the same. What could I do differently? Could I force myself to get on the dating scene and see what other fish were swimming out there? It would be the only way I could find out if I could ever get over Marcus.

  Before I could focus on my love life, however, I needed to address my domestic life. It wasn’t fun to live from uncertain paycheck to uncertain paycheck. There was nothing romantic about not being sure when I’d eat next.

  I remembered the conversation I’d had with a friend I’d made when I first moved to the city. She’d told me that I had the body to be a dancer, and it was a good way to make money. New to Miami at that point, my still-tender morals and inexperience had made me turn my nose up to the idea. I hadn’t been hungry enough, or desperate enough, at that point.

  I was done struggling. I was finally ready to make money in whatever way I could make a living. I could shed whatever ego kept me from it.

  The very next afternoon, I walked into the first gentlemen’s club I laid eyes on, and that was how I met Jake. Before his drug addiction fully sank its claws into him, he was really a good guy. He took pride in the club he owned, sticking around during almost every shift to oversee the complex operations.

  That Jake was the person I eventually modeled my own business persona after—definitely not the coked-out Jake I later came to know.

  “Can I get you a table, darling?” he asked, eyeing me in the same way as my friend had all those years ago. I felt momentarily panicked—what if I were too old to dance? It had been more than ten years ago that she mentioned it after all. I was a completely different person now. Was I too late to the game?

  “You can get me a job application,” I said coolly, surprising both of us.

  “Most hopefuls say please when they’re looking for work,” he said.

  “You’ll find I’m not like most girls,” I said, maintaining the mask I’d suddenly donned. I didn’t feel particularly confident, but this guy didn’t have to know that. It dawned on me that I could be anyone I wanted to be while I was working here. No one knew who I was. I didn’t have to be heartbroken little Parker, wishing the world were different. I could be strong Parker, mysterious Parker, flirtatious Parker, and a Parker who didn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone.

  “I like what I’m seeing, at least,” he said, holding out his hand. “Jake. I own this place.”

  “Parker,” I said, looking at his hand but not taking it. This Parker I was developing on the fly wasn’t a woman who deigned to shake hands with just anyone.

  “Well, Parker, we’re slow right now,” Jake said, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing around the club. There were a couple of loners sitting at some tables, and one girl rubbing herself laconically against the pole on the stage. “Why don’t we do this on a tryout basis?”

  “Excuse me?” I put my hand on my hip and looked again at the stage. The girl performing, though disinterested, was fully made up, wearing a glittery bra and panty set.

  “You heard me,” he said, looking pleased with himself. “If you want to work here, Miss Attitude, you need to be able to perform with what you have. You’re talking the talk, but I need to make sure you can walk the walk. You’re up next. Now or never, Parker,” he said.

  He whistled sharply and signaled up into the DJ booth.

  What would my persona do? I had to shut down my own insecurities; I had to just suck it up and do this.

  I flicked what I hoped was a chilling glance toward Jake and stalked up to the stage. I didn’t have a piece of glitter on me, didn’t have the advantage of eye-catching sequins that the previous dancer had enjoyed. The dancer in question gave me a raise of the eyebrows as we passed on the stairs. I was only wearing a pair of black slacks, flats, and a wine-colored blouse. My makeup was minimal; my dark hair was pulled back.

  In short, I didn’t have a single thing to make myself more attractive to my prospective clientele than my body and my personality.

  T
he DJ started the song, and a blinding spotlight illuminated me, as I stood on the far end of the stage, trying to decide if this financial venture was going to be worth it, or if maybe I should just walk back to the exit.

  Instead, my feet, completely of their own volition, marched in time to the bass of the song, moving the rest of me toward the pole. I gave the pole an assessing look, up and down, like a man would do to a woman, trying to ogle her looks.

  Part of it was genuine trepidation. Was this thing sanitary? Would my burgeoning career be over before it even began, struck down by a nasty illness? I gave it a couple of long, sinuous circles, regarding it more as a dance partner than a prop.

  “Take your clothes off!” a customer hollered belligerently. I couldn’t see who it was—the spotlight was just too bright—but I gave a searing glare in the general direction the command had come from and started unbuttoning my blouse, never cracking even the ghost of a smile, acting like this entire thing was beneath me.

  In an ideal world, it was. I didn’t want to take my clothes off for money, but it had come to this. I needed financial help, but there wasn’t anyone I could rely on for help. Marcus was out of the question. I understood that now. I was done waiting for him to come and save me from all of this. I was the only person who could save me now. It had just taken all this time to realize that.

  Another button, and I knew I was lying to myself. The person I could rely on in all of this was Marcus, as much as I didn’t want to admit it. If I were really in trouble, I could always contact him. He had access to a company jet for God’s sake, and probably much more than that. Marcus could probably spare some change for his dear old stepsister. We’d been quite close, of course.

  Another button, and I knew that wasn’t the life I wanted. I didn’t want to be a kept woman—like the kept man we’d joked about Marcus becoming all those years ago when our lives weren’t complicated by our parents falling in love, too. I wanted to rely on myself. I wanted to know that I could survive by myself. Would I have liked to be able to count someone as my partner, forge forward in this existence alongside someone I loved? Sure. But that wasn’t possible now. I had to make my own path.

  Another button, and I heard a whoop from the same direction as the heckler. Good. That meant they were paying attention. It meant that, in spite of my lack of splashy attire and makeup, I was making a splash.

  Still moving in time to the music, I opened the front of my blouse a little, allowing my sheer bra to peek out before concealing it again. I was doing more of a tease than a full-on strip. Would that be enough to secure a job here?

  The prospect of working my way out of my slacks was daunting, and I didn’t think there would be a sexy way to accomplish it. Instead, I rubbed my hands over my rump, rubbed my butt against the pole, and did everything I could to accentuate my curves—arching my back and running my hands through my hair, loosening my bun, letting my dark strands cascade down over my face. I tossed my head with the beat, wishing my hair were a little longer, promising the gods of strip joints to grow it out as long as I was hired here. I needed this, I was starting to realize, and it was for more reasons than just the money.

  I unfastened the final button on my blouse and let the material slide open naturally with my dancing. My bra—and what was underneath—was on full display, and there were some scattered cheers and applause from the lightly populated tables. I’d never taken my clothes off for anyone but Marcus. His eyes were the only ones who’d seen me at my most vulnerable. This seemed like as good of a way as any to purge that, to retake my strength, to make the conscious decision to pick up the pieces of my life and move on.

  If more people saw me like this, if I got this job, then I’d become stronger. I’d loosen Marcus’ hold on me—the hold I perceived him as having—and I could finally be free, really free.

  The song ended suddenly, and I whipped my hair back, standing at the end of the stage in a wide stance, my hair and eyes wild, daring anyone to try and take this away from me. I needed this, and I was going to get it. I’d never felt more certain about something in my life.

  “Very impressive, Parker,” Jake said, clapping as he walked forward. He offered me a hand down from the stage as the next song began, a new dancer clambering up the stairs behind me to start her routine. I studied his hand for a moment before taking it and hopping down.

  “Just think of what it will be like with a costume,” I said, turning to watch the new dancer sparkle her way down the stage and to the pole.

  “I don’t see you as a glitter girl,” he remarked. “More of a black leather and latex temptress.”

  “You mean a dominatrix,” I said, almost breaking character, almost busting out into laughter. That guise was the absolute opposite of who I really was, but if it complemented the new Parker, I would have to get used to the idea.

  “Call it whatever you’re comfortable with,” he said. “If you’re interested, you’ve got the job.”

  The Parker who’d walked in this door wanted to jump up and down and clap her hands with excitement, thrilled that she was going to finally be able to afford rent and bills and food and everything else that money could buy her.

  But this Parker—the new Parker, the person I’d decided to become in order to try and forget about Marcus and cement the new life I was making for myself into reality, not just some temporary placeholder while he could swoop in and save me—this Parker gave a half smile.

  “I’ll start tonight,” I said easily, absolutely flummoxing Jake, as I turned heel and walked out the exit.

  I’d been drifting along in life for so long now, just trying to go with the flow to survive, unsure of what it really took to do so, but now I was seizing life, forging my own path forward, and trading treading water for a powerful stroke forward. I couldn’t say that being a dancer was my dream job, but I knew it could get me to where I needed to be in life—financially and personally. I wanted to prove to myself that I could make it without Marcus.

  At home, I pored over the contents of my meager closet. There wasn’t much beyond a couple of pairs of jeans, a few nice blouses, and a collection of t-shirts I’d amassed while I was in Miami. I’d mostly relied on work uniforms to see me through my wardrobe worries. There was nothing in this closet that screamed Parker at me—at least not this new Parker I was cultivating.

  It was strangely freeing to embrace this dominant, slightly angry, but somehow laconic character I’d come up with to get me through the audition at the club. I’d realized then that I could be anyone I wanted to be, and this was who I picked. This Parker was strong, capable, and able to come up with solutions in the face of problems, and she always got what she wanted.

  To be very honest with myself, this new Parker was a lot easier to be than my former self. This Parker was so self-assured. She was the person I wished I could be, the Parker who would’ve told her mother and stepfather to go to hell, the Parker who would’ve admitted to Marcus that she did, in fact, care for him and did want to be with him, societal ideals be damned.

  Couldn’t I be this Parker all the time? Did I have to be in costume to do it?

  I threw out all the clothes that reminded me too much of my life up until this point. Goodbye, old work uniforms. I hoped I never needed them again. I owned one nice pair of dark jeans, but the rest were light, battered, and full of holes. I mulled them over for a while. Couldn’t I just keep one for running errands or lounging around the house?

  What would the new Parker do? She wouldn’t leave the house unless she was in full makeup, perfectly coiffed, dressed only in things that would flatter her—comfort be damned. She wanted everyone to know that she meant business, that appearances mattered, and that she was the most important thing they’d be seeing that day.

  The sloppy jeans ended up in the donate pile.

  I scraped together all the money I could manage and took myself shopping, wearing the dark jeans I’d been able to salvage and the same blouse I just danced in at the club. I didn’t own a
ny fancy makeup—just the basics—but I took great care in applying it and reapplying it until I was satisfied with the result.

  My dark hair was slicked back. It looked severe, but my thick eyelashes and luscious red lipstick softened the look and made it take on a persona of its own. If I looked like this all the time, almost with a mask of makeup, I felt that I could adopt this new Parker as my own. I wanted to be her all the time. It was all I wanted. She was so much stronger than I’d been. With this Parker, I felt that I could do anything.

  I tried out the new Parker on a salesperson at a mid-level department store, employing her through sheer will to help me locate the pieces that would bring the rest of my look together. I required black pants, black shirts, black skirts, a black dress, a black blazer, simple but expensive-looking metallic jewelry, and black pumps.

  Black was the new Parker’s color of choice. It was a color for power, for prestige, for elegance. The only color I wanted for myself was red lipstick. Red nails.

  “This is going to be a very…interesting…new wardrobe,” the salesperson said, a bit uncertainly as she rang me up at the register. “Are you sure you don’t want to try on any blouses in those pretty jewel tones that I was showing you? Black is a great color to own, of course, but a little pop of color will help bring out the color in your eyes. You’ll really brighten right up. Wait until you see the difference.”

  I held up a hand to halt her babbling, as I handed over way more cash than I wanted to. “Black is all I require,” I said, practicing that even, slightly detached tone of speech I’d started using at the club. It was a tone that brooked no arguments and invited no questions or protests. I watched with a little too much satisfaction as the salesperson’s throat bobbed up and down with a hard swallow of anxiety.

  “Of course,” she said, taking the money and counting out correct change. “Black is really good. Never goes out of style. It’s just…um…what are you going to do in the spring and summer? This is Miami after all. People love their bright colors, their prints. You can’t wear black all through that heat, can you?”