Sinful Rewards 10

by Cynthia Sax

  I’ll do anything to have another moment like this, to keep him safe. The things I previously thought were important—fashion, money, pride, belonging—mean nothing if I lose Hawke.

  To protect him, to give him the ability to turn down high-risk assignments, I have to be his equal and make some money fast. My lips flatten. I know what I must do.

  Chapter Two

  I PREPARE FRESHLY squeezed orange juice and bagels spread with cream cheese for both of us. Hawke dresses in his usual hideous black T-shirt, ragged blue jeans, clunky army boots; devours his breakfast in less than a minute; gives me a mind-blowing kiss; and strolls out the door.

  I clean the condo, shower, don a white blouse and black pants, delaying the inevitable until I can’t wait any longer. My designer goods, the gorgeous rewards given to me by Friendly, have to be sold.

  Wishing to hold my beautiful red Salvatore Ferragamo purse in my arms one last time, I remove it carefully from the plastic storage box. God, it’s exquisite. I sit on the bed and pet the luxurious leather, running my fingers over the seams, memorizing every detail, the tiny stitches, the finely crafted handles, the gold zippers, the new-purse scent.

  Tonight, this limited-edition purse will belong to someone else, a woman who can afford both fashion and rent, who doesn’t have to worry about her man taking dangerous missions.

  That woman isn’t me, not yet, perhaps not ever. I straighten my shoulders, pull my laptop closer to me, and submit my listings to a classified ad website dedicated to Chicago-area buyers and sellers.

  Then I wait, refreshing my email every thirty seconds, gazing down at my phone, wondering who the lucky woman will be. She’ll love the purse as much as I do. I caress the leather. How could she not? It’s a work of art.

  No one contacts me.

  I look at my listings. They’re live. The photos are stunning, my inner fashionista drooling over my own items. Yet no one is making an offer.

  Maybe my cell phone is broken. Using Hawke’s landline, I call my number. The call goes directly to voice mail. I leave a message and play it back. It’s working, but no one is calling me.

  Maybe the timing isn’t right. Maybe prospective buyers are busy. Maybe there’s a huge sale in town that I’m not aware of and every fashionista in Chicago is attending it. I list excuse after excuse, justifying the lack of interest.

  By eleven o’clock, I force myself to face the truth. No one wants my designer goods. I can’t count on the sales to provide much-needed fast cash, buying me time to find a decent job.

  My shoulders slump. I have to land a not-so-decent job, the type of position employers hire on the spot for, not caring which warm body fills the role. I make a sour face. That will be retail. Or worse.

  First, I have to blast past the paparazzi barricade. The gossip-rag goons have been stalking me since Nicolas offered me a billion dollars to have sex with him. If I venture outside and they recognize my face, they’ll trample me.

  I need a disguise, the more hideous, the better. Grabbing one of Hawke’s ugly black T-shirts, I hold it up to my much smaller body. This could work. I nod. All of his security team wears equally heinous shirts, and he claims no one ever pays them any attention, treating bodyguards as though they’re invisible.

  Normally I wouldn’t wear anything so horrific. As a child, I saw how fashion affected attitudes. My mom was always happier on the days she didn’t wear her cheap uniform.

  But this is an emergency. I remove my blouse, folding it neatly and placing it in the laundry basket. Hawke needs me.

  I pull his shirt over my head and tuck the bottom of the garment into my waistband. The excess fabric folds over my pants, making it appear as though I’m much larger than I am. I look at myself in the mirror and cringe. My torso is one big black square.

  I don’t have the mass-murderer boots Hawke’s crew wears, and his footwear won’t fit me. Improvising, I pair black socks with my black ballerina flats. That works. I nod, pleased. My disguise is coming together nicely . . . or hideously.

  I collect my hair into a low ponytail and jam a baseball cap on my head. This headgear must be Hawke’s. I found it in the corner of his closet and it’s designed for a giant’s skull, the cap sitting low on my head, shielding my face.

  My entire body is covered in black, cheap material. I gaze at myself in the bathroom mirror. The woman in the reflection is a fashion disaster, my outfit offending every aesthetic sense I have.

  The strange thing is—I feel proud of myself, not depressed with my reflection. I’m doing what I have to do to protect the people I care about.

  The doorbell rings. I freeze, debating what to do. Should I change, hide my disguise from the visitor, or answer dressed as I am?

  The doorbell rings again. I move to the door, peek through the peephole, and relax. Jacob, the security guard from the south building, stands in the hallway, his uniform stretched tight across his stomach. Jacob is a friend. He won’t rat me out. I swing the door open.

  “Good morning, Jacob.” I smile.

  “Good morning, Miss Bee.” The middle-aged man grins, the skin around his brown eyes crinkling. “Thank you for the macaroni and cheese. I shared it with the missus, and now she wants to adopt you.” He doesn’t seem to notice my unusual outfit.

  “My mom might have something to say about that.” I laugh.

  “I wouldn’t want to upset your mom.” Jacob chuckles. “Your secret admirer sent you another package.” He holds out a large brown box.

  I stare at the delivery, confused. Friendly couldn’t have sent me a reward. Yes, I completed yesterday’s challenge but, during this sexual show, I called Hawke’s name multiple times. Friendly, my mysterious texter, is Nicolas. I’m almost certain of this. My billionaire is a possessive, proud man. He wouldn’t tolerate or reward that behavior.

  “Miss Bee?” Jacob lifts his gray eyebrows.

  I’ll think about this later. “Thank you.” I grasp the box.

  “My pleasure.” He studies me. “Are you okay?”

  I summon a smile. “I’m feeling a bit off today. I don’t know why.”

  “Ahhh . . . ” The security guard nods. “There are quite a few paparazzi outside. That could be the reason.”

  “It could be.” Has he heard the gossip? Does he know they’re waiting for me? I don’t meet his gaze. “I hope the paparazzi didn’t cause you any problems.”

  “No problems at all, Miss Bee.” Jacob gives me a toothy grin. “I used the side door to the left of the elevators and bypassed the crowd.”

  “That’s smart.” I note this escape route, hoping my friend won’t get into trouble for sharing it. “Have a good day.”

  “You too.” Jacob waves as he walks down the hallway.

  I close the door and kneel on the floor, placing the box in front of me. My stomach flutters from uncertainty, not from fear. Nicolas would never hurt me. I know this in my soul.

  Nicolas also wouldn’t reward me. I’ve studied the handsome real estate developer for months, watched him daily, read articles on him, and have grown to consider him a close friend.

  He would never compensate me for betraying him, for calling another man’s name as I found release. I know this with the same level of certainty as I know he wouldn’t harm me.

  I jostle the box. It’s too heavy to be empty. Perhaps this is a severance gift, a memento of my sexual exploration.

  I take a deep breath, count to five, release it, and pull on the flaps.

  A piece of ivory card stock is set on top of a folded brown tissue paper. I pick up the stationery. Your Reward is written in black font.

  A chill sweeps over me.

  Nicolas isn’t Friendly. The rewards, the missions, have been sent by someone else, a stranger. Oh my God. I stare unseeingly at the bare wall. Another person has been watching me.

  Watching me. I press the card stock to my heaving chest, forcing myself to calm the hell down. That’s all he or she has done. The mysterious Friendly hasn’t touched me, hasn’t
talked to me, hasn’t approached me.

  But I have been performing for a stranger. I trust Nicolas. He’s my friend. I know he won’t hurt me, won’t use my nudity for diabolical purposes. I also thought he understood me, accepted my inner freak.

  He doesn’t. Nicolas doesn’t know about my exhibitionistic tendencies, about this part of me. The person I’ve trusted with this secret is an unknown.

  The tension inside me rises once more and I fight to control it, to think rationally. All Friendly has done is look at me, I remind myself. Anyone gazing at our bedroom window could do the same.

  Needing a distraction, I part the brown tissue paper. My eyes widen. As a thank-you for performing for my unidentified texter, I’ve been sent the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen. I remove the garment from the box, shaking the black flimsy fabric as I stand. It’s a pleated Grecian-styled gown from Prada, the length exactly right, the hem skimming the floor.

  It’ll go perfectly with the Giuseppe Zanotti T-strap sandals Friendly awarded me yesterday. I trace the draping around the low-cut bodice, the seams hidden, not one loose thread marring the dress. I yearn to try it on, to feel the sumptuous fabric against my bare skin, to swirl until the skirt billows.

  If I wear the dress, selling it will be even more difficult than it already is. I clutch the dog tags hanging between my breasts. People before things, before fashion.

  Pushing away my regret, I put the dress back in the box and transfer the entire delivery to one of my plastic storage containers. When I return to the condo, I’ll add this latest reward to my listings on the classified ad website, along with my Louboutin heels and my Salvatore Ferragamo purse.

  Maybe the gown will sell. Maybe this sale will pique interest in my other items. Unable to count on these maybes, I pluck my tattered black messenger bag from a storage box. Hawke fixed this bag for me on the day we met. I touch the mended strap. It’s an eyesore, yet I couldn’t let it go.

  As I couldn’t let him go, my equally battered man. I stuff my passcard, emergency credit card, and just-in-case limo chits into this purse.

  My fingertips linger over my phone. I want to call Hawke, to let him know what I’m doing and ask for his advice, but I have to become accustomed to making decisions on my own, as a woman worthy of being his equal would. Distractions might kill him.

  The phone is added to the rest of my things. I place the shortened strap of my purse around my neck. It hugs my T-shirt-covered hip, putting the finishing touch on my hideous outfit.

  The things I do for the people I love. I march out the door.

  The people I love. My stride slows. There’s that word again.

  My feelings for Hawke aren’t love. Love is steady and constant, not the wild excitement I experience whenever I’m with him. What we have is lust stabilized by a mutual respect.

  Satisfied with this relationship prognosis, I press the button for the elevator. The doors open. I select the ground floor and try to avoid looking at my reflection in the mirrored walls. This is almost impossible to accomplish, all angles of my body displayed.

  I have no breasts, waist, or hips, the top half of me engulfed by Hawke’s huge T-shirt. The short sleeves reach my elbows, the blackness of my ensemble making my skin appear paler than it normally does. The brim of the baseball cap casts a shadow over most of my face. The piping on my cheap purse is worn white, drawing attention to its poor design.

  Before I met Hawke, I would have never left the building looking like this. I’d be too terrified of what people might think, their hurtful comments, the disgust in their eyes.

  Today, I have bigger concerns. My mom depends on me to pay her rent. Cyndi, my best friend, needs my help with our business start-up expenses. Hawke considers me a partner, and he deserves a woman who will work as hard as he does.

  The elevator doors open. I exit, turn to the left, and spot the side door. As I push it open, an electronic buzz sounds a warning. Shit. I hurry through the door, not wishing to set off an alarm.

  There’s no one outside. I gaze around me. This is the employee entrance, a side of the condo complex tenants never see. A huge gray Dumpster looms to my right, the stench making my nose wrinkle. Cracks radiate from a round hole in the pavement as though a heavy object was accidentally set on the surface. The beep, beep, beep of a truck backing up breaks the silence.

  I clomp away from the building, imitating Ellen’s I’m-angry-at-the-world style of walking. Hawke’s coworker scares the shit out of the rest of his team. No one dares to approach her, and this is exactly the response I want.

  A group of men and women with cameras and microphones harass a confused-looking, well-dressed dark-haired man as he tries to enter the condo complex. I ignore them, keeping my shoulders hunched and my head down.

  Am I being followed? Sweat trickles down my spine, sliding between my ass cheeks. I can’t risk looking behind me. That would appear too suspicious. I don’t hear any footsteps or voices or rattling of cameras or other recording devices. That’s a good sign.

  My phone hums in my purse. I don’t answer. The caller might be Hawke, and I don’t want to tell him where I’m going, what I wish to accomplish, not until I’m successful. The last time I told someone I was landing a full-time job, I returned home with no position and a condo decorated with big bright banners congratulating me. I’d rather not experience that humiliation again.

  I turn right on Michigan Avenue and scan the storefronts, searching for help-wanted signs. A ritzy boutique’s window display draws my attention. The printed sundress on the brunette mannequin is divine, the garment handcrafted by an unknown designer, the colors reminding me of the Mediterranean. Not that I’ve ever been there, but I’ve seen photos, dreamed of the place, of the exquisite European fashions.

  In these dreams, every dress fits exactly right, tailored for my proportions. My hair is loose, as Hawke prefers it, and I—

  A man bumps against my shoulder. I apologize, look up, and my stomach sinks. Mack grins at me, sunlight reflecting off his bald head, his big body clad in an army-green T-shirt, black cargo pants, and monstrous boots.

  “That’s a great disguise.” His gaze drifts over me. “If your height hadn’t given you away, you would have escaped unnoticed.”

  “My height shouldn’t have given me away.” Disgruntled yet determined to stick to my plan, I move farther south. “I’m average-sized.”

  “You’re average-sized for a ten-year-old.” Mack strides beside me. “Hawke requests that you return to the building immediately. You’ll be safer there.”

  “Hawke risks his life every damn day. He can’t talk to me about safety.” I scan the neighborhood. There’s a bright red help-wanted sign in the window of Chicago Jim’s Burger Barn. No, no, no. I vowed I’d never follow in my mom’s waitress shoes.

  But they would hire me. I’d pocket the cash tips immediately.

  Mack follows my gaze. “What are we looking for? Hostiles?”

  “I’m looking for a job.” In a perfect world, I’d secure a customer service position in a store selling beautiful clothes or sparkling jewelry.

  “Hmmm . . . ” Mack surveys the street. “Chicago Jim’s Burger Barn is hiring.”

  Shit. I’m not living in a perfect world. “Okay, I’ll apply.” I stomp toward the restaurant. Patrons sit on the small sliver of a patio, menus closed on the tables in front of them. Despite this I’m-ready-to-order-now signal, no one serves them.

  I enter the restaurant, Mack trailing closely behind me. The scent of french fry grease hits me, the lack of ventilation in the space making me gag.

  Although the diner employing my mom has existed for decades, it is immaculately clean. Karl, the chef, is anal about hygiene, refusing to prepare his masterpieces while surrounded by dirt.

  This restaurant is newer than the diner, the signage computerized, the design modern, yet black grime hugs the base of the tables. Dirty dishes are stacked on the same counter where the customers’ fresh food is set. I wrinkle my nose. The
place is a mess.

  It’s also severely understaffed. A solitary harried waitress in a ghastly red-and-white uniform delivers a tray of drinks to a table of rowdy teenagers. A moist-faced man wearing a hairnet and a white apron works beside a cash register, filling glasses with cola, ringing up sales, and transferring platters of food from the kitchen to the counter.

  Moist-faced man must be the manager. I march to the counter. The man doesn’t look up as I approach. “Ummm . . . ” I stand directly in front of him, trying to snag his attention. The man ignores me.

  “Hi. I’m Bee,” I pipe up, infusing my voice with a perkiness I don’t feel. “I’m here about the open position.” I don’t know what the position is and I don’t care. I’ve worked every possible role in a restaurant. They all suck.

  “Come back when we’re not busy,” the manager mumbles.

  Hell, no. In the past, an opportunity delayed has been an opportunity missed.

  “I might come back later, but the customers sitting on your patio won’t,” I point out. “You need help now. I have years of experience as a waitress.”

  “And how do I know that?” The manager fills a jumbo-sized glass with a nasty glow-in-the-dark orange beverage.

  “You don’t.” I could be lying my ass off. “But even the most incompetent employee can clear tables.”

  The manager glances at me and his eyes narrow. I meet his gaze, not backing down, confident that I’m right. He needs me.

  “Fine,” he concedes. “You can start today, but you’re not taking orders or handling cash, not until you fill out the application form and I check your references.” He flips up the pass-through to the back. “There’s a uniform in locker number three that should fit you.”

  Yippee, I get to wear a uniform. I squelch this sarcastic reply, suspecting my new boss won’t appreciate it. “Is there somewhere my friend can wait?” I wave one of my hands at Mack.

  “He can wait there.” The manager indicates a bar stool at the end of the counter. If Mack sits with his back against the wall, he should be able to see the entire seating area of the restaurant.