by Linnea May
That's good. Very good.
But only if she didn't lie to me the same way she's lying to him right now. Did she play a role with me, too? Did she lie about her apparent secret of not knowing what a normal date looks like? Was all of that just an act? The shyness, the insecurity, the coy looks she kept casting my way as she spoke to me. Her interest in me and the origins of my wealth, the questions about my investments, about my life’s path up until now—was all of that part of her fake persona?
I know a lot of girls at the agency have a persona like that, the shy and calm girl who wants to make you feel powerful, who bends her little body for you, who asks to be broken, eyelashes fluttering nervously and soft moans escaping their tiny bodies while you spank the living hell out of them. I know that, because I've had them. This is exactly my type. And I've tried to convince myself that all of it was real, but deep within, I knew it often wasn't the case. They're actresses, and good ones at that. They know what you want, and they perform to perfection to please.
Is that what she's been doing with me? If so, she's damn good. I've never believed a girl as much as I believed her.
The way she's acting around him now, around that other man—it makes me furious to watch.
"Ouch!"
The shriek calls me back to reality, tearing my eyes and my thoughts away from her and back to the black devil straddling me on my lap. She has one arm wrapped around my neck, trailing along my chest with her other hand. Fake moans have been whispered into my ear as I massaged her thigh, moving closer to her center without actual intent.
"That hurt," she complains, but she's smiling at me. "You naughty man."
I throw her an angry look and shake my head. "Call me that again and I'll take you up to the red room."
She raises an eyebrow and purses her thick lips. "Oh, who says I would mind that, naughty m—"
"Shut up," I cut her off.
She pouts, giving me a disappointed look, before reaching for her drink on a table next to the sofa we're sitting on.
"Let's just watch the performance."
I point toward the stage, hoping to divert her attention. Spotlights are illuminating a scene with a dark-haired devil, restrained at the wrists as she kneels in front of a masked Dominant. He's fully clothed in black, his face shielded behind equally dark fabric, and he’s using a flogger to keep her in place. She's a cunning little devil, overstepping the rules in a playful manner, seeking punishment for our entertainment. All heads are turned toward the stage, all guests with their gazes glued to what's unfolding in front of our eyes.
All but one.
She doesn't shy away this time, but keeps her eyes locked on mine when I turn to look at her. I can't read her face, but I want to see pain. I want her to feel the same way I felt when I watched her talking to the man next to her, when I saw her flirting with him as she did with me. No. More than she did with me.
But she's giving me nothing. Her face is blank, unreadable. At least her cheeks are no longer flushed, as I'm sure they were when she was with me.
She doesn't let me read her, but still she insists on staring at me. Why does she do that? Is this part of her game? Why toy with me like that? I won't let her jerk me around.
Hot fury spreads through my core and I turn away brusquely, robbing her of my attention for the rest of the night.
Chapter 13
Elene
I feel horrible.
This is not how I imagined this first night to go, and it's definitely not how it was supposed to play out.
I wasn't supposed to fall for one of the clients like a dumb little schoolgirl. I wasn't supposed to direct all my focus on him all night, even though I marched away from him long before the midnight performance started.
I tried to do my job by taking one of Sandi's clients off her hands after she was done with him. I saw her take him up the stairs, and when they came back down just a few minutes later, it was pretty obvious that neither of them wanted to spend another moment together. But his balls had been emptied in one way or another, so he was a perfect candidate for entertainment by an angel.
He smiled graciously when I joined him on the loveseat, just as Sandi did when she walked by me, her eyes begging me to take him off her hands. I don't know what happened between the two of them, but I'm sure she'll tell me later tonight on our way home. We watched the performance, and as much as I tried to avoid it, I couldn't stop myself from searching for Damon again and again.
I saw him sitting there, with a naughty devil on his lap, his hand massaging her thigh while he shot me angry looks. As if I were the one hurting him, when it was clearly the other way around. I wonder if he only did it to make me jealous? I kept a close watch on the stairs, just to make sure I wouldn't see him walking up there with her. My heart aches at the thought of it, but I know I can't—I shouldn't—prevent it, if I saw it happening. All I could do is watch and suffer in silence, all the while being a good girl, doing my job, entertaining guests.
I asked for this. I asked to become an angel at the club, because the pay was unbelievable for a job that seemed so easy. How the hell could I expect this to happen? I've never fancied any of my clients, and I didn't expect it to be any different here.
Yet here I am, searching for the dark, handsome stranger who messed with my head.
I haven't seen him since the performance ended and I accompanied my client to the bar, where he wanted to have one final drink with me.
Now the night is slowly coming to an end, and my guy was one of the first guests to leave. I escorted him to the door, politely smiling as I waved goodbye.
Just as I walk back inside the main guest room, I see him walking across the room, the same devil still hanging onto his arm. I've never seen her outside the quick briefing sessions we've had over the past few weeks, so I don't know who she is, but I hate her. I know she's not knowingly hurting me, but I hate her nonetheless.
I hate how she's making eyes at him, how she can be all over him, while I'm restricted by rules that I forced on myself. I can't act like she does, because it would hurt our concept. If the clients saw an angel acting out of her role on the very first night, how are they supposed to trust in anything else that they've been told? Miss Barry was very adamant about this when she gave us instructions. The rules are there for a reason, and they need to be followed—by us just as much as by the clients.
My throat closes up when I see them approaching the stairs at the other end of the room. No. No! Don't go up there!
I feel sick to my stomach, ridden with foul jealousy, as I watch them walk away from me.
This is so wrong. I shouldn't feel this way. I've never had this feeling, have never suffered the torment of losing someone to another girl.
But here's the problem. I'm not losing anybody. You can only lose a person if he belonged to you in the first place, and he never belonged to me in any way. He's just another customer. A young, incredibly good-looking client who decided to spend some time with me at the bar, telling me some charming lies before he exchanges me for a devil.
A single tear finds its way down my cheek.
Fuck!
I can't let anyone see me like this. I hurry to wipe the tear away, taking a deep breath to collect myself, reminding the stupid little girl inside of me that there's nothing to cry about.
And as it turns out, I'm right. There is nothing to cry about, because he doesn't go up the stairs with that devil girl. I can tell that she's been trying to entice him, but it didn't play out the way she'd hoped. Instead, he's aiming for the coatroom now, petting her in a placating manner while she continues shamelessly flaunting her flirtatious efforts.
I escape his field of vision and make my way to the area behind the stage. Miss Barry told me that I was free to go home once my client had left, so there's nothing keeping me here any longer.
I hurry to our changing room, stumbling on my heels as my walk turns into a little jog. The heels are the first thin
g to go when I finally get inside the room. I sigh with relief when I slip out of them and hurry to shove them away in my locker, quickly exchanging them for my leather boots. I don't bother to get dressed, but just wrap myself up in my long winter coat before scooting out of the room again and running down the dark hallway that leads to the back entrance of the club. Luckily, no one crosses my path as I make my way to the heavy door that serves as an entrance and exit for staff.
I have to throw my entire body against the solid door to be able to open it, and once I do, I'm met with brutal cold. The winters are dark and long up here, but I'm not fazed by the icy winds at all, especially not now. I ignore the cold crawling up my legs as I hurry through the alley, heading toward the main entrance around the corner.
Just before I get there, my pace slows down until I come to a halt at the corner. I close the zipper of my coat, my hand clinging onto the collar to keep myself as warm as possible while keeping my eyes glued to the door on my left. I remain hidden in the dark, hoping that he hasn't left yet.
At first, there's just the doorman, a guy named Bruce who looks and acts just like you'd expect a night club bouncer to look and act. He's almost as broad as he is tall, dressed in a custom-tailored black suit that stretches across his gigantic muscles and with little to no hair on his head. He looks grumpy standing there, with his arms crossed, waiting for his shift to end. I feel sorry for the guy. He must be freezing, even though he doesn't give that impression by the way he's standing. He just looks utterly bored.
That changes when a black limousine pulls up in front of him. He uncrosses his arms and steps closer to the car, waiting for the passenger side window to roll down. I can't hear what the driver is telling him, but Bruce nods and takes a step back, about to open the door to the club when someone beats him to it.
The door flies open, causing Bruce to jump aside just in time before getting hit. My heart skips a beat when I see him walk out.
Mr. Graves—no Damon—raises his hand in an apologetic manner, exchanging a few words with Bruce while I just stand there like an idiot, watching from afar.
What was my plan? Did I not want to walk up to him? Did I not want to talk to him?
I think I did, but now that I see him, a beautiful gray scarf wrapped snuggly around his neck and his frame draped in a long dark coat, his breath steaming the air around him as he talks to Bruce, I lose all my courage. I bet the color of the scarf matches his mysterious eyes, but I don't dare get any closer to him to see if it really does. I remain hidden in the dark, frozen in place, and question my motives.
What did I think would happen? Did I seriously consider running after him? Here? Outside of the club, like a stupid fan girl running up to her idol? And then? Did I plan to ask him out on a date? Really? Why would he ever say yes to that? Whatever happened between us, his charming words, the sizzling intimacy, the burn of his touch—it's very likely that I imagined all of that.
He would dismiss me. No, even worse, he would laugh at me! As he should.
I'm stiff with the fear of being rejected as I watch him get into the limousine, my heart stinging with a sudden ache when the car door closes with a loud bang. A moment later, the driver takes off, chasing me back into the shadows when I fear being seen by him as they drive away.
This is pathetic.
I'm pathetic.
I've never acted like this, not even when I was still in high school and such behavior would have been considered normal.
But I've also never wanted someone like this, and I've never been afraid of rejection. This is new, and I have no way of knowing how to handle it.
It's been too long, too long since I’ve had a normal date or liked someone for me to approach a man. To date and flirt like a normal person, to seduce one by relying on my charm and looks, and not because I've been bought for a few hours or a night.
I never expected this to happen, but here I am, a twenty-two-year-old girl who doesn't know how to get a man's attention if she doesn't offer herself with a purchase agreement.
I guess, then, I know what I'll have to do.
Chapter 14
Damon
It has been two days, but it's still hard for me to focus. I hate it on many levels. I don't have time for this. I can't afford to have half, or even most, of my head occupied by a girl. An escort girl, for God's sake.
I have to be present, focused on this, here, the two men at my desk and the paperwork surrounding them.
Scott is sitting next to Dean, my longtime financial advisor. He's a short, skinny man, who looks younger than he actually is with his schoolboy haircut and the glasses that seem way too big on his face. His short blond hair is ruffled, as it always is, and his eyebrows are creased in concentration as he goes over the paperwork that Scott just handed to him.
Both of them are sitting at the large white desk that takes up half of my conference room, while I pace up and down inside the glassed area. When I acquired this office space, I wasn't even quite sure what I would need it for. I have never worked in an office before. All of my adult life has been based in my ever-changing homes. All I needed was a computer and access to the internet to get things started.
I hired Dean when my interest income grew to the point that taxes were a painful endeavor. It annoyed the hell out of me to see so much of my money flow right back into the hands of a state I don't trust, but I wanted to make sure not to get in trouble with the government either when I tried to make the most of my investments. I needed a tax accountant and advisor, someone who had my best interests in mind but knew the rules of the game better than I do.
Dean was that guy, and he has proven himself over the years. I would almost call him a friend, if we had anything in common other than our shared interest in my finances.
"This is all looking good to me," he murmurs, without once looking up from the papers.
Scott is visibly relieved and casts me a nervous smile. I'm his main seed investor, and I can see why this is unsettling for him. We've overturned his business plan plenty of times, telling him that there is a general interest, but no commitment from my side if he doesn't get his shit in order. He's a few years younger than me, a college dropout who didn't see the point in sitting through classes when he already knew what he wanted to do with his life. He pitched his idea while he was still enrolled, just to keep his parents quiet, but he dropped out as soon as I gave him my okay to support his endeavor. It was energy-sapping for both of us that his plan needed revision after revision for me to trust in it.
"Good work on the balance sheet," Dean adds, now looking up to give Scott an encouraging smile. "Looks like you finally got what we were saying."
"That's what I thought," I agree, having read all of the paperwork before I called both of them in here. "This finally looks like something we can work with."
Both of them cast me a quick smile, Scott's face ridden with tension while Dean’s is still displaying cautious agreement. I know he will want to check again and make sure that the paperwork actually holds water before letting me sign anything.
I'm showing trust in an idea that Dean barely understands. The internet of things is as complex as it is promising, and I'm fortunate to have a cautious accountant like him on board, someone who restrains my young enthusiasm.
Scott, on the other hand, can hardly contain his excitement. He's been nervous every time we meet, but today he seems especially unraveled. His pale face is flushed, and he's sweating despite the cool temperatures in this room. His hair is light like Dean's, but with a red tint, like the stubble on his chin.
I side-eye him as I walk back to the table, supporting myself on the clean white surface as I lean over the papers spread out across the table.
"That's quite a big equity stake you're giving up there," I tell Scott. "Are you really sure about this?"
Scott nods, pressing his lips together.
"I need the early-stage funding," he says. "Otherwise, there's no business to have stake
s in."
He sighs, his entire body relaxing for a split second before he adds, "I'd rather have less of an equity stake in my company than have no company at all."
I nod. "Fair enough."
"Mr. Graves is taking a higher risk than normal venture capital funding would require," Dean interjects. "Since there's no existing project to evaluate for funding."
I raise my hand in a calming manner.
"I'm sure Scott is aware of that," I say. "And he won't disappoint us. Right, Scott?"
The young man nods enthusiastically. "Definitely not, sir!"
"Stop calling me that. We're almost the same age."
He nods and casts me an apologetic smile.
I turn to Dean, raising my eyebrows in a silent question. Are we done here?
Dean understands and gives me a quick nod before he turns to Scott.
"Thank you for stopping by today, Scott," he tells him. "We'll have to look this over again with Mr. Graves’s private accountant, but I can tell you that things are looking very good. We'll get back to you in a couple of days."
Scott sighs with relief and the smile on his face widens as he jumps up, getting the hint. We're ready for him to leave.
He shakes my extended hand and casts a last smile toward Dean before gathering up his belongings and is escorted to the door.
I check the time as I turn back to Dean, and then cast him a quizzical look.
"Anything else?
He's gathering up the papers spread on the table, arranging them in neat stacks before filing them in separate folders.
He shakes his head. "Not at the moment. I'll have these looked over by your accountant and suggest we meet again in... let's say a week?"
His questioning gaze meets mine, and I shrug. "Sure, I'm in no hurry."
A smile spreads across his face, making him look like a twelve-year-old boy.
