by Amy Brent
He finished the sandwich in two large bites, loudly drained the coffee, then left his trash on my desk and sauntered out like a great ape going off to take a nap after feeding time.
I turned my chair toward the window and stared out at the blue sky for a moment, then shook off doubts about Serena’s intentions and went back to work.
I liked her and she liked me.
End of story.
Chapter 12: Serena
“Papa? What are you doing here?”
“I thought I would drop by and bring you some tomatoes from my garden,” he said. He held up a brown paper bag and offered me an innocent smile, though I knew him showing up at the office where I worked was anything but innocent.
“You didn’t have to bring these by,” I said, coming around the desk. “I could have gotten them when I came for dinner on Friday.”
“I thought you might want some before then,” he said. “I know how you love tomato sandwiches. Just like your mama.”
“You’re right about that.” I took the bag and gave him a peck on the cheek, then guided him toward the chair in front of my desk. My desk was in the lobby of Amy Rossetti & Associates. Amy’s office was down a short hallway, but she was at lunch with Isaac, so we had the place to ourselves.
“Is it okay to visit for a minute?” he asked nervously, looking over his shoulder toward Amy’s office.
“Yes, Amy is at lunch,” I said, sliding back into my chair. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or a water?”
“You don’t have to wait on me like a guest,” he said, holding up hands that were rough and scarred from years of hard labor. He patted his knees and worked up a smile that made me hold my breath. “The truth is, I needed to speak with you about something. And it could not wait until you came to dinner on Friday.”
I laced my fingers together on the desk and gave him my best “daddy’s little girl” smile. My father had showed up at my office only once before to tell me that my brother Roberto’s appendix had burst. He didn’t bring tomatoes to disguise the intention of his visit then, so I could only assume he was not bearing bad news now.
I took a deep breath and arched my eyebrows. Something was up. I could tell by the way he was fidgeting in the chair like a little kid that had to pee and his eyes were darting around the wall behind me.
“What is it, Papa?”
His fingers flexed on his knees. He looked down for a moment, a deep frown on his face. When he looked up, I couldn’t tell if it was anger or shame burning in his eyes.
He slid two fingers into his t-shirt pocket and withdrew a business card and gently set it on the desk between us. He slid the card toward me like a poker player sliding in his exchange of losing cards. I glanced down at the card for just a second. That was all it took. I recognized the card immediately because it was given to me by Mr. Lemon two years ago when he recruited me to work at Club D.
The card had the words Club Votre Désire embossed in gold on the front, nothing else, no address, phone number, or logo. Mr. Lemon had scribbled his direct cell number on the back.
“Tell me about this place,” Papa said quietly, his eyes burning into min. “Then tell me why you were there.”
When it came to Papa, I was a lousy liar. His eyes had a built-in lie detector, and lying was the one thing he could not stand. He’d rather hear a horrible truth than be lied to. I blinked like a broken slot machine and licked my lips while my brain tried to come up with an answer that would satisfy him. Then a thought occurred to me: where the hell did he find that card and why did he think I knew anything about the place?
“I don’t know anything about it, Papa,” I said, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest defensively. A blind man could have read my body language. I dropped my hands to my lap and held them there. “Why do you think I would know anything?”
Papa sighed because he knew I was lying, his heavy shoulders hunching into his neck as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He nodded at the card.
“Maria found that card in an old purse you donated for the church yard sale last week,” he said, referring to my brother Carlito’s wife. “She was going through the things you donated and found that card. And these.”
He reached in his pocket again and brought out a book of matches that had the Club D logo embossed in gold on the black cover. He opened the book of matches and turned them so I could see the inside cover.
Fuck.
Busted.
My habit of making notes to myself, something I had done since I was a little girl, had caught up with me.
In my distinctively-neat printing, in tiny capital letters, was a note I had written to myself.
Dinner with Papa Friday @ 4.
“You wrote that,” Papa said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Um, well…”
“Please don’t disrespect me by lying, baby girl,” he said quietly. He leaned back and narrowed his eyes at me, like a judge ready to pronounce sentence even before the trial. “Maria did the Google for me to learn about this place. This club voter desire or whatever. It is a whorehouse, Serena. You have been there. No more lies. Tell me the truth.”
I took a deep breath and did as he asked. I could only pray that he would still consider me his baby girl after he heard what I had done.
“It’s not a whorehouse, Papa,” I said, my voice as weak as my argument. “It’s a private club.”
“A private club where women sell their bodies to rich men,” he said. “A whorehouse.” The words hissed through his gritted teeth. “The Google doesn’t lie. Maria told me everything she found out about this place. Rich men go there to have sex with women.” He took a deep breath, swelling his thick chest to the point of bursting. “Are you one of those women, Serena?”
I took a deep breath of my own and blew it out slowly, hoping it would calm my nerves. It didn’t. I had trouble taking another breath because I thought I was going to burst out crying. My hands were trembling. I laced my fingers together in my lap so he wouldn’t see them shake. I swallowed the lump that had lodged in the back of my throat and licked my lips, which had grown as dry as the desert. I stared at the card and wondered if Maria had found Denny’s name associated with Club D. If she had… shit.
“Well?” Papa clamped his mouth shut and waited for me to answer. His eyes told me that he would know if a lie passed over my lips.
“I work there as a waitress on weekends,” I said quietly, my eyes down to avoid his stare. “To pay for my school. I make very good money there, Papa. It’s no different than waiting tables at the Casa Blanca like I did in high school, except that I make thousands of dollars a month as opposed to pennies.”
He glared at me. “You make thousands of dollars a month serving drinks at a whorehouse?” He shook his head and scoffed. “I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true,” I said, my voice cracking as the tears welled in my eyes. “You’re right. It is a whorehouse where very rich men have sex with beautiful women. I serve those rich men drinks and they tip me very well. I swear to you, I have never had sex for money at Club D. Never. I would never do that. You have to believe me.”
He stared at me for a moment, unblinking, then shook his head and looked away. “Thank God, your mama is not here to see this. Her daughter working at a whorehouse. She would die all over again.”
I can’t tell you what happened inside my head at that moment, other than to say that his comment lit a very short fuse that burned quickly and ignited mental dynamite that I could not contain.
I brought up my hands, balled them into fists, and slammed them so hard on the desk that everything atop it jumped and rattled.
“Don’t you dare say that!” I roared, glaring at him through angry, tear-filled eyes. I wagged a stiff finger at him. “Don’t you ever say that! I have never done anything to disrespect you or Mama. Don’t you dare fucking say that!”
Papa’s brown eyes grew as big as saucers. He held up his hands and patted the air with the
m. His voice lost some of its bluster. “Serena, don’t use that language with me…”
“Fuck that!” I roared. I narrowed my eyes until they were slits and shook my fists at him. “I am a good girl, Papa. I have always been a good girl, but I refuse to settle for the life you want me to have.”
His forehead cut into deep furrows. “Settle for the life I want you to have? What are you talking about?”
“You think women should stay at home and cook and clean and squeeze out babies,” I said, my fists bouncing on the desk. “Or clean hotels or clean rich people’s toilets. Well, I refuse to do that, Papa. I am going to get my Master’s degree and I’m going to get a job as a cancer researcher and help find a cure for what killed Mama! Don’t you dare use that against me!”
Papa’s nostrils flared. “So, this is about me not being able to pay for your college? You work in a whorehouse because I am too poor to pay for your school?”
“No, Papa, that’s not it,” I said, wiping my eyes without looking away from him. “I work at a whorehouse so I can do something to change the world. This has nothing to do with you. Nothing! This is about me and my future. But I would never—NEVER—do anything to bring shame or disrespect to the family.”
I could tell he wanted to say more, but he leaned back and dug his fingers into his knees and chewed at the inside of his cheek with his eyes staring at the floor between his work boots.
I took advantage of the quiet to compose myself. I plucked tissues from a box on my desk and wiped my eyes, then blew my nose into them.
Papa sat quietly, swiping a knuckle under his eyes. The only other time I had seen him cry was the day we buried my Mama. Even then, he composed himself quickly because his children needed him to be strong, especially his baby girl. I was the weak one, the little girl who had lost her mama. I needed my Papa then, and I needed him now.
I got up and went around the desk to sit in the chair next to him. I took one of his hands in mine. His hand was hard and rough, like a block of sandpaper.
“Papa, please listen to me. I serve drinks and food, nothing more. I make enough money to pay for my schooling and live well without being a burden to you. As soon as I graduate and find a job as a researcher, I will quit the club. I promise you. Until then, you just have to trust that I am your daughter. I will always do what’s right and never compromise my principles for anyone or anything, no matter how much money there might be.”
I realized at that moment that I was preaching to myself. I was falling hard for a billionaire, but his money didn’t matter to me. Honestly, I had barely thought about his wealth and power. I would have felt the same way about Denny if he had been a janitor mopping the floors or a delivery man driving a truck. I was falling for the man, not his bank account.
His money was not important to me.
It would not change my future plans.
I would not drop everything to live in luxury with Denny or let him pay my way. If that’s what he expected… well… he would be sorely disappointed.
I was Serena Diaz, the proud daughter of Carlos and Carlotta Diaz.
I had worked my ass off to get here.
No one had helped me.
No one!
I was an independent woman.
I was my own woman.
I would get my Masters in the fall, find a job at a cancer research center, and work to cure the horrible disease that took my beloved mama and so many others.
If Denny had a problem with that… well… he’d just have to get over it!
“Papa, say something…”
Papa sniffed back tears and slowly nodded his head. He took my hands in his and looked me in the eye.
“I trust you, baby girl,” he said quietly, a shaky smile on his lips. “If you tell me you have never had sex at this place I will believe you.”
Shit.
Like I said, I’d never been able to lie to my Papa.
His hands tightened around mine and his thick eyebrows hovered heavily over his eyes.
“Serena, you have never had sex at that place… right?”
I took a deep breath and mustered the best smile I could.
I said, “Papa, I’ve met someone. His name is Denny Chambers.”
Chapter 13: Denny
Need to talk. My apartment. Come ASAP.
The text from Serena could not have been more vague or set off more alarm bells in my head. I sat at my desk and stared at the screen for a moment, unsure of how to respond.
When I left her in my bed this morning everything seemed fine. Since returning from our weekend at Club D three days ago we’d been together every night after work. Sure, we fucked A LOT, but we also just hung out and ate and drank wine and watched TV and talked and got to know one another better. I was excited that our relationship was quickly becoming more than just sex. And I got the impression she was, too.
Then, out of nowhere, I get this text.
Need to talk. My apartment. Come ASAP.
What the fuck?
My first reaction was to text her back and ask what was going on.
My next reaction was to get her on FaceTime.
No. That wouldn’t do.
Something told me this was a conversation best had in person.
Fuck.
I knew it was too good to be true.
Well, I had never been dumped by text before.
And I sure as hell didn’t plan to start now.
If Serena was giving me the boot she was going to have to look me in the eye to do it.
I texted her back and called downstairs for my car.
On my way.
* * *
“Hi, thanks for coming so quickly,” Serena said as she opened the door to her apartment and waved me in. She gave me a cursory smile, then let it drop quickly as she glanced down the hallway behind me, as if she expected to find someone else lurking there.
“Are you okay?” I asked, giving her a hug that was cordially returned.
“Yes, fine, we just need to talk,” she said, closing and locking the door. Her behavior was a little unnerving, and for a moment, I wondered if an old boyfriend had come back into the picture and confronted her about us. Or if she’d just had a change of heart and decided I was not the guy for her.
I’m a big guy with a black belt in Karate, so I wasn’t too concerned about ex-boyfriends being assholes, but Serena was acting nervous as a cat, as if she expected the door to be kicked in at any moment.
“Come, sit,” she said, forcing the smile again as she took my hand to lead me into the living room. She parked me on one end of the sofa and she curled up on the other end. I could tell by her face that something was wrong. People with good news never have that look in their eye.
She stared at the cushion between us and bit her thumbnail for a moment as if she were considering what she had to say. I took the time to let my eyes drift around her face. She was beautiful even without makeup, black hair pulled back in a ponytail at the crown of her head, barefoot, painted toenails, toned legs, casually dressed in a pair of running shorts and a black t-shirt with the head of a Blue Man on the front.
“What’s going on, Serena?” I asked, turning toward her with my arm draped across the back of the couch. “Did something happen? Has someone—”
“My father happened,” she said with a heavy sigh that seemed to drain all the breath out of her. She put her hands in her lap and started pressing her thumbnails together. “He found out that I worked at Club D and I told him about you.”
I didn’t know whether to smile or frown, so I tried to do both at the same time and did neither effectively. I decided a blank look was the best use of my face at that moment.
“I take it he was none too thrilled by either point.”
“You might say that,” she said, nodding.
“So, he didn’t know you worked there?”
“God no.”
“How did he find out?”
“I donated a purse to the church yard sale and my
nosy sister-in-law found an old card that Mr. Lemon had given me the first time we met. And a pack of Club D matches with my handwriting under the cover. He put two and two together and deduced that his daughter was working as a whore at a brothel.”
“A whore?” I wasn’t sure why, but after referring to the girls at Club D as Escorts and Specialists, the word “whore” seemed terribly old fashioned. It made me smile. “Actually, the politically correct term is—"
“You know what I mean,” she said, cutting me off, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, after a lot of yelling and crying, I convinced him that I just served drinks there and did not service the clientele.”
“It’s the clientele’s loss,” I said, trying to be funny.
“Not funny,” she said, giving me a hard look. “Anyway, he’s not thrilled with me working at Club D, but so long as all I’m doing is serving drinks, he’ll live with it. I explained that I was just doing it to pay for my Masters and as soon as I got a job as a cancer researcher, I planned to quit.”
I nodded along as she spoke, keeping my lips clamped shut. Serena quitting Club D was just fine with me, especially since I had no plans to ever go back there so long as she was in my life.
I asked, “Did that satisfy him?”
