The Billionaire's Command
Page 32
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I thought he would try to argue with me, but his shoulders rounded and he looked down at his hands. “Sure. I understand. It’s just that I got some bad news today, and you’re such a good listener.”
Oh shit, how could I possibly turn him down after that? I arranged my face into an expression of sympathy, and reached out to touch his knee. “I’m so sorry! What happened?”
“It’s my daughter,” he said, his voice breaking. I’d had no idea he had a kid. Was he married? No ring, but that didn’t mean anything. They all took their rings off before they cheated on their wives, like that gave them a free pass or something. “She’s been feeling so tired at school, and so we finally—well, the doctors said she’s got cancer. She’s only eight.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll get her all the best treatment, of course, but you just never know with these things. Christ. My little girl.”
“I’m sure the doctors will take care of her,” I said. “Poor thing! Do you have any pictures you’d like to show me?” Inside, I was seething. I felt bad for the kid, of course—she didn’t deserve to get sick—but my dad had died in a crummy hospital ward after the doctors gave up on him, and maybe he would have lived longer if he’d had enough money for all the best treatment. Maybe he would still be alive. It was just how your cards were dealt: rich, you lived; poor, you died like a dog.
There was no dignity in death. I’d seen it. Rich or poor, but at least if you were rich, you had a fighting chance.
But my anger wasn’t really about Altman, and it definitely wasn’t about his daughter, who was very cute, and when I told Altman that I wished all the best for her, I meant it.
I kept one eye on the clock while I listened to him and made soothing noises. I really, really needed to get going. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, Trixie sauntered past the bar, and I caught her eye and made the universal “please help me” face. It worked: she stopped, and I said, “Mr. Altman, why don’t you go with my friend Trixie here? I think she’s just what you need to feel better.”
He looked at me, eyes rimmed red, and then looked up at Trixie.
“Looks like you’ve had a rough day,” she said. “Want to tell me all about it?” She shifted her weight and her robe fell open to expose one of her breasts. I watched Altman’s gaze drop to her chest, and he swallowed.
Done. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Altman,” I said, slipping off the stool. Thank you, I mouthed to Trixie, and she nodded at me and winked. Altman still hadn’t looked away from her chest. I slung my bag over my shoulder and beat a hasty retreat.
Christ. The dangers they never told you about when you started stripping.
And I was pretty sure that was nothing compared to what Turner would do to me if I was late.
9
I managed to make it home by 5. I took a quick shower and put on the dress Turner had given me. I dried my hair and wrapped it into a knot on my head, and put on some understated makeup, just some eyeliner and mascara and nude lipstick. Looking at myself in the mirror, I didn’t feel much like Sassy Belle anymore. Without the wig and the dramatic stage makeup, I was just regular old Sasha. Sassy was my armor, and without her, I felt defenseless. And brave.
I wanted Turner to see the real me. Not Sassy.
That was what scared me most of all. That I didn’t want to wear any disguises around him.
I didn’t want to think about it. I tucked a lacy slip into my purse along with my phone and wallet, and then I headed for the subway.
It was humid and miserable underground, and I started sweating almost immediately. I had to go to Broadway-Lafayette and then transfer to the Lexington Avenue line, and the 6 train took a million years to show up while I sweltered and wished I hadn’t been too cheap to take a cab. Even worse, the 6 was local service, and I was in for a long, slow ride uptown.
It gave me entirely too much time to think.
My conversations with Scarlet and Yolanda had me running scared. They both knew me pretty well, and they both thought that I—well, that my feelings for Turner went beyond the professional. I’d thought I was just telling them, very matter-of-fact, about my totally platonic business arrangement, but something I said, or maybe my tone of voice or my facial expression, made them think there was more to it than I let on.
The thing was, they were right.
I had feelings. I hated it. I didn’t want to. I’d been fighting it tooth and nail since my very first encounter with Turner, back when he was just a nice stranger who bandaged my bloody knees. I didn’t think he was nice anymore, but he wasn’t a stranger, either. He was real: a person I knew. Not well. I wasn’t sure if I would ever understand him. But he was a man, flesh and blood, and I wanted him at least as much as he wanted me.
I was falling for him, and it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me.
Well. Maybe not the absolute worst. But it was pretty close.
I stewed about it all the way uptown, until I got off the subway at Hunter and climbed the stairs to the street. Time to stop worrying. I needed to be Sassy for now. That was who Turner expected. It didn’t matter what I wanted.
As I came out of the subway into the summer evening, I took a deep breath and imagined all of my worries leaving me as I exhaled. I forced my mind to go blank. I could think about things later. But right now I had to put my game face on.
I walked the few blocks to Turner’s apartment, trying not to think about anything except the warm breeze against my face. It was a little before 7, and all the Upper East Siders were out taking their tiny dogs for pre-dinner walks. I didn’t understand the point of having a dog that small. If you wanted something apartment-friendly, why not just get a cat?
Turner would never have a tiny dog. Maybe a wolf hybrid or something. He would train it to kill people who had displeased him.
Christ.
I recognized Turner’s building even before I saw the street number carved in marble above the front door. The doorman smiled at me as he held the door opened, and I wondered if he remembered me from the other evening. I didn’t look that different. More presentable, maybe, in my dress and nice sandals. Maybe that was why Turner had bought them for me: so I wouldn’t embarrass him in front of the people he interacted with every day. Although I had a hard time imagining that Turner cared too much about what the doorman thought of him.
The lobby of the building was cool and dim after the bright heat outside. As the elevator doors slid closed, I pressed one palm flat against my chest, feeling the thump of my racing heart. I wanted to see him. I felt like a twelve-year-old with her first crush. Like the world was bright with possibility and wonder, instead of being the tarnished, soul-crushing place I knew it really was. Dog eat dog.
Oh shit, how could I possibly turn him down after that? I arranged my face into an expression of sympathy, and reached out to touch his knee. “I’m so sorry! What happened?”
“It’s my daughter,” he said, his voice breaking. I’d had no idea he had a kid. Was he married? No ring, but that didn’t mean anything. They all took their rings off before they cheated on their wives, like that gave them a free pass or something. “She’s been feeling so tired at school, and so we finally—well, the doctors said she’s got cancer. She’s only eight.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll get her all the best treatment, of course, but you just never know with these things. Christ. My little girl.”
“I’m sure the doctors will take care of her,” I said. “Poor thing! Do you have any pictures you’d like to show me?” Inside, I was seething. I felt bad for the kid, of course—she didn’t deserve to get sick—but my dad had died in a crummy hospital ward after the doctors gave up on him, and maybe he would have lived longer if he’d had enough money for all the best treatment. Maybe he would still be alive. It was just how your cards were dealt: rich, you lived; poor, you died like a dog.
There was no dignity in death. I’d seen it. Rich or poor, but at least if you were rich, you had a fighting chance.
But my anger wasn’t really about Altman, and it definitely wasn’t about his daughter, who was very cute, and when I told Altman that I wished all the best for her, I meant it.
I kept one eye on the clock while I listened to him and made soothing noises. I really, really needed to get going. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, Trixie sauntered past the bar, and I caught her eye and made the universal “please help me” face. It worked: she stopped, and I said, “Mr. Altman, why don’t you go with my friend Trixie here? I think she’s just what you need to feel better.”
He looked at me, eyes rimmed red, and then looked up at Trixie.
“Looks like you’ve had a rough day,” she said. “Want to tell me all about it?” She shifted her weight and her robe fell open to expose one of her breasts. I watched Altman’s gaze drop to her chest, and he swallowed.
Done. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Altman,” I said, slipping off the stool. Thank you, I mouthed to Trixie, and she nodded at me and winked. Altman still hadn’t looked away from her chest. I slung my bag over my shoulder and beat a hasty retreat.
Christ. The dangers they never told you about when you started stripping.
And I was pretty sure that was nothing compared to what Turner would do to me if I was late.
9
I managed to make it home by 5. I took a quick shower and put on the dress Turner had given me. I dried my hair and wrapped it into a knot on my head, and put on some understated makeup, just some eyeliner and mascara and nude lipstick. Looking at myself in the mirror, I didn’t feel much like Sassy Belle anymore. Without the wig and the dramatic stage makeup, I was just regular old Sasha. Sassy was my armor, and without her, I felt defenseless. And brave.
I wanted Turner to see the real me. Not Sassy.
That was what scared me most of all. That I didn’t want to wear any disguises around him.
I didn’t want to think about it. I tucked a lacy slip into my purse along with my phone and wallet, and then I headed for the subway.
It was humid and miserable underground, and I started sweating almost immediately. I had to go to Broadway-Lafayette and then transfer to the Lexington Avenue line, and the 6 train took a million years to show up while I sweltered and wished I hadn’t been too cheap to take a cab. Even worse, the 6 was local service, and I was in for a long, slow ride uptown.
It gave me entirely too much time to think.
My conversations with Scarlet and Yolanda had me running scared. They both knew me pretty well, and they both thought that I—well, that my feelings for Turner went beyond the professional. I’d thought I was just telling them, very matter-of-fact, about my totally platonic business arrangement, but something I said, or maybe my tone of voice or my facial expression, made them think there was more to it than I let on.
The thing was, they were right.
I had feelings. I hated it. I didn’t want to. I’d been fighting it tooth and nail since my very first encounter with Turner, back when he was just a nice stranger who bandaged my bloody knees. I didn’t think he was nice anymore, but he wasn’t a stranger, either. He was real: a person I knew. Not well. I wasn’t sure if I would ever understand him. But he was a man, flesh and blood, and I wanted him at least as much as he wanted me.
I was falling for him, and it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me.
Well. Maybe not the absolute worst. But it was pretty close.
I stewed about it all the way uptown, until I got off the subway at Hunter and climbed the stairs to the street. Time to stop worrying. I needed to be Sassy for now. That was who Turner expected. It didn’t matter what I wanted.
As I came out of the subway into the summer evening, I took a deep breath and imagined all of my worries leaving me as I exhaled. I forced my mind to go blank. I could think about things later. But right now I had to put my game face on.
I walked the few blocks to Turner’s apartment, trying not to think about anything except the warm breeze against my face. It was a little before 7, and all the Upper East Siders were out taking their tiny dogs for pre-dinner walks. I didn’t understand the point of having a dog that small. If you wanted something apartment-friendly, why not just get a cat?
Turner would never have a tiny dog. Maybe a wolf hybrid or something. He would train it to kill people who had displeased him.
Christ.
I recognized Turner’s building even before I saw the street number carved in marble above the front door. The doorman smiled at me as he held the door opened, and I wondered if he remembered me from the other evening. I didn’t look that different. More presentable, maybe, in my dress and nice sandals. Maybe that was why Turner had bought them for me: so I wouldn’t embarrass him in front of the people he interacted with every day. Although I had a hard time imagining that Turner cared too much about what the doorman thought of him.
The lobby of the building was cool and dim after the bright heat outside. As the elevator doors slid closed, I pressed one palm flat against my chest, feeling the thump of my racing heart. I wanted to see him. I felt like a twelve-year-old with her first crush. Like the world was bright with possibility and wonder, instead of being the tarnished, soul-crushing place I knew it really was. Dog eat dog.
