The Billionaire's Command
Page 42

My amusement drained away as I entered the apartment and saw no sign of my brother. I turned to Sasha and said, “Will isn’t here.”
“He and Yolanda went to the grocery store,” she said. “Calm down. They’ll be back soon.”
I flexed my hands, hearing my knuckles crack. I didn’t like the idea of Will out in public with a woman neither of us knew, but it was also possible I was overreacting.
“I know you’re worried about him,” Sasha said. “But he’s fine. We’re not going to sell him on the black market or anything. He just hung out and read books today. I think Yolanda has a crush on him.”
“That’s nice,” I said vaguely. I had stopped listening to her in favor of searching the apartment for signs that Will had, in fact, been there. I looked around the apartment and saw a stack of books near the sofa, and Will’s laptop on the dining table. Somewhat reassuring.
A flicker of movement caught my attention, and I turned to see a medium-sized, green-and-yellow bird perched on the kitchen counter, eating what appeared to be the remains of a mango. I felt my eyebrows crawl halfway up my forehead. “Sassy. What is that?”
Sasha turned to see what I was looking at, and sighed. “That,” she said, “is Teddy. I guess he got tired of waiting for me to come peel his mango. Christ, what a mess.”
“You have a bird,” I said, absorbing this new and bizarre information.
“Yeah,” she said. “Why are you making that face? They make good pets.” She frowned at the bird. “Well, for the most part. He isn’t usually this gross.”
The bird in question turned to face us and bobbed his head, almost like he could tell we were talking about him. Sasha crossed the room and said, “Step up,” and he climbed onto her bare wrist and perched there, flexing one foot and then the other. I watched as Sasha turned on the tap and rinsed the bird’s feet, and wiped the counter with a sponge. Then she brought him over to me and said, “He’s a yellow-naped Amazon parrot.”
“I have to say, I didn’t expect you to have a pet bird,” I said. If anything, Sasha seemed like the type of girl who would own a teacup poodle, dye it pink, and carry it around in her handbag. “How long have you had him?”
She shrugged. “A few years. He belonged to one of the dancers at the last place I worked, but she couldn’t deal with him. I went to her place once, and he was just sitting in his cage plucking out his own feathers. So I told her I would take him. It was pretty dumb. I didn’t know anything about birds.”
“He seems happy now,” I said.
“I learned fast,” she said. “Do you want to touch him?”
I made a face. “No.”
“He’s very soft,” she said. “What do you think, Teddy? Do you want Mr. Turner to hold you?”
Teddy bobbed his head and peered up at me. “Teddy’s a good boy,” he said.
Without intending to, I took a step back. “Jesus Christ,” I said. “I didn’t know he talked.”
She shrugged. “He mostly just repeats the things I say to him. He knows a few words, though.” She scratched the bird’s head, and he leaned against her and gave a little chirp. “Okay, Teddy, time to go back in your cage. We can’t let you terrify Mr. Turner during dinner.”
“I’m not terrified,” I said, annoyed that she was maligning my masculinity.
She rolled her eyes at me and walked toward her bedroom.
I followed her, curious about whatever parrot-related tasks would ensue, and waited in the doorway while she settled the bird in his cage. He squawked a bit and shuffled around on his perch, but when Sasha handed him what appeared to be a toy, he calmed down and began prodding at it with his beak.
I quickly lost interest in watching her play with the bird. While she spoke softly to him, I took the opportunity to examine her bedroom more closely than I had been able to the day before. She had decorated it to be overtly feminine without being girly: crisp white sheets on the bed, gauzy curtains blowing slightly from the air conditioning, and the top of her dresser lined with makeup and perfume bottles. I picked up one of the bottles and sniffed at it. I didn’t recognize the scent, which made me think she didn’t wear it very much.
A framed photograph on top of the dresser leaned against the mirror hung on the wall. I picked it up and looked at it. Seven people sat on the front steps of a house, and one of them was recognizably Sasha—face a little rounder, hair a little shorter, but still clearly her.
“What’s this?” I asked.
Sasha turned, and I angled the picture in her direction, showing her what I was looking at. I saw her throat work as she swallowed, but she didn’t answer.
Fascinated now, I examined the picture more closely. Sasha sat beside a middle-aged woman who was probably her mother, and the woman had one arm wrapped around Sasha’s shoulders. Behind them, a man with an oxygen tank sat next to another daughter and a young man wearing a military uniform. Two younger boys crouched on the bottom step, leaning into each other. Their feet were bare. Everyone was smiling.
The house behind them was ramshackle, with paint peeling from the siding and a sagging, overstuffed sofa on the front porch. To one side, barely visible at the edge of the frame, was a rusting car body in the yard.
I glanced up at Sasha. Her face was red with embarrassment. “This is why you’re doing it,” I said, the pieces falling into place even as I spoke. “Working at the club. Stripping. You’re doing it for your family.”
She shrugged and folded her arms across her chest. I desperately wanted to know what she was thinking, but her face was shuttered and unreadable.
I carefully set the picture back on the dresser. This entire time, I had thought—what? That she had sex with men for money because she liked it? That she thought it was fun? I hadn’t thought. I had only assumed.
“Sasha, I owe you an apology,” I said. “I haven’t always been very kind to you.”
“You mean all the times you called me a whore?” she asked, and I nodded, glad she had said the words so I didn’t have to. Christ, I was a coward.
She scowled and look away for a moment, brow furrowed, and then looked back at me with a fierce light in her eyes. “Yeah, that’s bullshit. Why is all the stigma on me? Women are punished for sex, and men are rewarded. Why am I a dirty slut, and all the men who pay to spend time with me get off scot-free? It’s fucked up. What about your precious free market? It’s capitalism, baby. There’s a demand in the marketplace. I’m an entrepreneur.”