Chapter Eight
The following afternoon Cross glanced up as she tapped on the open door to his office. For a moment he looked surprised to see her, then his face tightened into frown.
“I tried calling you earlier,” he said, “but your phone was off. I left a message, which clearly you didn’t pick up. See that it doesn’t happen again.”
Verity kept her expression neutral as her thoughts raced. He didn’t know his trained monkey had gotten creative the night before. That was good. At the very least it meant he didn’t have a camera in her flat. It also meant he wasn’t entirely omnipotent, a fact for which she was very grateful. Hoping she sounded suitably cowed and deferential, she raised an apologetic hand. “I need to get another phone. It… it got damaged yesterday.”
“I see.”
When he offered nothing further, she tilted her head and took a step further into his office. “Was there something you wanted?”
He blinked, and then shuffled through the papers on his desk until he found a small card. “I have arranged a doctor’s appointment for you. It’s not far, you should still be able to make it, if you hurry.”
“Doctor?”
“All those working the top table receive regular health checks. One of the perks. Our clients find it reassuring.”
“Oh.” She took the address from him. “Any chance of a lift?” she asked hopefully.
“No.” He returned his attention to the file in front of him.
Verity huffed at the abrupt dismissal, shifted her bag more firmly onto her shoulder and spun round, heading back to the entrance.
An hour later - after being poked, prodded, swabbed and, to her intense irritation, weighed - she consented to a contraceptive injection, just to get the hell out of there. Returning to the club she found a new uniform swinging from a hook in the staff locker room, her name emblazoned on the label.
Trying to ignore the image of a body bag that rose unprompted in her head, she unzipped the garment carrier and shook out the uniform. As she expected, it was similar to the one she had on, only more sheer, a size smaller and with a skirt at least three inches higher. She sighed as she stripped off what she was wearing and started to shimmy into the substitute; subtly was not their strong suit.
To her outrage there was one more item in the carrier - a bra. That it was exactly her size was disturbing, that it was the kind of over-padded, push up monstrosity, was frankly rude ! Verity was the first to admit that God hadn’t exactly been giving with both hands when he’d handed out her boobs, but she’d never had any complaints and had never needed to resort to this kind of scaffolding in order to attract attention.
Cycling her way through every curse in her vocabulary, plus several more she invented on the spot, she wriggled into the offensive item and attempted to button the shirt over the top. The overall effect was very obvious and deeply artificial. She rolled her eyes. Why??
Staring down her reflection in the mirror she tried to ignore the ridiculously inflated cleavage and the painted on excuse for a skirt and fought for calm. It took her a long moment to find any, and her hands shook as she did her best to straighten her new clothing. Shocked by how badly she was affected by having such a basic decision as her choice in underwear stripped away, she leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and focussed on taking slow, even breaths. But, even so, it still took another internal round of pep talks, the promise of a very large drink when this was over and a second coat of sugary pink lipstick to get her feet moving.
As she ascended the stairs her heart sank. Cross was waiting for her at the top, his arms folded. He remained motionless until she reached him and then gestured sharply towards his office.
For fuck’s sake, what now? She hadn’t even started her shift, how had she managed to piss him off already?
Not wanting to make a scene on the main floor she waited until he’d closed the door before asking, “What did I do? I’m wearing the stupid Barbie bra and I had all my shots like a good little girl…” She ground to a halt as a thought struck her. “Wait, did I fail the medical?”
Cross glanced back at her from his desk and frowned. “No, your test results are all fine.”
“Then why am I being summoned to the headmaster's office?”
If anything, his expression lightened a fraction. Oh shit! He probably liked that analogy, she realised with horror, and quickly shut down that train of thought before the appealing image of being upended over his knee became too vivid to ignore.
“I wanted to give you this.” He extended his hand, a pendant suspended from a narrow leather thong hanging from one finger.
Oh bollocks, the necklace. How could she have forgotten? All the hostesses at the top table wore matching jewellery, a flat, beaten gold oblong with the club logo - a serpent twisted into a figure eight - embossed in the centre. They had always reminded her uncomfortably of dog-tags, in case extra assistance was needed to identify a body.
His quiet tut jolted her out of her dark thoughts. The necklace still swung between them, her hands refusing to reach out and take it from him.
With an impatient growl, he stepped behind her and placed the thin, leather cord around her neck, his fingers brushing against her collarbone as he centred it with care.
Her pendant was slightly different, she noticed, being black rather than the standard gold. She assumed this was meant to demonstrate her probationary status.
He didn’t step away once the task was complete and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising as he stroked a thumb over the livid bruise his thug had left on her throat the night before. She wondered if he was mentally calculating if the hand print matched his own.
Reaching up, he tilted her chin towards the light. “You’ll need another coat of base on this. I assume you have some with you?”
Heart rate becoming increasingly unsteady beneath his scrutiny, she nodded as much as his grip would allow.
“Good. We have special guests in tonight and they expect the best.” His hands dropped to rest briefly on her shoulders and then his attention shifted and he moved back to his desk, effectively dismissing her.
Verity had the sudden urge to rip the leather cord from her throat. This wasn’t a necklace or a set of dog tags, she thought viciously, it was a collar… or a noose.