Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Jesus, Mom. You shanked it into the next county.”
I knock my iron on the heel of my shoe and squint against the sun, searching for my mom’s hot-pink breast-cancer ball.
My hand aches from gripping the club too hard, tense after my argument with Cali.
I spot the ball up against a tree surrounded by thick rough.
I thought the balls my mom brought were obnoxious, but I’ve changed my mind.
We’d never find them if they weren’t neon.
“I don’t see it,” she says, her attention on the fairway. “Are you sure it’s not up ahead?”
Fred glances at me conspiratorially. He’s in khaki golf pants and a striped blue polo, but Fred shoots in the seventies, so his expensive wardrobe is justified. “Come on, honey,” he tells my mom. “Go ahead and take a mulligan.”
My mom twists her mouth like she doesn’t believe us, but she drops another ball and props the head of her five-iron on the grass, getting into position and swaying her hips. She looks down the fairway, wiggles her rear, looks up, readjusts her position, wiggles some more—
“In this lifetime, Mom.”
“Patience, Genevieve. You’re ruining my concentration.”
Fred waves a foursome past us. At this rate, my mom will still be preparing for her shot after the group putts out.
A few hours later, after the longest nine holes of my life, we make it to the clubhouse for sustenance.
“My treat, Gen,” Fred says as he scans the menu, sandy blond hair parted on the side and feathering over his forehead, his tanned skin smooth from monthly facials.
Fred pays for everything. At first, I thought it was a part of their arrangement, whatever that is—I don’t want to know.
But the more time I spend with him, the more my perspective changes.
There’s no hidden agenda with Fred. He holds doors for old ladies and assists men struggling with heavy boxes; the guy is just nice, and he’s from the Midwest. He pays because he was raised that way. He’s a gentleman.
I hardly understand the notion.
People rarely dated in college, and if they did, it wasn’t in the typical fashion. We were all poor, so we paid our share. One date went so far as to shortchange me, and believe me, I was not impressed.
The couple of times I’ve tried to pay in front of Fred, he’s found ways to slip me back the cash.
Fred sets down the menu and silently hands my mom the alcohol list she’s determinedly reaching for. “So what time is the show tonight?” he says.
Mom and Fred call my gig at the casino “the show” because my mom’s been looking forward to celebrating the day I walk around in revealing clothes since I was but a youth.
“My shift starts at nine. You guys should get there early. Fewer people; I won’t be as busy.”
My mom looks excitedly at Fred and says, “That won’t be a problem. We have a My Republic concert at ten.”
I choke on an ice chip from my water. “Mom, that’s like, a young band—for people my age.”
She rolls her eyes. “Gen, you don’t listen to music for people your age.”
So I sometimes stop on the easy listening station. Her point?
“Fred and I aren’t fuddy-duddies. We enjoy current stuff.”
My jaw drops. “Are you trying to tell me something?” My mom thinks I act too old for my age and my best friend feels I betrayed her. I can’t handle any more truths today.
She smiles and pats my hand, returning her attention to the drink menu. “Darling, you are perfect the way you are, even if your music choices are boring.”
And this is why I dread my mother’s appearance tonight. Boring isn’t in her repertoire. Anything can happen, and it’s sure to embarrass me.
“A little closer, honey,” my mom orders as I pose, my bicep quivering beneath a tray laden with drinks while Mom gets in a candid shot. The bartender smiles for the camera and adds another beverage to my load as I look on, and, per Mom’s orders, hold up my knockers.
Jesus. I glance to make sure no one’s looking.
The three patrons sitting in Mont Belle Lounge snicker behind their hands at my mother and the display she’s putting on.
If Cali were watching, she’d be laughing her ass off right now—only she’s mad at me, so maybe not.
I wish I could edit out half of our last conversation.
It came out all wrong and I feel like a terrible friend.
I couldn’t help what happened with Eric, but I could have handled telling Cali better. I hate that I hurt her.
“Okay, Mom, I gotta return to work.”
Chantell raises her eyebrows, her mouth a straight line of disbelief.
“It’s going to turn into a mad rush soon.” A little white lie is necessary during times of parental embarrassment.
My mom hands Fred the camera. “All right. We need to leave for our concert anyway.” She stalks over and pushes in the sides of my breasts, yanking in strategic places until my cleavage reaches my chin.
I gape at her. “Are you finished feeling me up?”
She puckers her lips and assesses her work. “Better. Work those tips.” She winks and smacks a kiss on my cheek. Fred grins at her, as if she’s charming. I don’t get it, but somehow they’ve made the relationship work and my mom seems happier than I’ve ever seen her.
“Mom, flashing cleavage isn’t how I’d like to earn tips.”
“I’m kidding.” She waves her hand. “You know I’ve got your expenses covered. Enjoy yourself, that’s all.”
Now that she brings it up… I’ve only hedged around the issue before, have never flat-out asked. I’ve been too scared to hear the truth. “How, Mom? How do you have it covered?”
Her gaze goes blank. “I just do, silly.”
I glance behind her at Fred and lower my voice. “From him? Mom, he’s nice compared to the others, but I don’t want him paying my way. It’s not right.”
She taps my shoulder lightly. “Of course Fred doesn’t pay for you. Why would you think that?”
Is she kidding? Does she think I’m clueless? She has no means of financial support, no wealthy family backing her. How else does she pay our bills?
Fred steps forward. “We better get going, Chantell. Great outfit, Gen. You look beautiful.” He smiles in a fatherly manner, his gaze never straying to my mother-enhanced boobs. I don’t think the notion even crosses his mind.
They leave, my mom’s final response not really an answer to my question, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s consistent with her answers to my questions about my father.
Shortly thereafter, as I’m pondering all this, Drake Peterson enters the lounge.
He takes in the empty tables, and unlike Fred, makes a full perusal of the breasts I didn’t get a chance to tuck back in.
“Looks slow,” he says. “How do you feel about helping me with a group of colleagues I’m entertaining in one of the suites upstairs?
We could use a waitress, and I promise great tips. ”
I don’t trust this guy, hooter gazing notwithstanding. Then again, I’ve designated a lot of men as not-to-be-trusted. I’m not the best judge of character. And he’s my boss’s boss—or something like that. Can I even say no?
“I’m the only one here tonight.”
He gestures to the empty tables, his mouth curling up on one side. “The lounge will survive without you for a few minutes.” He hands me a key card. “I’ll have Maryanne cover for you. Come up in thirty,” he says, and walks away.
My supervisor Maryanne works the pit across from the lounge, adjacent to the bar where Jaeger’s friend Mason works. I catch Mason glaring at Drake as he leaves.
What’s up with that?
Mason was one of the guys Cali wanted to set me up with when we first started at Blue.
I tried spending time with him. He was nice and cute—safe, because my feelings were never deeply involved.
I would have dated him a couple of months ago, but the A-hole taught me that playing it safe can backfire.
Mason tried to kiss me and I shut him down.
Damn that botched kiss. If things weren’t so awkward between Mason and me, I’d ask him why the look. But things are awkward and I’m too chicken to go over there.
Everything will be fine. I’ll serve a few patrons upstairs and earn good tips—pad the college fund. No big deal.
Thirty minutes later, I rap lightly on the door to Drake’s suite as a formality and enter using the key card he gave me. The ginormous room is sleek, decorated in beige with dark blue accents and blond, modern wood furniture; the focal point a picture window overlooking the lake and mountains.
Drake lounges across the room in a plush upholstered seat, his elbow over the back of his chair, swirling a clear drink in his hand. He’s all sophisticated nonchalance, hair lightly rumpled, eyes a bit glassy.
It’s only been thirty minutes since I last saw him. Could he get drunk that quickly?
The coffee table in front of him is cluttered with all manner of empty glasses, and it reminds me of the night at the Blue club when I drank way too much too quickly. So yes, it seems it would be possible for Drake to be drunk. But if he has access to alcohol, why does he need me?
Five men chat casually around the coffee table in front of Drake, but Drake’s the only one wearing a suit, his jacket removed, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The other men are dressed in business casual—khakis and polo shirts—like they’ve just come from the golf course.
Drake glances up, a hungry smile sliding across his face. “Gentlemen,” he says, grabbing their attention. “This is Genevieve. She’s here to offer her services.”
Whoa. Why would he say it like that? He makes it sound like—
Gazes roll over my body like an oil slick, sticky and pervasive. A man with a puffy face swivels his chair toward me, crossing his legs at the ankle. A lazy smile plays on his thin, narrow mouth, his eyes half-lidded and focused on my chest.
My hands grow cold and I duck my head, fidgeting with my cash caddy. I’ve gotten used to the skimpy uniforms—being checked out is a part of the job, but this… It’s not right.
“Over here.” Drake gestures with two fingers.