18. PAIGE
EIGHTEEN
PAIGE
It’s a palpable feeling.
Men with power. Powering.
A buzz some are immune to from naivete, or worse, experience.
Aware of the current, I skip the drink, but accept the man’s invitation —just get this fucking over with.
As I wander toward them, I try to dip my hips in a way that hopefully makes it look more like a strut than trepidation.
Strupidation.
The old ism—for once— doesn’t make me wince, but twitches the corner of my mouth and sparks my step. Discreetly, my eyes peer back toward the guest entrance door—just keeping tabs on how far away it is.
Probably no more than the intro to “Sunday Morning.”
The No Doubt song plays in my head, my stilettos clicking to the internal drum taps, as I reach the center of the room, mostly naked and on display for four strangers—one of which is technically my boss.
No more naked than you are downstairs. In front of hundreds of people.
I mean, typically I was a little more than a steady breeze away from a nip-slip—but whatever. Haven’t cared about nudity since . . . ever , basically.
But this is strange . . .
“Take a seat,” Sharktooth finally says, and now that I’m close enough, I can confirm, I hate his voice. It just . . . sounds like it talks too much.
Just make the money.
I move to sit, and the leather stretches in crazy, fairly invasive ways, least of all the straps that are protecting my crotch.
A discomfort I am grateful for, I remind myself.
Beck’s eyes meet mine with another smile and I absently wonder if it’s real. You can’t tell with some people. Jaws over there looks creepy, but maybe he’s just the only one not pretending. Maybe he’s not creepy at all . . .
“So, Blue, do you have a singing background?” Beck asks.
Aaand why do I suddenly feel like I’m at a job interview?
Crossing my ankles like the lady I am not, I lean my elbow on the arm of the chair in an attempt to appear at ease—while also trying to find a position that doesn’t feel uncomfortable.
But this is fucking uncomfortable.
When he continues to look at me, expectantly, I breathe and then easily say, “Church choir.”
Beck chuckles again. “And I’d bet everyone showed up to hear you.”
Seriously, what the fuck is this?
The movement to my right catches my attention, seeing the two boys get up and head over toward the bar. As my eyes scoot back, Sharktooth seems only half-invested just as Beck clears his throat. “Well, anyway, I’ve got to get going—I’m meeting some colleagues at the Chateau.”
Sharktooth stands, with a cackle, saying, “Oh, last time I went there, I pissed next to Harrison Ford,” all but stumbling off to the other two by the bar.
Beck smiles, glancing over at me, “It was probably the bathroom attendant, who . . . does surprisingly look a good bit like Indiana Jones.”
My eyebrows pinch. Does he think we’re having a moment right now or something? He’s about to leave me up here with his coked-out friend and two barely-men!
It’s a battle of blues between our eyes but my face must look some sort of way because he says, “Look, I know these guys. Tariel is a little wild, but those two are his nephews, he’s just trying to show off for them. I assure you, this will be the easiest money you’ve ever made.”
I think my brain might explode from the amount of words I’m holding back, so I can’t help it when it just slips out. “And what’s the easiest money you’ve ever made?”
He huffs, amused, then simply says, “That’s easy. You.”
Again, the control over my face is wearing thin, but he quickly clarifies, “All of you. You’re all employees of The Window, and therefore, I pay you. And I think money is best spent on people. Invest in good people, less turnover, you work less—easy money.”
Simple and idealistic as it might be, I don’t like that I don’t hate his answer. It has a veil of humility I wasn’t expecting.
“How about this,” he says. “I’ll grab Jackson and tell him to come do a check-in in about a half hour? He can pass it off as a bar cart check.”
Pass it off?
Why should it matter if a security guard is checking on a room in a building under his watch?
“Anyway, I really have to go. But I do hope to see you again soon.”
My mouth doesn’t work, and in just a few steps, he’s over by the bar cart, shaking the gentlemen’s hands before striding back toward the guest entrance door and pushing through it and I just can’t shake the feeling that . . .
The babysitter left.
As my eyes pull over to the bar cart, Sharktooth’s dark eyes sink into me, emphasized by the heavy door shutting behind Beck.
I’m just on edge. It’s fine.
I can handle it. Jackson will be coming by.
You’re trusting the million-dollar man that goes to places like the Chateau, getting mints and condoms from Captain Dynamite. Smart.
Straightening my spine, I dig my feet into the ground as the men come back over to where I’m sitting. Sharktooth is carrying a decanter of bourbon and an extra glass.
He’s lost what’s left of his blitzed-out mind if he thinks I’m going to drink anything he offers.
So he doesn’t. He just pours. A subtle power move as he slides it to my end of the table.
I ignore it, and instead, stand up, mostly just to release some nervous energy, but then I say, “Why don’t we switch up the music? I can give you a little taste of the fun we have downstairs.”
God, even saying it out loud sounds like a deal I’m striking with a toddler.
“Why would we want the downstairs experience upstairs ?” Sharktooth asks, displaying his long rows of straight white teeth. A haunted, maddening xylophone trill plays through my mind at the sight. I can’t tell if it’s my anxiety mixing with the adrenaline, but he seems more . . . menacing.
My eyes narrow. “Well, I think they have a deck of cards in the bar cart. Go fish?”
He chuckles, flicking a glance to the boys, who are settling back into their seats. It’s out of my mouth before I even realize it—”How old are you?”
“They’re twenty-three today,” Sharktooth says cheerfully. The boys share a smirk, then continue to mostly have a staring contest with their glasses as he continues, “I have a feeling you can dance to this, Bluebird. Why don’t you give it a shot? I love this song.”
The nickname Bluebird makes me wish I could peck his eyes out, but I side-step it, and turn back into the music. It’s still jazz, but more upbeat—I recognize this song, actually. Whiplash— the Don Ellis version.
Fuck it, let’s see how this goes.
Remembering an idea from earlier when I was becoming BFFs with the bar cart, I start to walk toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, planning to use the curtains somehow, but I’m stopped by Sharktooth’s voice, “Uhh—”
My chin twists to him. He looks but says nothing else.
My eyebrows lift, expectantly, and he grins —Jesus, I wish he wouldn’t do that— then pats his lap.
Of course.
Something I’ve already thought about, and I take a breath, trying to shake away the unease as I shrug. “There’s a strict no touching policy here. I’d hate for you and the birthday boys to get banned from the club.”
He laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s fucking heard, while the boys look over, watching me, but in more of a studying way.
This whole thing is just fucking bizarre.
My eyes pull over to the door—just a little bit farther than I was last time I checked.
If I kick off my heels, it’s still a quick run.
I stay where I am, and my eyes lock with his for the first time tonight. Dark—his pupils are massive. No doubt from the blow, but I can barely tell what color they are.
It doesn’t matter. I straighten my spine, narrow my eyes. “You’re . . . some sort of businessman, yes?”
His smile stretches, sending another chill down my spine when he says, “I’d like to think I’m more of an artist.”
Great. A Renaissance creep.
My jaw tightens. “And how do you fund your art? With all due respect”— which is none— “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing your . . .” I trail off because fuck if I know what he does.
You’re here to make money, dipshit.
A flutter of irritation passes through his eyes, but he just as quickly sniffs his nose, his smile returning. “It’s not likely you’ve seen my work, Bluebird.” He takes a sip from his glass before he leans back. “But going back to your initial inquiry,” he pauses, while reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, and pulls a stack of cash. “We were talking business.”
A deep inhale loosens my shoulders. For some reason, the presence of the money brings me some ease. This has been a strange-as-fuck exchange and dancing for money sounds like the most normal thing I’ve heard all night.
I take one step, one click of my heel, before Sharktooth says, “Full transparency,” he smiles. “I was prepared to give you a thousand just for getting on my lap—your hesitation cost ya five hundred.” My eyes widen as he quickly adds, “But don’t worry. You’ll have a chance to earn it back.”
The idea of earning back something that I didn’t actually ask for shifts strangely in my stomach as he continues, “Actually, ya know what?” He claps, and the unexpected noise pulses in my chest as he says, “It’s kink night. I’ll bump it right back up if you crawl to me in that little number.” His blackened eyes drag along the lines of leather.
I don’t know why, but my eyes flick over to the boys—who are now wholly focused on me.
This is . . . weird. I mean, it isn’t normal to watch your uncle get a lap dance, right?
Watch me crawl to him.
But this is the first time they’ve even looked remotely interested in being here. Maybe what Beck said was right—Sharktooth is just a bougie guy giving his nephews an exclusive night.
Showing off.
And I only stand to make more money. I have to make up for missing work . . . the impulse purchases.
If I make enough, I can make a plan.
Swallowing hard, I see that all eyes are on me, and a cringe drags slowly through my shoulders, up my neck, and spreads through my skull as I slowly sink down to the floor.
It’s hard on my knees, my palms, but the most painful part of it is my vantage point, as I slowly crawl toward the green velvet settee—on my hands and knees—toward the pinstripe dress slacks to earn my one thousand dollars.
Luckily, the floor seems clean.
As I reach him and begin to stand, he says, ”Ahh, right there is good.”
On my knees . . .
I blink as everything slows down, waves swell between my ears, disorienting me as Sharktooth smiles.
Ice becomes my spine. In an instant, I know I’ve made a mistake.
I just do.
The music blasts just as everything speeds back up and two sets of hands are grabbing each of my arms.
The urge to kick and scream—flail and spit—it all bubbles up, but I don’t panic.
Jerking my arms just once, the boys’ grips tighten, and I wait for the slight release that comes with the offensive move.
It’s not enough to break free, but it’s just enough to lean forward and shoot my leg out behind me, angling my toes outward so the sharp pick of the stiletto hits him.
“Agh,” he growls, but unfortunately for me, only lets go with one of his hands. My shoes are ripped from my feet before I hear, “Bitch!”
Smack.
My face whips in the opposite direction as pain radiates across my cheek, taking a second to realize the guy fucking slapped me.
What the fuck?
I fight against their holds as fury pummels through me just as Sharktooth coos, “Easy.” He leans back like he hasn’t a care in the world before his eyes pull up to the boys holding my arms. “Remember. We’re looking for nonviolent restraint. They’ll almost always fight back. You’re disturbing comfort —expectancy— which is usually met with resistance.”
What in the ever-loving-fuck is this?
Am I seriously part of some demonstration of how to peacefully assault someone?
“ Forcing is different than taking ,” he adds, then drops his eyes to me. “Isn’t that right?” His stubby finger brushes over the still-heated skin on my cheek and I snap my teeth, missing. “Ooo,” he says, practically giddy. “Not the Bluebird on your shoulder.”
“Fuck you!” I spit back, blood boiling, blackness curling the edges of my vision.
How the fuck did I let this happen?
After everything I know about this shithole of a world, how is this happening?
Intrusive thoughts find me in every form as Sharktooth tosses the remote to the side, raising the cash he’s still holding, just slightly, before placing it in a neat stack on his knee.
“Is ten grand enough for us to see what that pretty voice sounds like when your mouth is stuffed with my cock?”
The blunt vulgarity of the question immediately burns my throat. A pressure builds behind my eyes . . .
“Filthy fucking tease.”
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
The sight of the money bounces around my vision like a screen saver.
Ten thousand dollars.
Just as a light breeze blows the sheer white curtains in the room, I gasp when I see Sharktooth has taken his dick out—unimpressive and offensive—just as the movement in the room slows again. Like it’s pliable, stretchable, rubber.
The man in front of me smiles with a slight nod to the boys still holding me.
“We got her.”
Rage relights just as they release my arms, and a resounding boom echoes like a gunshot through the room.
In an instant, my arms are free, and I don’t hesitate. My hand snatches the money off the knee in front of me, and without my heels on, I bolt toward the door.
My eyes flinch as the leather lodges farther up my ass crack, but I don’t care. I can’t help but look at the scene that just broke up my assault from the other side of the room. I see a guy. The security guard that just got fired . . . Seth.
What the fuck?
Jackson has him pinned down, chest to floor, cuffing him — but I’m still running toward the other door—the one closest to the stairwell that will lead me down to the dressing room.
“Blue!” I hear Jackson yell, twisting my neck. Still, I keep running.
I have ten grand. I’ll just fucking leave. Become a popstar in Canada.
The stupid thought quite literally gets knocked out of my head when I run face first into a plank of rock solid chest.
A yelp breaks free as the hard, toothy-looking floor connects with my bare ass. The ache in my tailbone throbs, but I try to shake it off, clenching my fist around the money in my hand. Keeping my head down for a second, I catch my breath.
A hand extends in front of me, the back of which is covered in ink—but I don’t accept the help.
I hate everyone right now, including you, new hot security guard. Pushing to my feet, I’m just about to take off again, but my eyes flick up on instinct and . . . my breath leaves me completely.
No. It’s stolen.
Everything stops.
Memories cast through my veins and then hook into my heart, sinking me to the spot.
I can’t breathe, I can’t blink, I can’t fucking move.
Dark hazel eyes trap mine, blazing down at me. A perfect wave of almost-black hair falls to his forehead, and it flicks my gaze downward, taking in the tapestry of ink sprawling down his cut arms—all the way to his knuckles.
Chaos erupts around us, but my eyes are voyagers on new land. Old land.
It can’t be.
And at the same time, there’s no mistaking it. The devastatingly handsome man stares at me in awe as his deep, hoarse voice rasps out, “P-Pip?”