Chapter Eleven
Lily
? “Stupid Girl” – Garbage ?
He wanted the most expensive bottle, so I sold him the most expensive bottle.
I had to grab a ladder from the supply closet just to reach it on the highest shelf.
“Remy Martin Cognac Louis XIII,” I read off the label.
I have never tasted it, nor even thought about putting my hands on something like this.
I had to notify Roxxie about the sale for Axel to clear it in the computer and put it on Jace’s tab.
Back in the section, I slam the bottle on the table next to him and sit my ass down on the other side of the sectional.
We don’t speak to each other for the rest of the night.
He sits there on his computer, typing away and running his hands through his hair like a fucking manic while drinking straight from the bottle.
I keep myself entertained with my cuticles, making a mental note to bring nail supplies on my next shift just in case I’m stuck with him again.
By the time he is done with whatever keeps him busy on his computer, he packs up his laptop, shoves it in his arms, stands and walks out the section, saying absolutely nothing to me.
He drank half the bottle and yet does not stumble, fumble, or trip when he walks out of the room.
I don’t understand how he is not completely intoxicated.
My stomach churns at the thought of him getting behind the wheel.
Finally, I force my stiff body off the couch and make my way to the locker room. I look at the clock on the wall and note it’s almost three in the morning. The lights are slowly starting to brighten throughout the club, and I can hear people stumbling and laughing on their way to the exits.
“How was your first VIP?” Marge walks in, grabbing cash from out of her bra.
“I’d rather shove my own foot in my throat next time,” I say, ripping off my heels and throwing them into my locker.
She stops moving, her eyes bulging. “Oh my, he had a foot fetish?” she asks, crinkling up her nose in disgust.
I chuckle only because I can see Jace having some type of fetish. I wouldn’t put it past him to like sucking on toes.
“No, I’d just rather be on the floor than be stuck in confinement again. It was prison,” I say.
“Go talk to Axel.”
I laugh harder this time, throwing my head back and wiping away the tears falling down my cheeks as I try to catch my breath. I look back at Marge to see her standing there, her eyebrows reaching her hairline and her hands on her hips.
“Nobody talks to Axel, Marge. Isn’t that what you said?”
“True,” she states, counting her money. “But if you seriously don’t like it, you tell Roxxie, and because it’s a VIP, she is forced to take you to Axel for the situation.”
My face falls, throat tightening at the thought of meeting Axel. I have worked here for over three years and never met the man who writes my checks. Never put a face to the name. Never heard the voice of the man who makes millions a year from millionaires.
Marge shrugs her shoulders at me, walking to her locker. “I’m just giving you an option, sweetheart. Don’t start having a panic attack over it.”
“Have you ever met Axel?” I whisper.
She nods. “Yeah. Once, four years ago. I was uncomfortable with a VIP. He never did anything but would say degrading shit to me. I didn’t think it was enough to get him kicked out completely, I just never wanted to be in that room with him again.
One stop to Axel’s office and it was done.
” She looks up at the ceiling, placing her fingertips on her chin.
“Come to think about it though, I never saw his face. When I walked in, his chair was facing that large window that looks down at the club. He stayed facing away from me the entire time. Roxxie was in the room, too. She spoke for him. So I never heard his voice either.” She shrugs her shoulders again, picking up her purse from the bench.
I twirl my finger in my shirt, thinking about meeting my big bad boss for the first time ever.
I pluck off the note taped to my bedroom door.
Mark the date, June 6th art exhibit.
I squeal reading Celeste’s handwriting. I couldn’t be more proud of her.
Opening my bedroom door, I tape the note to my computer and throw myself onto my bed.
My conversation with Marge replays in my head.
I’m trying to find the pros of being in VIP with Jace.
Fortunately, I don’t find any. They are all cons.
If I stay in VIP with him, he will annoy me, try to control me, won’t let me talk to anyone else, and most of all, I won’t make any money.
I still owe seventy- seven grand on my school tuition this year, which will only increase for the next three semesters.
I shouldn't have quit Caffee Latte, but Jace sticking up for me opened my eyes to the emotional and mental abuse I was going through with my boss. It’s too late now, though.
I doubt I would be hired again after Jace picked my boss up by the throat and practically threatened to kill him.
Ever since Rowan forced him to come babysit me, it’s like he has this protective instinct over me. Maybe I can talk to Rowan and tell him to put his dog on a leash or a shock collar. Rowan needs to tell him, “Bad dog, leave the poor girl”—a.k.a. me—“alone.”
That’s if we ever see Rowan again. Celeste told me she hasn’t talked to him since Italy.
I should have asked Jace about that. I shake my head at the fact that I’m a terrible friend.
Okay, I will handle one more VIP for one night just so I can freaking ask Jace where the fuck Rowan is and tell him to stop fucking around with Celeste.
She is wife material and deserves the world.
I scrape myself off the bed after having my mental conversation with myself and head for the shower so I can get ready for bed.
I walk out of my criminal law class, squeezing between people so I can quickly catch the subway back home.
Criminal law is my least favorite. If I ever finish school before I drop dead, I will refuse to be a defense attorney.
I’d rather work in family law than have to deal with criminals all day.
My best friend dealing with a boyfriend who is possibly being hunted by the mafia is enough drama for me.
“Lily!”
I stop walking, turning around and scanning the crowd.
I swear I heard my name, but nobody around me is staring at me or looks remotely familiar.
Ignoring it, I take two steps to continue walking when someone pulls my hand back.
I flip around to see Mateo behind me. I rip my hand back and clutch my books into my chest.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pull your hand like that. I’ve just been—” He wipes his hand across his forehead. “I’ve been waiting for you to get out of class. I wasn’t sure if you had class or not today so I’ve kind of been waiting all day,” he says, his cheeks turning a shade of pink.
I stare at him in shock. He’s wearing a two-piece dark blue plaid suit, those cute little glasses, and his hair is a little ruffled from either his hands or the wind.
I hold out my hand to him and his eyes dart down, looking confused. I shake my hand and say, “Hand me your phone.”
He pulls his phone out of his front pocket and puts it in my hand. I swipe up to find it unlocked and enter my phone number, handing it back to him. “There. You have my number and now you don’t have to wait. Text next time.”
His smile reaches his eyes as he nods, staring at his phone like I handed him gold. “Want to take a walk with me?”
I pull my phone out of my back pocket to look at the time. Shit. “I’m sorry,” I say as I start skipping backward. “I have to make the subway to get home.”
“I’ll take you home,” he spits out quickly.
I stop moving, staring at him. If he takes me home, then he will know where I live and where I work.
If he knows where I live, then there is a possibility he could be a psycho and show up anytime he wants.
Or he could rob us, or hire someone to rob us.
Or kill us. Kill me! Most psychopaths pretend to be really nice in the beginning before they murder their victims and then throw them in a freezer. Or a lake. Or an ocean. Or a dump site!
If a psychopath shows you they are crazy from the start, does that mean they are not actually psychos?
I mean, Jace and Rowan are both a little crazy.
Rowan was stalking Celeste—we don’t count Celeste following him home, she was doing her job.
Rowan always knew where she was. Had keys to the house and probably has cameras in her room like a weirdo.
Jace almost killed my boss for me, showed me how to use a gun, somehow got my cell phone number, and is trying to be controlling, all within a couple of days of getting to know me outside my job.
“Okay.” I shrug my shoulders, letting the overthinking roll off me.
If he kills me, I won’t be an attorney. I won’t have to go through the absolute heartbreak of telling my parents I dropped out of law school. Instead, they will have to deal with burying their oldest daughter. Little depressing, but I would rather die than break my parents' hearts.
“Great,” he says, smiling and throwing his arm over my shoulder.