11. Elyse #2
“Yeah. Well, now you do.” She winks. “There are a few more hoops to jump through. They want the short list to do a test shoot in house. You know the score. But the creative director is a gal pal of mine. She’s fabulous, and I know her taste inside out.
I’m telling you, you’d be perfect. And this”—she shakes her phone at me—“is gorgeous. Gorgeous. If we pulled this off, it would be a career-making contract for you. No more catalogues.”
I laugh a little at that. I won’t let myself believe her, won’t let myself sip whatever Kool-Aid she’s on just yet.
Because probabilities are probabilities, no matter how infectious her excitement is.
And I can only hope the “big U.S. house” she referred to isn’t Sinclair’s family business, Voss.
That would be a little too close for comfort.
Still, a week ago, I didn’t think I’d be ten grand less in debt and dealing with the very high-quality problem of a banged-up pussy.
Maybe, just maybe, my luck is changing.
For the first couple hours of my Alchemy shift, I’m jumpy as hell.
I have no idea if Sinclair Voss will stop by tonight and no reason to think he will.
What did Pixie say last week—that she hadn’t seen much of him lately?
Well, I saw a whole lot of him last night, and I shouldn’t expect lightning to strike twice.
Besides, his parting words last night, after he’d zipped himself up and laid me back against the pillows like a zombie, were I’ll see you. Not I’ll see you tomorrow.
If someone were to ask me if I even want to see him tonight, then I honestly wouldn’t know the answer.
I have no clue if I do or don’t want to lay eyes on him after what went down.
I think what I want is clarity? I would like to know for sure whether or not he’s stopping by, and ideally when, so I can either relax or psych myself up.
I’m on tenterhooks here, and I hate it. I’m generally not the coolest person when it comes to seeing guys after I’ve slept with them, and I definitely have no game in the big leagues.
How the heck are you supposed to come face to face with a guy like him after sex like that? I was fine playing it cool when he was just another hot, rich guy hitting on me across the bar. No, Mr. Voss, I never go upstairs.
Yeah, not sure that line will work for me anymore.
A gaggle of women comes to the bar—all sleek Manhattanites with perfect blowouts and expensive dresses and even more expensive faces.
It sounds bitchy, but it’s true. No shade on them, but they weren’t born with those faces, nor did they grow into them.
They’re undeniably beautiful, yet every feature is intentional.
Pixie explained to me when I started here that the female members fall into two main groups: the professional women who work hard and come here looking for extreme and efficient forms of stress relief—which makes total sense—and the socialites.
I’ve gotten pretty good at identifying who falls in which category, and it holds equally well for the guys, too: they’re mostly crazy successful in the business world or spending the hell out of a trust fund.
Or both, if you’re Sinclair Voss or Felix Wolff or any of their buddies.
I study my current customers discreetly as I open a fresh bottle of Dom Perignon and pour them each a glass.
There’s no way any of them spent the day on Wall Street.
Do these glossy women, who seem terrified of breaking a nail or getting a hair out of place, all put out like I did?
Do they relish having men strapping them to medieval torture devices and fucking the living daylights out of them?
Or do they just pretend to enjoy it in the hope that it’s a means to a more official type of relationship?
I must ask Pixie when she gets back from her break.
Alchemy is an effective and exclusive way to access the hottest, richest, most debauched men on this island, that’s for sure, but I can’t imagine many of the guys are here to score a wife.
I finish pouring the drinks and turn to set the bottle of champagne in its ice bucket behind the bar when one of them—a gorgeous redhead in a sleek one-shouldered white dress—stops me with a raised hand.
“You can leave the bottle, honey.”
“I’m afraid I can only serve it to you by the glass,” I explain.
“I’ll need to stamp your hands for those glasses, and then when you’ve finished your glass, I’ll be delighted to refill you.
It’s two drinks max if you want to go upstairs later.
” The only way Alchemy can protect its two-drink policy is by handling bottle purchases this way.
Full refills only. I’m not sure why I have to explain this to her, unless she’s a new member.
Her jaw drops open. I think she’s trying to frown, but I can’t be sure. “We bought the bottle. We can decide when we’ve had enough. And I don’t need a fucking stamp. You think I want to risk getting your shitty ink on my Valentino?” She gestures at the dress.
Conflict is not something I enjoy, but a lot of our staff training goes into dealing with entitled asses.
Alchemy works because there is zero tolerance for any divergence from the rules.
It doesn’t need to make its members happy, but it does need to keep them safe.
The protocol is always rules over accommodation when it comes to alcohol consumption, although it’s not difficult to see that she’s already had a few drinks off-premises.
Unfortunately, that’s not something we can police.
“I’m happy to leave the ice bucket here for you, of course,” I say, gesturing at the bar in front of me as her girlfriends start to turn and pay attention to this little tiff.
“But I will need to give you all a red stamp in that case, to show the doormen that you’re not interested in going upstairs. ”
“We paid fifteen hundred dollars for that bottle,” her friend says, leaning over the bar in a way that suggests she’s trying to intimidate me.
I can see the whole way down her cleavage like this.
“How long does it take you to earn fifteen hundred, hey, honey? A long fucking time, I’d say, judging by your nasty little Target shirt.
We’re going upstairs later, whether you like it or not, and you’ll still be here, serving up your little drinks and hoping someone stuffs a few singles in your bra. ”
I am absolutely able to handle myself with these Manhattan princesses—I’m from Jersey, for chrissakes—but the sheer nastiness of their words has me reeling.
I hold up my hand to tell them that Alchemy doesn’t tolerate abuse of its staff or its policies, but I don’t get a chance, because a huge fist comes slamming down on the polished wood of the bar, making me—and my adversaries—jump.
Oh fuck, it’s Sinclair.