3. Chapter Three ~ Chris
Chapter Three ~ Chris
Even two weeks later I can’t seem to get Emma out of my head. Each time I see her on the floor below, I want to call her up here, though I’ve been refraining for a few days now.
After all, what kind of message does it send if I have a favorite cocktail waitress? And how stupid would the other girls (or the bouncers, the bartenders, or anyone else on the payroll) have to be not to realize that she was coming up here daily?
Still, that doesn’t mean I haven’t been watching her to see what she’s up to during her shifts. Or purposely scheduling her during times I’m going to be here. It helps her as well. After all, the times I’m here are the busiest, which means she’s working through the best crowd for tips.
“Christian.” I grimace slightly at hearing the name and the tone in which she says it but then force a smile.
“Wendy. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
My sister never comes here, so there must be something big going on if she’s decided to ‘slum it’ enough to set foot in my club. She used to be here all the time, dancing and having fun. But then she met some hedge fund manager type, and now she’s wearing furs and diamonds and thinks she’s too classy for this joint.
“I wanted to come talk to you about the dinner this weekend.”
“What dinner?” I’m drawing a blank on just what’s supposed to be happening. I was planning on getting things ready for the club over the weekend. Same as any other week.
“The dinner at Mom and Dad’s.” She’s giving me a look like I should know this but I don’t remember setting up a dinner with Mom and Dad. “Chris, this has been a month in planning. You need to be there.”
“What’s so special about dinner this weekend?” I can probably make it work but I’m suspicious about just why she thinks it’s such a big deal.
“Because … I just want everyone there, okay?”
I roll my eyes but agree to show up. If she traipsed all the way down here to tell me about it she must have a reason. Though knowing her, it could be just about anything. Maybe Margie is going to start giving speeches at the local university. Or maybe her husband landed yet another big account. There’s no telling with Wendy.
“Good. We’re going to have dinner at 6:00, all right? Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be there,” I repeat and she practically scurries out the door.
“Who was that?” Ethan asks and I shake my head.
“You remember Wendy, don’t you?”
“Wendy? That was Wendy? She definitely looks different.”
“Yeah, I know. Mom and Dad think Mark is good for her but I don’t agree. He turned her into a pretentious brat.”
Ethan shakes his head right along with me and instead of talking more about Wendy, the conversation turns to the business. Whatever is going on with her, I’ll find out soon enough.
Which is even more true as the rest of the week passes seemingly in a blur and then I’m standing at the door of the house I grew up in.
We have family dinners occasionally. That’s not the issue. It’s just that I know this is going to turn into another opportunity for Wendy to brag and my parents to act like they’re pleased with me as well, even though they’re not.
“Oh, Chris! I’m so glad you made it!”
I give a sharp nod and allow them to lead me inside where Wendy and Mark and Margie are already gathered.
“Uncle Chris!” At least someone is genuinely pleased to see me.
Margie races over as quickly as her chubby five-year-old legs can carry her and gives me a big hug. Despite myself, I can’t help but smile and hug her back.
I’ve never been that big on kids, but there’s certainly something about this little girl. For now I pull a couple pieces of candy out of my pocket (I’ve taken to being that uncle) and hand them over, which she immediately pops in her mouth, despite her parents’ frowns.
“I wish you wouldn’t give her treats like that before we have dinner,” Wendy complains and I just roll my eyes.
It’s only a few minutes more of small talk, which mostly means Mom and Dad and Wendy and Mark discussing everything while Margie and I sit on the couch and I entertain her with some sleight of hand. Then we’re called into the dining room where Mom and Dad choose chairs at either end. Wendy, her husband, and their daughter each sit on Mom’s right. And I sink into the chair on Dad’s left. It’s where we’ve sat since we were children, though we’ve definitely grown up since then.
“I have some news to share,” Wendy says nearly as soon as we’ve all filled our plates and are ready to dig in.
“What is it, Sweetie?” Mom asks and I can tell that Dad is giving her his undivided attention as well.
“Mark was just accepted into the space shuttle program!” She practically squeals and Mark grins as well.
“That’s great news, Sweetie,” Mom tells her, hugging Wendy like it’s her accomplishment instead of Mark’s. I roll my eyes but turn to him with my hand outstretched.
“Great job,” I tell him and he grins even more broadly.
“I’m pretty pleased about it.”
The rest of the evening seems to pass in a blur. Everyone is talking about Mark’s new job. And then we’re talking about Margie’s dance class. And Wendy’s new country club membership. And through it all I catch the sidelong glances from Wendy. And Mom. And a few from Mark as well, though he mostly tries to avoid getting too judgy of my lifestyle.
“Chris, Honey …” I know what that means. It means that there’s certainly something of an intervention coming and I quickly stand up. That’s my cue to get out of here. “We just want to see you find someone special. Someone who will get you to stop all of … this.”
She doesn’t like my life, doesn’t like that I own a club and that I’m there all the time, doesn’t like that I throw parties at my house even when the club isn’t having them. Or that on the nights I do take a woman back to my place it’s always a different one. No attachments. No serious girlfriends. And that’s how I managed to get where I am.
But perhaps if I made a show of it I could get them to lay off.
My thoughts again turn to Emma and I think about everything that I know about her.
Of course I feel like I know her body more than my own. I’ve studied it. I can’t get enough.
And according to Ethan she’s a hard worker. She takes all the shifts we give her and picks up extras whenever they’re available. According to what I’ve seen, she’s good at her job. She talks to the customers just enough without dallying.
She keeps them interested and coming back. But she’s a quiet person. The other waitresses don’t seem to know a lot about her when I speak to them.
“Emma? Well, she’s been here for a while,” Elizabeth tells me. “But I really couldn’t tell you much other than she’s got a sister and a mother. She doesn’t talk about them. Doesn’t really talk about her home life at all.”
“I think she’s still young. But she does a good job. Better than some of the others.” That comes from Andrea, who’s been here for quite a while and is probably one of our best waitresses.
“What do you think of her as a person?”
“I think she’s friendly. And when she gets here for work it’s always at least 30 minutes before the place opens. No problems with her work ethic, that’s for sure.”
It’s probably the best I’m going to get without talking to her myself. But the snippets I get from everyone else combined with what I have learned about her (other than the sounds she makes when I nip at the pulse point of her throat or the way her body tenses when I slide deep inside her) all seem overwhelmingly positive.
She could be exactly what I need to make my parents chill the fuck out. And it just might be the excuse I need to spend as much time as I want with her. But will a fake relationship do it? Or do I need something more?
Dad has always been big on carrying forth the family legacy. And I know he’s pleased as anything about Margie, but Margie doesn’t have our name. And even if she did, she wouldn’t be able to pass it on. That’s all on me. And it’s been an unspoken understanding that someday I would have kids and pass on that name, but now that I’m getting closer and closer to the time when it’s most normal to have kids the pressure has been getting more intense. And a relationship isn’t going to fix that.
“Ethan? Can I speak with you?”
I sit up straighter at hearing the voice, practically right outside my door. Is it possible that I just conjured her up here by thinking about her? And asking the others about her? But no, she seems a little nervous and she’s asking to speak to Ethan, not me.
“Of course. Is there a problem?” he asks her and there’s a long moment of hesitation.
“I would like to be a dancer.”
“Wait, what? You, a dancer? That’s not gonna happen. Sorry, Sweetheart.”
“I’ll audition for it. Or … try out … or … whatever you need,” she tells him and her voice is anxious. But I don’t even care about that because all I can think of is the fact that she would be standing up on the stage dancing for the rest of the customers. That they would be watching her, enjoying her, entirely too much for my comfort.
Before I can stop myself I stride out of my office and into Ethan’s, which causes both of them to look up at me, startled.
“You want to be a dancer?” I ask her and she hesitates a moment before nodding her head.
“Yes. I do.”
“Come with me.” Ethan gives me a strange look but doesn’t say anything as she quickly stands and follows me to my own office. “So, why is it you want to be a dancer?”
“I … I think I’d be good at it. And I would do whatever I need to. I will practice and train and whatever it takes to get the job.” She’s certainly in earnest about this. Almost desperate. And that’s exactly what I need if I’m going to get her to agree to my counterproposal.
But I don’t speak now. I just raise an eyebrow at her because her protesting isn’t answering what I asked. Finally she sighs.
“I want the pay increase. I need to make more money.”
“I’m not going to make you a dancer.”
“What? No, Mr. Warren, I can do this. I know that I can. I just need a chance at-“
“I have another offer.”
“Another … another offer?” She’s staring up at me and I pause a moment. Partially for the effect of it. Partially because I’m debating in my head if this is what I want to do. But it seems like the best way to solve both of our problems.
“I want you to have my baby.”