by K. A. Tucker
“Yeah, boss. Try to keep out of trouble.”
The second I hang up with him, I hit my speed dial.
■ ■ ■
“Unusually hot, even for July,” Vicki croons, her four-inch heels clicking against the marble. My eyes follow her swaying hips as she struts through the foyer and into my spacious kitchen. She’s a thirty-year-old platinum-blond stockbroker who thinks I’m a twenty-nine-year-old investment banker. Because that’s what I told her. Women of her caliber want socially acceptable men.
Strip club owners are not socially acceptable men.
And I’m clearly successful in the field of investment banking—based on my spacious two-floor corner condo overlooking the Miami waterfront, in one of the most sought-after buildings by the bay. Really, it’s because of a great investment banker that I have all that I have. Aside from that lie and my address, she knows nothing about me.
Well, she also knows my favorite positions.
There can be no doubt about what I want when my number shows up on her call display. There’s never any guilt. Not on my part, anyway. Vicki is a smart, successful businesswoman who knows—and gets—what she wants. She probably devours male egos for breakfast. She made it clear from day one that she doesn’t have time for a boyfriend or a husband; she’s more focused on being the first female VP at her company. That’s fine with me because I don’t do relationships. In truth, I don’t know how to do a relationship.
But I do know how to fuck.
And with Vicki, that’s exactly what we do.
“Yeah . . .” I push a hand through my damp hair—fresh from a shower—as Vicki turns to settle green eyes on my bare chest. I didn’t bother putting on a shirt. She likes to shamelessly stare at my body and the various tats that adorn my skin. I had them done years ago, in the thick of my other life. I’m just relieved that I opted for tribal designs rather than skulls and rabid animals.
“How was your day?” she asks with a coy smile. We both know that neither of us really cares how the other’s day went. Her attention flitters over my injured hand for a brief moment, which is now wrapped within a bag of peas.
I hand her a glass of Chianti. “Been better.” I’m not much of a talker. I think she likes that about me. She once made an offhand comment about wanting to gag her male co-workers because they loved to listen to their own voices.
Vicki doesn’t ask me what happened. She makes a cute tsking sound and then offers, “Well, then . . . how about you relax and let me take care of you,” as she leads the way out of the kitchen. I pick up my habitual glass of cognac and follow her to my sparse cream-and-gray-themed living room that overlooks the bay through a double-story window.
Taking a seat in my leather chair, I quietly examine her tall, fit body as she draws a long sip of her wine. She told me once that she’s at the gym by five a.m. every day. Judging by those shapely mile-long legs that disappear into her dress and everything rock hard that I know is beneath it, I don’t doubt her.
Setting her purse and wineglass down on the end table, she methodically pulls a strip of condoms from her purse and lays them out. She likes bringing her own. It’s a control thing. I can’t help but chuckle. “A little ambitious?”
“A girl can hope,” she purrs as she reaches up to unfasten the strap around her neck. Her dress slides down, revealing small, firm breasts and the flawless dip of her tight stomach. I was already hard, in anticipation, but a new surge of blood rushes to my groin. With the windows uncovered and the lamp next to me on, I wouldn’t doubt that anyone with binoculars in a nearby building is getting a good show. I’m sure Vicki has thought of that too, and she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I think she enjoys the idea. She oozes confidence. Given how hard she works at it, she deserves to feel good about her body. I’m not sure how confident she’d be if she knew I was surrounded by naked mind-blowing twenty-something-year-old bodies every day, with the ability to have any and all of them if I wanted. That kind of knowledge knocks even the most assured women down a notch. But I have no reason to ever tell her that, so I don’t. I just sit quietly and enjoy the view without a shred of guilt as she kicks off her heels. The dress follows closely.
And I’m hit with a flash of a yellow dress hitting my office floor and the perkiest round breasts in front of me.
Charlie Rourke.
Back to taunt me, hours later.
Vicki’s hands move to the waist of my track pants. I help her by lifting my body up so she can tug them off. “It’s been a while. I’m glad to see you’ve missed me,” she teases seductively, her hand wrapping around my length as she begins to stroke.
“I’ve been busy.” It has been a while. To be completely honest, I’ve been getting bored with these nights. There’s nothing wrong with the women. This all just feels so . . . vapid.
Either way, Vicki isn’t the one eliciting this response, but if she wants to lay claim, so be it. It’ll make us both happy. I tip my head back and close my eyes, a deep groan escaping my lips. And I recall the visual of the brown-eyed beauty in my office today. I let the memory consume me, figuring this is the best way to get Charlie Rourke out of my system before I have to watch her dance tomorrow.
I’ll have to watch her dance tomorrow.
My eyes stay closed—the image of Charlie without her dress firmly in my mind’s eye—as Vicki sheaths me, climbs onto my lap, and guides me into her.
We burn through her supply of condoms.
chapter four
■ ■ ■
CHARLIE
“Little mouse, you’re perfect for this job,” he says with a large hand squeezing my shoulder. “No one will suspect you.”
“Are you sure?”
His warm smile speaks his promise. “Of course. We make the perfect team, you and I.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“Things are good? You’re enjoying Miami?”
I pick at a loose thread on my bedding. It’s early, it’s sunny, and I barely slept last night. I have yet to decide if I’m more worried about the act of pole-dancing topless on a stage in twelve hours or what will happen if I’m not any good at it.
I need this job. Sin City gave me a taste of what straight-out prostitution would be like and I can’t bring myself to do it. So, this is it. And working at Penny’s feels as right as it possibly could, under the circumstances.
“Yeah. Things are great.” I keep my voice airy. Non-suspicious. Right now, I have his trust. I need to keep that.
“Spending a lot of time on the beach?”
“Yup. That and the gym.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re enjoying life. Any theater groups down there for you to join?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Theater group . . . doesn’t quite live up to Tisch School of the Arts, where I was supposed to be enrolled this fall. After what happened, my stepdad made me defer for a year and shipped me off to Miami to “be safe.”
The reality is I’ll never get to go, and that burns me with disappointment. “Good, good.” There’s a long pause. “Obviously, you’ve received the package.”
“Yup.” Like clockwork. Every Monday morning at nine o’clock a small parcel arrives at the extended-stay hotel where I’m supposed to be living. Kyle—the cute twenty-six-year-old security guy who has a thing for me—holds onto it in exchange for a coffee and a fifteen-minute flirt session.
Each package has a new phone with a new number. A new phone each week means no legal wiretaps, which means no incriminating evidence.
And Sam is all about no incriminating evidence.
Of course, my explanation to Kyle doesn’t involve burner phones or why I might need them. Instead, I fabricated a lovely modern fairy tale—that my mom likes to send me care packages each week but they have to continue arriving at that address or my father, whom I’m now staying with, will go into a blind rage.
I had a hard time getting that lie out with ease. If Kyle’s attention were on my face and not my breasts, he might have caught on. Mom can’t send me care packages because she died ten years ago, due to rare complications during childbirth, along with my unborn half-brother. It’s a sad story, really. As a high school dropout and mother by fifteen, Vegas stripper by eighteen, Jamie Miller was sure her luck had turned when she caught the eye of the much older, wealthy New York businessman Sam Arnoni.
Or, as some know him, Big Sam.
I was six when they got married—after a whirlwind three-month affair. We moved out of our two-bedroom Vegas apartment and into his sprawling Long Island house. The day we moved, my mom sat me down and told me to listen to Sam. That if I was a good little girl for him, he’d give us a good life.
I was eight when she died, leaving me alone with my stepdad. He’s all I’ve had ever since. In truth, he didn’t have to keep me. No one would have faulted him for hunting down my real father—who didn’t want me—and dropping me off on his doorstep. I mean, why burden yourself? But he didn’t. As long as I was an obedient little mouse, Sam told me that we’d be together.
So I was. And, in return, he gave me everything I could possibly ever want.
Knowing what I know now, I would have preferred my estranged father’s doorstep.
“Good. I’m glad to hear that. I’ll top up your account tomorrow.”
“Great.” As much as I’ve begun to detest taking money from him, the more money he sends, the faster I can save.
The sooner my plan can come to fruition.
The sooner I can run from him.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to work.” Conversations with Sam never last more than a few minutes anymore. He’s a busy guy. “Check your email, will you?”
Those are the magic words. “Okay.” I know that my voice sounds strained and so I clear my throat to shake it loose. There’s no sounding doubtful with Sam. He needs to think that I’m fully onboard with this.
“Love you, little mouse.”
I swallow a painful knot. Maybe he does . . . in his own way. “Love you too.” No real names. No reference to Dad or Sam. That’s another rule, even with burner phones. Sam’s a paranoid guy. With good reason.
Closing my eyes as I hang up, I heave a deep breath. I knew it was coming. It’s been three weeks since the last one of these calls. With icy dread creeping through my body, I reach over and flip open my laptop.
Logging in to the Gmail account—the one I share with Sam—I click on the drafts to find the unsent message. That’s how Sam gives me his directives. No transmitted emails means no intercepting them. I stare at the message, containing the name and address of a café off Ocean Drive, along with a meet-up time for me and Jimmy, a hotel name, and a picture of the buyers—“Bob” and “Eddie.”
My mouth instantly dries as the wave of nausea hits me.
■ ■ ■
“Hey, Uncle Jimmy!” I force the fake smile wider as I wrap my arms around the burly man in his mid-fifties.
“Hello, my dear. It’s so good to see you,” he chuckles softly, crushing my body against his round belly. To any innocent bystander, Uncle Jimmy could pass for a vacationing Santa Claus. Sure, his hair is more gray than white and I have a hard time picturing Santa in a yellow Hawaiian shirt and Birkenstocks at any time of year, but he’s got that twinkle in his eyes and that easy, quiet laugh that puts you at ease.
Appearances can be deceptive.
Like me. Here I am, smiling and casually accepting an iced latte at a Miami café from a man who isn’t really my uncle. My naturally straight blond hair is now chestnut brown and wavy—thanks to a wig. My eyes are olive-green and adorned with heavy brown kohl eyeliner, hidden behind dark sunglasses. A tight sports bra disguises my well-endowed chest beneath a casual T-shirt, topping off my spandex capri pants and sneakers. An effective illusion of a young woman meeting up with her loving uncle for a coffee on a Thursday morning, during errands.
We participate in idle chitchat for fifteen minutes—he asks me about the college English program I’m not enrolled in and I tell him how fantastic it is. I ask him about Aunt Beth, who doesn’t exist, and he tells me that she’s loving her new white Honda Accord. Man, he’s good. So smooth. He and Sam have been “in business” for years. He lives in Manhattan but has a construction company down here, so he travels regularly. It’s a “kill two birds with one stone” scenario. Aside from Sam’s best friend, Dominic, Jimmy is the first “business” friend of Sam’s that I’ve met. Sam keeps me on a need-to-know basis, and I don’t need to know anything else besides what I’m doing for him. I don’t know if that is to protect me or minimize his own vulnerability, should I ever betray him. That I’m now working directly with Jimmy speaks volumes. He obviously trusts Jimmy as much as he trusts me. Sam has never been to Miami and when he kissed me goodbye, he said he’d see me in a year. I’m not allowed to fly home and he won’t be caught down here.
With a noisy slurp of my drink—I really did need that caffeine—I stand, give Uncle Jimmy a quick hug, grab the set of car keys lying next to mine on the table, and head off down the street, looking for the white Honda rental.
■ ■ ■
I may die of heatstroke before I get through this day. Even with the cold air of this rental car blasting on my face, several beads of sweat still trickle down my forehead. Though that could be due more to nerves than to the hundred-degree temperature. Either way, this wig certainly isn’t helping matters.
Pulling up to the front of the hotel, I throw the car in park and hit the trunk release. And then I pretend to read something on my phone. Really, I’m taking a moment to collect myself while the valet unloads my bag.
This is my life, for now. I must do this. And in an hour, I can package the memory into a tiny ball, stuff it into a box, and pretend that it never really happened.
Until the next time.
When I climb out of the driver’s seat with my empty camera bag, I’m nothing but another smiling tourist. Every fiber in my body wants to grab the handle of that suitcase—which is much bigger than the last drop—but I don’t. I simply show the valet and bellhops my pearly whites as my fist holds a death grip on the piece of paper with the number 1754 scribbled on it.
That’s the hotel room I need to visit.
“I’m just going to drop my things off and then I’ll be back to do some sightseeing. Fifteen minutes, tops. Should we park the car or can I leave it here?” I ask casually.
“Which ever you prefer, miss. We can even hold your luggage at the front desk until you check in later, if you’d like.” He’s a grandfatherly-looking man with white hair and a kind smile. He probably has lovely grandchildren, whom he plays with and hugs.
I haven’t seen or heard from my grandparents since I was three. All I know anymore is Sam.
“Oh, thank you so much. My boyfriend has already checked in, though. I’m just going to freshen up and then head back out while he’s working.” I fake a yawn, my quick thinking surprising even me sometimes. “Long flight and all.”
“Of course.”
We’re walking into the main lobby when I hand him a ten-dollar bill and stealthily maneuver my hand around the handle of my suitcase. “I’ll take it from here.”
He begins to object but I flash him a grin. “It’s okay. It’s just one bag and it has wheels. Besides, I like the exercise.” And you don’t want to be anywhere near this suitcase, grandpa.
With a delayed nod of thanks, the kind man heads back outside.
And I release the smallest breath of relief. That was the easy part.
If I let myself think about it for one second, what I’m walking into is downright terrifying. So I don’t think about it. I blank my mind and pretend I’m about to go onstage as I wheel the bag into the elevator and hit the seventeenth-floor button. In a way, I am. I’
m certainly playing a role.
Leaning against the cool wall, I watch the buttons light up, sure to keep my face angled down, away from the security cameras. And I wonder, for the thousandth time, how I got myself into this mess. How could I have done things differently? What is it about me that made this arrangement a wise bet for Sam? Was this what I was always meant to be? Or was it meant to be my mother? Some people might wonder what drew a smart, wealthy New York businessman to a twenty-one-year-old stripper with a child. Aside from her stunning beauty, of course. But, had she not died, would she be standing in this elevator right now, instead of me? Am I merely a delayed substitute?
And did she know what kind of world she was bringing her daughter into?
Twelve years ago, I stepped into a fairy tale. My new stepdad had taken my tiny hand and led me into a room doused in purple and brimming with toys, books, and clothes. Everything needed to win a six-year-old’s love and devotion. And win it, he did. Sam showered me with more affection, more gifts, and more attention than I could ever possibly imagine. Everything I could want and things I could never dream of.
Like the day Becky Taylor said her daddy loved her more than mine loved me because he bought her a pony. The fact that I never even met my real dad made that sting so much more than it should have. I’m not the type of kid to cry, but that day I came home crying.
A few weeks later, for my ninth birthday, I found a black stallion with a yellow bow around his neck tied to a tree in our backyard. It was the best birthday present I’d ever received, and it solidified how much more Sam loved me because he didn’t buy me a measly pony. He bought me a racehorse.
I named him Black Jack. Not very original as far as racehorse names go, but Sam said it was perfect. On the day that Black Jack won at the Belmont, Sam was the one hoisting me up onto the horse’s back. A photo of that still sits framed on Sam’s desk at home, making him appear the proud, doting father.
An illusion. For outsiders, for me. Maybe even for himself.
I didn’t notice for a long time that Sam might be “different.” I mean, he was my dad and the only person I had. And besides, I was “different” too. Exceptionally intelligent, according to all of the aptitude tests. But with those results came reports that I was unusually inexpressive. “Morose,” some jackass teacher called me in a parent-teacher interview, because I didn’t gallop around, hooting and hollering and giggling, like every other kid around me. “Weird,” I heard some kids whisper not so discreetly behind my back.