Hired

by Zoey Castile

  He flashes that smile at me. But there’s something sad in his eyes. Like a memory that never seems to leave him. Or maybe I’m imagining it, because I can’t possibly know that. “Thank you for today, Faith. For the other night and this. It makes me want to see more of your city.”

  I squeeze my legs against the memory of him. “What about the day after? A night tour?”

  “What kind of tour?”

  “I’ll surprise you.”

  He leans in, but I’m already closing the distance to his lips. He tastes like pleasure and secrets, the things I’m not supposed to want. Not now.

  This time, I force myself to pull away, because a car is beeping behind me. My bottom lip is swollen, but he presses a sweet kiss on it and says, “It’s a date.”

  8

  Tango del Pecado

  AIDEN

  The doorman at the hotel gives me a fist bump as I walk past him and into the elevator.

  My mouth is numb from kissing Faith in her car. My entire body is filled with different sensations. Can your stomach hurt from laughing? I don’t want it to sound like I don’t have any fun. I have lots of fun. But it’s been a strange couple of weeks, and the biggest gap is my family. Not my tía Ceci. I talk to her all the time. But the family that chose me.

  Today was one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. Alligator and all.

  I whistle all the way to my door. I don’t even know the song, but it was playing on the radio both times we were driving.

  The suite phone is ringing when I arrive.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Mr. Buenos Aires?”

  My heart sinks. That’s the fake name the room is registered under. It was Ginny’s idea because she seems to think every country in Latin America is the same.

  “Yes?”

  “You have an urgent message from Ginger Thomas to call her back as soon as possible.”

  Fuck. I dig out my phone. Of course it’s dead. Rule #10: When you take a job, text back right away. “Thank you. Can I ask you—are there any rooms available for tomorrow?”

  “Is there something wrong with the suite, sir?”

  I feel stupid because she can’t see me shake my head. “No, I have some friends who might swing into town for a visit.”

  I hate putting on that voice. It’s one I’ve picked up at parties and functions I get taken to as a date. A voice I use to blend in, to make everyone around me forget that perhaps I don’t belong there.

  “One second, sir,” she says, and I hear clicking on her end. “We’re booked solid until the end of the week.”

  “Thanks for checking,” I say.

  “Of course, sir. Is there anything else we can do for you?”

  “That’s all for now,” I say.

  “Don’t forget to take advantage of our spa services. We can send someone up for a couples massage, if you wish.”

  “I’m okay, thank you.” I hang up and charge my phone while I shower. The swamp smells like, well, swamp, and I can feel it in my pores.

  * * *

  I step out of the shower with a stupid grin on my face. Maybe I should go downstairs and get a massage. My bubble is burst within seconds when my phone lights up with a FaceTime call.

  Ginger Thomas lights up the screen, and I swipe to answer the call.

  “Aiden? Are you there? I can’t see you?”

  I stand in the middle of the room and hold the phone up. My insides feel like they’re tripping over each other, twisting into gnarly branches. I don’t like feeling this way, have never felt this way.

  “Hey, doll. Where you at?” I lie down on the bed and hold the phone so she can see me.

  Her eyes are a bit red. She was crying. A dark part of me wishes I could stand face-to-face with her husband and read him the riot act. It triggers images of my mother sitting at the kitchen table ripping a napkin in her hand. Crying and waiting for my father to come home from one of the neighbors’ houses.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Oh, nothing. Just my husband never considers my feelings. But that’s not important.” She’s sitting by an empty pool.

  I have no idea what Ginny’s life is like, to be honest. I met her in New York at a party on the Upper East Side. She needed a date to the opera after her husband cancelled on her, and she hired me. That was a year ago. After everything went down in Vegas, it was a stroke of luck that I bumped into her at the Mandarin bar. We were both at our worst. I know that her family is wealthy. She supported her husband all throughout college, but we don’t get into specifics. In my experience, women like Ginny just want someone to treat them well. Everyone wants that.

  I sit back on my bed and hold the phone up. “What would make you feel better?”

  She looks around. She’s got her headphones plugged in. I wonder if her husband is close by. At first I wonder if they’re home, but then a waitress slinks by and hands her a dirty martini with extra olives. “Sing to me?”

  So I sing. My voice is not going to win me any awards, but I can carry a tune in a specific key for a specific song. My mother loved this song “Nuestro Juramento.” It means “our oath” and it was her favorite song. When she was sick she asked me to sing for her and I would do it even if my voice cracked the entire time. This song isn’t right for my alto, but I get through it now, and the entire time I think I shouldn’t be singing this for Ginny. But it’s the first thing that comes to mind in a strange panic, and it’s like reliving the worst day of my life again. I clear my throat, finishing in a rush.

  She sits there and sips her martini with her eyes closed, listening to the sound of my voice.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” she tells me when I’m done. “I’ll see you at the end of the week.”

  My throat wants to close up because the reality of who I am and what I do is unavoidable. Ginny will get here in a few days. And I know that as much as I want to, I can’t see Faith again.

  FAITH

  There’s someone at my house when I get home. I can smell my father’s cigar the moment I step inside. He’s sitting outside in my yard, but the window is open. Some people think it’s gross, but I love the smell of cigars. It reminds me of cool summer nights when my daddy and my uncles would sit around our large front porch and look at the stars, telling stories of their parents and grandparents. Old men and their stories, my mom would say and go inside the house. But I loved sitting out there, just listening.

  Because one of my mother’s campaign promises is to reduce the effects of smoking, she won’t let my dad smoke in the house. Though I suspect there’s another reason he’s here.

  It’s early in the evening, but the sun is already starting to sink. I pour us two glasses of Four Roses bourbon, one ice cube in each, and take them outside.

  His only acknowledgment is a tiny nod when I sit down. He rests the cigar on the ashtray and taps his drink to mine. Takes a sip.

  “You missed the meeting this morning.”

  “You know why I wasn’t there.” I let the bourbon coat my throat. I can’t lie to my father, so I don’t.

  “Do you want to tell me what you were doing with your time instead? Your mother and I were worried when you stopped answering messages.”

  I look into the whiskey, and my belly flip-flops because I don’t see my own reflection. I see Aiden’s eyes.

  “Worried about me or about how it would look that I wasn’t there after Friday night?”

  He chuckles. “Do you know what your mother said today?”

  “What?”

  “That you’re exactly like me. But what you just said this moment is exactly like your momma.”

  I smile and lean against his arm. “I went to visit Gladys.”

  “How’s that old swamp witch doing?”

  “Daddy!”

  “What? You told me yourself she runs through that marsh naked in the moonlight. Sounds like a witch to me.”

  I roll my eyes. “She’s a little eccentric. And she’s good. Losing her budget, as usu
al.”

  He switches his drink for his cigar. I’m not like my mother. I’m like him. He hands the cigar to me. The first time he did this, I was sixteen and was caught smoking. He made me smoke an entire cigar in front of him. I didn’t touch another one for six years.

  Why is this family full of tough love? Why do we pass that on?

  I take the cigar between my lips and let the smoke burn my throat.

  “When you were little you always knew exactly what you wanted to do. Always. I knew I couldn’t fight you. Just let you go at your own pace.”

  “Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”

  “But, you know what this election means to us all. What it means to your mother. Mayor of New Orleans? That is a dream she never thought she could have. Every day I watch her stand in front of the mirror and remind herself that she’s good enough. She’s worked harder than anyone I know.”

  “My entire life she’s always reminded me of the fact that she’s worked harder than I ever have or ever will.”

  My dad rarely gets angry. But I know he’s close when his forehead frowns like this. “Is that really what you think?”

  “That’s how she makes me feel.”

  He finishes his drink. “I love you, baby. You know I love you.”

  “But?”

  “That love is unconditional. I hope you feel the same about us with the way you’re behaving.” He stands, and I follow like a good little soldier. “You should pay a visit to your mom’s old diner. Remember where she started.”

  “Daddy—”

  “I’ve said what I came here to say. The election is in three weeks, Faith. Remember what’s on the line. Whatever is going on, fix it. I’ll see you at the banquet.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  * * *

  Angie comes over to pick up a dress she wants to borrow from me. It’s Tuesday and I’ve been pacing my house waiting for Aiden.

  “You would not believe the shift I had yesterday.”

  I chuckle and embrace her. “Did another guy try to jump from one of the suite balconies into the rooftop pool?”

  She rolls her eyes. “You know, even a giant sign that says NO DIVING doesn’t dissuade drunk fucking tourists? I’d still take that over girls who mix drinks and puke everywhere. Everywhere, Faith.”

  I grimace and lead her to my closet. “At least it didn’t get on you. It didn’t get on you, did it?”

  “Look at you being glass half full.”

  She makes a beeline for my closet and helps herself. She pulls out a sleek red number I got for the day my mom announced her campaign.

  “When have you worn this? This is sexy.”

  I ignore the jab and ask, “What do you need a dress for?”

  Angie throws the red dress on my bed. Her “maybe” pile. She grabs a powder-pink one. “When have you ever dressed as a fairy fucking princess?”

  “That was from prom, remember?”

  Angie cracks up and puts the dress back. “I’m sorry I touched that. Didn’t Gordon Derringer blow his load in his pants while you were kissing? Why have you kept this?”

  “First of all, ew—I haven’t thought of that in years. And secondly, it’s dry-cleaned. I lent it to one of mom’s coworkers’ daughters for her prom.”

  Angie widens her eyes. “I hope she also got it dry-cleaned.”

  I hop on my bed and watch her. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I have a meeting,” she says.

  “Use your words. What kind of meeting?”

  “There’s this show swinging into town for the weekend. I have an interview with the owner for a possible job.”

  “That’s amazing!” I jump on her and hug her until she shoos me away, never one for showing sentiment. “I’m so happy for you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It sort of came about last minute,” she says, but there’s something she’s not telling me. I know I can’t push her, so I sift through the dresses and pick out an electric-blue wrap dress that will show off her powerful dancer legs.

  She holds it to the mirror and then decides to try it on. “You haven’t asked me what it’s about.”

  “Because I know you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

  She looks over her bare shoulder. I’ve always envied her toned, muscular back. But athletics and I have never gotten along. When we were thirteen, she was as thin as a beanpole, while my hips and derrière betrayed me. I looked too grown even though I didn’t feel that way. I hid under shirts too big for me and wore the uniform trousers instead of the skirts.

  “Promise you won’t judge?”

  “I’m no one to judge you, darlin’.” I brush one of her curls away from her eye.

  “This show from Vegas is looking for a choreographer. It’s a male revue. The owner wants to meet ASAP.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “Male revue as in—strippers?” I think of Aiden and smirk. Angie would rock that gig.

  “Don’t make fun!”

  “I’m not! Besides, why would I ever judge you for that? It’s an amazing opportunity.”

  I wonder if it’s the same group Aiden was in. It has to be.

  She adjusts the top of the dress. Because the material is flowy around the hips, it looks too big on her. She takes it off and adds it to the “no” pile. She tries on the red one.

  “It’s different for them, you know,” she says. “I stripped for two months at Sapphire before I got the job at Cirque du Soleil. I wasn’t cut out for stripping. But the money is amazing. When men strip, it’s about the sensationalism of it. Men can love stripping. When women do it, they have to be in need. They have to feel like there’s no other way out.”

  She’s absolutely right, and I feel ashamed that she’d think I’d judge her. “How’d you meet the owner?”

  Her eyes flick to me. “Your fling from the bar. Aiden. He mentioned they were touring and I got in touch with a recruiter to get me an interview. I would have gone to Vegas but they’re coming here.”

  Having her call Aiden my fling reminds me I haven’t told her about our subsequent meetings. I get up to help her zip the dress up. It’s sleeveless and doesn’t cover the surgery scar on her shoulder, but when she looks in the mirror, I know it’s the right one.

  “Now,” she says, looking at me through our reflections. “Why did you have a dreamy look in your eye when I walked in?”

  “Angie . . .”

  “I told you my thing. Your turn.”

  I clear my throat. Looking at Angie is like looking at a reflection of myself that I can’t lie to. “Do you remember my fling?”

  “The one so pretty, even I’d consider having sex with him, and I’m a lesbian? Yes, go on.”

  I have to glance at my feet, but the words won’t come out. She turns and squeezes my arms. “It’s been, like, how many days since? It couldn’t have been that good. Tell me everything. It’s been so long, your hymen probably grew back.”

  “Angie! That’s not even scientifically accurate.” She follows me to my bed. So many of our secrets have been told this way. Sitting on each other’s beds, trading the things we don’t want anyone else to know. I tell her about going to his room. Him going down on me. Me falling asleep. We have to pause for about five minutes because she can’t stop laughing. “Anyway, we’ve seen each other almost every day since.”

  Angie bites her bottom lip.

  “What?”

  She hesitates. “Are you sure you want to be dating before the election? It’s bad enough you’re best friends with a bartending college dropout and former stripper.”

  “And I love you. Whatever you do I love you. Ride or die, remember? I’m not the one running for office.”

  “I don’t think your momma sees it that way.”

  “You’re the one who encouraged me to go after him.”

  “For a one-night stand, not to date. Wait. I know that guilty face. You didn’t. You invited him to the ball, didn’t you?”

  I let go of an exas
perated breath. “Yes, but I told him he doesn’t have to come.”

  “The way he was looking at you? I doubt he’d say no to anything you suggested.” She gets up, and in the set of her mouth and forehead, I know she’s done talking until she has something vital to say.

  It makes keeping details of Aiden all to myself easier.

  AIDEN

  When I turn the corner on Chartres and Saint Peter Street by Jackson Square, my feet stop working. My body has a physical reaction. Nerves swirl in the pit of my stomach with every step I take to get closer to her. My mind spins, trying to make sense of the lies that will catch up to me. I don’t want to lie to her. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to stop seeing her.

  That’s the thing. I can’t do all of those things at once.

  Faith stands apart from the crowd, even though she’s right beside a cluster of tourists with sunburnt shoulders and baseball caps detailing their favorite local teams. Faith is in a pair of jeans that taper to the finest ass I’ve ever seen. I could take a bite out of that like a fucking peach. Her white shirt hits home in a way I didn’t even know it could. It’s a flowing white lace top that hangs off her shoulders. She reminds me so much of the festivals in Colombia. I know it’s not the same, but the way her hair falls in black waves over those bare shoulders—all I want is to trace kisses across her warm brown skin.

  I need to calm down with those thoughts in public because the front of my jeans are starting to feel tight. I take my jacket and drape it over my arm. The night is breezy, and it smells like it might rain later.

  When she sees me, I don’t imagine the spark in her eyes. If she looked at me like this every day, I’d die a happy man.

  But she can’t. Because when I tell her the truth about me, about why I’m here, that spark is going to fade.

  “Hey,” I say. Clear my throat because I feel my voice crack the same way it did when I was thirteen. “Hi.”

  Her smile is radiant. She stands on her toes to kiss my cheek. “I got our tickets.”

  I smack my forehead. “I should’ve thought of that.”

  “Don’t be silly. Aiden, this is my friend, Violet Beauchamp.”