She thought I wasn’t a good, dedicated professional because I wasn’t into women, but she didn’t have much choice in keeping me around. Good subs were hard to find and keep, and the demand for us was constant, so I didn’t believe for a second she would fire me. Still, I opened the door with my eyes cast down, dropped to my knees, and murmured quietly, “You wished to speak to me, Mistress?”
“I want to ask you one question, submissive. Did you meet a client last night at your apartment?”
“No. I don’t know who told you that. I can’t imagine why someone would be telling lies about me.”
Mistress Amelia came to stand behind me. I half expected her to press a revolver against the back of my skull and pull the trigger, she was that mad. Instead she slammed the door and put her foot on the top of my back. I flinched, but I leaned forward until my face was against the floor. “Stay, you little slut,” she ordered.
I watched her feet walk back around her desk and heard her sit. I could hear her fingers tap tap tap on her computer for what must have been ten minutes or more. Finally she cleared her throat and said, “I’ll ask you once again. Did you meet a client last night at your apartment?”
“No,” I said with less conviction.
“The correct answer is ‘yes, Mistress,’” she snapped with restrained fury. “I know you did, because the client called and told me you sold yourself to him last night for two thousand dollars, and went on to detail everything you put out for that sum.”
I sat up in shock, which was stupid because it gave me away, but I was dumbfounded. That was his kink? Having what wasn’t allowed and then ruining that person’s life?
“For the last time, you little slut, did you meet a client last night at your apartment?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, bowing again to the floor, not that it would save me now.
She was quiet a long time. Finally she sighed heavily. “You make a good living here. You have a faithful clientele, and you have been mentored and trained by the best masters and mistresses in L.A. All we ask in return is that you follow the rules and not fraternize with paying clients outside the club.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“I’m afraid this is grounds for dismissal. You not only fraternized with a client of the club, you sold yourself to him like a common whore.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” I said to the carpet. My nose was starting to itch.
She paused. “How sorry are you?”
Stupid, horny bitch. Ugly, puffed-up, over-the-hill dominatrix. It was easy for her to judge. I didn’t make as much money in a year as she made in a week owning this club. She’d always wanted me, and now she thought she was going to get me by threatening to take away my job. Ugh. There was no way I was going to submit to that spiteful, nasty domme.
“How sorry are you?” she repeated, walking to stand over me. “Are you willing to submit to punishment from me in exchange for keeping your job?”
“What kind of punishment?” I asked her fat, leather-encased ankles. I left the Mistress off.
“The cane, you impossibly impertinent slut. To begin with.” She landed a stroke of the cane across my ass. I screamed in outrage and sat up.
“The cane is on my ‘no’ list, Mistress Amelia!” Jesus, I didn’t do canes. My ass was on fire from the one stroke she’d landed. No way was I submitting to a caning from her. It would probably kill me.
“Do you want your job or not?”
“The cane is on my ‘no’ list!”
“Letting a customer fuck your mouth, ass, and cunt for money is on my ‘no’ list, slut, and you did it anyway!”
“I… It was a weak moment, Mistress. You saw him. I swear, I won’t do it again.”
“Do excuses like that work with your other doms?”
You’re not my domme, I wanted to remind her. You’re just my boss.
She tapped the cane against the wall impatiently. “So let me get this straight. You can play the submissive whore with this client, but you’re too good to submit to punishment from me. I see how it is, you uppity slut. I always knew you weren’t a true submissive, and since I don’t own you, I can’t punish you as I see fit. But I can fire you. And I do. Get out of my sight. Leave Eden now.”
I stood up slowly, in tears. Cast out of Eden. It hurt. I had no intention of being caned and put through the sexual wringer to save my job, but it hurt to be told to go. It hurt to be told I wasn’t a true submissive, because I was afraid, deep down inside, that she was right.
“But my clients…”
“Your clients will live without your services. I can no longer in good faith offer you to them, now that I see you are in actuality a slut and whore and not even, truly, a submissive. Out.”
And so I was out, just like that. I cried a little on the way home from my injured pride, but at the same time I thought, So what? There were plenty of BDSM clubs in Los Angeles, and they all had room for an experienced sub like me.
But I was wrong, because by the time I scraped my self-esteem together and started making phone calls, Mistress Amelia had called every BDSM club, dungeon, and bar in the greater L.A. area and had me blacklisted. I was fucked.
*
Little Nell, professional sub extraordinaire, was thus reduced to folding napkins during the nighttime lull at Buona Italia. Corners together. Fold over. Again. Pull down the petals.
Like a tulip, like a tulip, Nellie.
Grr. My name wasn’t Nellie, and I was only working this job out of desperation. This tiny Italian bistro had hired me on the spot, which had seemed like a stroke of serendipity at the time. Now I thought if I had to fold one more napkin into a tulip, I would take my boss, Guillermo, by the neck and shake him like the little chicken man that he was.
Squawk squawk squawk squawk. Nellie, fold the napkins. Nellie, clean up behind the bar. Nellie, seat Mr. and Mrs. Iovito at their favorite table. Mr. and Mrs. Iovito made me want to stick nails in my eyes.
But a job was a job, and waitressing jobs weren’t easy to come by in Los Angeles, where you couldn’t throw a stick without hitting a starving artist. And I wasn’t the type to embrace starvation, so… Corners together. Fold over. Again.
Anyway, I’d done this to myself, just like I did everything to myself to somehow make my life as difficult and complicated as possible at all times. And I guess it was better than taking orders from Mistress Amelia. Oh, I knew I could go back at any time and grovel. I could submit to the cane until I was practically crippled, then bury my face in her crotch for the rest of my natural-born life. Sure, I could do that, and I probably would when I got desperate enough.
But more than Mistress Amelia, I thought about him. Gorgeous rat fink.
Why had he done it?
Had screwing me over been his aim all along? To get me fired? I had no more or fewer enemies than anyone else. Certainly no enemies of the life-destroying kind. I couldn’t figure it out. I thought about it while I took orders, while I folded tulips, while I vacuumed the carpet at the end of the night.
Guillermo and his family were good people. By giving me a job, they’d helped me keep a roof over my head. But my rent was paid for by a sex worker’s salary. A waitress’s salary was not enough. The restaurant was upscale, but the weeknights were slow. And I’d lied. I told them I was part Italian, although my bright red hair would convince anyone otherwise. I was just a failure and a liar and, well, a prostitute, I guess.
“Smile, you tired old girl,” Guillermo chided from behind the bar. “This frown on your face, it drives the customers away.”
“Does it?” I shrugged. “It’s almost closing time anyway.”
We both turned as the bell on the door rang. Shit. It was eight forty-five. Guillermo seated the lone customer at a small table in the corner. Of course he’d come in to eat. He couldn’t just grab a quick drink at the bar and go home. Now I’d be here until ten o’clock waiting on him. Guillermo looked at me apologetically.
“Do you mind, Nellie?”
“Nell,” I muttered under my breath, crossing to the customer with a menu. He looked up with a tired smile.
“Is it too late? Is the kitchen closed?”
“No,” I said, unable to keep the edge of irritation from my voice. But he looked tired and hungry. And familiar.
I handed him the menu, softening. “What can I get you to drink?”
He looked up at me again. “A beer. Whatever’s on tap.”
I suddenly realized why he looked so familiar. He was an actor, an A-list actor. I think he’d been up for an Oscar last year.
“Sure!” I hoped my sure didn’t sound too obsequious. A real movie star! I started back to Guillermo with a goofy, excited smile.
“Jeremy Gray would like whatever’s on tap, boss. Make it snappy.”
“Jeremy Gray!” Guillermo practically simpered. “In my own little restaurant here. You tell him this is all on the house. All of it. Maybe he’ll let us take a picture!”
I looked over at Buona Italia’s “Wall of Celebrities,” which consisted of a “Like a Virgin”-era Madonna hugging Guillermo’s wife.
“Maybe. Got your camera?”
Guillermo bustled away in a panic.
I went back to Jeremy Gray’s table to find him still scanning the menu.
“Is the chicken parmigiana good?”
“No one makes chicken parm like Guillermo.”
“Bring it on.” He smiled. “Nell,” he read off my name tag. “Unusual name. Unusual hair color. Is that natural red?”
“Yes. My parents’ fault. I’ll go put in your order. What kind of dressing would you like on your salad?”
“Surprise me.”
“How about Italian, since you’re at an Italian restaurant?”
He pretended disappointment. “That’s not much of a surprise. Can’t you do better?”
My God, Jeremy Gray was flirting with me. It almost made getting fired from Eden all worthwhile. Jeremy of the sandy blond hair, the cerulean blue eyes, the ridiculously hard body. He was pushing forty, but it only made him sexier and worldlier and hotter in a naughty-daddy kind of way. Up close and personal, he was even more handsome than he was on-screen. He had those sexy older-man lines around his eyes.
“Raspberry-walnut vinaigrette?” I suggested.
“Better.” Sexy, fortyish, sugar-daddy hot man. I wanted him to spank me like the bad, bad girl I was. But this wasn’t Eden, this was Buona Italia, so I went to the kitchen to put in his order instead.
“Make it good,” I said to Guillermo. “Then all the big movie stars will come to your restaurant.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” he exclaimed. “Let it be so!”
Later, when Jeremy Gray had finished his parm and insisted on paying for his meal, he agreed to pose for a photograph. Since Maria Rose, Guillermo’s wife, had already gone home, Jeremy suggested I be in the picture with him. He put his arm around me and Guillermo crowed, “Say cheese!”
I obediently said “cheese,” but Jeremy said “provolone” and looked over at me, so it ended up looking like he was giving me a kiss. We laughed as we crowded together over the small digital-camera screen to look at the photo.
“I’ll print it out tonight!” said Guillermo. “Next time you come, you sign!”
Guillermo hummed with excitement as we closed down for the night. As for me, I couldn’t get the solid, warm feel of Jeremy Gray’s body against mine out of my head.
*
He did come back, just a few days later, right before closing time again. I was half-annoyed, half-joyous. A little part of me fantasized that he’d come back just to see me. He’d definitely flirted with me last time.
“I’ll have the usual,” he said when I came to his table.
“Raspberry-walnut vinaigrette and all?”
“Yes, whatever Little Nell suggests.”
The name jolted me for a moment. I looked for irony in his eyes, but he just smiled and handed back the menu.
I headed to the kitchen. No, he couldn’t know. I was actually rather little, barely five feet tall and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. That’s probably why he called me Little Nell. If he’d ever been to the club, I would have known. I would have heard the gossip. I went back out with his beer and set it on the table.
“Can you sit and have a beer with me?” he asked.
I glanced around the restaurant. Another couple was still lingering over their meal. “I’m not supposed to sit down with the customers while I’m working.”
He smiled. “You’re a good little worker, are you?”
“I try to be.”
“I need someone like you. I need an assistant. Do you have any friends looking for a job?”
I opened my mouth and then closed it, but he got the hint.
“Or maybe you’re looking for a better job. You like waitressing here?”
I shrugged and looked away. All of a sudden, his eyes really intimidated me. Or maybe I was just afraid he’d see how desperate I was for his job. I wondered how much he’d pay. Somehow I knew it would be more than I made working for Guillermo, tips and all.
“God, you don’t know how tempting that is. But Guillermo…they’re so nice here. I would hate to leave him and his wife high and dry.”
Jeremy sighed. “And loyal too. There’s got to be a way to lure you away from here.”
I laughed softly. “I don’t know. If you keep talking to me and keeping me from the other customers, maybe you’ll get me fired.”
“Excellent plan. I’ll get you fired, and then you’ll have to come work for me.”
“Or just offer me a lot of money. A salary I can’t refuse.”
I laughed, but he looked at me soberly. “I actually would like to find an assistant like you. Pleasant, responsible, loyal”—he smiled—“and a little bit fun. Think about it?”
“Well…” Don’t sound desperate! “Yeah. I… Yeah. You need an assistant starting when?”
“I’ll be traveling a lot in the upcoming weeks. I need someone right away. Someone who’s free to travel, who can keep me organized and sane while I work on location.”
I looked over at the couple across the restaurant, their empty glasses and frowns of impatience.
“Mr. Gray, excuse me. I have to—”
“Go on. Come and talk to me later. But think about it.”
“I will.”
Think about it. God, as if I had to think about it. Personal assistant to Jeremy Gray. Travel, exotic locations, and the movie-star life on movie-star sets and in movie-star hotels. Wow. And I would rub shoulders with him all the time. Him, Jeremy Gray. Hot, nice, friendly, sexy, famous movie-star man. Every day. I would see him every day, wouldn’t I, if I were his personal assistant? What was there to think about?
I filled glasses and gave the other table their check. They gave me a shitty tip when they left, but I didn’t care. I was already picturing handing Guillermo my two weeks’ notice and riding off with Jeremy Gray into the movie-star sunset. When I returned to his table he was on the phone, so I hovered around the bar and the kitchen, dying to talk to him. Finally, at the end of the meal, he gave me his business card.
“Listen, Nell, I’d love to talk to you more about this job, if you’re interested.”
“Yes, to be honest, I am interested.” I tried to keep the fawning adulation out of my voice.
“Maybe we can meet over dinner to discuss it. What evening would be best?”
“I’m off Monday.” Damn, it was only Thursday, but Guillermo really needed me on the weekend nights. “Or we could do lunch.”
“I’d prefer dinner. A nice place where we can sit and chat and talk things over. How about Monday night at the Diplomat? Dinner, you and me.”
Dinner, you and me. Swoon. He was being very proper and businesslike, but my imagination was in overdrive.
“That sounds great, Mr. Gray.”
“Call me Jeremy. Mr. Gray makes me feel old. Tell me your number and where you live, and I’ll pick you up.�
��
Oh my God, oh my God.
While I was trying to choke down the thought that I was going to go to dinner with a movie star like Jeremy Gray, Guillermo hustled over with the eight-by-ten photo of us for Jeremy to sign.
He signed it, To Guillermo and to Little Nell, the best server on earth, but I was too distracted and excited at that moment to really think about what he meant by that.
*
No, I didn’t get it. I was off in outer space, in La-La Land, in Groupieville. I couldn’t wait for Monday to arrive, and I actually spent all day Monday primping and plucking and waxing like it was some kind of date instead of a business meeting. I couldn’t help it. A little voice inside me kept saying, He flirted with you. He said you were fun, pleasant. He smiled. He pulled you close to pose for a picture, and it looks like he was kissing you. I know. I had the picture on my wall. I had begged Guillermo for another copy, and he’d handed it to me with a smile.
Poor Guillermo. He had no idea I was planning to leave him, but if Jeremy offered me a job, I was gone.
On Monday night Jeremy picked me up at my door like a true gentleman, and I didn’t invite him in although I had worked all day to ensure my apartment looked chic and organized from his vantage point at the doorway.
This is about a job. It’s about a job, I kept reminding myself, but a part of me couldn’t stop thinking about how personal a personal assistant might get with a person she helped. Especially if that person was someone nice and handsome and perfect and unattached like Jeremy Gray.
I somehow managed not to simper about how incredibly handsome he looked in his suit and tie, or how totally awesome his big movie-star SUV was. I tried to hide how sexy I thought it was when he tossed the keys to the valet, and how wet it made me when he swept into the restaurant and all the bigwigs started kowtowing to him. I was even able to subdue my impulse to jump him when he led me to the table with his hand just barely touching my back. I felt like a princess when he pulled out my chair. Finally we were seated at our private table, wineglasses in hand.
“You look lovely,” he said, raising his glass to me.
I tried to look appropriately modest. Sure, I had agonized for almost two days over the simple black dress I had on, the low-heeled but stylish black pumps I wore. Businesslike yet hip and fun. Isn’t that what a personal assistant of Jeremy Gray’s would need to look like? I knew he was single now, but his last girlfriend had been really beautiful and fun and stylish, just like him. It was like a currency. Style and desirability. I wanted him to want me for the job.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 161