Peasants and Kings

by Emma Slate

  “You think I made eggs Benedict?” She laughed. “You’re cute. I called out for it. There’s a café around the corner, and I tip well so they’re fast.”

  “Well, thanks,” I said in amusement. “It smells great.”

  “Eat.”

  “You didn’t get anything for yourself?”

  “I’ll have a smoothie in a bit.”

  While I devoured the eggs, Tiffany stared at me pensively over her cup of coffee. “I’ve been thinking about your situation, and I think I have a solution.”

  “I’m all ears,” I said.

  “I know someone who can get you a new identity…a real one.” Tiffany paused for a moment and then said softly, “You need to talk to Genevieve.”

  “Who’s Genevieve?”

  “My boss. She can get you a job at The Rex and a new identity.”

  “You work the Concierge desk, Tiff. How in the world can your boss get me a new identity?”

  “I need you to trust me, Sterling.” Her eyes glowed like flames.

  “Of course, I trust you,” I said automatically. “I came here, didn’t I? I told you everything.”

  She smiled slightly. “You wouldn’t have told me anything if you didn’t need my help.”

  “Probably not,” I admitted. “I wish I didn’t have to come to you. I wish I could have left you out of it and protected you. I don’t want you to run into any trouble because of my—”

  “Hey, take a breath,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t have had to deal with this alone, Sterling. I’m happy you came to me.”

  “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to me.”

  She came around the corner of the counter to embrace me, and for a moment, I let her. It had been so long since I’d felt the comfort of another person’s touch.

  “Thank you,” I said again.

  She pulled back and rested her hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry for your loss, Sterling. But I want you to know that I admire you.”

  “Admire me? Why?”

  “Because I don’t know anyone who would’ve been able to do what you’ve done. You’ve got a lot of courage and determination.”

  I stared into her eyes.

  “I’m tired, Tiff.”

  “I know.”

  She took my empty plate and brought it to the sink to rinse it off. “When you talk to Genevieve, don’t lie to her. She’s going to push and prod for information. She’s going to want to know why you need a new identity and why you want a job at The Rex. You can’t hide it from her.”

  “That goes against everything my mother’s letter said—and against all my natural instincts.”

  “I told you, you’re going to have to trust me. You can trust Gen, too. You have to trust Gen.”

  I paused for a moment. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

  “Not really. Not unless you want to take your chances and run again. I’ll give you cash if that’s what you need, but I don’t have the connections to get you a new identity unless you speak with Gen.”

  “I can’t take your money,” I said. “As generous as the offer is, I’d never be able to pay it back and I couldn’t live with that.”

  “Then we’re back to you trusting Gen.”

  “Do I have to tell her everything? Can I leave out The White Company? Can I just tell her about the Foscari?”

  “I think that might be okay.” She stared at me as she bit her lip. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be,” I hastened to assure her. “We have a plan of attack now, right? I’ll talk to Gen and state my case. I’ll do whatever job I have to do to get a new identity and disappear.”

  “I didn’t mean about your meeting with Gen. I meant I’m worried about you. Emotionally.”

  “Ah.”

  “You should fall apart. Cry, scream, throw shit. You’ve been holding it together since you got here.”

  “I have to hold it together because I’m afraid that if I fall apart, I’ll never be able to piece myself back together.”

  “Have you really grieved for your mom?”

  “Yes,” I said, ducking my head so she wouldn’t see my eyes.

  “I know you. You haven’t really grieved. You haven’t had the time this last year. Not if you’ve been worried about the Foscari coming for you. You’ve been in survival mode. You’ve mashed it all down.”

  “I’ve grieved,” I insisted. “Alone and in private.”

  She peered at me. “Alone to process everything you’ve learned about who you are and your mother’s history?” She shook her head. “I’m afraid that if you don’t deal with this, deal with your past, your mother’s death, the truth of it all, you’ll think you’ve got it handled and it will all come at you when you least expect it.”

  “There’s nothing more to deal with,” I insisted. “I haven’t cried for her in over a year. It’s done. I don’t want to look back. I want to look forward.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re kind of like…”

  “Like what?”

  “A feral pet.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve always been prickly and hard to comfort. You don’t let anyone into your world. I get it. I understand why, but it seems even more so now than ever before.” She paused. “I talk about things. I let it all hang out there. I don’t care. But you guard your feelings like you’re afraid someone is going to use them against you. You’ve been that way since the day we met.”

  “And you wanted to be my friend, why?”

  “Because you didn’t judge me for the cheap gold studs in my ears, and your offer of friendship was unreserved.”

  “Are you saying I have some winning qualities despite my rough edges?”

  “Something like that.” She grinned. “I called Gen while you were in the shower.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nodded. “She’ll see you on Monday, which means I have a day to get you ready.”

  I looked at her warily. “Get me ready?”

  “Yeah. You didn’t think I would send you into the lion’s den without any weapons, did you?”

  “Lion’s den?”

  “You’re beautiful, Sterling. You’re smart, you speak two languages fluently—”

  “Three,” I corrected.

  She frowned. “Italian, English, and what else?”

  “French.”

  “Okay, that’s new.”

  “There wasn’t a lot to do this past year while I was trying to remain under the radar.”

  “So, you used your time to learn another language. Sure, yeah. Because everyone does that.”

  “I’m not like everyone else. I wish I was,” I said, staring over her shoulder to the window. Bright sunshine poured through the glass. “I just wanted normal. That’s all I ever wanted to be. Instead, I have this—legacy—I have to contend with.”

  “Normal is overrated.”

  “It would’ve been nice to have had a choice, you know? Instead, my mother’s history is dictating my present and my future.” I shook my head. “Okay, enough with the feeling sorry for myself. That won’t help. Can we go back to what you said about having to get me ready?”

  “You’ve got the goods, but the packaging doesn’t do anything for you.”

  “I don’t know what any of that means.”

  “No offense, but your wardrobe leaves a lot to be desired. And your nails…” She shook her head. “Your hair is pure luxury, but you’ve neglected the hell out of it. You’ve got to wow her.”

  “Wow her,” I repeated dumbly.

  “The Rex is a glamorous hotel. You can’t walk in there looking anything less than your best. Doesn’t matter if you’re a server in the Bar and Restaurant, a concierge, or a maid. You have to look your best because The Rex expects the best.”

  I sighed. “I know beggars can’t be choosers, but I’d love nothing more than a job that lets me blend in, sit behind a desk, and stare
at a computer all day long.”

  She looked at her watch, a dainty little piece. “Can you be ready to go in an hour?”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “I have a dress fitting at Folson’s.”

  “Folson’s?” I asked in surprise. “A dress fitting?”

  “There’s a corporate event I have to go to,” she said breezily.

  “I don’t have nice enough clothes to get me through the front door of Folson’s,” I said to her, looking down at my worn-in-the-seat jeans and threadbare shirt.

  She waved away my objections. “I’ve got a dress that will fit you.”

  “I’m three inches shorter than you, Tiff,” I said dryly.

  “It hits me mid-thigh. The length on you won’t be an issue.”

  “But my shoes—”

  “Will you stop?” she asked in exasperation. “I’ve got it covered, all right?”

  “Why do I feel like you’re not telling me everything?”

  “Because I’m not.”

  Chapter Three

  An hour later, I was wearing a black floral print dress with a belt that cinched my waist and a pair of black ballet flats that Tiffany had sent out for. I knew she was doing well at The Rex—a downtown luxury condo was nothing to sneeze at—but the fact that she could send out for breakfast and shoes gave me pause.

  “You look great,” Tiffany said, as she looked in the hallway mirror and tied a pink headscarf into a makeshift headband.

  “Me? You’re the one that looks amazing.” She was dressed in an A-line blush dress with a sweetheart neckline and three-inch matching high heels. She looked completely out of time and place in the 1950s getup, and she rocked it easily.

  “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing her matching clutch and opening it to ensure she had her favorite lip gloss.

  We rode the elevator down to the underground parking garage, and I followed Tiffany to a corner space with a shiny, candy-apple red Audi TT RS backed into its spot.

  “No way,” I said softly. “You bought it?”

  She grinned. “Yep. Signed the papers last week.”

  Tiffany hit the clicker and the doors unlocked. I climbed into the passenger side, my body melting into the black leather. I had to stifle a moan of pleasure.

  Tiffany turned the key and the car’s unique five-cylinder engine came to life. She grabbed a pair of black cat-eye sunglasses resting on the console, made sure they were clean, and placed them on her head.

  She put the car into drive and wove her way through the parking garage at far too high a speed. Bright sunshine caressed my face when we got out onto the street, and I squinted at the change in light.

  “There’s a pair of spare sunglasses in the glove box,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said gratefully.

  They were a little big for my face, but I didn’t care. She pressed a button and a radio station playing jazz filtered through the speakers. I reached over and lowered the volume so we could talk.

  “You’re doing really well, Tiff. Aren’t you?”

  “I do okay,” she averred.

  “I’ve been hiding away, and you’ve been buying cars and sending out for breakfasts…”

  “I got a promotion. I want to enjoy it.” She turned up the music so we couldn’t talk anymore.

  What the hell wasn’t she telling me?

  I’d bared my soul to her and come to her for help, but clearly, it wasn’t a two-way street. It made me embarrassed that I’d been honest with her and she wouldn’t do the same.

  The rest of the drive was silent and charged with tension. Finally, she turned into the department store parking lot. Tiffany cut the wheel and revved the engine loudly before parking the car directly in front of the Folson’s store entrance in the closest spot she could find, surrounded by other cars.

  “Why didn’t you park farther away? Aren’t you afraid the car is going to get dinged?” I asked, as I grabbed my purse and opened my door to get out.

  There was a whistle from a group of guys, followed by, “Sweet ride!”

  Tiffany tilted her sunglasses down on her nose and then looked at me and said, “That is why I parked near the front.”

  When we arrived at the entrance to Folson’s, a young man darted in front of her and held the door open, gazing at her with open worship. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gave her a long, lingering look.

  Tiffany smiled and blew him a kiss, and despite my uneasiness, I grinned in amusement.

  We passed both the men’s and women’s sections and kept going until we found the back of the store, a secluded area with a small, clean desk. A female attendant with her hair pulled into a top bun watched as we approached. Her lips formed into a polite smile.

  “Hello, how may I help you?” she asked.

  “My name is Tiffany Bristol and I have a dress fitting at 11:45.”

  The woman typed a few keys and then nodded. “Excellent. Would you follow me to the dressing room? I’ll have the gown brought to you.”

  “Thank you,” Tiffany said.

  I marveled at the expensive designer gowns on display and had to stop from running my hands over the gorgeous fabrics. The attendant showed us into a room with three mirrors in a semicircle around a small, elegant platform.

  “May I get you something to drink?” the attendant asked.

  “Two glasses of champagne, please,” Tiffany answered, as she began removing her heels.

  The attendant nodded. “Deidre will be fitting your dress. Please don’t hesitate to push the buzzer if you need anything.”

  The woman inclined her head and then shut the door. I looked back to Tiffany, who was watching me with an amused expression.

  “Champagne?”

  “You need it. You’re wound tighter than a spring.”

  “No disagreement there.” I looked at the dressing room door. “I’ve never seen that kind of service before.”

  “I love being waited on. I love people knowing I have money when I walk into places.” She paused. “I’ve gained so much from my time at The Rex. Confidence. Financial freedom…purpose. They’ve been good to me.”

  “How did you get your job at The Rex?”

  “You mean, what made a luxurious hotel take a chance on a high school graduate from a poor background?”

  “I wouldn’t have phrased it that way.”

  “Why not? It’s the truth.” She shrugged. “I’m not embarrassed about how I grew up. The Rex…they see potential. They’re willing to take chances. Even though they want the best, and demand the best, if they see someone they can mold into an ideal Rex employee, they’ll do it. That’s why they’re different than any of their competitors. They appreciate people who are willing to work hard.”

  I took a seat in the chair that rested in the corner of the private dressing room. “It sounds like you found your dream job, Tiff. I’m happy for you.”

  Smiling, Tiffany slithered out of her dress and hung it up on a hanger. She stood confidently in a strapless bra and white thong. A delicate golden key pendant on a fine gold chain rested against her smooth skin. She had no reason for modesty: she was tan, slender, and in-your-face beautiful. Stunning, really.

  Tiffany had started her life out with distinct disadvantages, but she had managed to pull herself up from the bootstraps and make something of herself instead of falling into a life like her mother. Tiffany hadn’t settled, and for her it would’ve been so easy to settle.

  There was a knock on the door and two people entered after Tiffany told them to come in. One woman held a tray with two champagne flutes, the other—Deidre—held Tiffany’s dress. It was an off the shoulder floor length, bright pink gown.

  “That dress is Academy Awards worthy,” I remarked.

  Tiffany laughed. “If only the kids from Holy Trinity could see me now.” She grinned. “Think they’d still call me names?”

  “Kids are assholes,” I said.

  “And yet they can do so much damage to your long-term self-esteem, you know?
” She shook her head.

  I held the two champagne flutes as Tiffany slid into the gown. It fit her perfectly, from what I could tell, but she immediately started directing Deidre to make alterations. She was polite, assertive. There was no small talk; it was all business.

  “I’ll be in four-inch heels, so we should take that into account as well,” Tiffany said.

  Deidre nodded and began alternating between pinning the dress in places and scribbling down measurements on a notepad. I got up and handed Tiffany her drink. She gently tapped her flute to mine and we both took a sip.

  It was not cheap, hangover-in-your-teeth champagne. It was complex and crisp.

  I wasn’t immune to the polish and luxury. It was seductive, to say the least. Especially after years of living modestly and memories of a childhood spent in rented apartments and bungalows with lawns that were more dirt than grass.

  But I didn’t need a job that paid what Tiffany’s job paid. I just needed enough to live, enough to be comfortable, enough to be secure. I would take whatever job Genevieve offered me because it would give me a new identity, and that was my primary concern.

  The fitting didn’t take long and we left the dressing room. I was feeling buzzy and bold from the glass of champagne as Tiffany linked her arm through mine. She all but dragged me through the women’s department.

  “You need something bold but classy,” she said. “Something that compliments your naturally golden complexion. How do you feel about wearing white?”

  “White? Seriously? No one can get away with white unless you’re a bride.”

  “It’s hard to pull off,” Tiffany agreed. “But I think you’re cut out for it.”

  “If you say so,” I muttered. “Tiff, hold on a second. I can’t afford Folson’s. I can’t even afford Target. How am I going to—”

  “I’ve got an account with Folson’s. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

  “Stop telling me not to worry about it,” I hissed. “This feels very…I don’t know. What’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “Like charity?” she supplied.

  I glared at her. “I was going to say sketchy. There’s something sketchy going on here.”

  “What do you mean?” Her eyes were open wide with sham innocence.