The Billionaire's Command (The Silver Cross Club)

by Bec Linder

  I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Troubled thoughts?”

  “I’m just thinking about my brothers,” she said. “I kind of raised them, you know? We would walk into town because there was this duck pond near the church, and Tristan always got his fingers bit because he was too dumb to toss the bread on the ground.”

  “When was the last time you saw them?” I asked.

  “My dad’s funeral,” she said, and there was nothing to say after that.

  The ferry landed at Liberty Island, and we disembarked and walked around the perimeter of the island to the front of the statue. Tickets to go inside had been sold out months before, so we just stood and gazed up at the golden flame in silence.

  “My ancestors probably saw this,” Sasha said, after a few minutes of quiet contemplation. “They came over from Scotland in the late 1800s. The land of promise, you know. All that bullshit. And then they ended up digging coal out of the earth.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I took her hand and threaded my fingers through hers.

  “This is really nice,” she said. “I’m glad we came. I’m glad—Christ.” She turned to the right and looked toward the Manhattan skyline: the skyscrapers of the Financial District, the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Empire State Building small in the distance. “I really love New York.”

  Her voice was thick, choked with emotion, and I watched with concern as she blinked back tears. “Sasha,” I said, “what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said, and shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s just—I’ve lived here for three years, and I’ve never appreciated it. I’ve never done anything. I just work and go home and then go to work again. And now, being with you, seeing the city through your eyes, I just—I wish I had taken advantage of it, you know? Like, done stuff. Gotten out of the apartment more.”

  “We can start doing stuff,” I said, bewildered. “Whatever you want. There’s plenty of time.”

  She shook her head again and didn’t reply.

  Women baffled me. I kissed her temple and waited there with her, giving her time to work through her emotions. She turned to me at last and gave me a watery smile. “Want to see if we can charm the guard into letting us inside?”

  “It won’t work,” I said.

  “I bet you ten dollars,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said. “You’re on.”

  * * *

  I didn’t see her again for several days. I tried, but she was always at work. Finally, fed up with texting her and being rebuffed, I decided I would visit her at the club.

  It was a stupid idea. I knew that even as the thought occurred to me, and as I exited the subway at 14th Street, having come directly from work, I knew that Sasha would be unhappy with me, and that I would regret it. But I didn’t turn east and walk home, like I should have. I walked to the club.

  It was close to 6 by the time I arrived, and the evening was in full swing. A half-naked dancer spun around the pole on the main stage, and the gathered men watched, rapt, slack-jawed, as she spread her legs above her head and slowly sank toward the floor. It was an impressive display of strength and artistry, and I felt nothing as I watched it. She was beautiful, and she had perfect breasts, and she aroused me as much as a well-constructed piece of furniture would have.

  I was truly fucked.

  I took a seat toward the back of the room, far from the stage. When a cocktail waitress materialized at my table, silently waiting for instructions, I ordered a gin and tonic. It amused me to think of myself as a colonial gentleman, here among the natives. Racism at its finest: the inhabitants were good for fucking, and not much else.

  The girl on stage disrobed, finally, stripping off her g-string in a slow tease, and tossed it into the audience. A man caught it and brought it to his nose, inhaling dramatically. The girl beamed, curtsied, stepped down and made her way through the audience, accepting caresses and cash in equal measure.

  This was what Sasha did, when I wasn’t with her. This was her daily existence: anonymous men, full of desire and thwarted longing.

  The thought made me sick.

  I told myself that I would get up any moment and leave, ideally before Sasha emerged from the dressing room and caught me flagrantly in the act, but I didn’t move. I ordered another drink. I watched another girl take her turn on the stage. She was as lovely as the last one, with dark skin and bright eyes. The club employed the best. The men were enraptured. I was slightly bored, and yet, I still didn’t leave.

  It was masochism, really. I was torturing myself by imagining Sasha up there, pirouetting and posing for the watching men, letting them grope her as she moved through the audience to collect her tips. She had every right to do it. She was a grown woman, and she made her own decisions.

  That didn’t mean I had to like them.

  Finally, after the third dancer, and my third drink, my disgust with my actions managed to overwhelm my twisted urge to keep torturing myself, and I stood to leave.

  And then Sasha came out.

  I didn’t notice her at first, not until the spotlight shifted across the floor to illuminate her. She must have been waiting at the edge of the room, keeping out of the way until it was her turn to go on stage.

  I sank back into my seat.

  She mounted the stage and waved to the audience like a 1940s starlet entertaining the troops. With her blond wig and red lipstick, she looked like she had stepped directly out of that decade, but her corset and frilly bustle hinted at something more Victorian. She had an enormous feather boa draped over one shoulder and trailing on the ground behind her. She was stunning, and I wanted to rush onto the stage, cover her with a blanket, and hustle her out of there.

  I couldn’t do that, of course. I couldn’t let her see me. I would just have to sit there, burning with jealousy and shame, until she had finished and returned to the dressing room.

  It was torture. She was an engaging performer, and her burlesque routine made for an interesting change of pace after the more ordinary pole routines of the previous dancers. Her bustle was short and open in the front, revealing her ruffled panties, a barely-there bit of froth and lace that revealed more than it concealed. I looked around the room at the other men in the audience. None of them noticed my inspection because they were all staring fixedly at Sasha, their eyes tracking her every movement as she gyrated around, swishing her boa this way and that.

  Jealousy roiled in my gut, sour and hot as bile.

  My intellect was at war with my primal, possessive heart. Sasha was mine. She belonged to me, and I wanted to kill every man in the audience for daring to look at her.

  Fifty thousand years ago, I would have murdered all of them with a rock. But it was the 21st century, and men were expected to be sensitive and enlightened, and I couldn’t simply grab Sasha by the hair and drag her back to my cave. She was a thinking individual, capable of making her own choices. I had no right to tell her what to do.

  But by God did I want to.

  I sat there, stewing in misery and thwarted anger, while Sasha slowly disrobed. Her corset came off, revealing her magnificent breasts, and she trailed the boa across her nipples, a small, Sphinxlike smile tugging at her lips.

  The man at the table beside me shifted, tellingly, in his seat.

  I sympathized. I was aroused despite myself. I wanted to fuck her and kiss her and keep her safe from the exigencies that had forced her into this role. For all her bravado, I knew she thought less of herself because of her work. She shouldn’t have to, but that was life. And, as she had pointed out to me, our hypocritical society.

  I sympathized, but I still wanted to punch the man in the face.

  On stage, Sasha let her boa slither to the floor, and reached down to pluck at the waistband of her underpants. She looked up through her eyelashes, silently asking the watching men what she should do next. They way they leaned forward in their seats, waiting with bated breath for her next move, was answer enough. She peeled the panties off and slowly
pushed them down her legs, daintily raising each foot in turn to step out of them.

  She hooked the scrap of fabric with one finger and raised it above her head, dangling it like a flag. None of the men spoke, but one of them must have moved or signaled to her in some way, because she tossed the panties into the audience.

  A man sitting near the stage caught them and brought them to his nose.

  That was my breaking point. I couldn’t allow this to continue.

  But although I was a man with emotions and damnable pride, I was also a business owner, and disrupting Sasha’s performance would have harmed the club’s reputation. And so I forced myself to remain seated, even while Sasha turned and bent over to display her curvy ass, even while she finished her dance and blew kisses to the audience. And, worst of all, even while she stepped off the stage and picked her way through the gathered men, gathering tips. Hands skimmed across her hips and ass, patted her waist approvingly.

  On stage, behind her, one of the club’s employees scooped up the discarded bits of her costume.

  A better man, a good man, would have let it roll off his back like water. It was just a job for her, and I knew it. She didn’t desire the clients’ caresses. She let them touch her because she wanted to get paid. It was all very reasonable.

  Well, I wasn’t a good man.

  I waited until she was finished milking the crowd and the next girl had taken the stage. Then, as Sasha made her way back toward the dressing room, I stood and followed.

  I caught up with her just outside the dressing room door. A hand on her arm stopped her cold, and she whirled around, a seductive smile plastered on her face, ready to deal with whatever client had decided, on that particular night, to push the limits of what was acceptable.

  How many limits were pushed? How often?

  But there was no client. There was only me.

  I watched her face change as she realized who had accosted her. The smile faded, and her brows drew together in a familiar expression of confusion and irritation. “Alex?” she asked.

  “Miss Sassy Belle,” I said. “I see you’re in fine form tonight.”

  Using her stage name was a low blow, and her quick indrawn breath told me I had hit home. Regret filled me immediately, but she only said, “Are you here to see Germaine?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m here to see you.”

  Having this confrontation in public was a terrible idea, and so I drew her toward the nearest private room. The door was cracked, and after a quick peek inside to make sure the room was unoccupied, I tugged Sasha in after me and closed the door. Then I locked it, for good measure.

  “Alex, I’m working,” she said. Her voice was filled with annoyance, and she matched it with folded arms and a scowl. She was nearly naked, wearing nothing but her high heels and her bustle, and it would have been all too easy to succumb to temptation and pretend I had come to the club for business and been overcome with desire when I happened to glimpse her on stage.

  Easy, but dishonest, and it wouldn’t get me what I really wanted.

  “I know you’re working,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

  Her chin dipped slightly. She was confused. “We talked about this,” she said. “I told you I was coming back to work. And I told you I’d be dancing on stage. I haven’t been hiding anything from you.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You could have come back to work and not said anything about it to me, but instead you were very forthright about your intentions, and I appreciate that you don’t attempt to conceal things from me.”

  “Okay,” she said, drawing the word out until it was halfway to being a question. “So then what’s the problem?”

  “Sasha, I don’t want you working here anymore,” I said. “I can’t deal with it. I watched you dance tonight, and seeing those men touch you—I just can’t tolerate that. I’m sorry. I’ve tried to be enlightened and open-minded and fucking understanding, but I guess the truth is that I’m pretty old-fashioned. I’m possessive. I get jealous. You’re mine, and I don’t want anyone else even looking at you.”

  She unfolded her arms, and her hands hung at her sides, open and empty. “Alex,” she said.

  “You hate this job,” I said. “Why are you torturing yourself? You’re frugal. You told me you have money saved, and I have a feeling you’ve got a considerable amount stashed away. You don’t need to keep doing this.”

  She crossed her arms again, hugging herself tightly, and looked away from me. “I can’t do anything else,” she said. Her voice was steady, tightly controlled.

  “That’s not true,” I yelled, all of my frustration exploding out of me. I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. Getting upset would only make her less inclined to listen to me. “Sasha. I realize we haven’t known each other very long, but I think I’m a decent judge of character. My work requires me to be able to assess people quickly and accurately. And you, sweetheart, are far, far more talented and competent than you give yourself credit for. You’ve spent years taking care of your family and making sacrifices for them. But maybe it’s time, now, to start taking care of yourself.”

  She brought one hand up to cover her mouth. The other remained tightly clamped across her midsection, like she was trying to hold herself together. She stared at me for a moment, eyes wide, and then she started crying.

  I had seen women cry before, of course. Most of them were very dainty about it: they shed a few tears, sniffled a little, and remained lovely throughout. But Sasha, being Sasha, didn’t pussyfoot around. There was no delicacy here. She sobbed harshly, her eyes streaming. Her nose turned red and started dripping. Her mouth, partway covered by her hand, became a raw grimace.

  I had never seen anyone look more beautiful.

  I took her in my arms and held her while she wept against my shoulder. My shirt would be ruined by her makeup, but I didn’t give a shit. I couldn’t bear to see her so unhappy.

  “Sweetheart, don’t cry,” I said, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry I’m such a jerk. You know I can’t help myself.”

  “I know,” she sobbed.

  I sighed, and waited her out.

  At length, she quieted, and wiped her nose against my shirt.

  “Sasha,” I said, appalled but trying to hide it. She made a muffled laughing noise, and I looked down at her, suspicious. “You just did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “You were so horrified!” she said. “Whatever, just buy a new one. I know you can afford it.”

  “That isn’t the point,” I said.

  “I don’t want to keep working at the club,” she said. “You’re right that I hate it. But I don’t know what else I can do.”

  “Get your GED,” I said. “Go to college, if you want to. Start your own business. Walk dogs for a living. Take up painting. Travel the world. Christ, Sasha, you’re twenty-two. You have an entire lifetime ahead of you. You can do whatever the fuck you want.”

  “It’s not that simple,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, it is,” I said. “It’s exactly that simple. You’re just making excuses.”

  She was quiet for a moment, resting against me. Then she said, “Yolanda’s sister told me she knows a guy who just took the GED. She said he would help me out. You know, like give me some pointers.”

  “Do you know what I think?” I asked.

  “What,” she said.

  “I think we should go talk to Germaine, and tell her you’re quitting,” I said. “And then we can go back to your apartment, and eat dinner, and deal with that terrible bird of yours, and then look into registering you for a GED class. What do you think about that?”

  “I think,” she said, “that that sounds like a life.”

  16

  July passed.

  August came, and with it, a new job for Sasha at a cafe near her apartment. “The money sucks,” she said, when she told me she’d been hired, “but it’ll keep me out of trouble. I’ll get bored
if I’m not working.”

  “You could always be my sugar baby,” I said. “That’ll keep you busy. I’ll have you scrub the floor wearing one of those little French maid outfits and no underwear.”

  “Dream on, buddy,” she said, laughing, but the next time she came over, she had a French maid costume in her bag.

  That was a good night.

  With Sasha working a more reasonable schedule, we were able to spend evenings and weekends together again. I introduced her to my parents, who—possibly forewarned by Will—mercifully refrained from asking how we had met. I even convinced her to take a long weekend with me at the house in the Hamptons, where we spent all three days drinking sangria and sunning ourselves on the deck. It turned out that she freckled delightfully with a little bit of sun.

  Life, in short, was very, very good.

  And then Will, damn him, had to go and ruin everything.

  He called me one morning when I was at work. I was deep into a stack of paperwork, and I answered without thinking. “Hello,” I said.

  “Hey, it’s Will,” he said, and I silently cursed myself for answering. Will was chatty, and phone conversations with him were invariably prolonged and difficult to end. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Not really,” I said, knowing it wouldn’t make a difference.

  “Whatever, you can spare some time to talk to your favorite brother,” he said, as I had known he would.

  “You’re my only brother,” I said.

  “I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” he said. “So, okay, you’re going to think this is crazy, but I’m thinking about moving in with Yolanda.”

  “You’re right,” I said, making a mental note to call his AA sponsor. Erratic behavior wasn’t a good sign. “That’s insane.”

  “Okay, I know, but hear me out. It’s just a trial run. To see how things go. I won’t give up my apartment. But I really think she’s the one, Alex. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, not even Natalie. And she doesn’t want to live with a stranger after Sasha leaves, and this is probably—”