Show Me How

by Harley Slate

  Fortunately, she's too upset to notice. Not that it's fortunate she's upset. That isn't the fortunate thing. But it's fortunate she doesn't notice I somehow know her real name and probably did all along. She doesn't need to feel that... investigated just yet.

  She doesn't need to feel that hunted.

  The bed is huge. Every bed in every guest bedroom is huge. King-sized. But this one looks bigger than usual when she jumps back on it and curls up to put her hands over her face.

  Is she crying?

  I take off my outer clothes, but stop stripping once the Carolina Herrera trousers have come off. I usually sleep naked, but she's too skittish for that. My French lace bra and tap pants will have to stay on for the time being. I curl up behind her, the big spoon to her little spoon. It's a position chosen to make her feel safe, although I have to wiggle my butt back a bit to keep from grinding my delta into her white satin butt.

  “You don't have to ever be afraid,” I say. “I won't let anybody hurt you.”

  “Yes, I do. You won't want me anymore when you know the truth.” Her face is turned away, so I'm getting a tangle of pretty hair. Her voice is choked.

  Something twangs inside my heart. Is she intentionally playing me like an instrument? And yet I know she isn't.

  She's innocent.

  I curl into her a little more securely, although I still shift to keep from nudging against the curve of her silken rear. Silk and skin can rub together to create dangerous sparks. “Emily, Emily, Emily. I already know the truth.” I modulate my voice to keep it calm and in control. Because I am in control. Because I knew this stuff from the get-go. I wasn't shocked or scandalized, and I don't want her to feel bad about anything she's done.

  “What do you think you know?” Her soft body goes rigid. “What truth?”

  “Listen,” I say. “Listen. My people always check the new girls out. It's for my safety as much as yours. I know about your mom. Maybe she's done a few things you're not so proud of, but I don't judge you for what your mother does. I know you're a good girl. It's all right. Everything's all right.”

  “You don't know everything.” A sniffle, and it doesn't sound like a flirty sniffle.

  It sounds real. Like she truly thinks she has a reason to cry.

  No, no, no, sweetheart. If you only knew the things I've done and the places I've been to get the money I've got. Do you really think your innocent little games could push me away?

  She's so young. So innocent. I was never that innocent, not one day of my life, and I feel a stab of loss. There's a way of being young I never had.

  Never will have. It's too late for me now. It was always too late.

  But I can appreciate that sweetness in her, and so I hug her tighter. “Then tell me. Whatever you've got to tell me, just tell me. It won't change my opinion of you, I promise.”

  Her shoulders heave against my chest. My French lace bra is no barrier to sensation, and my nipples go hard in an instant.

  “I don't know if I'm ready for any of this,” she says. “I should have said something before.”

  My breath catches in my lungs before I kiss the back of her neck to smell vanilla.

  Not an expensive fragrance, but a cheap extract from the baking section of the grocery store. The perfume of a girl on a budget.

  And yet it's somehow the sweetest perfume I ever smelled.

  My heart surges with a fullness of some emotion I don't recognize. An emotion people like me don't ever get to feel.

  “Jessica, I'm a virgin.” She flips around in my arms to look at me face to face. Such bold, beautiful eyes. An angel's honest eyes. “I think maybe I don't know what I'm getting into.”

  Chapter Eight

  Emily

  I hear Jessica say my name, my real name, not the club name, and my heart stops beating. It's probably only a second out of time, but it feels like an eternity.

  Who is this woman? Who is she really? Yeah, sure, I could Google her, and I'm totally going to do that in the morning, but what's Google going to tell me? Dates and facts. The names of the businesses she founded. The value of the real estate she owns. All the dirt and grime scrubbed away from the truth. Even Wiki has to watch itself these days with posting crap about living people who could hit back with lawsuits.

  Somehow, I already know there won't be anything online to explain the Jessica I'd seen. The woman who came gunning for a pervert on a dark street. The woman who swept me into her arms and carried me over the threshold of a castle only slightly larger than Buckingham Palace.

  The woman who checked me out and knew I was lying about my name from the very beginning.

  The woman who expected lies because everybody around her lied.

  Organized crime links. That Russian or whatever he was back at Jessica's club... I've seen that guy on the news, and it was never anything good.

  Am I ready for what it really takes to be a billionaire's girlfriend? The Sugar Mama Seekers was a fun thing to whisper about in the back of a classroom, but now shit's getting real. Somebody attacks me, and Jessica automatically thinks it's all about her. I'm not sure I believe that, but I do believe she has some reason to think it's possible somebody would use me to get back at her.

  She's a gangster, I think. Maybe all mega-rich people are.

  Is that an unfair thought?

  I don't know. I don't know anything.

  Least of all do I know whether I'm ready to get in deeper with a power player like this. My thighs still feel damp. They can't seem to dry off when Jessica has her arms wrapped around me. The little throb in my clit is a reminder of her talented upper lip rubbing my magic button while her tongue dived deeper.

  How can I sleep, remembering that?

  I shouldn't have told her I was a virgin, though. I could sense the moment when she heard what I was saying, I could sense the way it changed her feelings toward me.

  Sure, she calls me, “Little Girl,” but it doesn't mean she wants a real little girl. It's an affectionate name, a fantasy. Doesn't mean she wants the messy reality of some chick barely out of high school who has no clue what she's doing. Nobody wants that.

  No, I definitely should not have let that slip.

  Just like she shouldn't have let it slip about knowing my name.

  The shooting shook us up. We survived something together, and it broke us open, and we can't lie anymore about who we are.

  Still, though. Why do I have to be a virgin? Why does that have to be my secret?

  Her breathing changes, and now she's sleeping with her face curled against my neck, her toned body hot against my backside. She's got a long arm draped over my hip, the better to reassure me that she's still there.

  Or is it to reassure herself that I'm still there? That I'm real, that I'm not just another quick no-strings hookup in the night?

  I could've had her in the bag, that I know. More than likely, we would have already loosened up and done the dirty deed if I hadn't admitted I was a virgin. It would've been so fucking easy. She would've hiked up the long white satin of my bridal-colored gown, and she would have probed into me from behind...

  Fingers, tongues. A knee? I shiver at the thought of tactical touches locating neglected nerve endings.

  Stop. Stop. Not now.

  I can't think like this, or I'll never get to sleep. Not with her body right up against mine like that. The heat in my thighs‒ and not just my thighs‒ that heat's so real and raw that it's impossible to sleep.

  Impossible to do anything but burn.

  And yet, impossible or not, somehow it's morning. The big bed's empty except for a tangle of musk-scented sheets.

  “Jessica,” I call. “Jessica?”

  There's a large bath attached to the bedroom. I have a vague memory from the night before, but now that I've had some rest, I take a better look at all the fancy trimmings. A glass shower with four adjustable shower-heads at a variety of levels. A two-person hot tub. The sink and faucets gleam golden instead of stainless steel. The names on a
ll the products are in French. A girl could get used to this.

  After I wash up, I spritz on some Vanilla Fatale from the perfume collection before I slip into a green silk kimono with pink cherry blossoms printed all over it. The characters on the label inside suggest it was purchased in Japan.

  “Jessica?”

  A silver cart has appeared in the bedroom. Coffee, real cream, a crystal bowl of mixed berries, a selection of crackly pastries that leave a lot of crumbs. French pastries or maybe Turkish, I think, but I don't really know. The international billionaire playgirl lifestyle is still pretty new to me.

  “Jessica?”

  A slender man appears in the doorway. Quentin. “Good morning, Miss Dearborn. Ms. Blaire was called into the office for a business meeting, but I will be on hand to assist you with all your needs.”

  “Maybe not all my needs,” I say.

  He laughs. “I'm glad to see your sense of humor has returned.”

  “Is there any... news?” How much does Quentin know?

  He gets this quirky shadow-smile at the corner of his mouth, and I realize he knows everything. Jessica must really trust this guy. “There was a police report filed by a hospital that treated a gunshot wound to the knee. The victim says he didn't see his attacker. It was dark.”

  I nod. It makes sense. The creep wouldn't want to spend one more minute talking to the cops than he had to.

  “You'll be meeting Ms. Blaire for a late lunch at two. Considering the long drive, I suggest you be dressed and ready for noon.”

  “Yes, sir.” I fake a salute.

  He laughs again. “You don't have to ‘sir’ me, Miss Dearborn. I'm the help.”

  Help or not, he's obviously a key player in the Jessica Blaire empire. I'm just as happy I used my Southern manners on him.

  He leaves me with the kind of clothes that could fit any girl, which suggests Jessica is something of a player. Well, hell, of course, I already knew that. Rich people don't delay gratification, they don't have to.

  No bra‒ a well-fitted bra is something you can't really buy for a stranger‒ but I can pull the stretchy coral top over my head and it somehow hugs me in all the right places. The swirly bohemian skirt has sparkle threads and beads in it, which makes it look fun even though it falls to mid-calf. A ribbon at the waist lets me pull it tight enough to fit. A retro late sixties or early seventies look, but the label inside whispers that it's this year's version straight from London.

  The shoes are ballet flats in the same color as the top.

  My old clothes‒ the ones I was attacked in‒ have vanished in the night, and I don't expect them to ever re-appear. Not that I would ever want them to.

  I wander around the castle, because that's really what it is‒ a mountain castle. You'd almost expect a European forest around it, but the view outside is Nevada scrubby. Pines and not too much undergrowth. If you step wrong, there's a teddy bear cactus that's anything but cuddly.

  Man, oh man. My mom has hooked up with some rich folks in her time, but nothing like this. Speaking of my mom...

  My phone is turned off. When did I do that? I turn it back on and skim through endless texts asking where I am. I lift my phone to make a 360-degree panorama, and somehow Quentin is at my elbow, touching it without quite touching it.

  “No public photos, please,” he says.

  “It's just a text message to a couple of my friends and my mom. Nothing on social media. I promise.” Anyway, if this place is that top secret, security wouldn't have let me keep my device.

  He knows exactly what I'm thinking. “I could confiscate your phone.”

  “No, you wouldn't. Jessica would be unhappy if you made me unhappy.”

  “There's no bluffing you, is there?” He smiles as if he's confirmed something to himself about me. Is it that surprising I'm capable of basic logic?

  Maybe it is. A lot of girls get silly around rich people. But we girls of the Sugar Mama Seekers have to be a cut above.

  He has his own phone out, and I realize he's making a video of a herd of pronghorn some distance down the slope. That's a cool shot, so I do the same thing.

  “What does she do?” I ask. “To get all this?”

  “Google is your friend.”

  “Google says she's a casino investor, but she divested herself of her international casinos and now she's focusing on smaller, more intimate venues. Doesn't seem like the whole story to me.” Because I might only be eighteen, but I already know rich people never voluntarily get smaller.

  Quentin laughs and I know I'm right‒ there's something behind the way they suddenly pulled out of Macau‒ but he chooses not to elaborate.

  “You need to be honest with me. Is she... is Jessica a bad guy?”

  A pronghorn sniffs up, and then they all do, and then they're running. A wolf, or a coyote. Or a man with a rifle. From here, we can't see what the danger is.

  “She treats me right,” Quentin says. “The people who are loyal to her, she's a very good guy to those people. Do you understand me, Miss Dearborn?”

  I do understand, but I don't say anything.

  “A lot of people, if they go to work on time and come home and pay the bills and don't fuck around too much where the spouse can find out, that's what people consider is all you need to do to be one of the good guys. By that standard, no, Jessica Blaire is not a good guy. There's no nice little job that pays the bills, no nice little wifey waiting at home to spend the paycheck. She goes out there, and she makes things happen, and sometimes she pisses people off, and sometimes those people come after her. And she doesn't hold back when she needs to do something about those people.”

  I'm still not saying anything. Right now it's more important to listen.

  “She makes her own rules. But she's absolutely loyal to her own. Nobody fucks with Jessica Blaire, and nobody fucks with her people. That guy last night got away easy only because you spoke up for him. Otherwise, that guy would be dead. To me, that makes Ms. Blaire a good guy. A hero. But society thinks something different. So it's up to you what you think. Nobody can tell you. You make your own observations, and use your own judgment.”

  “What did she save you from?” I ask.

  Quentin smiles. “The unemployment line.”

  I know there's more to it than that, but I don't push. Anyway, my phone is going off with text notifications from all my new Vegas friends.

  >Gurrrrllllll!!!!!!

  >Daaaaaa—yammmmm.

  And then there's a quick note from Mom.

  >Heard a rumor abt my lil girl & one Jessica Blaire. Think u can ask 2 borrow couple thousand?

  Chapter Nine

  Emily

  Apparently, everybody in Vegas knows where I was last night except for the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. There's a photo on TMZ of Jessica running out of the front of her club and down the street. Interesting caption:

  Billionaire Club Owner Seen Chasing Mystery Brunette.

  That wedding party, I think. Somebody in that group saw me and then saw Jessica and put two and two together fast enough to snap a picture with a date on it. But it's all noise and nonsense, because one phoned-in tip plus a blurred photo isn't going to support a long stay at the top of the gossip press.

  At least they didn't grab a picture of the two of us together. I must say that aloud. Quentin is sitting in the back of the limo with me today, and he sits up straighter with a look of some surprise.

  “They wouldn't run it if you were in the photo,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  “You're not a public figure. That's why tabs like it when it's celebrities dating other celebrities. The rules are different.”

  My forehead probably crinkles as I think about that.

  “If you ever try to break in as a model or something in the public eye, then you're fair game. But, right now, you don't have to worry about seeing your face in the news unless you do something newsworthy.”

  A model? Curvy girls like me don't plan on being models, an
d for a minute I think he's being sarcastic, but his eyes are kind.

  “Just being pretty isn't enough to get your picture in the media.” He touches my hand ever so lightly to underscore the point, and I have to accept that he's entirely serious. He honestly thinks he needs to warn me off trying to get a job as a model. “You have to be a news maker.”

  Not a problem we need to worry about right now. As for the gutter press, helping Jessica cover up a shooting is probably fairly newsworthy, but obviously I've got no intention of letting anybody find out about all that.

  Four guys in suits and casino badges meet the limo. I get out, but Quentin doesn't. Babysitting me can't be his full-time job. The suits escort me to an elevator with two armed guards in front of it, which seems excessive, but I don't really know. I haven't been inside too many elevators with a leather bench and a crystal chandelier inside. I sit, and the four suits stand with their hands folded in front of them like so many Secret Service agents.

  Ping. They all gesture as one man, and I step out first, and they fall in behind me like they're my own private army. We exit into a blue velvet box of a room where a blonde sits behind a podium. She smiles a professional smile, and we all march past her without anybody saying anything.

  Being Jessica Blaire seems to demand a shocking number of support staffers.

  The restaurant itself is another, larger blue velvet box. There are four or five booth-type tables, but only one of them is occupied, the one in the wide window overlooking the strip. It's a breathtaking view, especially considering we're on the forty-ninth floor.

  “I thought this resort didn't have a forty-ninth floor.”

  “That's what they tell the public,” Jessica says.

  “Doesn't anybody ever notice?”

  “Sure, they notice. People notice all the time. Anybody can stand outside a building and count how many floors there are if they don't have anything better to do. That doesn't mean they can get up here.”

  The four suits have all faded away somewhere. The blonde turns a label toward Jessica, and she nods, and blondie pops the cork. I expect a splash like in the movies, but there's just a little fog that comes out before she starts pouring.