by Aya De León
She blinked, trying to recall a shot of tequila, some flirtation on the way to the hotel, maybe the outline of his square jaw against the white sheet on a bed beneath her. He seemed so familiar, but the body was somehow wrong. And his expression was open-faced and beaming, instead of sly and smug.
“I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said.
He said it in perfect English. Definitely not an uptown hookup.
“Do I know you?” Marisol asked.
“I’m Raul,” he said, grinning. “You were in my sister’s class.”
“Raulito?” She smiled. “Gladys’s baby brother? Dios mío! It’s been two decades.”
She kissed him on the cheek and they embraced. Her body buzzed with the intensity of the hug. She remembered him as a skinny kid, but the chest she pressed against was broad and firmly muscled. He smelled faintly of spice—maybe a soap or lotion—only detectable when he pulled her in close.
She had hugged over a hundred people that night, but in the squeeze of their bodies, she felt the urge to lean in close and drape herself across him but at the same time she felt desperate to recoil. She stepped back. He continued to hold her hands.
“How are you?” she asked. “How’s your sister?”
“Good. Married, on Long Island. Two kids.”
“Give her my love,” Marisol said. “You still here in Manhattan?”
“Yeah, I just moved back to the Lower East Side,” he said. His eyelashes were too long. He would have looked feminine, if not for the body.
She gave his hands a squeeze and let them go.
“What have you been up to all this time?” Marisol asked.
“Wondering about you,” he said. “I had the biggest crush on you in high school.”
“Whatever,” Marisol said, embarrassed.
“Yeah,” Raul said. “I asked around after you graduated, but you’d disappeared. I even Googled you a while back. Did you know there are hundreds of women named Marisol Rivera? I looked at the pictures, but none of them were you.”
“Isn’t stalking a crime?” Marisol asked with a laugh.
“It’s not like that,” Raul said. “You were always so smart. I knew you’d be doing something big, I just wanted to know what.”
“That’s how you saw me in high school?” Marisol asked.
“Definitely.” Raul nodded. “Like that time you spoke up about the girls’ dress code. You threatened to sue the New York School System for discrimination.”
“Like it did any good.” She laughed. “They just changed it so both boys and girls had to ‘dress modestly. ’ But what have you been up to?”
He opened his mouth, and she put a finger to his lips. “Wait,” she said. “Don’t tell me. You became some kind of activist?”
He shook his head.
“Social services? Corporate America? Internet startup?”
“Colder.” He grinned. “I been—”
“Don’t tell me.” She put a hand on his wrist. “You’re. . . you’re a stay-at-home dad with three kids and a Fortune 500 wife!”
Raul busted up laughing. “Not married. No kids. No girlfriend. Worked the same job from the time I was twenty one.”
“Bartender?”
Raul laughed and shook his head.
“Let me see your hands.” She turned his palm over and ran her fingers across it, looking for calluses.
“You’re obviously not in the trades,” she said, tracing her index finger along the slight ridges just below his fingers.
“Nope,” he said, his hand reaching after hers.
“Okay,” Marisol said, pulling her hand out of reach. “I give up.”
“I went into the police academy.”
“A cop?” Marisol asked, the laughter dying in her mouth.
“Not anymore,” he said. “I worked in the Bronx for years until I sued them for racial discrimination.”
“I can only imagine,” she said. “You win the case?”
He nodded. “I just got the settlement and bought a co-op apartment in the old neighborhood.”
“Congratulations,” Marisol said.
“For winning the settlement or buying the apartment?”
“Neither,” Marisol said. “For escaping from the NYPD.”
He laughed. “Well, I’m not crazy about them anymore, either.” He looked down at the floor and then back up at her. With a pang, she remembered that look from high school.
“So it looks like you’ll make good money tonight,” he said. “Marisol Rivera. Still in the hood doing good.”
“Using all my smarts to afford the rent.”
He nodded. “I got a deal on this co-op, but I could never have bought it without the settlement.”
“I know,” Marisol said. “We own the clinic brownstone, but we rent offices in the building next door. That lease is up soon, so rents are gonna skyrocket, or the owner might convert to condos.”
“Some days I’m sorry I moved back,” Raul said. “Nobody we grew up with can afford to live here now, right?”
“I never see anyone from back then,” Marisol said. “Except the family who owns the bodega on the corner, and they’re getting ready to sell to Starbucks.”
“I just joined a couple of organizations fighting gentrification,” he said. “But only money talks. Back then this was our little bit of Puerto Rico. Our music. Our food. Our loud-ass tías talking ghetto Spanish in the street. Our nephews leaning out of cars saying inappropriate shit to the girls. Our little kids playing on the block at all hours.”
“Those were the good times,” Marisol said. “When me and my mami first moved back here from Puerto Rico, you could be poor and still stay in Manhattan. That’s why we’re hustling so hard tonight. Coño, these economic times wanna turn poverty into a death sentence.”
“Eso,” Raul said.
“Speaking of inappropriate,” Marisol said. “You got me all riled up and cursing in Spanish.”
“You can curse at me anytime.” Raul smiled. “God, it’s great to see you.” He put his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers. “So . . . now that we’re gonna be neighbors, you wanna maybe get a cup of coffee sometime?”
“I—couldn’t—I mean, I’m really busy,” Marisol said.
“Of course.” He waved it off. “Hey, I’ll tell my sister you send your regards.”
“Please do,” she said. “Thanks for coming. We appreciate your support.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” An older white guy stepped forward and extended his hand.
“Sorry,” Raul said. “John Mathias. Friend and former partner.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mathias,” Marisol said. They shook hands.
“Call me Matty.” He looked her over. Mathias read like a cop. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a protruding belly beneath his worn charcoal suit.
“So,” Marisol said to Mathias. “You work in the Bronx?”
“Not anymore,” Raul said. “My boy was promoted to Central Robbery.”
“Congratulations,” Marisol said with a smile she didn’t feel.
“Just means more paperwork,” Mathias said.
“I really want to thank you both so much for coming,” Marisol said. “But I should check on the book signing. Excuse me.”
She got about ten feet away when a stocky, well-manicured man stepped into her path. “Ms. Rivera?”
She knew the face well. Billboards. Magazine covers. Tabloids.
“Please, allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I’m—”
“Jeremy VanDyke,” she said, her heart beating fast, as she recognized the billionaire.
Chapter 8
“Are you crashing the party?” Marisol asked VanDyke. “I would have noticed your name on the list.”
“I used an alias,” he said.
“I’m honored you could join us.” She shook his hand. He wasn’t handsome like Raul, but his touch was magnetic.
He grinned. “The pleasure’s mine.”
S
he could see the gray in his blond hair. He had a ski tan, lighter around the eyes.
Marisol touched his sleeve. The fabric was unexpectedly soft. She looked around to see whether he had a date, one of the starlets or models he was linked with in the gossip columns. He had just split with the Italian race car heiress.
Nalissa walked by, on duty as a hostess. Marisol took a flute of champagne from her tray.
“Please forgive me if I gush a little here,” Marisol said. She handed him the champagne and pulled an annual report from a nearby table. “I have all your books, and I honestly can’t believe you’re here at my event—it’s like a dream. I’d ask you to pinch me, but that would be inappropriate.”
“Yet it might be enjoyable.”
“I heard you were naughty,” she said.
“Work overtime, play overtime,” he said.
“I’ve only mastered the work part,” she said. “But it’s paid off. Our big economic reorganization was based on theories from your second book.”
“I love a success story,” he said, making direct eye contact. “Your pitch for additional donations tonight was impressive. I’ll donate tonight—anonymously, but you’ll know it’s me.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. VanDyke,” she said, squeezing his free hand.
“Please, call me Jeremy. Every quarter my foundation selects a charity to highlight. We pick nonprofits with entrepreneurs who have been implementing our strategies.” He tilted his head. “I’d love to talk to you more about it.”
“I’m honored that you would consider us.” She reached into her bag. “Here’s my card with my direct line.” He grasped the card between his thumb and finger. Marisol held on.
He looked up from the card.
“Please do call,” she said. “I’d love to set up a meeting.”
“You’ll be hearing from me,” he said.
She smiled and let go. He slipped the card into his inside jacket pocket.
“It’s not only a good cause,” she said, “but we’re operating in the black.” She offered him the annual report.
“Thank you,” he said and handed it to an assistant who materialized behind him.
He squeezed Marisol’s hand again and took his leave.
* * *
Eva walked over to Marisol. “Is that who I think it is?”
“Holy fucking shit,” Marisol said. “Jeremy VanDyke just took my card and told me he wanted to meet with me. I can’t tell if he’s trying to adopt the cause or hit on me.”
“In that dress?” Eva asked. “Probably both. I’ve been hoping you would start dating someone. A billionaire will do nicely.”
“I wouldn’t mind having a fling with the guy,” Marisol said. “A few swanky dinners. The occasional yacht ride. A little sex on the high seas. The clinic gets fifteen minutes of fame as one of his pet charities. Everyone wins.”
“Oh my God,” Eva said, looking over Marisol’s shoulder. “I can’t believe that fucker has the nerve to show his face here.”
“Who?” Marisol asked.
“That cop over there.” Eva nodded to where Raul and his ex-partner stood. “He’s dirty.”
“The Latino cop?” Marisol asked.
“No, the old white one,” Eva said. “He used to ‘arrest’ girls in Times Square. He liked them young. Seventeen? Eighteen, maybe? Him and his partner would drive the girls around for a while, and then offer to let them go for a blow job.”
“I fucking hate cops,” Marisol said.
“I can’t tell you how many girls would cry on my couch about it,” Eva said. “He acted like they should be grateful, like he was doing them some big favor.”
“He works robbery now.”
“Sent one girl over the edge,” Eva said. “First sex worker client I had who committed suicide.”
Eva’s face puckered, and Marisol pulled her into a hug.
Eva let go and wiped at her eyes. “This champagne’s making me all sentimental. I gotta focus. We need the clinic to help protect girls from assholes like him.”
* * *
At 1:30 a.m., the hostesses and clinic staff lounged around in stocking feet finishing the champagne. The hotel staff cleaned crumbs from the quiches and crab cakes. Serena packed up the registration table. Kim, Jody, and Tyesha counted all the cash donations the hostesses had collected.
“Can I help?” Nalissa asked. “I’m really good at counting cash.”
Marisol shook her head. “They got it,” she said.
“I got one hundred percent on both quizzes in entrepreneurship training.”
“Nice,” Marisol said. “When you get through level three, let’s talk about your ideas.”
“Level three?” Nalissa said. “That’ll take a year. Shouldn’t I get some credit for life experience? I used to help my cousin when she was selling meth. I was deep in the business.”
“So where’s your cousin now?” Marisol asked.
“Locked up,” Nalissa said. “But only because her boyfriend ratted her out.”
“Finish the class, then we can talk.”
Nalissa was going to say something else, but Kim interrupted and handed Marisol the cash total. She smiled, then walked over to the podium on the stage. One of the hotel staff was prepared to wheel it away, but she put a hand on his arm.
“Momentito, papi, okay?”
He nodded and Marisol stepped up to the mic.
“Overworked clinic staffers and drunken hot girls with aching feet, may I have your attention, please?”
“The mighty one speaks!” Tyesha called out.
“Thank you all for working your asses off,” she said. “And we raised over six hundred thousand for our endowment. After expenses!”
The staff cheered.
“Hell, yeah!” Jody shouted. Kim was sitting on her lap, and Jody had a casual, possessive hand on Kim’s thigh.
“And thanks to our excellent staff from La Fleur,” Marisol said. “Un aplauso para los trabajadores del hotel!”
The clinic staff and hostesses stood up and cheered for the hotel staff. The man wheeling a stack of chairs toward the door waved away the applause. The woman on hands and knees scrubbing at a wine stain on the carpet didn’t look up, but she did smile.
* * *
Six hundred thousand dollars. Marisol had stopped at her office to lock up the donations. Her body still buzzed with the excitement of the gala, but she could feel the exhaustion underneath.
On her way out of the hotel, the director of special events had stopped her. “Fabulous job tonight,” she said. “Looks like your clinic’s crisis is over.”
Marisol had sighed. “Unfortunately, no. Tonight’s funds are promised for our endowment. We can’t touch a penny of it.”
Now, as she looked around her office, she saw the folders on her desk, and the stacks of unpaid bills and invoices. Over half a million, but the daily grind was unaffected.
She peeled off the dress and exchanged it for a T-shirt and yoga pants.
Pulling a phone out of her purse, she dialed a number in Cuba. Since the end of the embargo, it was theoretically easier to get through. But she hadn’t yet gotten Cristina the right kind of cell phone and plan.
The landline number she had just rang and rang.
Marisol went to her phone’s digital recorder, and played a voice mail from her sister she’d gotten six months ago. At this point, she knew it by heart.
“Hola, hermana. Just wanted to let you know I’m thinking of you . . .” Marisol set the file to play on loop. She curled up on the couch and closed her eyes for just a moment. When she woke up in the morning, the battery on her phone was dead.
* * *
Marisol remembered the night after her grandmother’s funeral. They were still in Puerto Rico, staying with cousins. The house was somewhere in the mountains—there was a breeze and thick insect noises. She and Cristina curled together in a narrow single bed. She was in middle school and her sister was still in elementary. Marisol felt the rise and fall of
her sister’s sleeping back against her chest.
In the other two beds, her teenage girl cousins snored gently. Even then, surrounded by family, Marisol understood that it was just her and Cristina now. No one else in the world really mattered. They were going back to the States to live with some uncle. Maybe if it had been an aunt she would have had some hope. But men? Men were pretty much useless. Loud and unreliable. They went around promising her mother things in seductive voices. They promised Marisol things—trips to the zoo, sweets, movies. No suitor wanted a sullen little girl to ruin his chances. But after a few broken promises, she didn’t even crack a smile when they made the offers. Cristina was easier. At two, she was charmed by a game of peek-a-boo. Marisol, the sentry, guarded both mother and sister. She comforted her mami when the men left.
Her grandmother comforted both of them when her mother died of breast cancer. A year later, her grandmother died of a massive stroke. Now it was up to Marisol to do the comforting again, stand sentry again.
“Tú y yo,” Marisol murmured into her sister’s honey hair in the humid night. “We’ll always be together. You can count on me.” Marisol clung to her sister’s narrow torso in the darkness. “I’ll never leave. I’ll never let you down. Tú y yo. Siempre. Tú y yo.” She said it over and over, her thin arms gripping her sister’s warm body, until she had chanted herself to sleep.
Chapter 9
For a week after the benefit, the staff called Marisol “Make-It-Rain Rivera.” Then some younger clients said that was dated, and started calling her “Market-Rate Rivera,” from Thug Woofer’s current song:
Market rate. Market rate. I make money like the market rate.
Marisol waved off the praise, but she found herself singing the catchy hook as she set up the call for Thug Woofer’s private party.
She had Tyesha, Kim, and Jody on her heist team, but that didn’t necessarily mean they would all fit the clients’ tastes. Thug Woofer had mostly African American women in his videos, so the first picture she texted to his manager was of Tyesha. The photo had her work name, “Candi Jones,” and she wore a lacy white merry widow with matching thigh-high fishnet stockings. Her feet nestled in six-inch Lucite stiletto platform sandals. She lay on her stomach, her ass bared in a thong, her breasts spilling out of the white demi-bra, and her long hair wound up into a beehive cloud, with a spiral vine of small white flowers cascading down around it. She was a rap star’s video vixen dream, with her doe eyes, full lips, and slightly open mouth. Marisol typed: For the groom-to-be?