by Portia Moore
Vincent looks irritated, and I wince. “As I said,” he repeats, his voice tightening, “we were estranged. But things are different now, so you’ll be meeting them. Would you like to interrogate me further, Poppy, or will that be all?”
I bite my lip hard. “No,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry, you just caught me off guard, that’s all. I’m really excited; I never expected to meet your parents. That’s wonderful news.”
His face relaxes a little, and some of the irritation drains away. This is the perfect time to bring up Erin, while he’s in a relatively good mood and talking about family. But I also know I can’t just blurt it out—I’m going to have to go slowly…plant some seeds.
“I talked to my mom today,” I tell him. “She and my dad are getting settled in at the hospital in Seattle and the hotel you set up for her. She’s so happy with his treatment; she couldn’t stop gushing about how wonderful everything is. She’s so grateful for what you’ve done.” I run my hands through Vincent’s hair as I tell him about the conversation and all the things my mom told me about the hospital and the doctors. Vincent loves praise—I sometimes think he loves it more than sex.
“That’s good to hear,” he says, his voice deepening with pleasure as I scratch my nails along his scalp.
“I’m just a little worried about Erin,” I continue. “She’s never traveled before, and now she’s in an unfamiliar place, and by herself most of the time since my mom is always at the hospital. My mom is sending her back to Indiana tomorrow, but she’s going to be alone at the house there, too.”
“Keep doing that,” Vincent says as my fingers pause in his hair. “That feels good,” he murmurs, as I keep massaging his scalp. “It’s been such a long day.”
I wait for a minute, hoping he’ll respond. He finally clears his throat, glancing up at me. “Erin’s not a child, Poppy,” he says firmly. “She’ll be fine.”
“No, she’s not a child,” I agree. “But she’s still only seventeen, and she shouldn’t have so much chaos going on. It’s going to be a distraction from school, and—”
Vincent lets out an annoyed sigh, pushing my hands away, and I know that I have to drop the subject for now. If I keep going, he’ll get angry, and there’ll be no chance of my going—worse, we’ll probably get into a fight, and the whole evening will be a nightmare. I expect him to tell me he has work to do, but instead, he shifts me on his lap, trailing his fingers through my hair as he leans forward and kisses me deeply. His tongue slides into my mouth as he starts to push up the skirt of my dress, and I close my eyes as his hands move up my thighs. His fingers slip between my legs, brushing over the lace of my panties, and I can feel myself responding, getting wet even as I feel him shift against me, his erection pressed against my ass.
But even though I want him physically, all I can think about is Daisy. Does he kiss her like this? Does he finger her at the dinner table, hold her on his lap and press himself against her, teasing her with the pleasure he knows he can give her? Does she whimper as his hands run over her body, wanting more? There’s a war going on between my mind and body. My body wants this, but my mind says this isn’t right; he’s a liar, a cheat…my jailer. But this prison is one I’m choosing to be in. It’s what I have to deal with now, and there’s no changing it.
I go still in his lap, tensing as I feel a wave of sadness wash over me. Vincent notices me go cold immediately, and I see him grit his teeth with irritation. “What’s wrong?” he asks tightly. I pause, trying to think of what to say. I know that no matter how I phrase it, it won’t go over well, but I have to know. I can’t keep doing this, otherwise, without asking him the obvious question that he hasn’t offered to answer for me yet. I hesitate, but I push forward anyway, carefully asking him as sweetly as I can.
“Vincent, when you’re…um…when you’re not with me, are you…are you being safe? I just want to know, so I don’t have to worry when we’re….”
A flash of anger crosses his face, and for a second, I think I’ve royally fucked up. And then he laughs, a dazzling grin replacing the momentary rage. “I’d never do anything that would endanger either you or me,” he says gently, reassuringly, and caresses my cheek. He kisses me softly then, brushing his lips over mine as his knuckles trail over my cheekbone, and his arm slides around my waist, holding me closer against him. “I just want to be with you, Poppy,” he whispers against my mouth, his tongue trailing gently over my lower lip. “I want to love and protect you.” He reaches for my hand, pressing it into his lap against the hard ridge of him through his suit. “You’re the only one who gets all of me, without any barriers between us. Does that answer your question, my little flower?”
Anger wells up in me as I hear him call me his flower.
These are lies, and this isn’t love. He’d laughed and told me flat out that I’d have to accept his harem of women or lose my place at the head of it. But right now, I can’t think about that. I try to push all those thoughts out of my head—the truth of it, the reality that I’m in—and go back to the fantasy where I believed I was the only one. That I was his only lover, and he was my protector, not the one who hurt me.
I close my eyes and try to relax. This is crazy, I think. This is insane! We’re having a conversation about him screwing other women, about whether or not he uses protection when he cheats on me, but he’s touching me like he loves me, like I’m the only one for him. Tears start to come to my eyes as he stands, picks me up, and sets me on the edge of the table. My legs wrap around his waist as he kisses me again sweetly, and the familiar ache floods me, the desire for him filling my body and pushing away the knowledge of what’s really happening here.
He lays me back on the table, pushing up my skirt, and as he kneels between my thighs and gently pulls down my panties, I can’t help the small whimper of need that spills from my lips. He pushes my legs apart a bit more, his mouth pressing against me.
“So wet for me,” he whispers, his voice full of pleasure at my reaction as he begins to kiss me there, licking and caressing in the way that he knows drives me wild.
I hate that it’s true. I hate that I am wet and aching for him, that my body still reacts this way to him no matter what he’s done. It doesn’t care that he’s changed, that he’s cheating on me, that he’s tricked me since the day we met. It only sees how sexy he is, how handsome and powerful. It gives in to him willingly, arching and writhing beneath him as he makes me come right there on the dining room table with hardly any effort at all. I hate myself for it all the while, as I moan and tangle my fingers in his hair, holding his mouth against me. I hate him as he stands up, guiding himself between my thighs. I hate us both when he shudders over me a few minutes later, his body arching against mine as he comes deep inside of me, whispering in my ear all the while one word—not my name, but “mine,” over and over again.
I am his. But I don’t want to be anymore.
6
Zach
I show up at the Palace the next day at four, exactly as Sonya asked. Brick let me out a few minutes early so I could make it downtown in time. As much as I want to take an Uber and avoid public transit, it doesn’t fit with the picture of a broke ex-con just scraping by, so I opt for the latter. I miss my old Mustang something fierce, but I had to leave that behind for this job. Too easy to track, even if we switched it over to a false registration in my fake name, which is more effort than the FBI is willing to put in just so that I can avoid taking the train.
In the daylight, the Palace isn’t as impressive as I’m betting it is at night. Of course, everything is quality, from the marbled floor to the leather and velvet seating and the sleek black-topped bar with shelves of the highest quality liquor behind it. I’m sure when night falls and the lights come up, it’ll be the picture of glamour and luxury—but for now, it’s just a club, its magic and shine dulled by the daytime.
Sonya is standing behind the bar when I walk in, her silky dark hair pulled up in a high ponytail atop her head, wearing a black dress m
ade of some slinky material with flowing sleeves and a fitted skirt that falls to mid-thigh, with huge gold hoops in her ears. It would be hard to pull off on anyone else, but her height and attitude mean that she wears it like a model.
She’s making notes on an iPad and looks up at the sound of my footsteps, a pleased smile crossing her face. “Right on time. I like a man who’s prompt.” She winks at me, and I can’t tell if she’s really flirting, or if it’s all just an act she pulls on every guy to get them to drop their guard and fuck up.
“It’s one of my virtues,” I tell her, walking up to the bar. “I’ve only got a few.”
“So I hear.” She presses her lips together. “Small-time criminal, a little drug peddling, a few stolen cars. But you went to prison, so that means you kept your mouth shut and didn’t take a deal. You’re reliable. Trustworthy. We like that in our employees.”
“Am I going to meet this ‘big boss’ today?” I ask with a grin. “Do I have to pass inspection from him, too?”
She laughs. “No, you won’t be meeting him. But I’ll warn you that if you do, he might not like your smart mouth as much as I do.” Her gaze flicks down to my lips, and I’m a little thrown off again. I can’t read her as well as I’d like to—and I’m sure that’s why she has Vincent’s trust, enough to run one of his biggest establishments. “Have you tended bar anywhere other than Brick’s?”
“A few places,” I tell her casually. “Nowhere fancier than that, though. Nothing like this place.”
“Well, you’ll have to learn a lot of new drinks, and deal with a faster-paced, more demanding crowd. Do you think you can handle that?”
“I can handle anything you throw at me,” I tell her confidently. Inwardly, I’m nervous—I don’t really have any bartending experience outside of the few rounds of practice that I went through with Bellona and Simpson and a lot of studying. But how hard can it be?
Her eyes sweep me up and down, taking stock of my appearance. I put some effort into what I put on today—dark jeans in pretty good shape, a dark blue button-down that brings out my eyes, cleaned-up black boots. I’d styled my dark blond hair and made sure to shave down to just a little stubble, so I had that rugged look that Brick had said they’d want while still looking respectable.
“We’ve got a uniform, so you don’t have to worry about having appropriate clothes.”
“Is it what you’ve got on now? Because I’m not sure you have that in my size,” I grin at her, and she laughs.
“What I wouldn’t give to see that. But no, the uniform is pretty standard. Black slacks, black shirt, black shoes, a tie. All provided by the club, of course. I’ll need your sizes for everything when you fill out your paperwork; you’ll get two sets of clothing and one pair of shoes, so keep them in good shape.”
“So I’ve got the job?” I manage to strike just the right note of excitement without sounding too thrilled.
“I think you do,” she confirms with a glimmer of a smile.
My first couple of days are during the middle of the week, so I have a chance to get some training in before the busy nights. It’s still busier than your average club would be on a Wednesday or Thursday—the glitterati of Chicago don’t have much else to do except dress up and go out to drink and flirt and cheat on their wives or snag rich men. But still, the stream of people is slow enough that I can back up the three other regular bartenders who work most nights—a pretty brunette named Ava who wears glasses, has freckles, and always wears her hair in a rockabilly style; a handsome Asian man named Haru with half-sleeve tattoos that occasionally peek out of his rolled-up sleeves, who tells me one night that they typically don’t hire staff with tattoos but thought his were “elegant” enough to get by; and a vapid blonde named Kayleigh who, despite her Barbie doll looks and high-pitched voice, is pretty good at making the drinks while still flirting with the customers. She’s model-pretty and thinner than any girl I’ve ever seen, with obviously fake tits. If the tips weren’t pooled, it’s obvious that she’d make the most of everyone.
I’m a quick study, and Ava is the first to tell me she’s impressed. I’ve always had a good memory, apparently good enough to remember a laundry list of drinks and what ingredients go in them. Fortunately for me, rich people tend to favor simple, but high-class drinks—scotch, whiskey straight, gin and tonic, vodka and tonic, cognac, champagne, wine—things with few ingredients made with the highest of the top-shelf alcohol. In one night, I handle bottles of liquor so expensive that two or three of them could have paid my rent for the month. One bottle of wine that Ava carefully decants could have paid it for two. She mentions that it’s not even the most expensive bottle here. There’s a champagne that costs more than I could even imagine.
It’s a new world for me, and luckily I don’t have to hide how much it throws me. As an ex-con, it’s normal that I’d be shocked and a little starry-eyed at the vast display of wealth and privilege around me, and though I’m not impressed by it, my startled reactions come across that way often enough to be taken as a compliment and not an offense. When I was younger, I thought I’d be envious of the people that live this way, but it only takes a few nights for me to realize that that would never be the case. The men are arrogant, dressed in their designer suits and ten-thousand-dollar watches, with girlfriends who are beautiful but silent, kept women for a little while until they move on to someone new. Their wives are probably at home, watching the kids or drinking wine and getting massages while their husbands go out screwing whoever they want. Some probably know and don’t care; some are probably fucking the masseuse or the pool boy too. Some probably would be heartbroken if they knew there were pretty blonde models squirming on their husbands’ laps while they drank their expensive scotch.
I can’t find it in myself to feel sorry for any of them. My mom suffered in a house without air conditioning and heat that only worked half the time, slaving over pots of cabbage just to get knocked around by my dad when he got home. She would have given anything for even a fraction of the luxury that these people take for granted every day.
I wouldn’t want to live their lives, though. The lies, the treachery, the arrogance and privilege of it all…it makes me sick. I’m good at keeping a poker face, but there’s more than one man I’ve wished I could deck from across the bar and wipe the charming, faux polite grin off of his face.
Saturday night is the real test. It’s me, Ava, Kayleigh, Haru, and two other bartenders whose names I can’t remember, girls who only come in on weekends, and we’re still slammed. We don’t typically come out from behind the bar, table service is handled by the bottle girls in tight dresses and high heels. Still, it’s nonstop, even without that worry. At one point, we’re so busy that Ava grabs my elbow as I come out from the back with a crate of fresh wine glasses. I set it down, and she immediately thrusts two bottles of champagne into my hands that I recognize from the “too expensive to be acceptable” part of the menu.
“Here,” she says breathlessly. “There’s a client in the VIP section who can’t be kept waiting. We’re short a cocktail waitress tonight, and they can’t get over there for a few more minutes. Be a doll and take this to him, please? He’s wearing a striped tie, a pretty blonde girlfriend who looks underage. You can’t miss him.”
I’m slightly taken aback by her comment about his girlfriend, as if it were completely normal. I take the champagne and head in the direction of the VIP section. It’s a part of the club with leather seating and marble-topped tables, slightly recessed, with a good view of the dance floor and cordoned off by black velvet ropes. Two big dudes are standing off in the corners, inconspicuous but ready to stop any not very important person from entering without permission. I see them look at me, realize that I’m one of the staff, and then just as quickly ignore me.
I spot the guest Ava was referring to immediately. The man is easily fifty, maybe more, wearing a black custom suit with a silver striped tie. He looks like a poor man’s George Clooney, and there’s not a single doubt th
at the girl next to him is there for his money and not his looks. I see what Ava meant immediately—the girl is a tiny, petite blonde, poured into a tight black dress with a deep plunge, but there’s not a bit of cleavage on her to show. She’s heavily made up to look older, but I’d guess she’s not more than sixteen, possibly even younger.
She glances over at me with wide blue eyes fringed in fake lashes, and my stomach twists. It doesn’t take long for me to pin down the reason why.
She reminds me of Rain. My Rain, when we were teenagers.
“Hey!” the man next to her says sharply, and I flinch, jolted out of my thoughts. “Bring that champagne over here,” he says, and I do it quickly, setting the bottles down and reaching to pop the cork on the first one.
“Pour a glass for me and one for pumpkin here,” he says, reaching over to squeeze the girl’s thigh. I shove down the nausea that rises up in my throat as I pour the first glass. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting to see if I’ll do as he says and pour her one as well.
If this were a normal bar or club, I could ask to see her ID. I could refuse to serve her. I could even call the cops on him. But this isn’t a normal place, and I can’t do any of those things. I can only pour the second glass with my teeth gritted, set the bottle down, and take a step back as the man takes his glass and offers her the second one.
She sips at it slowly, and he watches her with an almost predatory gaze. “Your first expensive champagne.”
“It’s really good,” she says in her soft, cooing voice, but I can tell from her expression that she doesn’t like it. I imagine there will be a number of things happening tonight that she doesn’t like, and I feel a wave of misery wash over me. There’s nothing I can do to help her; my job doesn’t include saving underage girls from the clutches of creepy men. I’d blow my cover, and that would be it for my climb up the FBI ladder. Desk duty and paperwork for me, forever. I can hear the voice of one of my instructors now, telling the class, “you won’t be able to save everyone, so don’t try. Stay focused on the target.”