by Lana Sky
The buzz has only just kicked in when I finally glance down at my watch and then bust my ass racing across town to reach Penney’s before my shift starts. I sneak in through the main entrance and drop the dress off at the fitting room rack. By eleven, I’m already three hours into a measly eight-hour shift that, when all is said and done, won’t even net me half of what I need to make rent. Tomorrow, it’s a night shift at the diner. My only prayer of getting by is scoring enough tips from the truckers who might stop in—any way I can.
“Hey, Francesca!”
I glance over my shoulder and find Meryl, the manager, shuffling across the store, her hands shoved into the pockets of her pants where she keeps her “totally prescription” pain meds.
“I’ll take over the register,” she tells me, coming around to my side of the counter. “You go home for the day. Terra needs the extra overtime. Her damn husband’s in jail again. The poor girl’s gotta put up bail.”
It doesn’t seem to faze her that a line of customers is hearing this little exchange. Dumbass Terra, her cousin twice removed, needs to steal the money out of my mouth in order to get her ass beaten for a few more nights before her husband winds up in a cell again.
Go figure.
My fingers shake, but I curl them into fists. Deep breaths and shit. “I was supposed to get thirty hours this week—”
“I’ll give you priority on the schedule next month,” Meryl assures me as her meaty fingers dart for the register.
Fuck this shit. I leave through the back entrance, nicking a sweater on my way out. This time, I don’t justify it as being “borrowed.” Instead, I pull it on in place of Mikie’s shirt and rip the tags off.
Then I head south, digging my nails into my palms. Good job, Frankie girl. I’m on a goddamn roll—at least five hundred dollars in the hole already with no real way to make up for it. I could always head to Benny and see if he has any extra work, but…
Wait. I bite my lip and fish through my pockets, finding the crumpled-up business card stuffed inside one of them. I don’t even remember grabbing it. Benny told me a time too, I think. Noon. For a meeting. Shit, where was it? I’m moving before I even really remember.
I don’t show up at the address until close to one: a little café on the south side. Even at this time of day, it’s not exactly hopping with activity. There’s just one man inside, seated at a corner booth. He’s oldish and bald like Benny said. He must be the client.
I plaster a fake smile on my face and run a hand through my hair. My fingers get stuck halfway and I have to tug them loose. Shit. I look down and find that the sweater I stole has deodorant stains on the side. My jeans have a hole in them. I have Pop-Tart breath.
And this man is wearing a tailored suit. He smells fancy. A silver pen rests between two of his fingers, and the leather notebook open in front of him is probably worth at least six shifts at JC Penney’s. When he sees me, his eyes narrow and he runs a hand down the front of his black suit jacket. “Are you Francesca Marconi?”
I shrug. “Frankie.”
The man nods once to himself and jots something down with his pen. “Have a seat.”
I join him at the table, already weirded out by the place. It’s quiet. Something tells me that it shouldn’t be empty, even during a weekday. Then I happen to glance out the window and find another man in a black suit standing just beyond the main doors. When a smiling couple approaches the entrance, he shakes his head and points toward another café just down the street.
Alarm bells go off in my head.
“Did you rent the place out or something?” I ask the bald guy.
I’m not given an answer right away. He takes his time to rip open exactly four packets of those diet sugars and pours them all into a steaming cup of coffee beside him. Carefully, he stirs it up with a spoon. When he takes a sip, I notice the silver ring on his right hand. It looks real. It looks expensive. I can’t take my eyes off it as he sets his mug to the side.
“My name is Lucius,” he says, extending his hand toward me.
I take it and shake it once. His ring feels cold—super expensive.
“How old are you, Francesca?”
I look up and find him observing me, but it’s not the kind of stare I’m used to. It’s the way my mother’s parole officer looked whenever he came by the house and I spun whatever lie I could to explain why she hadn’t shown up that morning. He’s searching for something.
“Nineteen,” I say.
He nods again and scribbles something else down into his book. “Do you have HIV, hepatitis, syphilis, or any other STD?”
I cough to smother my shock. “Not that I know of.”
“We’ll do a blood test, to be sure.” He glances over at the man standing outside and scribbles something else. “Now, allow me to ask the most pressing question.”
I’m holding my breath. So, what will it be? Maybe he wants me to wear a little girl costume to get him off. Spank me. Do anal? Thinking about it creeps me out to the point that I shudder. But money makes the world go ’round and my universe is already about a million spins behind the starting line.
“Okay?” I prod when he doesn’t spit the proposition out fast enough. “What’s the deal?”
“My client is an unusual man, Francesca.”
“Your client? I thought—”
“Let me just cut to the chase,” Lucius says, folding his hands in front of him. “My client is an unusual man, Ms. Marconi. A man with very unusual tastes.”
“Like what?” I ask. Benny said that this guy wanted someone desperate. Luckily for him, my goddamn picture was probably in the dictionary under that word by now.
“I won’t mince words,” Lucius says. “A lot more involvement than the usual tryst. You would be his exclusive companion.”
Now, I have an idea of what this guy must want: some bitch to wear a collar and crawl around while he pretends to be Christian Grey.
Sounds weird, but I’ll bite. “How much?”
It’s funny how a year can change people. I used to tell myself I’d never give in to that sort of shit. And that I’d only give blow jobs just once a month if that bitch Meryl cut my hours short. I used to tell myself a lot of dumb lies.
“It’s a compensatory payment system, to be sure,” Lucius admits. He flips through the pages of his notebook and pulls a slip of paper out. It has wording printed on it. A list, I find as he slides it over to me.
Make that a contract.
Well, fuck me. I don’t know whether to laugh or sigh. This guy really does think he’s Christian Grey.
“The sixteen thousand is just the base salary,” Lucius says as I drag the paper closer.
Then I stop thinking after that. My brain fucking short-circuits at the sight of a few zeros. Way too many. Enough for rent. Enough for food. Enough for a million fucking field trips.
But it’s funny. The words that follow kill any excited butterflies that came alive in my stomach: The aforementioned party will hereby agree to a base salary consisting of $16,000 per monthly quarter, barring any injury.
My eyes skip down to read the rest and those cold, dead butterflies turn into stabbing scorpions.
Clause 1: In the event of a burn, wound, cut, or any similar injury greater than ten inches in length or diameter, the aforementioned party will receive $1,000 per inch.
Clause 2: In the event that the aforementioned party is rendered unconscious and unresponsive—no pulse and/or pupil reaction—for a period of documented time extending more than one minute in duration, the party will receive $5,000 for each additional minute and $500 for each remaining second of.
Clause 3: In the event of accidental death…
“What the hell is this?” I lunge away from the table, nearly knocking myself over in the process. My fingers shake. I have to curl them into fists to hide how badly.
Lucius takes another sip of his coffee. “I understand that this might seem overwhelming.”
“You’re not serious.” I don’t k
now what seems more insane or what disgusts me more. That a man might actually write a contract with seriously maiming a woman in mind or the fact that I’m already fucking considering it.
“If you are not interested, Ms. Marconi, then I thank you for your time and—”
“Would I get paid upfront?” The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it. My sweater itches. The taste of dried Pop-Tart lingers in my throat. I swallow it down.
“Well, of course.” Lucius cocks his head and runs a hand over the pages in his notebook. “There is a one-thousand-dollar signing bonus. After you meet my client, of course. He will decide if you fit his requirements.”
I nearly fall out of my chair. One thousand dollars—just for meeting someone. I’ve considered doing a frat party for less.
“But I’d get the money when?”
“After your first encounter. In cash,” he adds.
Cash. I brace both hands flat against the table and drag myself forward until the rim of it digs into my chest. “S-so I just sign here?”
I jerk my chin to the paper, already reaching for the silver pen. I can think about the consequences later. I can think later.
“No.” Lucius reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a different sheet of folded paper. It’s crisper. Official. “You sign here. Please keep in mind that it includes a confidentiality agreement. You breathe a word as to the identity of my client and I can assure you that no expense, legal or otherwise, will be spared in ensuring that you sorely regret that decision.”
His soft, professional tone takes on a hard edge as a hint of darkness peeks out from behind the blue in his eyes.
I don’t say a damn thing in response. I just hold my hand out and he places the contract onto my palm, followed by the silver pen. The smart thing to do would be to read the damn thing over. Check for any fine print. Blah, blah, fucking bullshit.
I don’t. I just sign on the first line I see without reading a damn word. The only thing I hear—the only thing I can fucking focus on—is the promise of a grand.
“So, when do I meet him?”
Lucius takes the contract and folds it up without doing any of the shit I feel like someone in his position should: make sure that this is what I really want. That I know exactly what I’m getting into. Instead, he tucks it between the pages of his notebook.
“Now,” he says, rising to his feet. “Follow me, Ms. Marconi.”
Follow me. He sounds like the bailiffs in the court when they lead my so-called mother away in handcuffs after one of her frequent convictions. That final.
A creeping sensation crawls down my spine when I stand and follow Lucius out to a black car near the curb. The figure I saw lurking outside the door is gone, but a glance at the driver’s seat of the car reveals him behind the wheel.
“Ms. Marconi?” Lucius opens the door to the back seat, waiting for me to climb inside.
I do. No thinking. No regrets. To make sure, my nails dig into my wrist. Hard. Harder. Deeper. I don’t stop until the pain cuts through the chaos in my mind. It’s clear for five precious seconds, and I savor every last fucking one. Because once Lucius climbs in beside me and the car glides into traffic, I can’t smother the fear anymore, and pinching doesn’t help one damn bit.
I’m so stupid. I’m a goddamn idiot. Or, like Benny said, I’m desperate.
I let a list of everything I need money for by next week run through my mind. Money. Money. Money. The chant almost drowns everything else out. Almost.
“Ms. Marconi?”
The car’s stopped. I glance over and find Lucius standing on the curb, his hand extended toward me.
“Have you changed your mind?”
I shake my head and scramble out after him. We’re in front of a hotel. Or maybe a high-rise—all the rich-people places look the fucking same. This one’s pretty big, gleaming in the overcast daylight. The name formed out of silver letters over the entrance reads The Vermillion Building.
A doorman is standing out front, watching me. The moment we make eye contact, he quickly turns away.
“Ms. Marconi?” Lucius comes up beside me and nods toward the building’s entrance. “I’ll take you to meet him now.”
“Okay.” I run my hands down the front of my sweater. It feels colder out than it did earlier. I can’t stop shivering. Though, maybe it’s all the hostility thrown my way by the rich bitches who sneer at me as they skip from their posh high rise.
This man, whoever he is, lives large. He’d have to if he’s willing to cough up a few hundred dollars per centimeter of injury…
Don’t go there. I shake the thought off and pour all of my effort into trailing Lucius across a big-ass lobby decorated in shades of black and silver. The luxury doesn’t faze me too much; I’ve had a few rich clients before, men so cheap and horny that they’d toss a few hundred bucks at a hooker on my end of town.
They were all assholes who never tipped well—and they definitely wouldn’t shell out a grand for signing a goddamn piece of paper.
“This way.” Lucius enters an elevator with ebony walls, shifting over to leave me enough room.
It’s a long way up. This client must live on the top floor. I can only watch the numbers above the closed doors illuminate one by one, marking our ascent. 30…31…40.
As the doors finally open, Lucius steps out into a long hallway with only one exit: a closed door at the very end. Once we reach it, he swipes a keycard into the fancy-looking console attached to the wall beside it and it opens.
“Come in,” Lucius says.
I don’t know how long I stare before I finally force myself to step forward. This guy must keep the AC blasting, even in the middle of winter. Goosebumps rise over my arms as I let myself take in the sleek entryway. The walls are black. The floors are gray marble. Everything sparkles.
Like a knife.
An odd noise disrupts the flawless impression: pounding. Violent. Brutal.
My heart is in my throat even before I follow Lucius toward that noise, down a short hallway and into a room that looks like it was ripped out of those creepy-ass horror movies Mikie likes to watch. Knives hang from the wall. Hammers. All sorts of tools, some of them rusted from use. The floors are gray with dust, and in the center of the space is a metal pedestal that has a block of what looks like stone on top of it.
Two men are standing before it. While one attempts to beat the hell out of the stone with a sharp metal stick, the other speaks. He’s the shorter of the two, wearing a black leather jacket and scruffy jeans. “We lost the shipment,” he says, his voice shaking. “Got ambushed by those fucking chink bastards. But all we have to do is—”
“We?” The taller man laughs, shrugging. In an almost casual motion, the stick of metal in his hand leaves the hunk of marble and strikes the other man in the head with its next blow. Groaning, the shorter guy falls to his knees, clutching the back of his skull while blood spurts, coating his fingers and speckling the floor.
“Maxim,” Lucius says softly, taking a step forward.
The bigger man turns, still swinging the bar of metal through the air. He’s built like a bodybuilder: all muscle, very little fat. He’s handsome too—or at least some women might call him that when there isn’t brain matter on his chin. I wouldn’t, even then. His dark eyes reveal nothing but shadow, nearly hidden by the blond hair framing a stern face that looks like it was carved directly from that block of stone behind him.
“You found a new one so soon?” His voice is deep. Gruff. I think I catch the hint of an accent, though I’m not sure.
Lucius nods while Maxim sets the metal bar on the pedestal and wipes his hands on the front of an already dusty pair of black pants.
“Is this her?” Maxim looks me over once and jerks his chin toward a stool beside a window without waiting for an answer. “Sit.” The man on the floor whimpers, and Maxim sighs, turning to Lucius. “Can you clean up this mess?”
“Right away, sir.” Without a care given for h
is expensive suit, Lucius marches over and hauls the bleeding man to his feet by the collar of his jacket. “I’ll be in touch, Ms. Marconi,” he tells me before leaving the room, the dazed—but alive—man in tow.
A minute later, I hear the main door open and close.
“I told you to sit.”
I flinch; with no one else around, that order was meant for me. I swallow hard and approach the stool, turning around so that I face him directly.
Maxim returns his attention to his hunk of stone despite the pool of blood at his feet. His fingers flex, picking up the metal tool again—a chisel, I realize. Then he goes to fucking town. The muscles in his arm coil and pop as he rams the blunt end against the stone block with one hand and grabs a hammer on the table with the other. He strikes hard and the resulting thud echoes throughout the room.
Again. Faster. Harder.
Bang.
Bang!
BANG!
He’s lost to the brutality. It feels like hours that I watch him pummel life into the stone until a figure begins to take shape: a woman, tall and slender, her arms reaching toward the ceiling.
She’s flawless—until his next blow lands so hard that it sends a crack shooting through her perfectly crafted abdomen. Without warning, he throws the chisel and the hammer aside and they both go flying. The hammer strikes the wall and the chisel decapitates a potted plant in a nearby corner.
With a sigh, Maxim wipes his hands on the edge of his gray tee shirt and turns to face me again. “Did Lucius explain it to you?”
I force myself to nod. “Yeah…”
“Yes,” he corrects, his eyes narrowing. “How so?”
“I-I um—”
“Do not stammer.” He lopes away from the pedestal and approaches a table placed along a wall at the other end of the room. There’s a water bottle on top of it, and he snatches for it before ripping the lid off. “Speak in complete sentences,” he tells me. He definitely has an accent. Something European. Russian? “Did he show you the contract?”
“Y-yes. I mean, yes, he did.”
Maxim nods. “And you read it? You agree to the terms?” He takes another sip of water, throwing his head back so far that I can’t see his eyes.