Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“Asshole.”
Before I can even begin to think about what to do, how to respond to this, my first communication from Ezekiel St. James, the driver is pulling into the IVI compound.
I drop my phone back into my purse as the Rolls Royce comes to a stop. I push the button to unlock the seatbelt as the driver, not wasting any more of his breath on me, opens the door and waits for me to exit. At least we’re under the overhang which I’m grateful they have even at the staff entrance because somehow the rain is even worse now.
I climb out, rush into the building that houses The Cat House and slip into the lady’s locker rooms. A glance at the clock tells me I’m a few minutes late so I hurry to slip off the sweats and shove them into my locker, taking out the stiletto heels and swapping out my ancient sneakers for them. Once I’m in uniform, I dig my phone out again and check that deposit, sure it’s not right. But it’s right there. A whole dollar was deposited into my account.
Was it a mistake?
No. The emoji confirms that.
So, what now? What do I do? Go public? With what exactly? It’s not like I have solid evidence. No smoking gun. What I found on my dad’s laptop would definitely lead people to ask questions but for a man as wealthy as Ezekiel St. James, he could probably cover anything up.
This isn’t how this is supposed to go. He’s meant to think I can damage him, and he’s just supposed to pay.
The locker room door swings open, making me jump.
Ed walks in.
“Jesus, Ed. You almost gave me a heart attack!” I drop the phone back into my purse and close the locker.
Ed is one of the bouncers. Well, they prefer to be referred to as security guards. Eyeroll. The Society is too posh to call them bouncers. But men are men wherever you go, and where there is money, liquor and sex on offer, things inevitably get out of hand, so I get it. It’s just that more often than not, they seem to be on our ass rather than the men who step out of line.
“Blue, let’s go.”
“Coming.” I grab the choker from inside my purse and clasp it around my neck. Part of the ‘uniform’. A collar with a clasp at the front. Just for looks, or so they tell us. The courtesans wear them too, and I’ve seen the men make use of theirs.
I walk over to the mirror to make sure the ring is just above the hollow between my collarbones and remind myself no one can actually touch me. I serve drinks. That’s all.
Ed clears his throat. I ignore him and secure the few hairs that have fallen out of the bun at the nape of my neck. After checking my carefully applied makeup doesn’t need a touch-up, I hurry toward the club. Craven already has an issue with my hair, of which the topmost layer is sapphire blue, and underneath is my natural black. I dyed it when we got to New Orleans. Not sure why I did it, actually. It’s not as though it helps me to blend in. The opposite. But I needed to hold on to some part of myself. Have some control. Being on the run, you can forget who you are. You can give the people you’re running from power over you. Maybe it was just my fuck you to my father, Tommy, or as he likes to be called, Lucky Tommy. Fucking asshole. If he’d just stayed gone, if mom hadn’t taken him back when he came crawling, everything would be different.
As I slip under Ed’s arm, he whistles. I flip him off because I can. I hear the soft classical background noise and a woman’s giggle before I even enter the bar. Craven is standing at the opposite end ogling one of the courtesans who is kneeling at the feet of a member as he attaches a leash to her collar. He then leads her to a private room. She’s on her hands and knees, her ass on display. Craven will most likely jerk off to the sight of it as soon as he has a free moment. He earned the nickname Creepy after all. When he shifts his gaze to me, he narrows his eyes and makes a point of tapping his watch.
Yeah, I know I’m late, asshole. Can I blame his driver?
“Table six,” the bartender tells me, setting two whiskeys on a tray and pushing it toward me before turning to fill the next order.
I grab the tray and, keep my gaze on one point on the far wall in order not to fall over on my toothpick thin heels, another requirement of the uniform. I cross the room toward table six and try not to see what is happening in my periphery. Alcoves and rooms are offered to members for privacy, but I swear the men who frequent the place like to be watched. Sadly, most are pathetic to look at.