Jet pulls his lollipop out of his mouth with a sassy pop. “I didn’t say anything.”
I stop restacking my cosmetics before spinning around to face him. I don't need to peer into his eyes to know he is lying; I heard it in his undertone.
“What?” he asks with a chuckle, shadowing me to my dressing nook. “An hour ago, you were packing like a mad woman. Now. . .” He scans our location to make sure we don’t have any unwanted listeners. “Now, you’re going to work at a brothel,” he whispers.
“I’m notworkingat a brothel.” I cringe when my voice comes out louder than I was anticipating. “I’mperformingat one. That is completely different.” My voice is as low as my heart rate. “Besides, it isn’t a brothel; it’s a bordello.”
Jet’s blond brows shoot up into his hairline. “If I wrap a piece of shit in a candy wrapper, do I get to call it candy?”
“No,” I reply, faking a gag.
“Exactly!” he shouts, holding his hands in the air. “Just because you give a brothel a fancy title doesn’t alter the facts. Maison’s is a brothel. Their ‘house representatives’ arepaidfor theirservices.”
The way he says “services” leaves no doubt as to what he is implying.
"Maison’s clients aren't like Viper's clientele. Our guys are happy to pretend the little strip of material you use to cover your gorgeous tits from their view isn't there. Maison's clients won't just demand the strip be removed; they’ll want to feel what is under the strip, taste it, then spill their nasty cum all over it."
I gag for real at his last sentence. "That won’t happen. I have it in writing that I am simply performing my routine for thirty of their dearest clients."
Jet snatches the piece of paper I am referring to out of my hand. “You meanthe dirty old geezers who pay for sexclients. Nothing about them is ‘dear,’dear.”
I zip up my gym bag while mumbling, “For a man who works at a strip club, you’re very Negative Nancy about the sex industry.”
He stops reading the handwritten contract Keke, the manager at Maison's, drew up when she cornered me backstage fifteen minutes ago to glower at me. When Keke first handed me her card, I wadded it up and threw it in the trash. I underestimated her negotiation skills. Within minutes, she had me eating out of the palm of her hand. She doesn't just have the gift of the gab; she is a shrewd businesswoman. If I didn't know better, I'd say it is more than just a managerial role informing her business acumen. She is as invested in Maison's as her clientele who pay top dollar to use her services.
“Showing your assets is one thing, Savannah, but letting people feel them up is a different kettle of fish.”
"No one is feeling anything. I'm just performing." Guilt riddles me when my tone came out bitchier than I intended. I'm not angry at Jet; I'm just peeved I am in this predicament to begin with. "People pay thousands for ballet tickets, so who's to say they won't spend a hundred dollars to see me? It's three thousand dollars, Jet. I can't turn down that amount of money. I need that money—badly."
When I slump into the wooden chair across from my dressing area, Jet takes the seat next to me. I want to ramble about how unfair life has been to me the past ten years, and that if I could just catch a break, I’ll never whine again, but if there is one thing I’ve learned the past five years is that complaints get you nowhere fast. If you want to change something, you have to do it yourself. Relying on anyone only guarantees failure. I’ve been taught that lesson numerous times my past nearly twenty-nine years.
“I’m smart, Jet. I won’t get caught in the net Keke is setting.” I wish my tone came out this confident when I told Ryan I didn’t regret trusting him.
Although I'll never regret loving Ryan, I do regret trusting him. Trust issues have been my biggest downfall the past decade. It doesn't matter if it is merely signing a slip of paper presented by a US Marshall or accepting a drink from a stranger at a bar, not being able to trust people's motives is my biggest personality flaw. How can you expect someone to give you their trust if you are not willing to do the same? You can't. That not only makes you untrustworthy, but it also makes you a hypocrite.
“Let me come with you—”
“No,” I interrupt, shaking my head.
If I want to walk down a dark, unlit path, that’s my choice. But I am sure as hell not taking anyone down with me. I laid in a bed I shouldn’t have. Now I’m trying to smooth out the wrinkles.
“No, Jet,” I reply more forcefully, ramming his rebuttal into the back of his throat. “Even if you hadn’t revealed your true self earlier tonight, my answer would still be no. I need a friend, not a superior.”
He shoves his lollipop back into his mouth, swishing it around as if he is ridding the horrible taste my words left. “Alright, but if you get an itty bitty touch you don’t want—”
“You’ll be the first man I’ll tell,” I fill in, smiling. I don’t need his protectiveness, but it is nice to have.
“Nah. That wasn’t what I was going to say.” Jet stands from the bench, extending to his full height. “I was going to say, hit them with your stilettos. Those fuckers hurt.” He rubs his arm I aimed for earlier, feigning injury.
I laugh, loving the one-eighty our conversation just took. I swear, it has been like this every day for the past three weeks. We bicker like were vying for a spot on the national debate team before laughing like teens who huffed down a sneaky joint between final periods. Although at times Jet’s bouncing personality is confusing, it is also refreshing.
After tapping his knee against mine, Jet gestures his head to the back door of Vipers. “Go on, get out of here. Pete accepted your womanlyexcuse. Just make sure you hunch over on your way out. I told him your cramps were so bad you looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
A smile raises my cheeks. “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble?”
He cocks a brow, not needing to speak to relay his words.Pete isn’t running this show. Jet is.
“Alright. Thank you.” I lean in to press a kiss to the edge of his cheek before remembering that isn’t something I do anymore. Keeping everyone at arm’s length is a safe, respectable distance.
