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“Come with me, sir.”
He gestured with a pudgy hand to follow him, and we began to promenade once more through the lobby, past twirling machines promising grand jackpots, restaurants with a whole host of cuisines, all of their foreign spices toned down to make the guests feel cultured, but not in any way challenged, by the food they called “ethnic.”
Disgust surged through me. Why the fuck was I providing a safe haven for these close-minded fools? They could eat a damn spice every now and then. Worst it would do was make ‘em sweat, and lord knew they did that anyway, each slicker than the last.
Jack was beating a fast clip through the casino, short legs whirring beneath him, vaguely reminiscent of a sitcom robot butler. I was surprised to see him move so fast, but relieved for a chance to stretch my muscles. My whole body had tightened into one loaded spring in Kiki’s presence. Come to think of it, maybe it was just that little skirt, and maybe it had been one, ah, specific muscle that had been tense.
We came to a private, gilded elevator where a green-suited worker pressed the button for us, his gloved finger a key to a vast network that none but the chosen few ever got to see. Jack and I stepped inside the box, adorned with outlandish wallpaper and a small chandelier, and the worker joined us.
“Which floor?”
Jack replied, “Fortieth.”
“What’s up there?” I asked, struggling to remember what was on the fortieth besides some offices, maybe an ice machine.
He flicked his eyes meaningfully to the man standing next to us, but I didn’t get it.
“Jack?”
The elevator dinged, and we exited, Jack still striding ahead of me.
“Jack!”
We took a right, then another right and suddenly, I knew exactly where we were going.
“You can’t be serious,” I groaned.
“’Fraid so, sir.”
“You need to warn me about these meetings so I can miss them.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not welcome to represent you at such, ah, gatherings. Otherwise, of course, needless to say, I’d take it off your plate.”
I waved away this assertion as Jack deposited me in front of what looked to be a large grandfather clock, the kind that were positioned throughout the hotel. I suppose my father had thought that decorating with objects that signaled wealth in the early twentieth century was classy. In point of fact, it’s likely he was just bequeathed these ideals by his own father.
“Good luck, sir,” Jack said with a little bow — really, that was a bridge too far — and bustled away.
With a wave of premonitory regret, I grabbed the handle of the clock’s oak frame and tugged it open. My hand clutched the dangling bronze orb, giving it a swift pull.
A door opened within the clock, and I stepped through it.
CHAPTER 5
Kiki
I THREW OPEN the door hard enough that the knob bounced off the wall. The small, black, multi-layered scuff mark on the eggshell paint attested to the fact that this was not the first time I’d slammed a door, or even that door.
How dare Tate! How dare he.
My rage was a nimbus cloud, full to bursting, drops starting to dew and splatter on such innocent victims as, say, my wall.
But I couldn’t help myself. Thanks to Tate and his little smirk, I was gonna be pulling a double shift for the second time this week, and in the strip show no less. Yeah, he’d conveniently foregone the use of that phrase, “strip show.” Every girl on the floor knew that’s what it was. Dazzlers could call it an “alluring acrobatic spectacle” as much as they liked. Far as I know, normal acrobatic shows don’t usually involve tits being out.
Of course, it’s not as though he’d asked me to strip. But the costume — it would’ve been easier to just get on stage. At least that way I would make a few more tips.
I hated him. Sure, I’d also maybe goaded him just a tiny bit. And, yes, it’s possible I still kind of wanted to fuck him senseless. Listen, it’s complicated!
I flung my bag down on the worn sofa, storming across the dusty oatmeal carpet to my room. Said dusty carpet would have to wait. Today was supposed to be my time for doing the housework. It’d have to be put off another week, when I finally had some free time. There was no world in which Dad would do it, so that was out of the question. Oh well. A few more days of dirty dishes and floating allergens wouldn’t kill anyone.
In theory, this would’ve been a good time to, as Tate suggested, catch a few z’s — hunker down into my pillow, wrap the sheets around me like a cocoon, and try to forget that this was my life.
But there was no way sleep would find me, not when I was this pissed. Cruel, cruel sleep — never quite there when you want her, like a relative who gives you money when she drops in but whose schedule is off due to old age or indifference.
