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I shoved the money in my pockets as people rushed up to the tall man, trying to engage him in conversation and introducing themselves. I heard a few people refer to him as “Mr. Sterling,” but still did not know who he was. The rest of the crowd had dispersed, and the other performers seemed relieved that I had shut the hell up so they could try to get some attention.
I was about to hustle to the train to get to the store when I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Excuse me, can I talk to you for a second?”
I turned to face him. He was extremely attractive and reeked of money, if there was such a thing as reeking of money.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked.
“Look, I’m just a kid,” I told him. “I’m underage.”
He looked confused and then laughed. “No, it’s not about that. I don’t have any problems getting women.”
“He damn sure doesn’t!” some women yelled out. “He can have me in a heartbeat.”
He glanced at her and then back at me. His bodyguard approached the woman to make sure she didn’t try to make a mad dash to get to him. “My name’s Richard Sterling. I enjoyed your singing.”
I shrugged. “And?”
“I’m having this holiday party and I was looking for something exciting . . . someone different to entertain my guests.”
“And?” I asked again.
“And I find you to be fascinating.”
“This was my first real performance. I only know a few songs by heart.” I was wondering how much money he was talking but knew that I was nowhere near prepared to give an actual concert . . . not at a party.
“Oh . . . I see,” he said in disappointment. “Well, you’re very talented, so you should pursue it. What’s your name?”
I ignored the name question. “Funny you should say that because I came to that conclusion right about the time that you drove up. But most people won’t hire me because of”—I pointed to my scar—“this.”
“What’s this? I don’t see anything,” he said, clearly lying to me. “All I see is a stunningly beautiful young lady who has an amazing voice and some great dance skills to go with it.”
I blushed. “Thank you.”
“So do you think that I could speak with your parents about you performing at my party, Miss . . . ?”
“My parents told me never to tell my name to strangers, or even talk to them.”
“You’re not a toddler and . . .” He surveyed the immediate area. “You appear to be out here in the middle of Times Square, one of the most congested areas in the entire world, by yourself.” He paused. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to know that it makes sense that someone who is apparently both famous and rich would be willing to let me sing and dance at a party.” I eyed him up and down. “What is it? Some kind of orgy where a bunch of old men take advantage of teenage girls?”
He frowned. “Once again, it’s not about that, and I’m not that old, for the record.” He gazed into my eyes, like he was analyzing me through them, and then sighed. “Never mind. You have a nice night. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” I said back to him.
He was about to walk away when he added, “Just make sure you don’t waste your talent out here on the street corner. I was going to offer you ten thousand dollars to sing at my party. I’ll just find someone else to give it to, but you truly are gifted.”
I almost fainted. “Did you say ten thousand dollars?”
“I did.” He grinned. “I assume you thought it was going to be much less.”
“I was thinking more like a hundred dollars. Ten thousand?” I asked again. “Are you for real?”
“I’m for real.”
I bit my lip. “But I was being honest before when I said that I don’t know a lot of songs. When is your party, where is it, and how would I get there? I mean, if I manage to come up with some songs.”
“My party is not until New Year’s Eve, it is at my home in Alpine, New Jersey, and I would send a car to get you and your mother or father. That way you won’t have to be concerned about anything happening, or having to talk to strangers without one of them.”
