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Yet I’d give up the financial support in a heartbeat if I thought he and I could make something more out of our relationship. But every time I open my mouth to blurt out something romantic, my mouth just ends up snapping shut before anything comes out. Again, I’m risk averse. The money pretty much tells me that Jared’s not into me, and as a result, it makes me depressed. Exhausted too because I’m still working my three jobs. It pisses my lover off, but again, I can’t risk giving up my employment because he could leave me high and dry and any moment.
Besides, I will not be stuck with a broken heart and no job when this all ends. That’s going beyond the pale, and I’m not going to be that dumb girl who hitched her star to the wrong man.
At that moment, the next station is announced and I recognize my stop. My gig tonight is over on the Upper West Side, and I glance at the information on my phone as I ride the escalator up to the streets above.
Tristan Gorges, I read the client’s name. Hedge fund, one baby. Watching the kid from six-thirty until nine. Probably just another rich asshole. Whatever. Still, I google all my clients now because after what happened with Jared, I don’t want to be caught unawares again. Who knew bumping into a Sanctum client during a babysitting job would actually be a possibility? Wow.
When I pop out aboveground, I type the address into my GPS and begin walking down a quiet street toward this Gorges person’s house. The chill makes me shiver, and my shoulders hunch against the wind. By the time I reach a large, imposing townhouse, I’m practically huddled like a turtle into my jacket.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself quietly, craning my neck to look up at the building. It looks like a fort, if that’s even possible in NYC, but somehow this Tristan Gorges person has convinced the City Planning Commission to allow him to build towers, turrets, and even a stained glass window into his townhouse. But that’s not my business. “Big smile, happy thoughts. Impress the client so that they ask you back.”
With that, I plaster on my best professional smile and quickly ascend the steps to the massive townhouse door. Seriously, the thing is so big that I wonder if they imported it from some castle in Europe. Then, I ring the doorbell and wait patiently.
A few seconds later, a handsome man opens the door. I’m slightly shocked at how attractive he is because most hedge fund guys are about two-feet tall with balding pates, but Tristan Gorges doesn’t fit into that category. Instead, he’s tall, with broad shoulders, ink-black hair and flinty blue eyes. His muscled frame fills the doorway and then he smiles. But there’s something wrong with that smile. I’m not sure what it is, but could it be that he has too many teeth? Is that even biologically possible? A cold shiver runs down my spine.
“You must be Marcy,” he rasps, extending a hand.
Something about the man turns me off, but again, I can’t quite pinpoint what it is. Am I just unnerved because he kind of looks like Jared? As if he were Jared’s evil twin?
But on second glance, I realize that the two men look nothing alike, not really. Jared’s hair is naturally full and waves back from his forehead, while Tristan’s locks are chock full of product. It’s gross, really, and I can even see a small drip running down the side of his neck. Meanwhile, Jared has crystal clear blue eyes which can be penetrating, yes, but also incredibly warm and kind. Tristan, on the other hand, has a harsh and calculating gaze, like he’s mentally calculating your net worth as you speak. Plus, his skin is a weird burnt sienna color, and I wonder if that’s what the drip on his neck is. Fake tanner, and not hair product.
I smile wanly.
“Um yes, nice to meet you. I’m Marcy. Are you Mr. Gorges?”
My new employer smiles that toothy smile again, and I repress a shudder.
“Yes,” he lisps. “What a pretty young babysitter. Please, come in.”
Then he turns to lead me into the house, and I get a good look at his bum. It’s not malformed or anything, but his pants are the really tight kind that make him look like Euro-trash. It’s clear he thinks he’s sexy though, given that he’s wearing a big, blingy belt that has a buckle in the shape of a horseshoe, as well as what look to be sharkskin cowboy boots. Ugh.
I consider turning around because almost every instinct is telling me to make up an excuse and leave, but then the voice in my head speaks.
You’re being ridiculous, it scolds. Besides, it’s just one night. Chill out.
