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Her voice returns after the initial shock that her daughter might have two hundred dollars that she doesn’t have. “W… well, that’s very nice, honey. How much money do you have to send?”
Ugh. Would that I’d kept my big mouth shut.
“I… I will send a check for two hundred dollars. If that doesn’t cover it, at least it will be a good start. Okay?”
I pull into my regular parking lot, whizzing past Sam giving someone directions. He barely notices me, and I am glad. I feel like all he has to do is look my way today, and he’ll know what a horrible daughter and big liar I am.
And that he’ll know what I did… at the club.
“Hey, Mom, just arrived at work. I gotta run. Love you,” I chirp and flip my phone shut.
What have I gotten myself into?
And why am I asking myself that so often lately?
* * *
“I’ve hearda lot about you, Lu.”
Rowan Alexo has joined me in Room 21. Gwen told me his friend Max, and the man I saw when I was wearing the lacy white dress, Greyson Orsini—I finally learned his name— really enjoyed their time with me, and so recommended me to Rowan.
She says they’re friends and business associates and have been members of the club for a while.
“What do they do for work?” I ask.
Gwen smirks. Always looking for an opportunity to make me feel like an idiot. “Don’t worry about that, Luci. There are things you don’t need to know.”
I lift my chin. “Well, I’d like to know.”
She sighs dramatically, then shrugs. “Whatever. They have a few businesses. Syndicates.”
Oh. I figured they were doctors or lawyers, the only jobs I know where people make a lot of money. I have no idea whatsyndicate businessesare. But it doesn’t seem the time to ask, and to give Gwen another opportunity to point out how she knows everything and how I’m a stupid little minion, even if I am making her a bunch of money.
So, I just smile and slip into my costume.
I have to admit, the dressing up business is fun. Like really fun. I haven’t done much… sexually yet, but I think that’s coming. Actually, I am sure it is, and the suspense is petrifying and exhilarating. I’m on the brink of something. I’m not sure what, but I am becoming a different person.
Maybe that’s why I came to Chicago to begin with. That I knew something was out there, waiting for me.
My heart thumps against my chest when I think about it. I’m not sure whether it’s excitement, or rather something trying to tell me what I’m doing is wrong, and that there is still time to turn back.
But there’s not. I think it’s too late, that is. At some point, without even realizing it, I passed the point of no return. Things in motion tend to stay in motion, and all that.
I am becoming what my parents would call abad girl.
A girl destined for the fires of hell, where I’ll rot alone and in pain for all eternity.
It’s funny, the things religion teaches to keep people in line. I never really bought it, though. That’s how I knew I was different. I sat in church and everyone else would sway with prayer, their eyes closed, experiencing the ecstasy of faith.
Me? I looked around and wondered why God wasn’t talking to me. Why was I forsaken when everyone else was so clearly blessed?
Or were they?
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Alexo,” I say, coyly looking up at him from under the thick false eyelashes that took me an hour to apply. That I’d gotten them on at all is thanks to a YouTube video by some beauty blogger.
I bounce a little in my patent leather high heels, clasping my hands behind my back to not only come off as bashful but also push my chest out a bit. I am getting the hang of this.
Rowan’s brow wrinkles and he looks unhappy. Very unhappy. And mean. And scary.
