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“That didn’t answer my question.”
“I already told you I’m not looking to be a stepfather. Nothing has changed.”
“Again, not answering the question.”
When he stayed quiet, I knew he would never answer that question.
“You should talk to her.”
He pushed off the window and came back toward me. His eyes locked on to my face before he spoke. “Where did you see her?”
It was hard to lie when that perceptive gaze was directed on me.
“The store.”
“What store?”
“The market right on the corner.”
“Why would Elise be there when she lives four blocks away?” He knew I was lying, and he was trying to get it out of me.
“She was in her workout clothes, so I guess her gym must be over there.” I couldn’t believe I lied so effortlessly, but it came pouring out like honey.
His eyes pierced me, seeing the lie but unable to prove it.
“Talk to her, Grave. She may be angry with you, but I know she misses you.”
* * *
I looked my best before I met Jerome. He must have liked what he saw because he didn’t hesitate to take me on as one of his girls. It was a much different setup than what I was used to because I felt like a priceless diamond he needed to guard versus a woman who needed to get to work.
He told me to return the following night for cocktail hour. It sounded like a meet-and-greet, where his clients would have the opportunity to meet all the women in a casual setting before putting their money on the table.
Never heard of anything like it.
I returned the following night in a black cocktail dress. Short, skintight, and with one sleeve across the shoulder, it was one of my favorite dresses. It was simple but elegant, definitely the kind of dress to attract attention.
When I showed up, I realized I wasn’t the only one in their favorite black dress. All the other women had the same thought, so it looked like we were all going to the same funeral. They were all young and pretty, size double zero with fillers in their lips. I assumed it would be easy to grab a client, but once I saw the other women, I realized I might be the bottom of the barrel. I was in my midtwenties, but these women looked barely twenty.
We each sat at our own table, and waiters entered to provide drinks and a board of cheeses and finely cured meats. I glanced at the food but didn’t eat anything, suddenly nervous for what would come next.
No going back.
The men slowly trickled inside. The first one came, chose the girl he wanted, and then a couple minutes later, the next one came in. It was a slow burn, and by the time the sixth guy came in, the first two had already switched tables.
No one came to my table.
Guess I was too old.
The seventh man emerged, distinctly different from all his predecessors. The others were in suits or sport coats, but this man entered in black military boots, dark jeans, and a long-sleeved black shirt that was pushed to his elbows, revealing forearms covered with protruding veins.
He barely glanced at the other girls as his eyes swept across the room. But they came to an abrupt halt once they found me.
Brown eyes the color of soil after a heavy rain trained on me like the scope of a sniper. His dark hair was styled for a dinner party, a direct contradiction to the rest of his style. Heartbeats passed, and those eyes remained trained on me.
Guess he noticed me the way I noticed him.
He crossed the room, taking his time as he forged a path with those heavy boots. Some of the other girls looked his way, because unlike the other men in the room, this guy was actually handsome. Really handsome.
