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“When did you get back to New York?” he asks, in lieu of a good morning.
I respond in kind by bypassing niceties. “I flew back on the redeye the day before yesterday.”
Since I didn’t have clients booked after South America, he didn’t make a fuss over the three days I spent in Vegas. He doesn’t know it was with Bryce. I told him I was meeting up with friends.
“Didn’t you sleep?”
“Not very well.”
“That explains the bags underneath your eyes. They’re bigger than Hermes bags.” Tell me how you really feel. “Same for…” he waves a finger up and down my form, “you don’t even match. And why in God’s name are you wearing a tracksuit?”
“I’m pretty sure walking around naked would get my ass in the slammer.”
He squints his brown eyes at me. “Did you just come back from the gym? That’s the only acceptable reason for…” more frantic finger waving, “that.”
I look down at my clothing.
I concede orange Converse, a red tracksuit, and a purple top don’t scream fashionista. I simply didn’t give a fuck about fashion before running out the door.
Todd, on the other hand, is wearing an outfit that can take him from business lunch, to cocktail hour, to late night dinner. He selected a striped blue and white seersucker suit with a white shirt and a red bowtie. Red suede wingtip dress shoes complement the look.
He isn’t wearing high heel booties today—a favorite of his to dupe people into believing he isn’t the same height as Harry Potter.
“No, I didn’t just come from the gym.”
“Please tell me you took a taxi.”
I can barely buy groceries, I don’t have the disposable income to pay for an expensive gym membership in New York or a taxi ride to and from the Bronx. “I’ll take one to do the bank rounds.” No way am I walking around with a large amount of cash. It’s not like I’ll be shadowed by bodyguards. “Then, I’ll hop on the subway.”
“You never know when you might bump into a client,” he scolds. “We don’t want to kill the fantasy.”
“It’s been a rough morning.” It’s been a rough couple of days.
“Evidently,” he harrumphs. Irritation coils in my stomach. “Had I known, I would’ve grabbed you a very grande coffee with two shots of espresso.” He lifts his cup. “Not that caffeine would do anything for those bags under your eyes.”
I’m so exhausted from the lack of sleep and mental anguish, it would take a bucket filled to the brim with espresso, doped up with a pound of sugar to slap some life into me. “Don’t worry about it.”
He does a face.
Jesus Christ! Enough with the Spanish Inquisition! “Todd, can we go inside your office?”
“You’re here bright and early”—It’s close to lunchtime—“for your portion from Alistair’s gig.” Yup. Money makes my world go round. “Fingers crossed he books you again for another two weeks.”
I pretend I didn’t hear that last comment. “I’m here for the money, but I was hoping we could talk—”
“I got you covered. I was going to call to tell you the great news.”
I frown. “What great news?”
“That couple wants to book you for the next week.” He leans into me and whispers, “They want to bring in another married couple into the mix, and they’d like for you to watch. They felt comfortable with you. This time, they’d like you to dress as a dominatrix. With this gig, you’ll three X your earnings—the rate for each couple plus a generous bonus.”
I do a mental calculation.
That’s a lot of money.
Fuck!
“Can we go into your office?” I ask.
