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One
Tova
“Excuse me, what?” I pushed my long hair over my shoulder so I could hear my rich-as-hell, good-looking dreamboat of a boyfriend, Frederick, better. I had to make sure I heard correctly. I had to ensure that my life was indeed derailing again—because of some douche of a man. My heart rate kicked up a notch and adrenaline dripped into my veins, all of it a slow preparation. The flight-or-fight response.
I usually fled.
I pulled the lapels of my blush-colored silk robe shut to hide the skip of my pulse fluttering at the base of my neck. My mom’s words, back when she could string together coherent sounds, echoed through my head.Never let them know you plan on leaving.
“You heard me,” Frederick said in his cultured,I’m too rich for your bullshittone. He’d never used it on me, but it was most certainly aimed my way now. I hated that I wasn’t surprised. If I gave myself time to look back on our two-year relationship, I’d see the buildup of his superior attitude toward me. I’d see it all so crystal clear. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”
I had heard him. That was the issue, and absolutely, it was a problem. Yet, my mama didn’t raise no fool. Nor did my grandma. And if both of them had, my grandma’s lifelong friend and partner, Thelma, would’ve taught me right. “I said I would choreograph and put on a show for clients tonight, but you know I don’t do nudity.” Mostly. “And I—I don’t... I don’t...”Deep breath, Tova. “I’m not a sex worker.”
Behind me, Frederick quirked his full lips into an arrogant tilt and fluffed the crest of his blond hair with his fingers as he squinted into the crystal-framed mirror of my vanity. “No money’s changing hands, Tova, my dear.”
I used to think hisTova, my dearwas precious, but it was quickly becoming a stain on my eardrums. The endearment turned out to be as much bait as the house Frederick had moved me into.
I was sitting on a pink, satin-upholstered stool in the bedroom I shared with him. The space was done with the most elegant touch, and he’d told me this vanity and the gold-crusted stool were his grandmother’s. The house, this furniture, were all nicer than anything I’d had growing up. He’d relished indulging me. I hadn’t seen the luxury for the trap it was.
I studied myself while Frederick casually acted as if nothing was amiss. Two pink dots glowed on my cheeks. My blush was usually a curse, unless I was performing. Then the dainty flush looked like part of my burlesque act, the sensual performance I’d worked hard to perfect and refresh while keeping slimy men’s hands off me.
Booking gigs had gotten easier with Frederick’s name backing mine, with him functioning almost like my manager. He’d coaxed me into giving up a day job I had adored to pursue my second job, burlesque, which I also loved. The ceiling for income with burlesque wasn’t high, but not as limited as teaching kids how to dance. I could be my own boss while not needing a building with rent or a mortgage, insurance, or bookkeepers, and Frederick had connections.
I was a free agent. Or so I had thought.
I swallowed. “I didn’t think you were a man who liked to share.”
What red flags had I missed?
What would Thelma have pointed out as obvious in her growly smoker’s voice?
The nicer the shell, the fancier the cage.
Men don’t want to take care of you. They want to control you.
The more charming they are, the more they’re hiding.
Frederick had charm and charisma. And he’d seemed so intent on helping me. I hadn’t missed the warnings—I’d ignored them. He’d been my ticket to a stable future, but I’d been getting groomed to be his pet. While I was a sucker for a guy in a suit, he’d been hammering away at a cage.
Lines in the corners of his eyes winged out. He was older than me. Forty-five. His name had hooked me as much as his dapper appearance. Thelma would’ve hit me across the head with that red flag. Frederick Augustus Baldwin of the Augustus Opera House in Los Angeles. Frederick Augustus Baldwinthe Third. Grandson of Augustus Baldwin, a famous opera tenor who married a big-screen darling in the fifties and had my boyfriend’s pretentious parents, who hated me slightly less than they despised each other.
“It’s an honor to share yourtalents.” He stayed behind me, between me and the door. His impeccable black suit blocked out the reflection of the ornate bedroom in the mirror. I could see the door, taunting me.
What if I got up and walked out? Frederick was bigger than me. Would he get violent?
Did I want to find out?
I thought of Mom, and adrenaline flooded my veins. I couldn’t risk discovering what Frederick would do to get me to stay.
“Two of the clients who will be in attendance tonight put tens of millions into my account—each, Tova, my dear. The least I can do is give them dinner and a show—and a private dance afterward.” He put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. “Don’t you agree?” His grip tightened.
“Ow, Frederick. That hurts.” I should know that calling out men’s poor behavior never went well. I adopted a saucy pout to let him know I was still a harmless girl who thrived on his attention.
Ugh. The clarity was startling. I’d followed Mom’s path closer than I cared to. The urge to be looked after, to have a little help in life, had been too strong.
He leaned down, his grip not loosening, and met my gaze in the mirror. His face was next to mine, and in his blue eyes was a hint of darkness I hadn’t seen before. “A man shouldn’t need to repeat himself, pet.” Gah—the nickname! Another red flag waving in the wind. “You will do this for me, and you will let them know you enjoy it.”
Like Thelma used to say—shit sticks.
