AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Confidential. I can’t reveal that,” she says, clack-clacking papers on her desk into neat, perfectly aligned stacks. “The person told him that what you did helped him live again. What you did helped him heal.”
I know who that guy is. It’s the guy I can’t stop thinking about. Blue eyes, a smattering of freckles across high sun-kissed cheekbones. Dylan Fucking McAlister.
“Is there something you need to tell me, Evelyn?” Madame asks, staring at me like I’m a bug crawling across the floor. “Something important you need to share?”
“Nope,” I say, technically not lying through my teeth because Madame Marchand will be the last person I share anything, let alone this, with.
“I trust you’ll tell me if healing turns into a ‘thing’? Specifics make for a better, more detailed client experience at Ma Maison. Specifics bring in more money. Specifics can launch a breakout career.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. “When is the new client coming in town?”
“He’s not. His credentials passed with flying colors. You’re going to him.”
“Aha. St. Pete?”
“Yes. And anywhere in the continental U.S. he wants to travel for the week he employs you.”
“Okay,” I say, overwhelmed and confused on how the hell I’m going to prep for this date, what I should pack, let alone how I’ll manage to take off work from school.
“You’re getting a seven hundred dollar stipend for the date’s duration.” Madame practically reads my mind, reaching in her desk drawer, sliding a debit card across the desk in my direction. “This should cover beauty and grooming necessities. Emergencies.”
Hope swift kicks me. No one’s going to give you anything unless you ask for it.
I clear my throat. “What about wardrobe?”
“What about it?” Madame shuffles paperwork around on her desk, making everything immaculate as always.
I just got a new client, a fat gig, and was bumped up a pay grade. You can bet your life Madame’s going to want me to be as high end and perfect as those stupid stacks of crisply aligned papers on her fancy desk.
“I need better clothes,” I say, my voice low at first, growing stronger as I grow my courage. “Ma Maison gives Victoria and Amelia a wardrobe stipend. You want your top tier girls to look money. You want Ma Maison to be the most exclusive agency in Chicago, right?”
She sizes me up with a look that for once isn’t dismissive. “Three thousand for this engagement and this engagement only. We’ll re-evaluate for the future.”
‘Yes!’ Hope high fives me.
“Yes,” I say under my breath, clenching a fist at my side.
“What?” Madame asks.
“Thank you.”
***
19
St. Petersburg
ST. PETERSBURG
I travel to St. Petersburg where Andrew Courtland’s driver picks me up at the airport and chauffeurs me to his vintage 1940s Spanish-style mansion on Snell Island. The place is a rambling, two-story stucco with red tiles. Orange and blush bougainvillea trail over the arched doorways. There’s a tennis court in the back yard, tucked behind a swimming pool. The house has gorgeous views of the waterfront, and a shiny motorboat is parked at the dock. The scent of salt wafts through the air.
Andrew seems like a decent guy. He’s forty and good-looking in that retired ball player kind of way. A year ago he sold the majority share of his ball club to a corporation. Until recently he was amicably divorced and shared custody of his teenage daughter, Hailey. But lately he’s been dropping the ball: canceling visitations at the last minute, screwing up father-daughter plans. He’s been pissing off his ex-wife, alienating Hailey, and now there’s friction.
The first night I arrived, he confessed over dinner that he used to be a cocky piece of work when he was the majority share owner. He sold because he wanted the influx of cash to spruce up the stadium and attract young athletes with better potential to cross to the big leagues. Ten months later, his job as team manager is no longer a given. He’s not the golden child in the new owners’ minds. They hired a hot shot out of Cleveland to be his boss and Andrew’s not all that happy about it.
He’s having trouble sleeping. He’s drinking more than usual and having anxiety attacks, which hasn’t happened since he was a teenager. And for the first time he’s being an asshole to his players.
“Evie,” he says one night at the end of a game that stretches into overtime as we’re sitting behind the dugout alongside the players. “What was I thinking selling the majority share? I gave up too much control. Maybe I’m no longer qualified to manage the team. Maybe I should hire someone to do the grunt work while I sit in the clubhouse instead of the dugout, drink too much beer, and entertain corporate big shots. Is anyone really going to miss me?”
