I shake my head, but can’t stop the tears from coming. Dammit. My mind floods with unwanted memories. Images of the bills laid out on my kitchen table that are now going to get more and more overdue, of the fees that will add up, of how long it will take before collectors start calling. It’s too much. My body shakes as a wave of sobs rip through me.
Scarlett is holding me tightly, squeezing her arms around me and shushing me. “It’s okay, Emma. You’re okay.”
I let her soothe me, pushing down my worries for the moment until I get control of myself. She gently sits me down on a box and pulls a stool up across from me and sits, eyeing me critically. “What’s going on?”
It all spills out of me. The problems with my mom I’ve been holding in, the bills, the debt, and finally the trust fund. Scarlett’s face wrinkles with sympathy and she squeezes my knee when I finish. I feel like an emptied vessel, having poured everything out makes the wounds feel fresh and raw, but somehow better in a way.
“This is going to sound a little weird,” says Scarlett slowly. “But I know a way you could make some extra money. There’s this club, it’s for people with… exotic tastes. I worked there to pay my way through college. You just have to wear the, uh, uniform and play by the rules. If you think of it like acting, it’s really not that bad.”
I frown, confused. “I’m not following...”
She sucks in a breath, obviously uncomfortable. “It’s a BDSM club. Club Crave. The clients are all extremely wealthy from CEOs to senators. They paid girls like me to help create atmosphere and sell the scene.”
“Sell the scene?” I ask, still not fully wrapping my head around what she’s saying.
“You would play the role of a submissive. You mingle with the guests, socialize, and keep an eye on everything to make sure no one is breaking the rules.”
“I don’t think this is for me,” I say quickly.
“It pays five grand a week,” she says, smirking a little.
“A week?” I ask. “For how many hours of work?”
“You would only work weekends and it’s only from 6 P.M. to 2 A.M.”
“Five grand a week for two days of work? You’re serious?”
She nods. “I still have the Matron’s number. I could be your reference. If you want.”
I swallow hard. BDSM? My knowledge of the subject starts and stops with Fifty Shades. But I’ve admittedly always felt drawn to the idea of it all. I’ve never experimented sexually. Maybe it was just the guys I was with or my own self-consciousness, but the only sex I’ve ever had is as standard as it comes, minus the whole part where I enjoy it. The money sounds like an answer to my problems, and the club… I’m a little embarrassed by how much the idea is quickly taking root in my head, making me think a crazy thought. The thought that maybe the key to my stunted sexuality is buried somewhere in the world of kinky sex, leather straps, handcuffs, and collars. “I don’t know,” I say. But I do know. I’m going to try it because I have no other choice.
“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I think you should still go to the party tonight. It will help get your mind off things. And I already told Michelle you were coming.”
“Why not?” I ask, feeling more than a little crazy.5LoganMy mansion was converted into the perfect party spot while I was at the office. I pull my Aston Martin DB11 into the lowest level of my private garage. I drove past a small army of cars parked outside from the catering crews and decorators still putting the finishing touches on my place. The door closes automatically behind me when I pull in. I step out, feeling a sense of numbness when I look at all my cars. Millions of dollars of steel and rubber are in this one floor of my garage alone, and I can’t muster up even an ounce of pride to know it’s all mine.
I push through it though. I’m always a little prone to dreariness on the anniversary of the day I should have become a father. I’m not the sentimental type by a long shot, but this is the one exception. I step inside, fighting the urge to growl out loud as I push past caterers and decorators bustling through my house. I just want a hot shower and some time to relax, but it’s painfully clear that’s not going to happen. I’m bombarded with questions and have to spend the next hour grudgingly grunting and nodding between color choices and where to put this or that. I finally brush it all off and tell them to just fucking decide because I don’t care.