“Why? Why does he care what my makeup looks like? As long as I look professional.”
“You’re a reflection of him. Of them.”
“As a waitress? Surely, he doesn’t apply that logic to all of the people he employs.” She changes the subject to how to take care of the hair extensions and leaves the makeup she used on the vanity for me to keep. When I ask how much I owe her, she laughs at me before telling me Jesse took care of it.
Chaz spins me to face the mirror and reflecting back at me, is a stunning woman I’ve never met. “It was a pleasure working on you today, Drew.” She uses my real name. Could this be the real me? The improved version I can present? “Hopefully, you like your look, and you’ll tell Mr. Astor to use me for his needs again.” I hate every word she chose to describe what just took place.
“Mr. Astor?”
“Jesse,” Chaz replies. “I know he has a few of us on standby for occasions such as this, so I’d appreciate a nod in my direction.”
Her hustle is admirable, even if I don’t know what she’s talking about. “I’ll request you for the next event,” I promise. “I mean, I don’t even recognize myself.” I say it like it is a compliment, then realize she might take that the wrong way.
“Thank you, doll. You are so beautiful.” She caresses my chin and seems concerned for my wellbeing. “I hope they don’t chew you up and spit you out.”
I swallow hard, my terror returning after a lull Chaz caused. “Who is they?”
“It’s not my place to say.” She changes the subject to the art show as I zip on the dress and slide into a pair of brand-new heels which are exactly my size. I don’t ask questions.Do your job,I tell myself. This is insane money. I could rent an actual apartment in the nice part of town. I could get Callie out of the roach motel. I sigh and turn toward the large mirror right next to a half moon window. I could be a woman from a magazine. A movie heroine. A model on a runway. I turn away before I confuse myself even more than I already am. Chaz packs her suitcase and gives me an awkward hug. “Good luck, Drew. I wish you nothing but the best.” The tone of her voice changes, dropping lower. “I left my phone number on the vanity for you.”
I nod, and thank her, and she leaves the room, going into Jesse’s bedroom. I pick up her number, cram it into my duffel bag, and slide it under the bed for safekeeping. I’ll grab it when I leave. Surely, I’ll change out of the dress before I go home. He didn’t buy this for me, I rationalize. I slick on another coat of the lip gloss, use the bathroom, wash my hands, and go to the door leading to his bedroom.
The door is locked, so I knock on it. When no one answers, I bang on it with my fist, feeling the rage rise up my spine. Jesse nearly knocks me down when he opens the door. I lose my breath at the sight of him. He’s wearing a suit, white cuffs peeking out of an expensive jacket—his hair coifed and a five o’clock shadow so manicured it looks fake. I exhale. He rubs his cheeks with his pointer finger and his thumb as he fucks me with his eyes. I know the look well and he’s being blatant. He wants me to know he’s looking. “I knew it would be good, but I didn’t anticipate it beingthisgood.”
I blow out a noisy breath. “What is this room, Jesse?”
“You need to call me Mr. Astor tonight, I’m afraid,” Jesse says.
I nod. “And the answer to my question?”
“A guest room of sorts.” As he says it, he eyes the leather bench, which is the last thing anyone should find in a guest room.
“Of sorts,” I echo. “Tell me now. Is this why I’m really here? You’ve had me cleared medically, you’ve dressed me up, is this my fate at the end of the evening? Is an art show some secret code for a sex party, Mr. Astor?” Walking over to the offending object, I slide my palm over the side, jingling the buckles on the ankle straps. Jesse visibly reacts, back straightening, feet clad in expensive loafers shift beneath him. His jaw works. “I’m right. That’s what this is about. I finally have a piece of this puzzle.”
“I told you I was a bad man, Drew. I told you I wanted you for myself.” He slides his hands into his pockets. “What puzzle do you mean?”
“Why do you have multiple makeup and hair people on call? When you hired Melissa, the woman who was supposed to clean your house was she ever really only going to clean your apartment or was she meant for this?” I hop up on the table and pat it gently with both hands.
It’s taking a herculean effort to keep Jesse at the doorway. His shoulders jut forward. He wants to approach. He needs it. My stomach dances wildly. I’m right. Then it sinks. Oh, fuck. What does that mean for me? Jesse doesn’t answer my question. I must be right. “Fine. Keep your secrets, but tell me if I’m in danger.” My voice shakes.
Now he approaches, a fucking ravishing beast stalking prey, eyes gleaming with nefarious intent, but face still void of any emotion. He takes my face in his hands and his touch is unexpectedly light. “Understand this, danger is the only thing you won’t be subjected to when you’re in my proximity.”
I nod, still in his grasp. His gaze drops to my mouth and flicks back up to my eyes. “You look beautiful.”
“This doesn’t mean I forgot the drugged kidnapping, by the way. You can’t buy your way out of that one.”
Jesse licks his lips. There’s a smile. A small, coy one. “I won’t need to buy my way out of anything, beautiful girl.”
My heart skips a beat. He’s looking at me like he’s truly seeing me. This isn’t a look a John gives who only wants one thing as quick as humanly possible. I exhale and he leans in farther… to inhale my breath. “Do you have everything you need here?”
His question throws me. “You told me you were going to explain what to expect tonight. I need a rundown on what’s expected of me.” I clear my throat, breaking the spell. His hands fall to his sides, but his eyes still roll over my body.
“Right. Right,” he replies, distracted gaze lingering where my thigh is exposed. He goes on to explain what cocktails will be served and how to greet people. I’m expected to stay in the kitchen when I’m not actively passing out drinks, and I’m to stay as quiet as possible. Easy.
“Jesse, I mean Mr. Astor, how much am I being paid for tonight?”
His gaze lingers on mine and steals away the last reservations I had about being under the influence of a man like this. I’m transfixed. “How much do you want to be paid?”
I tell him about the motel bill, and I’m candid when I tell him how much income I’m forgoing by giving up my night job. “So, I guess what you think is fair,” I end with, because his definition of fair is higher than mine.