The Willing (15 page)

"Sure you don't want something stronger?" The blond behind the bar rolled his shoulders into a shrug. "I'm pretty good at telling when someone's in need of a little liquid courage. Is this your first time?"

I barely stopped myself laughing. "Not by a long shot." If anything, I'd been doing this too long. I raised my bottle to the bartender in a mock salute. "Three years and counting, sweet pea."

Three years of no real relationships except whatever lovers I picked up in bars and never saw after the awkward morning after. Three years of walks of shame and looking for better alternatives I'd never been able to find.

Sometimes I looked back and wondered what it might've been like if I hadn't dropped out of college. What ifs were only good at giving me an ulcer.

I started at touch of a hand on my hip, my more self-indulgent thoughts evaporating into the smoke-thickened air.

"What've we got here?" asked a male voice. I only saw its owner from the corner of my eye. He was standing behind me, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and cigarettes. "We haven't been introduced."

It didn't take a genius to figure out he was the client—or one of them, at least. 

"Ain't that a shame," I drawled, laying it on thick with the accent and a slow cant of my head onto the man's shoulder.

The bartender's lips crinkled into what might have been a smile, but he didn't linger to watch. It was just as well; I wasn't big on performing for an audience. He could play the voyeur from far outside my field of vision.

"I'm Ruben," my admirer said. A big, meaty hand reached across my midriff to shake mine. It practically put me in his arms. I still hadn't seen his face.

"Jocelyn," I replied.

"Really?" He seemed taken aback. A chuckle crept to his lips as moved to a seat beside me. Finally, I could make out his features unimpeded. He was no great beauty, but he had Oliver's eyes, which I kind of wished I hadn't noticed. "Is that your real name?" he pressed. "I was expecting something a bit more... exotic."

If I had a penny for every time a client had told me that, I would've been richer than Croesus by now. I was one of the few black girls on Madam Madrigal's roster and by far the darkest, so the question came up whenever a client felt like being adventurous. Some assholes called it
going on a safari
.

I called it pathetic, thought obviously not to their faces. "For you, handsome," I said, leaving the Bronx behind for my best version of the old continent, "I'll answer to any name."

Ruben laughed, but his gaze kept creeping towards me, over my naked shoulders and down into the deep V of my cleavage. I wondered how long it would take him to suggest we find a quiet spot. Madam Madrigal's text messages had been all kinds of urgent, but they'd lacked vital information. I had no idea what I was dealing with here. Was he the birthday boy? The young divorcé type? Had he just sold his ridiculously successful internet start-up and wanted to celebrate in style because he felt his life was over?

I had a script memorized for every possibility, so it wasn't like I had to improvise, just figure out who I was dealing with: Silicon valley hotshot or Washington lobbyist?

"So where
are
you from?" Ruben asked, blue eyes narrowing as he sized me up. "I mean really. Not the bullshit answer you've been trained to give."

Trained
? He must have seen one too many cop shows if he thought this was what a forced prostitution ring looked like. I began to consider he might be the knight in shining armor type, the kind of guy who wanted to take me away from all this vice and suffering by the power of his cock. Michelle got a few of those every month. She knew how to dispatch them; me, I just felt like throwing my drink in their faces.

"Where do you
want
me to be from?" I asked, going for playful and coy: two masks I'd never worn to any great effect. I was a better listener than I was an admirer. Mommy games were more up my alley than schoolgirl routines. And all of the above were a challenge right at this minute.

Why had I ever cancelled on Oliver? I could have been barefoot in his bedroom right now, listening to him whimper and moan for me. Instead, here I was, making nice with a guy who had watched one too many action thrillers.

"Cut the crap," snapped my would-be Sir Lancelot. "I asked you a question, I expect an answer." Chivalry really was a rare beast—so rare that when it showed up in the most peculiar places, it had to be stomped out quickly to make room for alpha male bullshit. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

If Ruben had left it at that, we might have been friends. He had to go and ruin his own party, though. By
my
hand.

Madam did this thing every time a new girl joined, where she took us aside and explained that the client isn't always right but that if we pissed them off, we might as well look for another job. Madam Madrigal was her reputation. We weren't ever going to be forced to do anything we didn't want to do while she employed us, but when we refused, we refused in her name. We weren't just making ourselves look like cock-teases, but implying Madam Madrigal didn't deliver on a deal.

We could always snub a patron if we wanted, but there would be dire consequences.

I knew I should've kept that in mind when Ruben circled my forearm with his cold fist, grip tight enough to bruise. I guess I just forgot.

My hand connected with his cheek with a satisfying thump, the sound of flesh hitting flesh ringing out loud despite the techno music pumping through the club's speakers. Bruises didn't easily show on my skin, but his face flushed like a tomato—mostly with shame, I think. "You ever grab me like that again—or any of the girls," I growled, "and I'll fucking cut off your dick."

Growing up in the ghetto had its advantages: I could threaten with the best of them. Nine times out of then, that was all it took to make a man back down. I tried not to think about the one exception.

Madam Madrigal appeared at my side as if out of thin air. "Is there a problem?"

She wasn't speaking to me; I was going to be reprimanded, possibly fired, but keeping the client happy was a more immediate concern. Without his okay, none of us were getting paid.

Something in me snapped at the thought, like a cord too long pulled taut until the threads began to fray. Just like that, I could feel everything around me unravel. This wasn't the way I wanted to spend my twenties; this wasn't the man I wanted to have making eyes at me.

 I had made the wrong call.

"No problem," I said and hopped off the barstool right into Ruben's personal space. "Ain't that right?" I didn't feel even a little bit sorry. Hitting Oliver had been a misunderstanding, a mistake: proof that I had a short fuse and poor self-control. But smug Ruben had earned the humiliation of being taken down a peg by a woman who stood half a foot and many thousands of dollars shorter.

Ruben frowned, but he leaned back in his seat as if worried I might bite him. That was a consequence of going on safari: occasionally the jungle cats fought back.

"Well," Madam interjected, coughing awkwardly as if in an attempt to reassert her authority. "I do believe Jocelyn was just leaving..."

"Soon as Ruben here tells me he grasps the full extent of what I just told him." I smiled thinly. "A nod will do."

"Jocelyn—"

Ruben canted his head back and forth slowly, despite Madam's protests.

"Enjoy the evening," I said. Madam's scandalized moue didn't escape my notice, but I was already turning on my heel, grabbing the awful bear paw purse off the bar counter and pretending I didn't notice everyone and their mother staring at me. The music was still droning in the background, forgotten.

No one could claim I didn't know how to make an exit. 

I walked for a bit, determined to cool off, but the catcalls were getting old and with night falling, the mercury was dropping too quickly for my temper to keep up. I ended up hailing a cab a couple of blocks down from the club. The driver didn't blink twice when I gave him the address. The outfit really fit the job description, I figured, tilting my head back against the seat.

My thoughts wandered. The last thing I wanted was to think about disappointing Madam Madrigal; she'd never been much of a mother figure to me, but she was a fair employer in an industry that didn't put a very high premium on employee satisfaction.

If I ended up fired, at least it would be for a good reason. I heard my phone shrill in my bag, but didn't check to see who was doing the calling. I didn't want to deal with a dressing down right this minute, or listen to Michelle berate me some more for being a thoughtless wretch.

She'd get her chance again. I was very good at screwing up.

The city drifted by all purple and black, like a mottled bruise, and I thought about the choices I'd made and the people whose opinion I praised. As if I needed any further proof of my bad judgment, I inevitable found myself wondering what Oliver was doing; if he missed me tonight.

I didn't know if I wanted him to be all tied up in knots wishing I'd kept our appointment or if I preferred him indifferent. The latter would be easier on me when the contract terminated and I had to move on with my life. The former would better soothe my plus-sized ego.

There was only one way to be sure.

The taxi stopped outside the tower and I paid the fare without paying much attention to the driver's eyes sliding down my blouse. I told him to keep the change. I wasn't swimming in cash, but pennies I could still spare. Plus, a part of me knew full well that if I didn't get out right then and there, I'd just ask to be driven home.

I couldn't let better judgment stand in my way.

George did a double take when he saw me. "Is he in?" I asked, already on my way to the elevator.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thanks." I hardly looked like I was worthy of the title, but George was one of those old-fashioned types, a man raised in a family of women.

As the elevator doors closed, I pushed the button for the penthouse and watched it light up for a few seconds before going dark again. Experience told me a melodious ringing would be filling the apartment even now to announce me.

Oliver was usually prompt in answering, but today he seemed determined to dawdle. I mashed the button with my fist again and then a third time, proving that patience was not a character trait I held close to my heart.

"What are you doing here, Jo?" echoed around the small cabin.

It was a brief thing, but for just a second there, I couldn't help wonder if it was God speaking to me. That, or perhaps I had finally lost my ever-loving mind.

Then the penny dropped and ire surged hotly in my veins. "Nice trick. Let me up, Oliver." I didn't know where to look, so instinctively I glanced up, as if the man himself was on top of the elevator cabin.

Silence lingered for a beat, and then he spoke again: "You mentioned you were otherwise engaged tonight," Oliver pointed out, his voice slightly distorted by the intercom. "I wasn't expecting you to change your mind."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm a call girl, Oliver. You're really going to pull that shit?" He had a point, but I'd been making too many concessions already. I wanted him to heed me this time not because I was his dominant but because he wanted to, as well.
Give me a chance
, I thought stubbornly.
You owe me that much
. "Look, I know what I said on the phone… I'm sorry, it was a dick move. But now I'm saying let me come upstairs and make it up to you." That almost sounded like I was offering him sex. My skin prickled a little at the thought: had I really sunk so low that I used sex to make up for behaving stupidly?

When he didn't answer, I sighed and leaned back against the far wall of the cabin. "I'm not stepping out. So if you want to have a strange woman riding your elevator all night, then fine, don't let me up. You know we can have this argument face to face, too, right?"

It was one of the things we seemed to be doing best: when we weren't indulging Oliver's baser instincts (and to some degree my own), we were usually fighting like dogs, snarling and biting at each other. I wondered if he'd finally decided I was too much of a problem.

Had I just signed my own termination agreement?

So be it, I thought. I wasn't going to beg him to let me come upstairs when we both knew my presence here tonight was as much for my financial happiness as it was so Oliver could get his kicks.

There was no answer for a long, ponderous moment and then the elevator cabin slid smoothly into motion.
Thank God
, I thought, inexplicably relieved. Promptly, my stomach dropped into my knees, courage still at ground level while the rest of me soared into the stratosphere.

The floors passed by in swift succession, red digits drawn on a black field in the screen above the door.  Music swelled in the background, predictably generic. After the club, everything seemed too quiet, too sedate. I wondered if I smelled of liquor and writing bodies, or if just one look at me would be enough to tell Oliver where I'd been. Despite myself, I found it necessary to fill my lungs with breath, bracing myself for a fight I didn't want to have but knew I'd only brought on myself.

As swiftly as the elevator had first picked up speed, so did it begin to slow down again, decelerating until it reached a full stop at the very summit of the tower. My pumps dug hard into the steel floor and then the robotic voice announced I had reached the penthouse level.
Here it goes
, I thought.

"I can explain—" I started, convinced that getting the first word in was the only way to go. Resolve left me as soon as the doors opened all the way.

Oliver was standing in foyer, apparently waiting for me. He didn't have any clothes on. Not even the Calvin Klein briefs.

Chapter ten

In retrospect, perhaps I could have done more than stand there, gaping for a whole half minute. In my defense, Oliver didn't make it easy to behave rationally. He just stood and let me look my fill like it was the most natural thing in the world. Considering how anxious he'd been about acknowledging his own orgasms, I didn't really buy it.