Big Brother Billionaire (Part One) (3 page)

I fired up the boom box, was a little crestfallen that it was on a commercial and not in the middle of a set, and made my way down to the stage. There was no time to get ready, no time to slather on a little sparkly makeup or even reapply some lipstick. I wasn’t wearing a costume, and I had to think hard to remember if my underwear even matched. I’d have to make a better effort from now on just to make sure I was always prepared for anything—including an emergency dance-off to whatever song came on the radio.

The boom box was cheap, but the speakers were decent. The sound of the radio station DJ coming back on the air was tinny, but doable. Was it as ideal as having my own DJ up there at a control station, basically acting as an air traffic controller for all of the dancers and their songs? Of course it wasn’t, but the boom box wasn’t running an illegal prostitution ring in my facility either. I had to take what I could get and run with it.

The song started and I stalked down the stage, more than aware I was wearing plain pumps, a pencil skirt, and a button-down blouse. If my eyesight had required it, I could’ve worn glasses to complete the whole librarian fantasy.

There weren’t any fancy lighting features, twinkles of disco ball effects, or spotlights to highlight all of my moves. Instead, I let the music carry me and let the beat dictate what I was going to do next.

The song itself could’ve been worse. It was one I’d heard before, but not one I was a big fan of. It was upbeat with a pretty popping bass, so I’d lucked out in that department. I didn’t envy the dancer who ended up with a pop princess singing sweetly about love lost.

I took a twirl around the pole and managed to get my shirt unbuttoned at the same time, pulling it apart so the customers could see my lacy bra. Thank God I’d decided this morning that it wasn’t dirty enough to warrant a spot in my laundry bag. I could’ve been wearing my ugly white cotton bra instead.

Another twirl—these pumps were a lot easier to dance in than the platform stilettos I usually favored—and the skirt was unzipped, sliding to the floor. I kicked it away from me, moving back to the pole like I didn’t care what happened to it, didn’t care about anything except the relentless beat, the music, the competition, the show.

The show had to go on.

The customers were thrilled with my impromptu performance. Whenever I was performing a manager’s special, I at least still had a glitzy costume on. Sequins caught the eye, and if you had eyes on you, you were more likely to get more tips.

However, this was gritty; this was real. This was a businesswoman coming out of her clothes in front of a crowd.

This was the excitement of amateur night with the polish of professional dancers. The customers were going wild.

The song was building a crescendo to the bridge. I danced for all I was worth, danced for the dream of owning this club, and danced for the repairs and the drama and my empty wallet.

And when the music broke to the soaring bridge, off came my bra, shocking everyone in the room. I never went full topless in my performances, always preferring showmanship and intrigue over revealing the mystery behind my D cups. However, I needed to set the bar high if I wanted the other girls to take this competition seriously. No dancer was about to get a handout from me. The winner was going to have to really work it.

The song ended and the club exploded with cheers and dollars. I did what I could to gather up my clothes and money, the bouncer helping me while the radio faded into a new song and the next girl came strutting down the stage. I resisted the urge to cover my tits and do a dash to my office, instead taking my stuff from the bouncer with dignity and walking normally, making eye contact with every whooping customer I passed.

Hopefully, this night would save my club.

The customers stayed engaged, the dancers did their best, and at the end of the night, when the winner was picked by applause, I came out on top.

It still didn’t heal the sting of several of the best dancers quitting on the spot after the last customer had left when I called a staff meeting and told everyone that I’d fired the DJ and there would be no more prostitution under this roof.

“I don’t know how you could’ve afforded to buy this place without selling your pussy, Parker,” one of the quitters told me, her hands on her hips. “I know you think you’re better than everyone here, but that’s how we make our living. That’s how I put food in my kids’ mouths.”

“It’s illegal,” I said for probably the fourth or fifth time. “If the wrong people had found out, this place would be closed and you’d be in jail. That’s the reality of it.”

“I can’t make the money I need just from dancing,” another girl said. “You might not agree with the sex, but it’s how we make a living here.”

“Things are going to be different now,” I said, plans weaving together quickly in my brain. It felt like the quick thinking I’d done in setting up the dance competition. I hoped this skill would stick with me. I needed it.

“You mean no one’s going to be selling her pussy,” another girl piped up.

“What you do on your own time, away from this club, is your own business,” I said. “I’m not going to hold it against you. I know shit is tough. I know it as well as any of you. And just because I don’t do something doesn’t mean you can’t do it, either. I’m a businesswoman, not a cop.”

“You don’t understand anything,” another girl said. “You’re telling us to do whatever we have to do, but this was a safe place. If anything went wrong with a john, we had the bouncers to lean on for help enforcing payment. If you’re just going to turn us loose, you’re basically saying you don’t care what happens to us. We’ll end up dead somewhere, or broke, or beaten—all because you don’t want this going on under your roof.”

“Just listen to me for a minute without interrupting,” I said, holding my hands up. “We’re going to get this figured out. What was the DJ taking from your profits for the prostitution ring?”

“Fifty percent.”

I laughed. “Really? You let him have half of it? He was really fucking you girls over.”

I was met with a bunch of stone faces.

“Look,” I said quickly, not wanting to lose even more dancers tonight. “Your buy-in to dance here is a hundred bucks a pop, am I right?”

“You know as well as we do,” a girl conceded.

“That’s right, I do,” I agreed. “I paid it every night I wanted to work here, and I earned it back and then some. That’s how we make our money. It’s a good system. The house makes money, and we make money.”

“You’re the house now,” someone brought up. “You make that money.”

“At some point, I’m hoping that’ll be true,” I said. “Right now, I’m doing more spending than making. That’s not the point though.” I took a deep breath, and continued, “The point is, prostitution is illegal. Until the people in charge of our fair city decide otherwise, I won’t have anyone selling their pussies here.”

More stony faces.

“However, escorting is still a viable business venture and perfectly legal,” I said. “If you want to come here to dance, it’ll still be a hundred buck buy-in. If you want to come in here to escort, it’ll be two hundred bucks.”

“That’s a lot of money,” one of the girls complained. “And escorting means we have to go off premises with him.”

“You can go wherever you want with him—or do whatever you want with him,” I said. “If he wants to enjoy some beverages with you here, watching your fellow colleagues work it up on stage, then go for it. If he wants to take you to a show, to a club for dancing, out for dinner, back to a hotel room—you’re the one who controls that, not me. You’re the one who tells your escort yes or no. I empower you to make the right decisions for yourself.”

“And how much are you going to cut out of our take?” another girl asked.

“Not a single dime.”

There were lots of snorts of disbelief, and I didn’t blame them. They’d been screwed over for so long by a glorified pimp that this kind of business freedom had to come as a complete surprise.

“I don’t take the tips you earn here from dancing, do I?” I asked. “You give me the buy-in, and then it’s up to you how much money you make the rest of the night. That’s how the escort service is going to work. Give me the buy-in, and we can organize and schedule out of here, the club. It’s safer than doing it by yourself. And once you’re off the premises, you can do whatever you want to earn back your buy-in. Set your own prices. Be safe. Come see me if there are any problems. I’d be happy to ban problem customers from the premises.”

“It was so much easier to just have the private dance area for this,” a girl complained.

“I’ll be clear.” I didn’t speak another word until I’d made slow eye contact with every single dancer. “If I find out that there’s prostitution going on here, you’ll be fired on the spot and banned from ever dancing or escorting here again. There won’t be a warning. There won’t be a discussion. If you’re lucky, I won’t call the police.”

“I think it’s a good deal,” one girl said. “We all know that we earn a lot more than two hundred bucks with one lay.”

I masked a wince. Really? God, prostitution was lucrative. Maybe I should charge more for the buy-in than just two hundred dollars, if that was the case. I’d have to look at it in the future.

“If you think it’s a good deal, then stick around,” I said. “Things are hard right now because we’ve been hit with some bad luck. This wasn’t really a classy establishment, but I’m going to change that. This is going to be a desirable place to work. You are going to earn lots of money here, and you’re going to be safe. If you want a place to turn tricks and be at constant risk of being arrested, this isn’t the place for you to work. You can leave now. I won’t hold it against you.”

A couple of girls trickled out—enough to feel a sting, but not enough to put me under.

“Another thing,” I said, setting my shoulders like I meant business. “I’m open minded. Any of you who’ve worked with me before know that. But if I see a customer selling drugs from this club—to you or to other customers, it doesn’t matter—I will be calling the cops.”

I raised my eyebrows, daring anyone to oppose me. It was silent. Good. I needed to start delineating myself from the dancer to the boss. I could still shake my moneymaker on stage from time to time, but those days needed to start becoming fewer and fewer.

“Do what you want on your own time,” I said. “You are all probably aware that Jake’s addiction ate him out of house and home. And it’s my opinion that you dance better sober than you do high as a kite. But that’s just me. Don’t buy drugs here. Don’t expect to find them here. Find them somewhere else, if that’s your thing. No judgment. But this club is going to be bulletproof.”

At that point, bulletproof was a long way away. There were more hiccups, times I actually had to make good on my promises and call the cops on customers and dancers alike. I hated doing it. I hated losing employees at a time when I needed everyone to be pulling their weight in order to make this club float.

I added new sound and lighting equipment piece by piece, painstakingly aware that I was hopelessly in debt. I needed the club to be successful—or at least turning a profit—before I could think about starting to repay the loans I’d taken out to make it possible. I made cuts where I could. I was a one-woman cleaning crew, ran the sound and lights from the DJ booth, made all the new hires, kept the peace with scheduling and the escorting services, and basically ran myself ragged.

I’d always been fairly slender—luck of the draw in the gene pool—but I was beginning to get haggard. It was a blessing that I wasn’t dancing anymore. I’m sure the customers would pay me to put my clothes back on. I rarely ate if it meant I could pay another bill on time.

And slowly, miraculously, it started coming together. We turned our first profit, and then another, and then another.

The health department stopped hounding me, the cops left the parking lot after a solid month of no fighting among the customers after last call, and the girls were overwhelmingly positive about the new escorting service’s perks—namely, that they were making a ton of cash.

I was able to increase my buy-in amounts without complaints, making a special deal for girls willing to dance and escort as needed. Customers started coming to me for escort recommendations. I increased the cover charge and the drink prices, and people kept coming.

With the last debt paid, I realized I had enough money to start paying rent somewhere. I could hire cleaning staff, move out of the office, and actually have a home somewhere.

Then, I realized I had enough cash to have a really nice home and ended up buying the condo I live in now outright.

Life had been so frantic and uncertain for so long that it was hard to slow down and accept that things were finally going right for once. That was sad, I recognized, that I was more used to things going wrong than going right.

And when I was all moved into my condo, brand new furniture arranged just the way I wanted it, a closet full of clothes, and the owner of arguably the best club in Miami, I lay in bed and meant to thank the universe for everything it had given me but could only think of the sole thing I didn’t have.

My stepbrother. Marcus.

Dear Parker,

I have no idea why I’m even writing this, why I’m making an effort. I write to you almost every day, but I never hear back from you. Maybe I’m only doing this for me. Maybe writing all of this down is therapeutic. I can only hope that these words are reaching your eyes—and your heart. If they are, though, what does it mean that you’re not writing back to me?

Am I the only one keeping the fire alive? I never doubt that it will burn out. But if you have doubts, you need to tell me, Parker. You need to let me know. This is torture living like this, wondering whether you still love me, wondering if I’m the only one trapped in this inescapable cycle, loving you and hating myself and never being able to do anything about either.

If you’ve found a way to set yourself free from this wonderful hell, please tell me how. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

I love you. I can’t stop loving you. I love you.

I never knew my father. It wasn’t a big deal to me. Growing up in Los Angeles, in the neighborhood my mother could afford, there were kids my age from all walks of life. Not knowing my father was awfully low on the totem pole of problems to have. I knew kids who didn’t know either parent, who didn’t know where they were going to be sleeping that night, who didn’t know what they were going to have for their next meal.

My mom did her best, but she was nowhere near perfect. I watched TV when I could, so I had some kind of an idea what a perfect mom would be like. A perfect mom would fix dinner on a stove, would help with homework, and would do chores around the house while the dad was off earning money—according to some television shows. A perfect mom would be there to send me to school and welcome me home again, tuck me in with a story, and take me shopping for new clothes and backpacks and school supplies at the end of every summer.

But my mom wasn’t perfect. She tried hard, but there were lots of shortcomings.

She worked night and day to support us, and I was expected to take care of myself. My mom tried to keep the refrigerator stocked, but it was up to me to figure out how to get the food from there to my stomach—with knowledge on how to use the stove and microwave, or without.

Our tiny one-bedroom house was on a street of other tiny one-bedroom houses, and it was in sore need of repair. A coat of paint would go a long way, but when I saw her long enough to ask, my mom said it was the least of our problems.

“Stop being so concerned with looks,” she said, shooting my idea down with a disgusted look of her own. “Are we alive?”

“Yes,” I was forced to answer.

“Then there’s nothing wrong with a little weathering on the exterior,” she said. “Honestly, Parker. Why are you so worried about it?”

The perfect families I saw on television had neatly clipped yards, mailboxes at the end of the driveway, and perfectly starched dresses with little aprons on them.

I was young. I was impressionable. And I was painfully aware that I’d never have that—the perfect TV family. Not in this lifetime.

I slept in the only bedroom to “ensure I’d have a good night’s sleep,” my mom had said. She was always gone by the time I woke myself up for school, and she was rarely there when I put myself to bed for the night. If and when she did find time for sleep, it would be on the battered couch in the living room.

When she did get some time off of work—usually around the holidays, or around my birthday, to celebrate—we had good times. I understood that everything she was doing was to ensure our survival, but it didn’t help my loneliness.

“Parker and Patty, two beautiful broads,” she’d crow, treating me to a makeover from her off-limits stash of makeup. “What do you want for your birthday this year?”

If I requested my own makeup, she’d say I was too young. If I asked for new clothes, they’d be from the thrift store. I dreaded this question every year, struggling to say the right thing and find the object that my mom could afford to give me to appease her sense of owing me something to contribute to my happiness. It wasn’t until I was already in high school when I discovered the perfect response: “Surprise me.” It gave her license to get whatever she thought was necessary, and I wouldn’t have to be disappointed to not get the things I really wanted.

One year, however, still too young to understand, I really blew it.

“A father,” I said, thinking that he could be the one to fix up our shabby house and to plant flowers in the window boxes that were filled with trash and insects. If he was gone making money all day for us to live, maybe my mom could stay home and clean so I wouldn’t be the only one in charge of the chores. She could cook, too, or teach me how so that we could switch off. I was always looking for that perfect life, the perfect home, the perfect family.

“You have a father,” my mom said and laughed after a beat. “He’s just not around. That’s all. A father. That’s a tough birthday present, Parker. Don’t you want it to be just Parker and Patty, two beautiful broads? Single and ready to mingle?”

“That’s what I want,” I agreed solemnly, but the seed had been planted.

I always suspected that it was probably my fault that she started bringing men home from then on. I was still given the bedroom, but I woke up late sometimes, hearing my mother’s laugh and deep voices I didn’t recognize. I didn’t realize that the search for a man involved such intense tryouts.

My childhood wasn’t an unhappy one. For the most part, the men were nice. When my mom deigned to introduce one who had showed some kind of fatherly potential, they’d ply me with presents, understanding that Parker and Patty were a package deal.

The older I got, the more brazen my mom became with the men she brought home. I got a firsthand sex education class when I walked in on her and one of her candidates for my father in the middle of the night, trying to go for a glass of water in the kitchen.

“Christ, Parker, get it from the bathroom!” my mom cried, doing a terrible job of covering her nudity.

We made the switch after that—my mom getting the bedroom so she could have her “alone time” with her many suitors, and me decamping to the couch.

I was a loner at school, but I started spending more and more time there, just to get out of the house. By the time I was looking at my senior year of high school, my mom had given up on her “Parker and Patty, two beautiful broads” bit and had resigned herself to the fact that she just wasn’t going to have a close relationship with me. She’d thrown herself to the mercies of dating and had found it much more interesting and fulfilling than me.

It was all the same to me. I had just one year of high school left, and then I could do whatever I wanted, go wherever I wanted to. The counselors at my school had been meeting with the members of the senior class to talk about options the summer prior to school starting. I didn’t know if college was going to be a viable option for me, like my own counselor had been urging. My grades weren’t great; I never saw much of a reason to try hard, and my mom didn’t push the issue. Plus, there wouldn’t be enough money for me to go if I didn’t get all of it paid for.

There were trade schools, too, to consider, but money was prohibitive.

“A lot of people get a job to pay for night classes at community colleges,” my counselor offered. “It’s hard, but you wouldn’t be the first or last to earn your degree that way.”

“My degree for what?” I asked, confused. “I don’t even know what I want to do.”

“That’s why you should take a variety of classes to start out,” she said helpfully, pushing a stack of brochures across the desk at me. “There are often general degree requirements, which cover all your basics, and if you find something that’s interesting, that could be your major.”

I hadn’t even started on my final year of high school. It was impossible to anticipate what I’d want to do with my life a year from now.

“Is it a tragedy if I don’t go to college?” I asked, the handful of brochures feeling awfully heavy.

“College isn’t for everyone,” the counselor allowed. “Who knows? You could make some man very happy.”

And that was my cue to get up and leave. So that was it? Enter the world of academia or marry rich? Appointments with my counselor weren’t things I needed to keep anymore, I decided.

As I was rounding the corner of the building to start the long walk back home, or wherever my feet decided to take me if I discovered that my mom was there with one of her suitors, I was practically bum-rushed against the chain-link fence that ran along the perimeter of the school grounds.

“Oh my God! I’m sorry! Are you okay?”

All of those colorful brochures went flying like confetti cut from the future I’d never have, and I let them blow in the wind. It was beautiful in a sad sort of way, the glossy pages catching in the sunlight, the smiling faces of the models they used to represent well-groomed college students landing on the cracked sidewalk beneath my feet.

“Hey, you okay?”

I finally dragged my eyes away from the shiny brochures scattered across the pavement and looked up into the warmest eyes I’d ever seen. The color was difficult to ascertain—dark, but not plain. They shimmered, making me think that they had many layers for some reason.

“Hi.”

I was finally able to drag my eyes away from his, down to his mouth, his perfect mouth, which had formed all of those words. What was he saying? Why would he be saying things to me? He was too perfect, too foreign. I’d never seen him before. Had getting pushed up against the fence actually knocked me unconscious? Was I dreaming?

“Hello,” I said, figuring that, if this were a dream, I didn’t really have anything to lose by talking to the gorgeous guy standing in front of me.

“I’m sorry for running into you,” he said, sounding about as dazed as I felt. “I really didn’t see you coming around the corner, and I’m late for my meeting with the counselor.”

“You’re meeting with the counselor?” I asked, frowning. “I just got done with mine. It’s just … do you even go here?”

“I do now,” he said, studying the decrepit school building with trepidation. “My dad just moved here for a job, and I have one more year of following him around wherever he has to go.”

“So, you’re new,” I said, the wheels in my brain turning slowly. “You’re going to be a senior this year, but you’re new.”

“That’s what they tell me,” he said, grinning at me. “I think I knocked into you pretty hard. Want to sit on that bench over there?”

I let him steer me toward the bench, stepping on the brochures that littered the ground.

“Let me get these for you,” he said, stooping, but I seized his elbow and stopped him.

“Leave them.” Those strange eyes studied me, and he slowly straightened.

“If you’re just coming from your meeting with the counselor, don’t you need these?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do after I graduate. Not go to college, that’s for sure.”

We sat on the bench. Colors seemed brighter, somehow, even though they didn’t need that much help. The sun was always intense here.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” he asked seriously, then cracked up at himself. “Sorry. That’s such a stupid question.”

“It’s probably even stupider that I don’t have an answer for it,” I said, laughing. “You know what the counselor told me? If I don’t go to college, then I should try to marry rich.”

His laughter intensified. “Seriously? What did you say?”

“Not a word,” I gasped, breathless with mirth. “I stood up and walked out on the bitch. Seriously. Hasn’t she ever heard of the women’s movement?”

“Doesn’t seem like she’s very liberated,” he observed.

“Don’t you have to go meet with her now?” I asked, cocking my head, sorry that I’d even said it. I didn’t want him to go. I never wanted him to go anywhere out of my sight.

He shrugged. “It doesn’t sound like she’ll help me very much,” he said. “You’ve already given me pretty good advice. Go to college, or marry rich. I’ll have to find a sugar mama as soon as possible.”

“So what do you want to be when you grow up?” I asked, smiling.

“Besides a kept man?”

“Yes, besides that.”

He studied the grass beneath our feet. I tried to curl my toes under themselves, aware that the pink polish I’d lifted from my mom needed a reapplication.

“I don’t know, specifically,” he said finally. “I want to make my own decisions. I want to be comfortable. I want to be someone everyone looks up to.”

“Join the Army,” I teased.

“That’s what my dad wants,” he scoffed. “Does he think I want to follow in his footsteps for the rest of my life? No way. The second I’m eighteen, I’m fucking out of here.”

“Me, too,” I said dreamily. It was, lately, my sweetest fantasy. I had no idea where I’d get the money. I was trying to save up by babysitting some of the neighborhood kids whenever I got the chance, but it was hard since I tried to help my mom out with rent and bills and stuff.

“Where would you go, if you could go anywhere in the world?” he asked, a smile playing around his lips.

“I’d live on the beach,” I said decisively. “I could never be landlocked.”

“You already live on the beach, practically,” he said, laughing. “Hello? It’s California.”