The Billionaire's Allure (The Silver Cross Club Book 5) (3 page)

Maybe this was how the dancers at the club felt all the time.

One by one, heads came up as people finished reading. Darya caught my eye and smiled at me. I smiled weakly in return. I was too nervous to show much enthusiasm.

Claudia said, “Who would like to start?”

Silence. People glanced at each other, clearly hoping that someone else would speak first. I shifted in my seat, mortified. Was it really
that
bad?

Finally, Samuel raised his hand and said, “Isn’t this the same chapter that you brought last time?”

My face burned. “I’m still working on it,” I said. “I made some changes. I re-wrote parts of it…”

“You’ve been bringing us versions of this same chapter for the past six months,” said Naida, who was never one to mince words.

I wanted to disappear. “This is what I’ve been working on,” I said, pathetic, whining.

“Beth, I get the impression that this scene has some personal significance for you,” Claudia said. “Would you like to talk about it with us?”

I would rather have clawed out my own eyeballs. “I just want to get it right,” I said. “I want it to be good.”

“It’s just the first draft,” Evan said. “It’s
supposed
to be a mess.”

“I agree,” Maggie said. “You need to get the words on paper. Beth, you’re a
good
writer. I want to read the rest of your book. So I think you need to stop stressing out over every sentence and, you know.
Write
it.”

I looked around the room. Heads were nodding. They were all ganging up on me. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and said, “I don’t want to write something crappy just so I can say I’ve written it.”

“That’s what editing’s for,” Maggie said. “Shit or get off the pot, you know?”

More nodding. In desperation, I looked to Claudia for support; but she was nodding too, with a thoughtful look on her face. “It’s important that we, collectively, push each other to become better and braver artists,” she said. “Beth, the next time you bring us some work, I’d like to see something completely new that you haven’t shared with us before. That’s my challenge to you.”

I wouldn’t argue with her—not here, with everyone looking at me, all of them agreeing with her, agreeing that what I was writing wasn’t good enough.

I took a deep breath. That wasn’t true: they were trying to help me. They wanted me to succeed. And feeling sorry for myself wouldn’t get this book written. “Okay,” I said. “A brand new chapter. I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful,” Claudia said, beaming at me, and everyone else murmured their approval. “I’m truly looking forward to reading what you come up with.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, embarrassed by all of the pairs of eyes on me.

The meeting was over. People began gathering coats and notebooks, chatting to their neighbors, asking about plans for the weekend. I gathered my things in silence, feeling ashamed but hopeful, eager to get home and start writing.

Darya came over to me while I was putting on my coat. She was very quiet, and she wrote dreamy, elegant short stories that usually made Claudia cry. “Hi, Beth,” she said.

I smiled at her. “Hi.”

“I was wondering,” she said, toying with the end of her ponytail. “I was thinking of going out to get some dinner. And I wondered if you’d like to go with me? I’m really interested in your book.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That’s very kind of you. Tonight isn’t good for me, though. I have things I need to do, so. Maybe next week.”

“Sure,” she said, and tucked her hands into her coat pockets. “Any time.”

Walking home, I wondered if I had hurt Darya’s feelings. She was trying to reach out, maybe trying to make friends with me, and I had turned her down cold.

I shrugged it off. What did I need friends for? I had my book, and my job.

That was more than enough.

* * *

I arrived at work earlier than usual on Friday afternoon because I wanted to speak with Germaine before the club opened. She was in her office, as always, going through paperwork.

“Hi, Germaine,” I said, rapping lightly on the doorframe.

She looked up. “Beth,” she said. “Of course. Come in.”

I closed the door behind me, and her eyebrows crept up. Surely she knew why I wanted to talk to her. “That guy who was here on Wednesday evening,” I said. “He was looking for me, right?”

Germaine leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her waist. “He said he was,” she said. “And it seems he wasn’t lying about knowing you. You certainly knew him.”

“You didn’t tell him I worked here, right?” I asked.

“Of course not,” she said, frowning at me, like she was offended I would even suggest such a thing. “I would never give out that sort of information. We were at something of an impasse when you came in, actually. I wouldn’t tell him anything, and he refused to leave.”

“So you wanted to see if he recognized me,” I said. “To see if he was lying or not.”

She nodded. “You answered that question for me quite effectively.” A small smile crept across her face. “I must say, that was one of the more impressive slaps I’ve ever witnessed.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I guess.”

“Should I blacklist him?” Germaine asked.

That was an option available to every woman who worked at the club, dancers and waitresses alike. If a man bothered one of us—if he touched us when we didn’t want to be touched, persisted after we asked him to leave us alone, or even looked at us in a way we didn’t like—we could tell Germaine to blacklist him, and he wouldn’t be allowed near us again. Repeat offenders were banned from the club. Most of the dancers had blacklisted at least one client. Xanadu held the record at six.

I had only ever blacklisted one client, a man who had never learned to take no for an answer. Germaine no longer permitted him in the club.

I didn’t want to blacklist Max. History and curiosity overcame my innate caution. I sort of wanted to know what he had to say to me. So I said, “That won’t be necessary.”

Germaine was watching me very closely. “Please let me know at once if you change your mind. Blacklisting is no reflection on you as an employee, Beth. I do everything in my power to ensure that the club remains a comfortable working environment. Say the word, and Javier will turn this man away at the door.”

“I know,” I said. “Thanks, Germaine. I think I’ll be able to deal with him.”

“As you will,” she said, and nodded her dismissal.

I went back out into the main room of the club. Workers had started arriving—waitresses and security guards, a few dancers, a busboy—but it was early, still. I wished I still smoked. I could go out back with the dishwashers and forget all my troubles until the cigarette burned down to the filter.

I hadn’t smoked in years. I hadn’t even
thought
about smoking in years.

Friday night was the second busiest night of the week, topped only by Saturday. Clients began arriving as soon as the club opened, a slow trickle at first, but by 5:00 there was a steady stream of men coming through the door, stockbrokers cutting out early, investment bankers with potential clients, business magnates looking for an hour or two of fun and relaxation before they headed home to the wife and the kids. I did my best not to judge the clients—they were my livelihood, after all—but I couldn’t help thinking it was sad and a little pathetic the way they paid women for attention and sex. Maybe it was really about power: that they could get the dancers to do anything, say anything, and smile the whole time.

I tried to stay away from the men like that, the ones with shiny teeth and greedy eyes. Not all of the clients were like that. Many of them seemed to treat the club as a nice place to have a drink and talk business, and the dancers were a pleasant bonus. Some of them, older gentlemen, had grandfatherly relationships with the dancers, and tipped well and urged them to go to college. Those men were my favorites: the regulars who showed me pictures of their grandchildren, played a few rounds of chess with their friends, and happily went home to their wives.

The evening went smoothly. All of the waitresses who were scheduled to work had showed up on time. The dancers were in peak form, eager to rake in their Friday night tips. And the clients were drunkenly content, and all more or less behaving themselves, at least for the moment.

And then, around 8:00, I turned from the bar, a tray of drinks in my hands, and Max was there, seated at a table like one of the clients.

I didn’t stumble, or give up and run for the hills. I moved smoothly forward. It wasn’t a surprise, I told myself, that he had showed up again. I had been expecting it.

And still the sight of him set me reeling.

He was wearing that same suit, which convinced me that he really had stolen it. None of the clients wore the same suit two days in a row. One of them had explained to me that the wool needed to “breathe.” I didn’t necessarily believe that—it seemed more likely that wearing a different suit every day was a signal that you had enough money to afford all of those suits—but either way, Max was even wearing the same
tie.
I had a good eye for menswear after working at the club for so long.

His hair was styled differently, though: parted on the left, and combed away from his face.

He had always been good-looking, even as an awkward seventeen-year-old, but now he was
handsome
. Solid. He looked like a man.

Tubs, passing by with an empty tray, said, “That guy’s here again.”

Great. All of the waitresses would be watching me, then, to see what I did.

This little tête-à-tête wouldn’t benefit from an audience.

I delivered my drinks to Mr. Miller and his friend, a Mr. Nguyen who was visiting the club for the first time and couldn’t tear his eyes away from the dancers. Understandable: they were really a sight. Mr. Miller smiled at me as I set their drinks down, winked, tilted his head toward his friend, and said, “I think we’ve got a convert.”

“I heard that,” Mr. Nguyen said, without looking away from the stage.

“I’m glad you’re both enjoying your evening,” I said, smiling, polite, a shiny veneer of friendly interest drawn over me like a second skin, when inside I was roiling with doubt and confusion, and painfully aware of Max staring at me from across the room.

“Very much, very much so,” Mr. Miller said, and slipped me a hundred dollar bill.

I thanked him, tucked it into my bra, and went across the room to meet my fate.

Max watched me coming. His eyes roamed over my body, head to feet, lingering on my breasts and hips, and I felt myself blushing. Infuriating. I was a grown woman, and he had
left
me. His ogling wasn’t flattering. It was
rude
. You didn’t stare at a stranger like that.

And that was what we were now. Strangers.

Too much time had passed.

“Hello, Bee,” he said, as I drew near.

I stopped in front of him, clutching the empty tray against me like a shield. “I go by Beth, now.” My voice was impressively steady.

“I’ll never be able to think of you like that,” he said, gazing up at me. “You’re always Bee.”

I didn’t want to have this conversation. I looked away from him, his earnest face, his gray eyes. My eyes fell on an empty glass on the table. “You roped someone into bringing you a drink, I see.”

“One of those very nice waitresses,” he said. “Very accommodating. Friendly.”

“You stay away from them,” I said. “Don’t get them involved in this.”

He grinned, folding his arms and crossing his legs so that one foot rested on the opposite knee. “What’s
this
? Is there a
this
? I thought I was just some nuisance, a relic from the past hassling you in your place of employment, but if there’s a
this
—”

“You’re making mountains,” I told him.

“I don’t see any moles around here,” he said. “Beth. I’ll call you that if you want me to.”

“I do,” I said firmly.

“Beth. You look just the same,” he said.

What a lie. I had been a skinny little thing as a teenager, underfed and bony, and now I was—well. I was a little chubby. More than a little.
Curvy
was the polite term. I didn’t mind it—I liked how I looked—but Max was a liar if he claimed I hadn’t changed at all. “Is there a point to all of this? I have work to do, but if you’re lonely and you want to chat, I can send one of the dancers over.”

“Straight to the heart,” he said, clutching at his chest. Still that same flair for the dramatic. “Beth. I want to talk to you. Please talk to me.”

I wanted to hug him, kiss him, punch him, knife him in the ribs. None of those impulses had any room in the life I had created for myself. The emotions were too raw and messy, too
big
to fit neatly into my quiet existence. I couldn’t talk to him now. Maybe not ever.

“Sorry,” I said. “I have work to do.”