Nina and I were the unelected queens of this place, battling for the crown. We never talked about it outright, but the competition between us simmered below the surface. Who was better looking. Who brought in more money. Who had the most repeat customers. I was beating her in at least two categories—I had Mr. Gold. But she was beating me in the category of life, because Nina had a boyfriend. A legit one, who didn’t mind what she did for living. Of course, he probably didn’t take issue with it because Scott Westwood was a porn star and fucked other people for money too.
Nina had found an attractive guy, who loved and supported her, and had been blessed with an eight-inch cock. Man, sometimes life was totally unfair.
I nodded hello to Nina as I strode across the girls’ lounge and set my purse on a makeup table, digging out my phone. The rest of the women were chatting with each other, some of them already in their robes, ready to see clients.
If Regan had a migraine, it meant Silas would be around, taking care of her. I fired off a text message.
Tara: Julius said she has a migraine. How is she?
Silas: Better now. I shot her full of Imitrex two hours ago and she’s sleeping it off.
Tara: Oh, good.
As their submissive, I was supposed to communicate everything. I didn’t need their permission, but I didn’t keep secrets.
Tara: I have a date tomorrow. Just letting you guys know.
Silas: With who?
Tara: Someone I just met.
Silas: Girl or guy?
Tara: Guy.
He didn’t respond immediately, so I set the phone down and surveyed the room. I always liked this place. The lounge was elegant, reminding me of an upscale hotel lobby. The furniture was nice, and the lighting subdued. It was comfortable, but also a little sexy.
It had been designed by Joseph, the creator and original owner of the club, and when he’d sold it, Julius didn’t make many changes. Nothing was broken, so why try to fix it?
Taylor sashayed into the room on a pair of four-inch stilettos and a dress that probably restricted her breathing, but I had to give it to her. The girl was a knockout, with or without clothes.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
Silas: Are you working tonight?
Tara: Yes.
Silas: Text me when you’re done. Regan might be up and we’d like to talk.
I pressed my lips together. What did
that mean? If they told me they had a problem with me dating, then our whole arrangement was going to change. It’d probably come to an end. That was something I didn’t want. I loved what we had.
I glanced at the clock on my screen. I’d have to get going because Mr. Gold was probably already in the building, drinking scotch in his private room, and my ass didn’t want to keep him waiting.
Tara: OK, will do.
-12-
Tara
My frustration with Mr. Gold was reaching critical mass. He used to rush through negotiations, eager to get his pants around his ankles and shove his cock in my face. His wife didn’t give blow jobs, he’d told me on numerous occasions.
But tonight, it had seemed as if negotiating with the sales assistant was his favorite part. Like it was some fun game for him to haggle with Nina, and I was simply a product he could take or leave. He’d forgotten I was the one with final say on the purchase price, so when his offer came in too low, I reminded him with a firm, “No.”
He scoffed, downright offended. I couldn’t see beneath the blindfold, but I pictured his sour face and his hands on his hips, pouting like a spoiled brat, even though he was sixty. That was, assuming he was the man I believed him to be.
Henry Katzenberg. The second richest man Chicago. He’d inherited his father’s enormous wealth, terrible looks, and even worse personality. He needed constant validation on the way he fucked me, the size of his mediocre dick, and how often he got me off. It demanded all my performance skills to sell those fake orgasms.