Declan's Demand

“No.” I give them my best glare, but they both smile like I’m a mouse caught between two cats ready to play.

“Our boss wasn’t asking.” The larger of the two takes a step forward. I’m certain outrunning them will be problematic. I’m tired. I’m hungry, and I used the last of my cash for bus fare so I could avoid walking from the T line. A quick glance around the neighborhood tells me that my list of options is dramatically reducing by the second.

Unfortunately, I am all too aware of the reality. Mr. Declan Natas wouldn’t even hear me out or give me the time of day, and yet…he’s having his thugs drive me home. He runs a nightclub in a shitty section of south Boston and owns a brownstone mansion in Back Bay. I live in a small shared walkup apartment off the T line in South End.

We are worlds apart.

“Your address?” the one with the bald shiny head asks, holding open the door while the other—with closely cropped hair—is texting on his cellphone.

Sighing, I get in the car. If they were going to hurt me, they would have done so already—or at least that’s what my instincts tell me. It’s strange how I feel less anxious around them than I do their boss—alone, outside his club in a bad part of town.

“Doesn’t your boss already know?” Snapping my seatbelt, I cross my arms over my chest and stare out the window, letting my face scrunch up into a petulant expression.

Both men crack a smile, eyeballing each other. Baldy drives and they leave me to my own thoughts. I look around; at least the car is clean.

I don’t ask their names because I don’t want to care.

Barely any time passes when they pull up to my building. It’s a bit run-down looking, but its home and it’s not my dad’s house. I’m able to lock my doors at night and feel as safe as can be without having to worry about who is going to break down my door when the day comes to collect my dad’s debts. I’m a good daughter, a dutiful one, but I’m not sticking around to be someone’s punching bag. I’m desperate to help him because I love him, but I’d like to think I’m not stupid, either. That’s how I came to be working a crappy low-wage job, living in an apartment to preserve the last of my sanity.

I thought Declan Natas could help me—give me a job, anything to get this albatross from hanging around our necks. There are plenty of things I can do while willingly subjecting my moral compass to a downward spiral trying to pay back a hundred thousand dollars. Instead he turned me down flat without listening to me, barely glancing in my direction. Worry motivates me, and my lack of experience in the real world make problem-solving Dad’s gambling debts difficult. Who do you ask to legitimately borrow a large sum of money from when you have no collateral?

I need to get Declan’s attention, but how?

He didn’t seem fazed by me, except for his dirty-talking mouth and near-promises to have sex with me if I overstayed my welcome. My co-worker and the few friends I have—including my roommate—told me I was naïve with men, but even I know one thing speaks universally: sex. Unless of course Mr. Natas is gay, but I doubt that by the way he’d bit his bottom lip unconsciously and the way his dark eyes had seemed to get larger with each angry word spewed in my general direction that lacked any violence. The girls in his club during the off hours on a weekday were bubbly, happy, and thick with eyeliner, hanging out for the first barfly willing to seek their sugar. Maybe I need to take a note from the pros?

I don’t know the first thing about sex, being a twenty-year-old virgin whose closest female relative died before I had taken notice of boys my age. I’m not against sex; I’ve kissed a few frogs and had a few dates. I’ve seen a penis—once. Of course that dated ended prematurely, when he came too quickly after rubbing against me, as embarrassing as that had been—messy, too.

I know my roommate loves it, based on the sounds coming from her door at night. Well, at least on the occasions she decides to actually stay at the apartment. Stacy is a nice girl and pays her portion of the rent on time. I hate being judgy, but she has more hook ups then a metered parking spot.

My reservations come out of my own lack of self-confidence. I have no idea where to meet guys that aren’t cheap and looking for an easy girl, but I’m sure the owner of a seedy club has sex all the time, probably in some dirty back office. If I could fool him, maybe I could save my dad, get his debts paid, and live happily ever after with my own shame and guilt or whatever that looked like on a Thursday afternoon in hell. I don’t even know what I would fool him with.

So far it isn’t looking good.

Declan’s henchmen drive down my street. The sun has set and the landscape looks different from inside the confines of the SUV’s tinted windows. It’s darker and a chill rakes over my body as I notice the nuances of my lackluster neighborhood. Rough-looking kids hang out on the corner tossing a hacky sack, and the homeless guy is tucked in between the stoops of the next apartment building. Part of me hopes my roommate is home and not out with whomever she’s dating this week. Another part of me wants to sneak inside, shut the door, and pretend that none of this is happening.

“Miss Meadows,” the driver states, and I scurry to hop out before either one can try and open the door for me.

“Thanks for the ride,” I call out to Thug One and Thug Two from my stoop with my hand on the door.

Number Two lifts his hand, waving two fingers at me in an odd sort of salute as I slip inside. I wait until they pull away before shutting the door behind me with a slam. Five solid minutes later and my heartbeat only a fraction calmer, I peer out the peephole. It seems all clear and I don’t look back and bound down the steps to the coffee shop where I work between the exceedingly part-time classes I attend at the community college.

The coffee shop has a few stragglers and students studying at this time of night. I see my gorgeous co-worker behind the counter, flirting with a customer, and she winks at me as I make my way to the back office. I feel better being in the presence of people—even strangers.

Discretely, I pull up a few internet searches with our office computer and free wi-fi. The internet is full of articles speculating about the young entrepreneur Declan Natas. He remains a widely discussed mystery, from his beautiful house to his business holdings, and scores of photographs taken with a different beautiful women nearly each night of the week. Declan appears to be quite the ladies’ man with his collection of ladies fawning over him like a stable of fillies. My stomach does a familiar flip when I take in his angular face. He’s much larger in person, and the camera doesn’t do his intimating looks any justice. It’s almost a crime to not get the warning he should come with.

I search the most recent website entry for his club and social media. Everyone who is anyone is on social media these days. The club he owns, aptly named Natas, advertises Friday night as ladies’ night in the club. Free drinks, dancing, and music all night long made it sound like a gathering for wannabe vampires, considering I was usually in bed before eleven each night between my singular class this semester and my job brewing coffee.

A mental review of my closet leaves me feeling hopeless. I don’t even own anything sexy enough to wear to one of these parties. My one staple black skirt reaches my knees, and I have nothing to show my cleavage off. He would probably kick me out again, embarrassing me because I didn’t meet the slutty dress code. After forcing a meeting with him tonight, is there anything left of my dignity to be embarrassed over?

Probably not, although I have a feeling Declan Natas could find something to bring me down a peg or two, because being mean is his style.

I go to the bathroom and check myself over in the mirror and dim yellow lighting. The reflection shows I’m slim with small boobs and a narrow waist under my jacket. At least I have thick shiny hair and clear skin. I need makeup to bring out my eyes. My mind skims my small makeup bag, and I probably have eyeliner left over from last year’s Halloween party and cherry ChapStick. I definitely need something much more revealing to wear if I’m going to pay him another visit. I didn’t want to blow what might be my last chance to convince him to help me. Heck, I don’t even know what I’m really offering, but I want another chance to try and convince him to help me.

I steady my breath and call out, “Selma, I need a dress for Friday.”

My co-worker pops her head into the bathroom, eying me up and down in an appreciative way.

“Really?” She bounces against the doorframe, smiling. Selma is one of those lucky girls with stunning features. She gets customers to buy her drinks, and she works here at a coffee shop. One time a customer brought her takeout lunch from a swanky place across the city. She could only eat it on break, but the dessert easily cost more than my tome of English lit for the semester.