He always dines alone.
Always pays in cash.
Always requests me.
Always leaves staring at me for noticeable portions of time.
My co-worker, Ciara, tells me I should report him, but he’s harmless. Plus, he’s my most generous tipper. And secretly, I’m flattered by his interest. That, and I might have the tiniest crush on him as well. The guys my age stare through me half the time. And the dates I’ve been on are never anything to write home about. Bargain matinees. Fast food dollar-menu dinners. Driving around aimlessly listening to horrible music in a car that smells like dirty football cleats and empty bottles of Mountain Dew.
“He’s so handsome, too,” I say. “Reminds me of those photos of JFK Junior you used to show us. You’d love his hair.”
I toss in a short chuckle under my breath and try to pretend what I’m about to do is no big deal.
I ignore the molten guilt that bubbles up from my center and burns the back of my throat.
I didn’t tell her he’s taking me into the city, or that we’re going to a private party near Lincoln Park—one that requires masks and a pass code.
It sounded like fun when he told me about it, and I loved the idea of getting dolled up and spending a few hours on the arm of some rich, fancy, attractive capitalist who looks at me like I’m the most exquisite thing he’s ever encountered.
Maybe it’s messed up, maybe it’s naïve to think anything could come of this, but there’s no denying the man gives me butterflies.
“Mom, stop,” I say because her silence is a weighted blanket on my shoulders. “This is so not a big deal. I promise. It’s literally just dinner.”
My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. I exhale into the palm of my hand, checking that my breath is still fresh even though I’ve brushed my teeth twice in the past hour, flossed, and gargled thirty full seconds with a capful of purple Listerine.
My mother’s gaze narrows. “You said you weren’t going to kiss him …”
I roll my eyes and fight the heat blooming in my cheeks. The idea of my mom picturing me kissing someone makes me cringe. I might die of embarrassment before I set foot out the lobby of our apartment building.
“We’re going to be in his car.” I shrug off her suggestion. “Close proximity … just want to smell good.”
She stares for a second, as if she doesn’t believe me. I hold a lungful of stale air in case she protests. All she’d have to do is put her foot down, and I’d stay.
I might throw a fit, but I’d stay.
I’ve always been a good girl—a Golden Retriever of a daughter.
Dependable. Obedient. Loyal. Protective.
My mom is my whole world. My little sister, Emmeline, too.
I’d do anything for them …
… which is why I’m doing this.
I check my texts and shove my phone into the black satin clutch I used last year for junior prom. “He’s here.”
“Soph …” is all she says. Then her lips press flat. I can’t begin to imagine the sour brew of emotions running through her. She’s having second thoughts. She wants to talk me out of this. I can see it in her eyes.
But it’s too late.
I’m all dressed up—and he’s outside, waiting in his car, probably smelling like a million dollars, ready to drink me in the way he always does at work: like I’m pretty, like I’m someone who matters to him.
My stomach somersaults in anticipation.
There’s no turning back now … even if I wanted to.
Wrapping my arms around her lithe shoulders, I inhale her vanilla-lavender scent, give her a delicate hug, and go.
Two
Trey
Present
“So my cousin was at this party with Westcott a couple of years ago, and she claims he snorted pure Peruvian cocaine off a stripper using a ten thousand-dollar bill, and then, get this—he lit the bill on fire,” a woman’s nasally voice trails from the eighth-floor break room.
Never heard that one before …
I stop outside the door and listen. I’m on my way to a conference call, but I can spare a few minutes for some cheap entertainment, especially on a monotonous Tuesday. Most people hate Mondays. I hate Tuesdays. Mondays are full of hope and ambition for the week. Wednesday’s halfway to Friday, Thursday closer still. But Tuesdays? They’re boring, tedious. Generally unexciting.
“That’s nothing,” a second woman says. Her voice holds the desperate, youthful quality of a follower. A sheep who goes with the herd. I can sniff out those types a mile away. “I used to date this paralegal who worked for one of his attorneys. Said Westcott threw the most insane parties where everyone had to sign an NDA the second they walked in, and she was pretty sure everyone got roofied because the next day no one could remember what happened.”