“But it is,” he argued. “There’s a clause in the contract you signed when you started, stating that changes to the payment structure are at management’s discretion. And management is me.”
This was not happening. I was so angry I was practically seeing red, and at the same time a shiver of fear was working its way through my gut and up my spine. I owed back rent right now, and the check I’d received wasn’t enough to cover it. “I never agreed for you to keep my money,” I said. “Under this stupid setup of yours, when do I get the money I’m owed?”
“That’s also at my discretion,” Trent said smoothly. “However, in your case, I think maybe we can work something out.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Not at all. “What are you talking about?”
“I have an exclusive party coming up on the schedule. Private, you know.” He studied his fingernails, dropping his gaze for the first time. “I’m throwing it myself, and I need girls. There will be important people there that I need to impress. It’s an opportunity for you, Gwen. If you do well, we can discuss releasing your back pay to you, plus a bonus.”
“Wait a minute.” I had to take a second to translate his self-serving words. “You’re saying you want me to work one of your own parties, and do a private show?” I glared at him. “And what else am I supposed to do at this party?”
He kept his gaze on his fingernails and shrugged. “Who knows? There will be opportunities for you to make very good money. Let’s just leave it at that.”
Sex. He was talking about sex. My stomach churned. “No,” I said. “That won’t happen. We have a very simple deal, Trent. I show up, I do a show. A show. Then I collect my money and go home. I never agreed to a change in the deal. I want my back pay, and I’m not doing any party in order to get it.”
He finally looked up again, and his face was hard, his eyes emotionless. He shrugged. “Then get a lawyer,” he said.
I couldn’t afford a lawyer on the pay I was getting, and he knew it. “And if I quit?”
“Then you forfeit the pay you’re owed.”
Which meant my rent didn’t get paid, and I had no other skills, no other job. “So what do you suggest I do?”
“You either do the party, or you pick up extra assignments to make up the money. I’m sure Roberta at reception has some assignments you can take.”
This wasn’t easy, because most of the assignments were in the evening, and it wasn’t possible to do more than two per night. There were the odd daytime gigs—the birthday one where I’d met Max was an example—but they were few and far between, usually office retirement parties, and any party that’s at work, during the day, had terrible tips.
Trent knew all of this, of course. He was screwing me over so I’d do his party.
“Fuck you,” I said, standing up. I needed to get out of here, rethink what the hell he’d just done to me and what I could do about it. “This isn’t over.”
“Don’t be late for the softball team you have at five,” he called after me as I walked out the door.
Outside, I got into my car and sat there, not turning the key, not moving, just staring out the windshield. I felt like throwing up.
I could get another job. The Bay area wasn’t short of strip clubs. I could likely go in to any one of them and pick up some shifts, but that meant dancing on a pole every night in front of a drunk, rowdy audience. It wasn’t much different than what I was doing now, and yet it was. In this job, I set my own pace, made my own hours, only worked late when I felt like it. I was independent, my own woman, doing what I wanted.
Or maybe I’d just been telling myself that.
I was twenty-six years old, and the only thing I knew how to do was get naked.
I scrubbed a hand over my face. I felt like someone was sticking me with needles—I’d already had insomnia for two nights. Maybe I was going to have to do Trent’s party. Maybe I could do it without being expected to have sex. And crazily, when I thought of that, I thought of Max Reilly—like I’d thought of him a thousand times since that day at his apartment.
I couldn’t stop seeing his leg in my mind’s eye. Couldn’t stop. Not because it was ugly, or horrifying, but because it was just so—final. His leg was there, and then it just wasn’t, and there was something else instead, the scars twisting over his skin. What had it taken for him to show that to me? What had it cost him? What the hell was I supposed to do with it?
An IED, he’d said. I knew what that was—Improvised Explosive Device. I’d made the mistake of Googling it. The results had left me shocked, sickened, robbed me of sleep. It was a bomb. A fucking bomb. And it had gone off so close it had taken part of his body. Burned it, exploded it.
I’d been shaken just Googling it, but he’d lived it. Was still living it.
A case of PTSD that nearly killed me.
I knew what that meant. I knew what he was implying. But I was too terrified to look at it too closely, wasn’t I? Too chicken to think about it too deep. I kept everything on the surface, let nothing get too personal. While people like Max went and did things, experienced things, because they had no choice.
And my biggest problem was that my boss expected sex for money.
I stared at my phone. Max hadn’t called me. Did he think I was an idiot? Was that why? Or was I supposed to call him
? Would he take it the wrong way somehow, like pity? It wasn’t pity. My hormones didn’t care about his leg—I still wanted to jump him. Was that weird? Would he think it was weird?