She shrugs her shoulders and is about to walk away. “Okay.”
“This is an elite party. You’re supposed to ask me what Idowant.” Admittedly, I’m fucking with her, but there is a list. We call it the smash sheet.
For fun, I want to see if she is on it. We aren’t allowed to ask the servers outright—that would be considered solicitation for sex—however, if she is on the list, that is consent, much like being on a dating app. Having her name on the list with a red heart beside it is her consent to be approached. So, I just have to occupy her while I do a little digging into her availability for the night.
“Yes, Sir.” She is suddenly so polite, holding her contempt behind perfectly straight white teeth. “What can I get for you?”
“I’ll have the best scotch they have and two glasses, neat.” I dismiss her and nod to Carl Rueben, a total prick who was a close friend of my father’s. “Find me.” I dismiss the girl without looking back.
I speak with Carl for a minute, catching up on his wife and family, but nothing of true interest. We do, however, have a meeting on the books next week regarding the drug I’ve been working on. He was my father's best friend before my dear old dad died of a brain tumor last year. Carl is entrenched in CSS and cannot be trusted. He even tried to weasel some of my father’s estate, citing some joint venture that they’d liquified. It turned out my dad had invested and lost his shirt. Carl backed off when the paperwork proved we didn’t owe him a dime. He is shady and does a lot of the unreputable deals for CSS—definitely one to keep my eye on.
My father left me the entirety of his seven-billion-dollar estate and offered nothing to my little sister Maria, his illegitimate daughter. Her mother was one of the many women my father was unfaithful to my mother with, but she was the only one who had a baby come back and bite him in the ass. My parents stayed together for twenty-three years, then my mother died of cancer six months before Maria was dumpedon our doorstep. Maria was twelve years old and I was twenty-seven, already living on my own. I helped my dad with her because she was a pretty moody teen with a lot of trauma to process.
My father never totally accepted Maria, whom we call Mia at her insistence. She’s done pretty well on her own. She's scrappy and determined and has more of our genetics than my father would have wanted to admit. I like her but keep her at arm's distance. She enjoys blaming our family and our wealth for all the horrible things in the world. Self-righteous little shithead. Sheisscrappy, though. I make sure her rent is paid, as it is ridiculously low. It is all she lets me do for her. She is a pretty amazing little performer and has Broadway in her sights. It isn’t a stretch for her. She balked at the money I tried to give her, so I created a separate bank account that holds the funds for a day when she needs them.
I visited her crappy little apartment once, where she lives with her roommate. I never met the roommate, but I did see a picture on the fridge of the two of them together. I still remember the way her roommate looked, wearing a pair of distressed denim jeans and a crop top with a glittery butterfly over which she had painted a red circle with a slash. Irreverent, just like my little sister. The two of them are good for each other. Essentially babies—Mia just turned twenty-three and I don't think her roommate is much older; they are still in college. I stayed for the obligatory cup of coffee and an overhyped Dubai donut, put my stamp of approval on their shitty little place, and left. It took me four years to finally visit; I am a crap brother.
Red Mask, with the fucking sexiest legs I've ever seen, comes sauntering back carrying a tray with two glasses of scotch, neat. The woman is wearing a red mask and a black skirt so short all I would have to do is tip it with a crook of my finger to expose her. I imagine Red Mask wearing a cute thong bikini that shows off her perfect bubble ass underneath. I have never in all my life seen legs as stunning as the two standing before me.
I take one of the glasses and nod to a sitting area in the corner.
“Follow me,” I order. Since she is serving in the Diamond Room,per the list of available ‘opportunities’ for the evening, I know she isn’t allowed to leave.
The list is provided by the catering company we use specifically because they provide this service. In addition to having the most beautiful staff in New York, they offer ‘companion opportunities,’ as Satin Catering calls them. The actual opportunity provided is limited to conversation only. If the conversationalist wants to explore something a little more X-rated, they can choose to switch to another contract under the same catering umbrella—one that provides escort services.
On the list are the names of the waiters and waitresses, the rooms they are assigned to, and the masks they are wearing. Next to their name is a mark with a red heart or an X. A red heart means the waiter or waitress is open to escort services, and an X means they are not.
When I looked at the list just before meeting with my father's lawyer, I noticed:Red Mask, Diamond Room, X.
I plan to change that.
Chapter Three
Scarlett
Ugh, why does he order two drinks? Now I have to follow him to wherever he is going, like a little fucking puppy.
These men and their power trips.
Four more hours, I keep telling myself. I only have four more hours left before we are allowed off the floor. Those of us who markedXon the list will do the cleanup, while those who ‘hearted’ will be whisked off with their tricks for the night. I’d clean cat shit with my bare hands if it meant never being used like that.
Some people like sex and don’t care much about who they have it with. I’m not a prude by any means; in fact, being a ballet dancer, I am naked a lot of the time. Quick changes, co-ed dressing rooms for the corps—I've seen a lot of dick in my day, and more people than I’d like to admit know what my boobs look like. But sex… no. I don’t have sex. Or well, I haven’t had it. Not yet.
I’m not waiting for Mr. Right or some bullshit; I just want it to be nice. I want to have sex with a man I can talk to and who likes me. Someone who can make love and not just bang it out. I just… my mom had men around a lot, and I saw them treat her like crap. I never want that in my life. Ever. I’d rather never have sex than have it with someone who doesn’t respect me as a human being first and foremost.
We reach a table at the far corner of the Diamond Room with a view of the New York streets below. The windows must be triple-paned glass because all I can hear is the string quartet in the corner and nary a honk from outside.
The man is wearing a gold rooster mask. He is tall, like six-five or taller, and has graying hair—not totally gray, but enough to know he is older. His muscles harden his jacket but aren’t bulging. I don’t dare look down at his crotch, but the pants don’t hide much there either. He must be a pretty big guy because there is no concealing the slightslope protruding from his Armanis.
“Would you like me to set your drink on the table, Sir?” I ask, doing my best to sound attentive and bored at the same time.
“No,” he answers.
“Where would you like it?” I ask, feeling frustrated. Fucking power trip.
“Have a seat,” he says without any explanation.
“I’m working.” I flash him a plastic grin. “It’s not permitted.”
