And then I see it on his desk.
A framed photo of Rose, a woman with a beehive hairdo, and three kids who all inherited his condescending smirk. Judging by the darker color of Rose’s hair, this photo was taken fifteen years or so ago.
I pick up the photo. “This your family, Mr. Rose?”
“Never you mind who they are. Your business is here.” He snaps his fingers and then points to his dick.
Thank God I chose to record this conversation.
I back up toward the door.
He cocks his head. “Where do you think you’re going?”
I pull my phone out of my pocket, displaying the still-recording voice memo. “I think I now have what you might call leverage, Mr. Rose.”
He widens his eyes. “You little bitch.”
I point to the family photo. “I have a feeling Mrs. Rose might not be so happy to hear you’ve been cheating on her. With a man, no less.”
“We didn’t do anything, you prick.”
“Yes, but you took your pants off and displayed your dick. I think that counts. Plus, I know you’ve slept with countless other men at Aces. The Jack of Hearts, for example.”
It’s a bluff, but I’m playing my odds.
Rose hastily rebuttons his pants, runs his fingers through his silver hair. “What do you want? I’ll be happy to pay you off for your silence. I’ve got plenty of money. Name your price.”
“No money. Just forget you saw me here. Don’t mention it to Rouge or anyone else. My girlfriend and I are here on our own private business. It doesn’t concern you.” I tap on my phone. “But say anything and I’ll make sure it does.”
“Illinois is a two-party consent state, you know. You could get in trouble for releasing that recording.”
“I’m sure I would, Mr. Rose. But as much trouble as I’d get in with the CPD, you’d be in twice as much with your wife.” I glance around the room. “It’s a nice hotel. I’m sure she’d love to get her hands on half of it in the divorce.”
Rose squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath in. “Fine. It’s a deal. My silence for yours.”
“Excellent.” I open the door and exit the office. “Good-bye, Mr. Rose.”
He doesn’t respond as I close the door behind me and leave the lobby.
I’m proud of myself for thinking on my feet, worming my way out of that precarious situation. And all this early in the morning.
I played Rose like a fucking fiddle.
But as I walk through the revolving door onto Michigan Avenue, I can’t help but wonder if I should have just killed the bastard.
17
BIANCA
I’ve lost track of how many nights I’ve performed at Aces.
I could pull out a calendar and count the nights. It’s been several months at this point.
When I was trying to make it as an actress, I booked a few runs of shows at regional theaters. The longest run I had was twenty-two shows singing and dancing in the ensemble of White Christmas with a dinner theater in Tennessee.
Even with that long of a run, though, I remembered each individual show. I could tell you which moves I messed up on the twelfth show, which note I flubbed on the seventeenth, and how relieved I was to see the contract come to an end on the twenty-second.
But I’ve sung my set, largely unchanged since Rouge insists on sticking with the “tried and true” classics, far more than twenty-two times. I’m probably in the hundreds by now, and the performances are blending together.
