“What!”
“That’s what I said!”
Monique shuffled into her office, switching on a lamp before pulling open a filing cabinet. While it often annoyed June howeverything was still so analog around there, she couldn’t blame a woman for being too careful. Appointments could be kept on computers, but personal information about regular clients and patrons especially had to be protected at all costs. This meant primary files were printed out for cabinets, with backup copies in a fireproof safe in the back corner of the office. Monique pulled out one of the first files in the cabinet. After perusing it, she said, “He hasn’t told me anything about moving.”
June loomed over her boss, who was so petite that her baby made her look like she was packing beach balls beneath her dress.Meanwhile, I’m gargantuan. Or so Monique often made her feel. June was still the same height as most of her clients, if not shorter. Nobody was taller than Monique’s wife, a woman who dwarfed her own wife until people asked if she was Helen’s daughter.Awkward.
“He let it slip before falling asleep. Either he’s drunk, or he violated his contract by not giving enough notice. Unless he plans on paying his patronage fee for the next month.”
“Indeed.” Monique closed the folder with an exasperated sigh. “Make sure I talk to him in the morning. This is not good. You’re sure that’s what he said?”
“Moving to Dubai for work next week. He said that tonight was our last time.” June had to stress those words. Sometimes Monique got hard of hearing when the pregnancy hormones were in full swing.
“Shit.”
“I know! That’s over half my income right there!”
Monique closed the filing cabinet and went straight to the nearest chair. She sank into it, feet wiggling in their slippers. “And a sizable chunk of mine. Hutcherson is one of our highest-paying patrons.”
Because I’m worth it. June would have to count on that more than ever now.
“If what you say is true, then after I’ve confirmed it with Mr. Hutcherson, I’ll start putting out feelers for a new patron. I’m sorry this is happening.”
“Not as sorry as I am,” June muttered. “You still get paid by the other patrons.”
“As I said, Mr. Hutcherson is one of the biggest ones. Losing him will put a dent in both of our incomes.” Monique pulled out her phone again. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m as invested as you are in finding a replacement. That said, Mr. Hutcherson will still have to honor his patronage contract that stipulates at least thirty days’ notice before ending your professional relationship. So even if you don’t see him, he should still be paying through the end of next month. That buys us time.”
“If he fucks off to Dubai?” Mitchell was a decent enough guy – for a billionaire – but June’s ability to trust men like that was pretty negligible. Especially those billionaires. They were used to getting out of shit.
“I doubt that would happen. Even if it does, the penalty fee is pretty sizable as well.”
June still didn’t hold enough hope. As far as she was concerned, half her livelihood was crashing around her. Sure, she got subsidized room and board in exchange for her services out in the remote wilderness, but she had… bills… to pay off.I get paid thousands of dollars on a good night, but it doesn’t mean shit if I don’t get to hang on to it.If that money stopped rolling in? She couldn’t even think about it.
“We’ll clear this up in the morning,” Monique assured her. She stared at her phone, but her words were directed at June. “Worst comes to worst, we find you a new patron. Until then, keep up the hard work.”
She could fuck off with that. Nobody worked harder than June Kingsley. Some days? June would venture that not even Monique worked harder than her #1 girl. She certainly didn’thave to bother with other hard things like June did on an almost daily basis. Not that she usually complained. She liked her job. It was the stiffs like Mitchell that made life more difficult.
June left the madam’s chambers and ambled back to her room. Mitchell was still asleep on her bed. She rolled her eyes, going to take a shower. The door remained open, in case her patron wanted to clear up what he had meant earlier.
He never showed up. June couldn’t say she gave a fuck anymore.
Chapter 2
Sette
No matter the form of artistic expression, there was one common enemy: the blank page. A sign from the art gods that someone was a useless piece of shit who didn’t deserve to create anything, let alone something profound and meaningful.
This is what I gave up medicine for.Sette Christie sat at an outdoor café, staring down at a large sheet of blank drawing paper. She held a pencil in her hand, but no matter what seat she sat in or whom she gazed upon, she was trapped with a blank mind that refused to conjure up an image worthy of her hand.
What a cruel joke. For three years, Sette had been a full-time artist, whatever that meant. When a woman had built a sizable fortune being “the gynecologist of the stars,” as well as living off the established fortunes of her extended family, she could spend her days drawing pictures if she damn well pleased. God knew Sette had been miserable in her previous profession. Somehow, she was not enthused about staring up wealthy vaginas all day.Half the time, there was a head coming out of them. I thought I would find meaning in bringing life into the world.Such a noble profession, delivering babies was. Too bad Sette went back to her townhouse every night thinking of nothing but getting drunk and hooking up with freaks on internet apps.
Retiring to become a full-time artist was supposed to be fulfilling. Indeed, it was, in many ways. Since then, she had five shows, the last three being allhers. Whether she was drawing portraits or still life, plenty of people commended her efforts and even bought the occasional print. Sette would never be famous, probably, but she was already rich as shit and didn’t care about fame. It was supposed to be about artistic expression. Whatever that meant by now.
Artistic expression didn’t mean shit when she had a blank piece of paper mocking her.
“Still fighting with your muse, I see.” Her best friend sat next to her at the table. Zara hadn’t brought her art book with her today, but she had that look on her face that said she shot a three-pointer elsewhere in the café.Playgirl. Sette wouldn’t dare tell another woman what to do with her sex life, but Zara was the type of woman who could use“Hi, I’m an artist,”to her eternal advantage. For one thing, she was a woman of many mediums. Drawing, painting, pottery, sculpting, knitting… there wasn’t anything that Zara wasn’t willing to try, whereas Sette was firmly entrenched with pen, paper, and paints. (Sometimes she went wild and used watercolors instead of oils.) “Would you at least let me buy you a beer? You’re depressing me. Or maybe it’s your muse depressing me.”
Sette flipped her book shut and slammed it on top of her duffel bag. “I didn’t give up medicine to sit here and watch you flirt with half the women in a café.”
