“Check with me before you go,” I tell her as I stand up. I hug her goodbye and see her out. After she’s gone, I look at the clock over my door. It’s almost four in the morning. Itislate.
While I get ready for bed, I can’t shake this feeling that leaving the club is the wrong move. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m making enough money to live on and as the months go on, I’ll stand to make much more than that. I’ll be able to rebuild my savings and maybe get back on track to having my own club one day.
And if I stay, he’ll teach me how to be an owner. If I could believe him.
I imagine him leaning over my shoulder, his warm breath on the back of my neck as he shows me some boring paperwork…
I can resist fucking him. Surely. If I can, it’ll be worth it to get a leg up in having my own club one day.
Wash my face, brush my teeth, get into my nightclothes and get into bed. Tomorrow, things will be clearer. I’ll get up and gowork out with Natasha and in the light of day, the right decision will prevail. I’ll leave and it’ll be fine.
Or it won’t. God, is leaving the right thing? Can I stand to be out of workagain?And this time, how long would it be before I find something else? I lay in my bed looking up at the ceiling, these worries running and running through my mind.
I don’t have to stay forever. The thought sweeps in like a rescue helicopter. I need to rebuild my savings. And if Roman is good on his word, then I’ll have a new skillset too in the end. Once that’s done and then some, I can buy my own club. A nice place with a piano bar and maybe a jazz band. Somewhere with rich and classy people looking for a nice night out, not tits, beer, and trouble.
I can’t let him undermine me, though. The little bit of respect I have at the club, I’ve earned, and I mean to keep it. Maybe I can convince him to keep the bad element out of the club.
And I’ll still be clean at the end of the day. Roman stays away, and nothing changes for me.
I roll over and grab my phone. It’s almost dawn and I should probably wait until later… But I won’t be able to sleep until I’ve said my piece.
The phone trills in my ear three times before he picks up. His sleepy, baritone voice fills my senses, vibrating through my body seductively. “Hello?”
I take a breath. Here I am sitting up in my bed, talking to a gangster. “Hi. Um. Mr. Orlov? This is Ember Lorenzo.”
I hear movement. The image of him bare-chested in bed, his tattoos on display proudly over his muscles, comes to mind. “Ms. Lorenzo,” he says. “It’s very early. Are you all right?”
I pause. “Yes. I’m… I’m fine. Thank you.”
His voice rumbles in that way that can only indicate stretching. “No one calls me at this hour unless someone is dead or dying. So, you’ll have to pardon my surprise. I expect you’re calling me because you’ve considered your situation?”
“I have.” God, what am I doing? Am I really about to do this? “If I’m going to stay on as manager, I have some conditions.”
He clears his throat. “I’m listening.”
“Nothing changes with how I’ve been running the club,” I say. “And I mean nothing. I think we’re both in agreement that I’m the reason the profits have doubled over the last six months. If you want that to keep going, you can’t tie my hands.”
“Fair,” he says. “There is the matter of the money that Rodriguez owed me before his disappearance, however. That loan needs to be repaid.”
That gives me pause. “I don’t know anything about any loan.”
“Be that as it may, I’m still owed it.” He sighs, and it sounds really good. The very sound of his breath tingles between my legs. “Your former boss was about fifty thousand dollars in with me. Not to mention the ten thousand a month he paid me to make sure the police stayed off his back.”
I’m nearly speechless. Fucking Omar. If I ever see him again, I’m going to kill him. “You’re not expecting me to cover that, are you? It’s not my debt.”
“Still needs to be paid. I can get it through the insurance if you'd like.”
“Don’t, okay?” My mind turns. “Look, how about you take it out of what it would cost to teach me how to be a club owner?”
He chuckles. “Shrewd. Don’t think that’ll be quite enough, though.”
“Business classes are thousands of dollars,” I say. “If I were paying someone else for that information, it would probably even out.”
“Hmm.” He goes silent for a moment, and I think maybe I’ve overplayed my hand. Then he says, “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we discuss it over dinner? Tomorrow night.”
I gape, unsure of what my answer should be. “Just business, right?”
“Of course.”
