“I like the energy,” he says. “I don’t know how you spend so much time alone.”
“I like the energy,” I say.
We’re silent for a moment before I feel him look at me.
“So, it’s true then,” he says. “You went to Ralphie’s and bought a girl off a stage.”
“I did,” I admit. “But not the way they’re saying it.” My throat tightens around the next part. “She’s not one of them. She never should’ve been there.”
Quickly, I tell him the whole story.
After I’m done, Antonio is silent, mulling it over.
“Okay,” he says finally.
“That’s all you’ve got to say about it? Okay?” I say.
“Obviously, it’s out. People saw you there, now it’s just about putting out the story we want out there,” he says, shifting in his seat. “What does Luca think?”
“He thinks I should keep fucking her so people think it was some sort of kinky game,” I say, my tone dry.
“Hm,” Antonio says, thoughtfully.
“Not you too,” I say.
“It could work,” he says. “I know you keep your sex life private, but it’s not like you’ve got to go around saying it. We whisper in some ears.”
“And what if those whispers get back to Erica?” I ask, irritated. “Despite everything, she’s a nice, good person and has nothing to do with all of this shit.”
“How would they get back to her?” Antonio asks. “It’s not like she frequents our clubs.”
At the red light, I turn and give Antonio a deadpan look.
“What?” he asks, a bit whiny.
“She’s my assistant, genius. She’s going to be frequenting our clubs. All of them. It’s literally her job now.”
Antonio’s face falls. “Oh.” Then he perks up because you can’t keep Antonio down long. “Well, it’s still the best plan so far. Better kinky than whore, right?”
“What fucking choices,” I mumble.
Antonio laughs as we take off again.
Chapter Seventeen
Erica
The office is thinning out around me, the way it always does at the end of a Friday. Chairs rolling back. Voices fading down the hall. The soft click of keyboards shutting down and drawers being closed. Someone laughs near the elevator, and the sound makes my teeth ache.
I stay put in my cubicle later than usual.
Because next week I won’t be.
I’m doing last-minute things that may come up when I’m not here. Flagging vendor emails. Organizing Nico’s calendar. Printing the weekly rollups and stapling them. Sending a reminder to a club manager about the POS terminal install. Double-checking that the staff schedules for two locations don’t overlap with the same bartender. Little fires that haven’t grown into big fires yet.
Everything is normal on paper.
My hands move on autopilot, but my stomach stays tight. It’s been tight all week. Every time I glance at the dark wood door to Nico’s office, my body reacts like it’s trying to remember something my mind keeps insisting it should forget.
