They were throwing 100-dollar bills around like pocket change. Where do they get that kind of money from anyway?
I walk to the bar in the Blue Room, snagging two bottles of champagne and a tray of shots, weaving through the chairs and tables toward the VIP section.
As I come around the screen between the tables, the brunette eyes me with a grin as I place the bottles in the center.
“Oh my god, this place is the best,” one of the blondes says as she pops the cork over the balcony, and it sails away toward the DJ booth, lost in the crowd.
“My staff tells me you’ve all been very generous tonight,” I say with a smile. “And this is a little thank you on the house. We’d love to have you back again.”
I try to tamp down the anxiety that’s threatening to overwhelm me.
How the fuck am I going to get 200 grand together in a week? Will Nick Monroe really break my brother’s legs?
“Where do you all work, anyhow? You in finance or something?” I ask, hoping they’re not the kind of women who balk at a waitress asking them questions.
But the whole table goes quiet, all of them looking at me quizzically. I tense, but the expressions on their faces seem more intrigued than offended.
“We work at a place called Sterling House,” the brunette says, producing a card out of thin air. It’s thick, embossed, and simple in design. “You should check them out,” she says, and the otherwomen all begin to laugh amongst themselves. “Our clients would love you.”
“Oh my god, they wouldadoreher, it’s the hair. Red hair is so beautiful,” one of them says, drunkenly running her finger down my braid, then she snatches her hand back. “Sorry, please don’t break my arm, I forgot.”
The other women all start cackling together, and I stare down at the card as the brunette leans into me.
“My name’s Bethany. Talk to Pippa Grooman at Sterling House if you’re interested. Say I sent you. Seriously. If you want to get out of this kind of place and into some serious money, that’s where you wanna be. Trust me, you’re just what they’re looking for.”
She gives me a smug smile, her eyes running over my body with such a filthy look I’m surprised my skin’s not on fire.
I tuck the card in my bra, nodding to her in thanks. As I leave the room, I tell Marty to serve them free champagne for the rest of the night.
Sterling House could be exactly what I need right now.
Chapter 5
Jax
Even the entrance of Sterling House’s office building is impressive. The enormous revolving doors deposit me into a soaring marble lobby with twenty-foot ceilings and a wall of glass that floods the space with light.
I tug at my leather jacket, pulling my ponytail over my left shoulder, and head in. I really need a haircut; my hair is so long it pretty much hovers around the top of my ass, and I’m constantly having to tie it up when I do anything.
I’m buzzed into their office space, and as soon as I set foot in the place, I know this whole thing was a mistake. It’s swanky as hell, and there are three very prim and proper women waiting in line ahead of me. They’re all in designer clothing, and I’m in my cheap black dress and leather jacket.
Awesome.
I sign in at reception and go and sit down. The marble flooring and huge mirrors on the wall should look tacky, but instead, they make the space all the more imposing.
Glancing around, I notice two of the women staring at me, one of them sneering unpleasantly. I rise, wandering to the other side of the office to get away from them.
Catching my reflection in one of the mirrors, I wish I had worn less eyeliner. And the heavy shadow on my lids makes me appear hungover in this lighting. Compared to the other women, I look like some kind of slutty biker chick.
My hair, which I’ve been dying different shades of red and purple for most of my life, looks like a bird’s nest at the bottom. I tug at it, re-tying it more tightly to combat my nerves.
I swipe at my eyes, wondering if I have time to go to the bathroom to take off some of the shadow before the interview.
“Jacqueline Jenson?”
No such luck.
I turn as a blonde woman emerges from the door behind me, carrying a clipboard, an unreadable expression on her face. I raise my hand like I’m in junior high, and she nods for me to follow her.
