“I’m expected in the penthouse.”
She opens her mouth, her brows pinching in confusion. Before she can question me, a sweeping realization overcomes her expression. “Ah, yes—you’re delivering a package to the penthouse?”
“Uh…I guess?” I thought I was a guest, but maybe Margaret is going out of her way to be discreet with the hotel staff. Not the worst idea since she invited a bunch of her friends to an esteemed hotel to what I sincerely hope will not escalate into an orgy.
A chirpy ding of a notification pulls her attention back to her screen once more. She lets out a small roar of frustration and puts one hand on the receiver of her desk phone. With the other, she fetches a black keycard and sets it on the counter between us. “The elevator all the way down the hall leads to the penthouse. There’s a small foyer and then just ring the bell by the double doors. You can’t miss them.”
The receiver is already wedged between her ear and shoulder as she dials like she’s angry at the phone. Glancing up one more time, she flashes me a hurried smile. “Anything else?” she mouths.
“Nope. Thank you.” Effectively dismissed, I collect the key and head to the elevator bay, locating the only one that leads to the “P Level.”
The elevator is mirrored on all sides, which means I get to watch myself ascend in infinite recursion—an endless hallway of Taios in sports coats, all of them clutching brown paper bags containing giant black vibrators, all of them wondering how their lives ended up here.
The edible has settled into a comfortable hum, taking the edge off without making me stupid. I wish I was back home, cozy with my book. Splurging on takeout that’s actually edible. I wish I was anyone else, doing anything else because while I know escorting, outside of winning the lottery, is the fastest way to dig myself out of the hole my dad made, I’m so tired of this shit. There’s a fatigue in me that goes so far past physical.
But I don’t have time to wallow. The elevator ride is brief, the steel box slingshotting to the top floor. The doors open onto a private foyer, and that’s when I hear it.
Piano music. Soft and melancholy, drifting through the penthouse door like smoke. And beneath it, a voice—husky and raw, singing a vaguely familiar song. Except this rendition is harrowing. It’s that Rihanna track, the sad one, the one that plays in every movie when someone’s having an emotional breakdown in the rain. The one included on every single playlist of an angsty romance with a third-act breakup.
But this version is different. Stripped down. Intimate. Even more harrowing if that’s possible. Like whoever’s singing it means every single word.
I stand there for a moment, frozen, listening. The voice artistically cracks on a high note—not from lack of skill, but from emotion. From something real and aching underneath the melody.Margaret has some singing chops.Holy hell. That’s great. An easy icebreaker for the woman I just might end up in bed with tonight. I decide it’s the very first thing I’ll say to her.Hi, Margaret, I’m Taio. Nice to meet you. Your voice is devastatingly beautiful. How long have you played piano?
I step up to the penthouse door, my knuckles finding the wood with three hard knocks before I remember the doorbell. I hover over the blue-lit button but drop my hand when the piano stops. She heard my knocks.
Footsteps approach.
The door swings open, and my prepared smile dies on my face.
I’m expecting Margaret. Forty-two. Recently divorced. Looking for a confidence boost.
Instead, I’m staring at a face I swear I’ve seen on about a million tabloid covers lately. I stand frozen, silent, my brain making the Windows 95 shutdown noise as I wonder if that gummy was stronger than I realized and we’ve entered a THC-induced hallucination where celebrities materialize like I’ve summoned them through some accidental pop culture séance.
But why the fuck would my brain conjure up…Charlie Riley?
And while we’re at it, this isn’t an easily recognizable Charlie Riley. She’s as far from “glam” as she can get.
She’s standing in the doorway, also silent, wearing an oversized Tweety Bird T-shirt that hangs just above her knees, her blonde hair scraped back in a messy ponytail that’s more “gave up” than “effortlessly chic.” Her eyes are red-rimmed. No makeup. She looks exhausted and young and nothing like the polished icon I’ve seen on billboards.
She looks human.
She also looks at the brown paper bag in my hand, and her entire face transforms with relief. To my surprise, her eyes begin to water.
“You earth angel,” she breathes out, stepping back to admire the plain-ass paper bag properly. “You have no idea how important it is to me.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out except a small choking sound. Charlie Riley is standing here looking at me like I’m her savior because I brought her The Detonator for her passion party. Surely a woman worth hundreds of millions has an entire staff who could discreetly acquire whatever battery-operated appliance her heart desires?
What the fuck is happening right now?
“Um, sorry, I just was expecting… Is Margaret an alias?”
“Huh?” She cocks her head to the side like a confused puppy. Then she holds out her hand. “No, I’m Charlie. It’s nice to meet you…?”
“Taio Wilkes,” I answer.Oh weird. Normally I give a pseudonym but the truth slipped right out.
I wrap her small hand in mine, accepting her handshake, but the moment our palms touch she flinches. “What?” I ask, examining the hand she rejected, looking for evidence of suddenly onset oozing sores.
“Your hands are freezing,” she says.
