Page 5 of Resist

It’s only then that my every nerve is overcome with the fear that owned my body over the past fifteen minutes.

My legs feel like rubber, and my hands tremble so harshly that I fumble to pull a Kleenex from the box by the sink. Bracing my hands on the counter, I hang my head to catch my breath, which sounds just as shaky as I feel.

Thank God I was close by. Luckily I was in the city meeting with a new potential hire and was able to get here quickly.

I allow myself a moment. One to be scared shitless that I just faced down a very powerful senator of the United States and held my ground when I didn’t have a leg to stand on. And another to allow the tremors and the doubt and the fear and the holy shit to own every part of my body and mind so that I’m the real me—the woman terrified this will all fall to shit—instead of the ball-busting bitch I just pretended to be.

But it’s when I look up and meet my eyes in the mirror—light aqua framed by a black wig—with impeccable makeup and clothes expensive looking enough to rival Carter’s that I see both. The normal woman living behind this ruse I’ve been portraying.

I have a clean record thus far. No assholes roughing up my girls. No jerks thinking they get more than what they’ve paid for. No texts from my girls saying Mayday because they need help.

But you did get one tonight, I tell myself as I recall the panic I felt when I received the text earlier. And you challenged him and stood your ground, and hell if it didn’t feel good to wipe that arrogant smirk from his face.

Because money may grant you many things in life—privilege, material items, reputation, power—but it never gives you the right to harm another person.

With a deep breath and a quick once-over of my appearance, I prepare myself to be the woman I’m not and open the door.

Lola is across the room. She’s sitting in her Agent Provocateur lingerie set, her mile-long legs are crossed at the knee, and a highball glass filled with vodka is in her hands. Even with the tearstained cheeks and bruises blossoming on her biceps, she’s stunningly gorgeous.

“That was bullshit, Vee,” she says before I can speak.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods emphatically, a sure sign that she’s shaken. “Nothing I can’t handle.” Her foot bobs up and down as she brings the drink to her lips with an unsteady hand. I fight the urge to comfort her further, the natural instinct to make sure she truly is okay.

Because I can’t.

The touchy-feely territory is a no-go between me and my girls. I am their boss. That’s it. If I look to them for friendship or approval, I’m only setting myself up for trouble. Emotions are the downfall of anyone in my position.

Always.

They make you drop your guard, and when your guard is down, anything can happen.

“I’m pissed. Angry.”

“As you should be.”

She pushes up from her chair and stalks from one end of the room to the other, her heels thumping on the thick carpet, the champagne color of the decor a soft hue against the dark lace of her outfit and her hair. “But he paid a lot of money.”

I cringe at her words. “And? That doesn’t give him the right to lay a hand on you. He paid for companionship, Lo. A date to be at his side through his dinner function. That’s it. Whatever—”

“Whatever happens after the exchange of money is up to me.” She mimics the one line I repeatedly drill into my girls’ heads. The one caveat that might save my ass jail time if anything with Wicked Ways goes sideways.

“He still in there?”

“Probably.”

Her back is to me, her silhouette against the darkened sky beyond the window, and I thank God that if this were to happen to any of my girls, it happened to Lola. Feisty, defiant Lola.

“You know I used to think you were ridiculous for making us book two rooms per gig. I used to be pissed at how much of my cut was being spent on a room I’d never set foot in . . .”

“The client more than covers the cost. That’s why it’s in the contract.”

“True, but I’d gladly take that wasted money to pad my own pockets instead. At least that’s how I used to look at it: cash I was leaving on the table.” She blows out a breath. “But now I get it. Now I understand. Getting through that door to a safe space was all I could think about. Telling him I had blindfolds and bindings in here that he could use on me was the only way I was able to get him to give me a moment.” She falls silent as she relives it, and I can only imagine what she’s remembering. “I apologize for fighting you so harshly on it in the past.”

A rare contrition from my most sought-after girl . . . and the one who I butt heads with. I nod, even though she can’t see it. “Your safety is my number one concern.”

She laughs softly. “Well, that and money. Let’s be real here, Vee—we’re not doing this for our health now, are we?” She turns to look at me, lips turning up into a soft smile to hide the shadows of earlier.