I lick my lips. "I figured."
"It's a little unorthodox," she says. "I'm quite surprised he called, actually."
"Oh," I say, confused. "Who?"
"Mr. Z," she says. "He wants to hire you again. For tonight, actually."
"Tonight?" I glance at Greg, manage a weak smile, and indicate the back door. Then I scurry outside and shut the door behind me.
"Five thousand dollars for the evening," she continues, as my knees go weak, and I half-fall, half-sit on the concrete step. "He needs you to be his date at an art opening."
Date.
"Oh." I frown, thinking about everything I know about Lyle, including the fact that Marjorie told me he never uses the same girl twice. "Why me?"
"Apparently you two were seen together. Hang on," she says, and a moment later my phone buzzes in my hand, signaling an incoming text message. I put the phone on speaker long enough to look at it, then immediately wince.
"Oh," I say. "Oh, dear."
"Mmmm," she says, the low sound surprisingly thoughtful. "I confess I was surprised. From what I've learned of him over the years, he's usually much more protective of his privacy."
"Yeah, I guess." My words are nonsense, of course. Instead, my mind is going a million miles an hour. This is my fault. I refused to sleep with him. I shifted the whole dynamic around. I broke the rules and messed him up. All because I was nervous and scared and didn't want to do exactly what he'd brought me to that hotel room to do. What he'd paid me to do.
And because I'd been scared and selfish, now he's at risk of his secret being blown.
"I'll do it," I say quickly. "But I want to do it for free."
"Excuse me?"
"Not you--I mean, whatever he pays you, he should pay. But I'll do the party tonight for free."
"I see," she says slowly, and I don't think she sees at all. "Are you certain?"
I consider the question. Because the truth is, I need the money. But he's already paid me ten thousand dollars plus a rather hefty tip. And for that, what did he get? Not sex, that's for sure. Just a couple of kisses, a girl he barely knows castigating him about his issues, and then a photograph of a private moment that's suddenly gone viral.
Not exactly a great return on his investment.
"I'm sure," I say.
"Very well," Marjorie agrees, though I can tell from her tone that she doesn't understand. "My team will be at your house in half an hour to do make-up, wardrobe, and to get you to the restaurant where you'll meet Mr. Tarpin."
"Not Mr. Z anymore?"
"I think we're past that," she says, and I can imagine he
r smile. "Good luck," she says before hanging up. "And have fun."
I think about Lyle. About that zing. And even though I'm not entirely sure how tonight is going to go, I can't deny that I'm looking forward to it.
And I'm really not sure if that's a good thing ... or a bad one.
8
It was four forty-five when I told Greg I'd landed a last minute temp job and had to run.
It was five when I raced through my door, just minutes before Marjorie's team arrived, armed with cases full of make-up and curling irons, shiny rolling racks crammed with dresses, and gigantic suitcases stuffed with shoe boxes.
That's when the whirlwind began. And by five-forty, I'm showered, buffed, dressed, coiffed, painted, and bejeweled. I've never gotten dressed that fast in my entire life, and I feel about as flummoxed as Skittles looks, staring at me through narrowed eyes from his cat tree in the living room, which has become wardrobe central.