“Okay, Georgie.”

“And I’ve got some stuff I’ve been working on for a while. Things are looking good with it. Once I know it’s solid, we’ll make a meet. Okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

I wanted this to be promising.

As hard as my sister worked and had done it for years, with the results of that so far I was not holding too much hope.

“Great, sis. Go out tonight. Have fun,” she ordered. “See you tomorrow.”

“All right. See you.”

She disconnected.

I dropped my phone hand to the counter but just stared at it.

I looked behind me to the fridge.

There wasn’t much in it.

I should go to the grocery store. Or I should call Bistro Vendôme and see if they had an opening. Or perhaps even find a nice, trendy bar with good lighting and expensive cocktails and go there, people watch, find someone to fuck then come home.

I looked from the fridge to my house which needed to be sold. I only had a few hundred thousand dollars-worth of equity in it, but with Dad shooting soldiers and ten thousand dollars in cash going out to doctors, not to mention other bills, salaries to pay—we needed every penny we could get.

I had a dinner appointment with my mother in a week.

I had a father who was out of his mind and no matter how much Georgie worked and I schemed and scrimped, he was going to bury us. I knew it.

I’d never see Green again and I’d miss him. He’d always been sweet and respectful to me. Also, I worried there was a good possibility I wouldn’t see Green again because Dad or Georgia would make it so no one would see him again…ever.

And I knew the last load of product Georgia had managed to get her hands on was of inferior quality, but more importantly, it was running out. If Georgia didn’t get the boys something, Green wouldn’t be the only one to go in one way or another.

I just knew the only two who couldn’t go were Georgia and me and I was probably the one who wanted to go most of all.

With all this on my mind, I didn’t go to the grocery store or call Bistro Vendôme. I also didn’t go for a drink at a nice bar.

I went to the closet in my bedroom and direct to the wall safe installed there. I opened it and grabbed one of the four burner phones I kept in it.

I engaged the phone, went to contacts, scrolled down to B. Ross and hit her number.

I put the phone to my ear.

“Ms. Lincoln,” a woman answered. “It’s been some time.”

Now even Ross was telling me something I knew.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I know it’s late notice but do you have any openings tonight?” I asked.

“In the private salons, I’m afraid not.”

I drew breath in my nose.

That was disappointing.

“However, we’ve had no one book in the social viewing chamber,” she went on. “And it’s late in the day and quite rare for anyone to call at this time. Although if another booking comes in, I must accept, at this moment, you would have the social chamber to yourself.”

I looked to my watch. It was well after six. Normally when I went to the club I would call days in advance to be certain to have a private salon.

But what did it matter? I’d go. I’d enjoy a drink. I’d enjoy the performances, perhaps in the company of someone else, but who cared?

After that, I’d come home and take care of myself, making myself come hard. And maybe I’d sleep without everything weighing down on me, making that sleep restless and inadequate, which meant I’d wake up exhausted with puffy eyes and no motivation to take on the day. But rather, I’d sleep well and get up with some infinitesimal motivation to take on the day.

“I’ll book the social chamber,” I told her.

“We’ll see to that,” she replied. “When can we have your drink waiting for you?”

“I’ll be arriving at ten thirty.”

“We’ll see you then, Ms. Lincoln.”

“Thank you, Ms. Ross.”

“My pleasure,” she said then disconnected.

I took the phone from my ear, called Harry and set him up to pick me up to take me to the club.

That settled, I moved to my fridge in order to make a salad.

* * * * *

Alias B. Ross

B. Ross put the phone down on Ms. Lincoln and moved to her purse in the back room. She took out her personal cell and scrolled down the contacts. She found his name and engaged.

She felt her heart beating hard. Since she first saw him, he’d always made her heart beat hard. He also made her pussy get wet. Not to mention a variety of other things.

“In the middle of something, babe,” he said as greeting, sounding distracted.

She hated it when he was busy (or distracted), which was often. Before she’d had him, when she made excuses to contact him, and especially after she’d had him.

“She’s coming,” B. replied on a whisper, head bowed.

She didn’t want any staff to hear. When at work, they were banned from making personal calls.

Though, since this was an order from her boss, it wasn’t exactly personal.

Still, he’d made it clear he wanted this matter treated with the utmost confidentiality.

And she was a girl who lived to serve.

“What?” he asked, now sounding a lot less distracted.

“She’s coming. Tonight. Ten thirty. I told her all the salons were booked. She’s in social, where you asked me to put her.”

“Do not put anyone else in there,” he ordered. “And cameras off the minute you leave her in there.”