Page 22 of The Client
Things didn’t turn out much better for me here in Chicago, though. Just look at me now, taking a ride of shame from a man who paid me for sex, on my way to meet with my boss who will arrange another client, and another, and another. KZM’s modeling contest turned out to be exactly the same scam I thought I had dodged, only it was delivered with a dose of glitter and opulence. This career path was nothing but an illusion all along.
The partition rolls down again and the driver says, “We’re here, miss.”
“Thank you.”
I slide across the seat and find the driver already opening the door for me. I thank him again and walk up to the glass entrance doors, half expecting them to be locked. They aren’t.
No such luck.
As I’m crossing the lobby toward the guard at the check-in desk, Zoric turns the corner from the bank of elevators and motions me toward a circle of plush leather chairs.
“She’s with me,” he tells the security guard.
My adrenaline kicks as I drop into a chair and set my bag at my feet. I know my hair and makeup are a fright, and my outfit of leggings and a T-shirt are hardly what I’d call business appropriate. And then a cynical laugh escapes me. What the hell am I worried about? This isn’t just my boss sitting across from me. It’s my pimp. As long as I turn tricks like I’m supposed to, who cares what I look like afterward?
Zoric eyes me critically.
“He didn’t keep you for the full night. Interesting.”
Anger suddenly wells up inside me at the way he’s sizing me up like a used car, like he’s trying to figure out how many more miles he can put on me before I lose my value, but I hold my rage back. There’s no sense losing my temper. It won’t change anything, and it might give Zoric a reason to treat me worse. My mind and body are spent, and I just want to go home.
Not to the apartment, but home to my uncle’s farmhouse where I can crawl in bed with Eva and drowse in the heat of the wood stove, one of my aunt’s cotton quilts pulled over us.
“Still. You must have done well. Your buyer has already bought another date.” He hands me a business card. “You’ll meet him at this address tomorrow afternoon, two p.m.”
My adrenaline surges as I take the card and skim the information on it. The buyer. Not the man I slept with, but his father. Who bought me at the auction for six thousand dollars. McConnell senior.
The memory of his teeth nipping my lip turns my stomach. There was something dangerous about him. Something ugly brewing underneath the handsome, haughty exterior.
“You look unhappy,” Zoric says sharply. “You need to learn to school your features. Just like when you go to a shoot, yes? Think of it as an extension of your modeling skills.”
Squaring my shoulders, I sit up taller. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s better. You may go now.”
With that, he gets up and strolls back toward the elevators. I don’t watch him go. Instead, I sit here trying not to cry. I can’t fall apart right now. Not here in this lobby. This prison.
I Uber back to the apartment. I’m barely holding it together, but I can’t lose my shit. Not when my nightlife-loving roommates might still be up. Talking about it won’t help. Nothing will help. All I want is a hot shower and eight hours of sleep. Ten, even.
Just as I suspected, Diya is on the couch playing with her phone when I walk in. Avoiding eye contact, I kick off my shoes and make a beeline for my room. She’s right behind me.
“Hey.”
“I’m tired, Diya,” I say harshly. “I just want to go to bed.”
Tears thicken my voice, and a tremble that I can’t control racks my body. Diya’s warm hand cups my shoulder, gently soothing me.
“Hey. I’ll turn the shower on for you, okay?” she says softly.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Do you want me to make you something? Toast, or—”
“I’m fine. Just the shower. Please.”
I grab clean clothes from the bedroom and then lock myself in the tiny, steaming bathroom. After I soap myself from head to toe, I curl up at the bottom of the tub and let the hot water rain down on me. It might wash my tears away, but it can’t wash away my shame.
9
