Chapter Two : Night Business
1231 Words
ANA'S POV
I stood in the middle of the dressing room, my hands shaking so violently I couldn’t zip up my dress. On the vanity, my phone screen was still bright with the text message from an unknown number: Mark was jumped. ICU at St. Jude’s. He’s alive, but it’s bad.
The room felt like it was shrinking. The scent of hairspray and heavy perfume made me want to gag. Mark was my anchor, the man who was supposed to be my way out of this life, and now he was lying in a hospital bed. How was I supposed to cope?
"Ana, you're on in five," my manager, Leo, said as he walked in. He stopped when he saw my face. "What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
"Mark," I whispered, my voice cracking. "He was attacked. He’s in the hospital, Leo. I have to go. I can’t stay here."
"Who? The boyfriend?" Leo sighed, crossing his arms. He didn't offer a hug or a kind word. "Listen, I’m sorry about your boyfriend but you have a VIP client tonight. This guy is throwing money around like it’s confetti. He specifically asked for you."
"It's not about money now," I snapped, finally grabbing the zipper and pulling it up with a jerk. "Mark means the world to me."
"You are just being dramatic. You two have just been dating for three months," another girl spited.
Three months but Mark had already changed my life that I was thinking of quitting the escort business. He did not know I did this and I planned to quit before he finds out.
Trixie, one of the older escorts, leaned against the doorframe, blowing out a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Don't be stupid, Ana. You go to the hospital now, what are you going to do? Sit in a waiting room and cry? You aren't family. They won't even let you past the front desk."
"I have to try," I said, grabbing my clutch.
"The client tonight is a whale," Trixie continued, ignoring my protest. "He’s some rich brat that just landed. You need all the money since you are quitting soon."
I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red, but the makeup covered the worst of it. Trixie was right about one thing: I wasn't family. I was the secret girlfriend, the girl Mark kept hidden from the Gallagher empire until he was done brushing me up to their taste. If I showed up now, what difference would it make?
"Fine," I said, my voice feeling dead in my throat. "One client. Then I'm done."
The VIP booth in the back of The Velvet Room was shrouded in shadows, but the man sitting there was impossible to miss. He was draped across the leather seat with a glass of scotch in one hand, looking like he owned the building and everyone in it.
I walked in and sat down. I didn't offer a smile. I didn't lean in to brush my shoulder against his. I sat as far away as the booth allowed, my spine as stiff as a board.
He seemed to enjoy the way I ignored him and kept my eyes cold and unimpressed. I could tell he was the type of man who was used to people jumping at his command. My silence seemed to excite him.
"You're late," he said. He reached out to touch a strand of my hair, but I flinched away.
"I can go back if you want." I said.
He chuckled, taking a slow sip of his drink. " You look like you want to kill me."
"I don't want to kill you," I replied, my eyes tracking the movement of the club's security. My mind was at the hospital, imagining Mark under white sheets. "I just want to be done with this. You're just a spoilt child spending his father's money."
He leaned forward, his eyes darkening with interest. I could see him studying me, cataloging my face as if I were a piece of art he wanted to buy. "It’s my grandfather’s money, actually. I’m here looking for a distraction and you seem like the perfect one."
"I’m not a distraction," I said. "I’m a professional. If you want a girl to giggle at your jokes, go to the bar."
"I don't want a girl who giggles," he whispered. "I want you. And I want you to stop looking at the door like you're planning to escape."
He reminded me of everything Mark hated about his own life—the arrogance, the waste, the assumption that everything was for sale.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Ana."
"My name is Rod." He didn't offer a last name. He didn't have to; the way the servers bowed when they passed told me he was someone important.
He held out his hand, and I took it firmly. His skin was warm, his grip firm and possessive. For a moment, a wave of nausea hit me. I was holding the hand of a stranger while the man I loved was fighting for his life in a room filled with the smell of antiseptic and death.
"You're shivering, Ana," Rod noted, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. He didn't sound concerned; he sounded intrigued."Are you cold, or are you afraid of me?"
"I'm neither," I lied. "I’m just wondering how long this is going to take. I have places to be."
He laughed, a sharp, dry sound that cut through the bass of the music. "You’re in a hurry to leave a man who hasn't even told you what he wants yet? That’s bad for business, don’t you think?"
He leaned closer, his perfume filling my nose. "Tonight, I don't want to think about my problems. I want to forget I have a name. And I want you to help me do it."
I looked into his eyes and saw a vacuum of loneliness masked by a mountain of pride. I nodded slowly, my mind racing back to Mark. How would he feel if he knew that while he was fighting for his life, I was with a man?
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