He Watches Me: The Seen Trilogy: Part One (6 page)

Chapter Five

A
S
I
WON’T
see Blaine, and the store has a no-return-on-undergarments policy, I wear the padded bra under my work outfit. I don’t shower. I don’t have time. As a result, my hair looks great and the scent of pussy and cigar smoke clings to me, a sensual reminder of my night with Blaine.

It was my first sleepover with a man. I grin at the bus driver as I pay my fare. He grins back. The pregnant lady I sit beside shows me ultrasound photos of her unborn baby. A Spanish-speaking lady tries to sell me a knitted scarf. The driver idles the bus mid-route to grab a coffee, lengthening the ride. As I’m already late, I try not to let it bother me.

The receptionist gives me a cheery good morning, calling me by my first name. I didn’t know she knew my first name. I strike gold with the donor list. Every name has given a donation within the last year.

I pass the Boss man’s office, expecting to be called in and yelled at for my tardiness. He simply waves at me, a phone pressed to his right ear.

As I arrive, some of the women in the pit abruptly stop talking. I stiffen, dreading what they’ve uncovered about me. Blaine erased my father, whatever that means, but they could have found out about him some other way. The truth always follows me, no matter where I go.

A new big breasted blonde sits in the front row, examining the ends of her perfect hair, her pink bottom lip curled into an adorable pout. I suspect she’ll land a meet and greet with her first call. Tomorrow she’ll no longer sit in the pit and some other blonde will take her place.

Is someone taking my place? Is some other woman stripping for Blaine? I sit down, setting my tote at my feet.

“Someone had a good night.” Goth girl laughs. “Tell me you nailed Gabriel Blaine and I’ll be your faithful minion forever.”

My face heats and I pretend to focus on unwinding the cord to my new headset.

“You did!” she crows, clapping her black-lace-covered hands. Heads turn. Coworkers scowl. Goth girl ignores them. “Everyone watches the butterfly. No one suspects the moth.”

I suppose I’m the moth. I don’t want to talk about Blaine. He must be in the air by now, being pandered to by generously endowed flight attendants. I turn on the headset and dial.

Voice mail. Voice mail. I’m sorry, miss. She’s not a home. Voice mail. I can’t connect with any of the donors. That’s how it is with rich people. They have big fancy houses yet spend all of their time jaunting around Europe or flying to New York.

I refuse to think of Blaine.

I eat my lunch at my desk. Many of my coworkers go out to eat every day. I don’t know how they can afford it on salaries equivalent to mine.

Goth girl keeps me company, eating a spicy yellow curry others complain loudly about. I think it smells delicious and I’m tempted to ask her for bite except I have nothing to give her in return, only a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich made with week-old bread and a sample packet of peanut butter I found in the Leighs’ mailbox.

I listen to more voice-mail messages and wonder if the world outside of the pit continues to exist. A meteor could have destroyed the rest of L.A. and we wouldn’t know it. Would Blaine miss me if I died? Would anyone miss me?

It is a quarter to five, almost quitting time, and the blonde hasn’t made a single call. She tells the desperate-looking brunette beside her she doesn’t work on Fridays. The brunette emits a high-pitched hurting sound and dials faster.

“Hey kiddo.” Michael Cooke swaggers in my direction. I glance behind me. I’m in the back row. There’s no one behind me.

“A bunch of us are heading to Finn’s.” Michael is clad in his usual khakis and Birkenstocks, a loose-fitting sky blue short-sleeve dress shirt hanging from his wide shoulders. “You want to come?”

“To hang with a bunch of trust fund babies?” Goth girl snorts. “Count me out.”

“I already did, Camille.” Michael glares at her and I straighten, preparing to defend my new friend. “This is a private conversation between kiddo and myself that doesn’t concern you.” An exciting energy snaps in the air, raising the short hairs on the back of my neck.

“Private?” Goth girl scoffs, not needing anyone else to defend her. “If you took that silver spoon out of your ass once in a while and looked around, you’d notice everyone in the pit is listening to your inane private conversation.”

Michael’s gaze lowers to Goth girl’s creamy white cleavage, shown to advantage in an obscenely tight black leather corset. “Bite me, freak.”

“In your dreams, drama queen.”

Michael glares at Goth girl. She glares back. He huffs, his shaggy golden bangs lift and he turns to me, smiling that million dollar smile of his. He is so handsome, so perfect, he takes my breath away. “So what do you say, kiddo? You want to walk on the wild side?” He holds out his hand to me.

Goth girl is right. Everyone in the pit is watching us, some of the other girls thin-lipped with envy . . . of me, the moth.

“Yes,” I whisper. I grab my tote and take his hand, hoping I haven’t made a mistake, hoping I won’t be blamed for shoplifting a diamond ring or stealing money from a family’s safe or any other crime a thief’s daughter such as myself is often accused of.

“Good. You intrigue me.” Michael’s fingers close around mine. His palm is warm and surprisingly soft. He has that all-American look, and I had speculated he would have played football in high school, but he couldn’t have been an athlete, not with his soft hands.

“I want to get to know you better, kiddo,” Michael says as we walk down the hallway. He shares this as though it is the most normal thing in the world.

It isn’t. He’s the guy every girl wants. I’m . . . me. “Ummm . . . okay.”

“Good.” Michael releases my hand to high-five a passing coworker. They talk about last night’s televised professional poker game. He walks backward to continue the conversation, sprinkling in phrases like, “You gotta know when to hold ’em” and “If you don’t know who the sucker is, you’re the sucker.”

I listen and learn, not having anything to contribute. I don’t have money to gamble, and even if I had the money, I don’t think I’d take the risk.

Michael tells the receptionist she is as pretty as a picture and I struggle to keep a straight face. The receptionist giggles and flips her hair, chirping a cheerful, “Have a nice weekend.”

Michael pushes through the door and I follow him into the warm L.A. evening, blinking at the bright sunlight. A beautiful blonde, Darla, I think her name is, and a red-faced guy with manufactured messy brown hair, stand on the sidewalk, not talking, staring down at their phone screens.

Darla poses with one silver miniskirt-clad hip stuck out, a black designer bag held in the crook of her arm, her elbow bent. Oversized sunglasses matching her oversized hoop earrings rest on top of her perfect blond curls. Her black blouse fits snugly over her large breasts, the garment unbuttoned to display the never-ending crevice between her curves.

Her big brown eyes flick toward me. “You’re the girl who nailed Blaine.” She looks me up and down and her top lip curls. “You must give good head.”

The dark-haired guy, Stephen or Spencer, yes, Spencer, barks with laughter.

“Darla.” Michael slings his arm around my shoulders and hugs me close, the contact thrilling me, his big body throwing off heat. “Be nice to my girl. Kiddo says she hardly knows Blaine.”

My lie returns to haunt me. I wiggle, acutely aware that Blaine’s key dangles between my breasts, the scent of his cigar lingers on my skin, and last night he fucked me senseless with a beautiful marble dildo.

“She knows him well enough.” The blonde rolls her eyes. “Obviously. He’s not the type to give money to strangers.”

“We all receive lists of donors.” Michael continues to defend me, and my guilt escalates. “His name could have been on one of those lists.”

“Gabriel Blaine’s phone number on a list?” Darla scoffs. “No one contacts him directly. He has layers of gatekeepers, people screening his calls.”

“He’s a ghost,” Spencer volunteers.

A ghost. I lift my chin, the label resonating with me.

“There was that rumor floating around that he didn’t exist, remember?” They laugh.

“Who are we talking about?” A brunette joins us. Her features resemble those of the front row blonde from yesterday.

I frown. Are they all starting to look the same?

“Gabriel Blaine,” Spencer explains, his flushed face growing redder. “Did you hear back?”

The brunette sucks in her breath, clasping her gold-colored phone to her large chest. “Not yet.” She checks the small screen. “No, not yet.” Her lips twist. “He said he’d call today but maybe if it’s bad news—”

“It won’t be,” Michael assures her. “Heather is being considered for a part in a slasher film,” he explains, his arm remaining around me. This makes me feel included, one of them.

“Girl in the library and it’s only a first audition. My agent said the brown hair and glasses helped, though.” Heather fluffs her hair. “Ohhh . . . call, damn it.” She shakes her phone, her knuckles white. “I want this part so badly I can taste it. A lot of actresses got their big breaks in horror films.”

Heather’s beauty intimidates me and I want to dislike her but I can’t. Her excitement is contagious and her passion is genuine. “You’ll get the part.”

“Do you think so?” She gazes at me as though I have influence over the decision.

“We all think so.” Darla taps her foot, her perfectly polished toes displayed in strappy sandals. “Shall we get our cars?”

“Oh.” They must all have cars. “It’s only a block away.” This isn’t a lie. The converted bungalow housing Feed Your Hungry hugs the border between a trendy part of town and a lower rent area, balancing the donors’ need to get value for their contributions with their desire to avoid associating with any poor people. “And it is a nice evening. I think I’ll walk.”

“Walk?” Darla sniffs. “You want to walk?” They stare at me as though I suggested swimming naked in a billionaire’s backyard pool.

“What a great idea.” Michael rubs my arm. He smells like fresh sweat and citrus, an intriguing combination. “We can avoid Finn’s painfully slow valet service.”

Decided, he strides forward, taking me with him. The others follow.

“Perhaps we’ll pass a library.” Heather’s voice lifts. “I can do research.”

She talks about the part, repeating the line in different voices. Darla texts. The guys jostle each other.

I listen, happy to belong. People pass us, chatting and laughing. The crowd is young and well dressed, their outfits costing more than a week’s pay. I don’t fit in yet. Michael doesn’t seem to notice, resting his arm on my shoulder.

“Guys, can we eat first?” Darla stops in front of a dimly lit Asian restaurant. Valets hustle to park European sports cars. A very large and very bald doorman waits in front of the rice-paper-decorated glass door. He stands with his feet braced apart, his arms crossed at the wrists as though he’s expecting trouble from his high society clientele.

“We can eat at Finn’s,” Michael counters.

“Ugh, no.” Darla makes a face. Heather also wrinkles her nose. “I want to live to see tomorrow.”

As they discuss the food plan, I slip away from Michael and examine the menu posted in front of the restaurant. The items are described in flowing poetic words, each organically grown bean sprout, each aged to perfection tofu cube lovingly detailed. There are no prices listed.

I hold my tote in front of me. I have almost a week to go to payday and the faux leather bag contains my last twenty dollars.

“They can seat us now, kiddo.” Michael bumps against me. I’m beginning to suspect he doesn’t know my name.

“You go ahead.” I summon up a smile. “I remembered an errand I have to run.” I add another lie to my rapidly growing list. “I’ll meet you in front of Finn’s.”

“Are you sure?” Michael grips my shoulder, gazing at me with genuine concern, and I wiggle, the guilt eating at me.

“She’s sure.” Darla smirks. She hooks her arm in Michael’s and drags him toward the door.

“We’ll meet you in two hours,” Michael calls over his shoulder. Spencer pushes him forward. Heather gives me a friendly wave.

I wave back. The door shuts behind them and I’m left standing on the sidewalk alone. I glance at the big bald doorman. He nods slightly, understanding in his brown eyes. We’re both outsiders.

I wander down the now busy street, stepping onto the grass lawns whenever people pass. They don’t move because they no longer see me. I’ve returned to being invisible. I should find that comforting. Instead, I’m lonely.

I enter a two-story house converted into a bookstore. The store’s doorman smokes a cigarette at his post and appears tormented, giving off an angst-filled artist vibe.

The store is small, softly lit, and filled with the comforting scent of ink and paper. The floors are hardwood and the walls are painted the color of worn leather bindings. I drift to the magazine racks, pass the covers showing postorgasmic models and enter the domain of men.

A distinguished older gentleman with closely cropped gray hair juggles a large cup of coffee and a magazine on luxury yachts. He has a navy blue sweater tied around his neck and I can easily picture him at the helm of a fancy sailboat.

Farther down, a short round man peruses pictures of the hottest women of sports. He gives me a quick dismissive glance and returns to his eye porn.

I pick up a magazine touting the secrets of high stakes poker and I open it. The scent of cigar smoke wafts upward from its glossy pages. I return the magazine to the rack, choosing instead to read about new developments in technology.

I flip through the pages, scanning titles. I shouldn’t look for his name but I am. I can’t help myself and the article is so small I almost miss it. The unknown writer speculates that Blaine’s company is buying its New York-based rival.

Normally I’d dismiss any article a writer doesn’t want to put his or her name on. However, Blaine is in New York and I can’t imagine my control-loving billionaire tolerating rivals. My gaze slides to the poker magazine. Tolerating rivals in business. I doubt Blaine cares what I do. It is not as though we have a relationship or an agreement or anything. I slip my right hand into my pants pocket and touch Blaine’s business card.