Authors: Jules Barnard
My mom twists her mouth like she doesn’t believe us, but she drops another ball and props the head of her five-iron on the grass, getting into position and swaying her hips. She looks down the fairway, wiggles her rear, looks up, readjusts her position, wiggles some more—
“In this lifetime, Mom.”
“Patience, Genevieve. You’re ruining my concentration.”
Fred waves a foursome past us. At this rate, my mom will still be preparing for her shot after the group putts out.
A few hours later, after the longest nine hole of my life, we make it to the clubhouse for sustenance.
“My treat, Gen,” Fred says as he scans the menu, sandy blond hair parted on the side and feathering over his forehead, his tanned skin smooth from monthly facials.
Fred pays for everything. At first, I thought it was a part of their
arrangement,
whatever that is—I don’t want to know. But the more time I spend with him, the more my perspective changes. There’s no hidden agenda with Fred. He holds doors for old ladies and assists men struggling with heavy boxes; the guy is just nice, and he’s from the Midwest. He pays because he was raised that way. He’s a gentleman.
I hardly understand the notion.
People rarely dated in college, and if they did, it wasn’t in the typical fashion. We were all poor, so we paid our share. One date went so far as to shortchange me, and believe me, I was not impressed.
The couple of times I’ve tried to pay in front of Fred, he’s found ways to slip me back the cash.
Fred sets down the menu and silently hands my mom the alcohol list she’s determinedly reaching for. “So what time is the show tonight?”
Mom and Fred call my gig at the casino “the show” because my mom’s been looking forward to celebrating the day I walk around in slutty clothes since I was but a youth.
“My shift starts at nine. Get there early. Fewer people, I won’t be as busy.”
My mom looks excitedly at Fred. “We’ll get there early. We have a My Republic concert at ten.”
I choke on an ice chip from my water. “Mom, that’s like, a young band—for people
my
age.”
She rolls her eyes. “Gen, you don’t listen to music for people your age.”
So I sometimes stop on the easy listening station. Her point?
“Fred and I aren’t fuddy-duddies. We enjoy current stuff.”
My jaw drops. “Are you trying to tell me something?” My mom thinks I act too old for my age and my best friend feels I betrayed her. I can’t handle any more truths today.
She smiles and pats my hand, returning her attention to the drink menu. “Darling, you are perfect the way you are, even if your music choices are boring.”
And this is why I dread my mother’s appearance tonight. Anything can happen, and it’s sure to embarrass me.
“A little closer, honey,” my mom orders as I pose, my bicep quivering beneath a tray laden with drinks while Mom gets in a
candid
shot. The bartender smiles for the camera and adds another beverage to the load as I look on, and according to Mom’s orders, hold up my knockers.
Jesus.
I glance to make sure no one’s looking. Maryanne is off somewhere, and Mason is surrounded by three women chatting him up at the bar.
Mason was always nice and cute, safe because my feelings were never deeply involved, yet I shut him down when he tried to kiss me. I would have chosen him to date a couple of months ago, but the A-hole taught me that playing it safe can backfire and that lesson stuck. Which makes me wonder, if I’m not sticking to the safe guys, where am I turning?
The three patrons sitting in Mont Belle Lounge snicker behind their hands at my mother and the display she’s putting on. If Cali were watching, she’d be laughing her ass off right now—only she’s mad at me, so maybe not. I wish I could edit out half of our last conversation. It came out all wrong and I feel like a terrible friend. I couldn’t help what happened with Eric, but I could have handled telling Cali better. I hate that I hurt her.
“Okay, Mom, I gotta return to work.”
Chantell raises her eyebrows, her mouth a straight line of disbelief.
“It’s going to turn into a mad rush soon.” A little white lie is necessary during times of parental embarrassment.
My mom hands Fred the camera. “All right. We need to leave for our concert anyway.” She stalks over and pushes in the sides of my breasts, yanking in strategic places until my cleavage reaches my chin.
I gape at her. “Are you finished feeling me up?”
She puckers her lips and assesses her work. “Better. Work those tips.” She winks and smacks a kiss on my cheek. Fred grins at her, as if she’s charming. I don’t get it, but somehow they’ve made the relationship work and my mom seems happier than I’ve ever seen her.
“Mom, flashing cleavage isn’t how I’d like to earn tips.”
“I’m kidding.” She waves her hand. “You know I’ve got your expenses covered. Enjoy yourself, that’s all.”
Now that she brings it up … I’ve only hedged around the issue before, have never flat-out asked. I’ve been too scared to hear the truth. “How, Mom? How do you have it covered?”
Her gaze goes blank. “I just do, silly.”
I glance behind her at Fred and lower my voice. “From him? Mom, he’s nice compared to the others, but I don’t want him paying my way. It’s not right.”
She taps my shoulder lightly. “Of course Fred doesn’t pay for you. Why would you think that?”
Is she kidding? Does she think I’m clueless? She has no means of financial support, no wealthy family backing her. How else does she pay our bills?
Fred leans over. “We better get going, Chantell. Great outfit, Gen. You look beautiful.” He smiles in a fatherly manner, his gaze never straying to my mother-enhanced boobs. I don’t think the notion even crosses his mind.
They leave, my mom’s final response not really an answer to my question, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s consistent with her answers to my questions about my father.
Shortly thereafter, Drake Peterson enters the lounge. He takes in the empty tables, and unlike Fred, makes a full perusal of the breasts I didn’t get a chance to tuck back in. “Looks slow. How do you feel about helping me with a group of colleagues I’m entertaining in one of the suites upstairs? We could use a waitress and I promise great tips.”
I don’t trust this guy, hooter gazing notwithstanding. Then again, I’ve designated a lot of men as not-to-be-trusted. I’m not the best judge of character. And he’s my boss’s boss—or something like that—can I say no?
“I’m the only one here tonight.”
He gestures to the empty tables, his mouth curling up on one side. “The lounge will survive without you for a few minutes.” He hands me a key card. “I’ll have Maryanne cover for you. Come up in thirty,” he says as he walks away.
Maryanne works the pit across from the lounge, adjacent to Mason’s bar. I catch Mason glaring at Drake as he leaves.
What’s up with that?
Damn that botched kiss. If things weren’t so awkward now between me and Mason, I’d ask him why the look. But things are awkward and I’m too chicken to go over there.
Everything will be fine. I’ll serve a few patrons upstairs and earn good tips—my future keep. No big deal.
Thirty minutes later, I rap lightly on the door to Drake’s suite as a formality and enter using the key card he gave me. The ginormous room is sleek, decorated in beige with dark blue accents and blond, modern wood furniture; the focal point, a picture window overlooking the lake and mountains.
Drake lounges in a plush upholstered seat, his elbow over the back of his chair, swirling a clear drink in his hand. He’s all sophisticated nonchalance, hair lightly rumpled, eyes a bit glassy. It’s only been thirty minutes since I last saw him. Could he get drunk that quickly?
The table is cluttered with all manner of empty glasses. I remember my night at the club and the series of shots I consumed in quick succession. Totally possible.
If they have access to alcohol, why would they need me?
Five men chat casually around the glass coffee table in front of Drake, but Drake’s the only one wearing a suit, his jacket removed, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The other men are dressed in business casual—khakis and polo shirts—like they’ve just come from the golf course.
Drake glances up, a hungry smile sliding across his face. “Gentlemen,” he says, grabbing their attention. “This is Genevieve. She’s here to offer her services.”
Why would he say it like that? He makes it sound like—
Gazes roll over my body like an oil slick, sticky and pervasive. A man with a puffy face swivels his chair toward me, crossing his legs at the ankle. A lazy smile plays on his thin, narrow mouth, his eyes half-lidded and focused on my chest.
My hands grow cold and I duck my head, fidgeting with my cash caddy. I’ve gotten used to the skimpy uniforms—being checked out is a part of the job, but this … It’s not right.
“Over here.” Drake gestures with two fingers.
I plaster on a fake smile and approach, determined to get this over with. “What can I get you?”
Drake’s eyes roam my neck, my breasts, to my hips and legs, and back up. I swallow hard. He leans forward, vodka fumes emanating across the short gap separating us. “Genevieve, you look radiant this evening.” I watch in slow motion as his arm snakes out and coils around my waist, bringing me to his side.
My heart sputters in my throat. I smile awkwardly, which is strange, given I’m convulsing inside. I dance on tiptoes in a ridiculous attempt to inch away. I don’t see, but sense—which is even creepier—his other hand drift behind my knee and up my thigh in a menacing manner.
I gasp right before his fingers slide beneath my short shorts, the material cutting into my thigh. His arm is so tight around my waist I can hardly breathe, and the requisite nylons aren’t a barrier from Drake’s fingers sliding over my rear and around to my crotch. I’m not wearing panties—none of the waitresses do—they’d show beneath our uniforms, another reason for the mandatory pantyhose.
I press my tray over the front of my shorts to block Drake’s questing fingers, but the tray is bulky and doesn’t prevent his hand from moving deeper. He rubs the crease of my leg and brushes over the slit of my body. I bend forward, jerking that part of me out of the way, but he has a lock on my middle and I don’t move far.
My chest seizes. I clench my thighs together. All the self-doubt from this day, Cali’s justified anger—it crashes into me, weighing me down. Whatever strength I gathered from telling Lewis what I thought this afternoon on the paddleboard, vanishes. I clam up, verbally, physically, unable to defend myself.
Drake fingers me roughly, pressing, poking—trying to enter me.
A squeak erupts from my throat. I wiggle frantically in a series of spastic tugs and manage to dislodge his hand, but it immediately returns to cup my rear.
Somewhere in my subconscious, I register the click of the door opening behind me. Another one? I’m already outnumbered.
The men chuckle, the clink of glasses piercing my ears. Chatter about holes-in-one and Drake—a dirty joke about me, I think—murmured in low, delighted tones. Drake’s arm tightens, angling my body for better access. “So pretty and soft, Genevieve.” He reaches around and flattens his palm to my belly, sliding lower.
My vision blurs … I can’t breathe.
A throat clears, masculine, forceful. Not one of the men from the table—the person who entered last.
Drake stills, but the arm bracketing my waist doesn’t budge. Heat and male perspiration dampen my uniform. My arms shake from shock and the fatigue of prying Drake’s fingers off me.
The murmur of excited voices dims. Heads turn.
I angle my neck—the only part of my body I can move—to the person that caught their attention.
Lewis’s eyes snare mine, flickering to Drake’s arm tight around my waist. A muscle in his jaw flexes and he glares at Drake. “What’s going on?”
“You’re early,” Drake replies pleasantly, easing away.
A whoosh of air escapes my chest, loosening but not easing the strain that built. I jerk to the side and step away.
“You have the bid?” Drake asks, innocently.
Lewis is gripping his clipboard, staring at me in an intense, worried way. His gaze cuts from me long enough to pass Drake a yellow sheet.
I grab the tray that at some point slipped to the ground and walk to the end of the table. Two men mumble drink orders as I pass and I take them down, my brain on autopilot.
I make it out of the suite without remembering how I got there. My palms flatten on the wall several feet away, forehead tipping to the surface. I clench my eyes closed. My hands curl into fists, my legs are shaking, as humiliation and anger fill my every pore.
I punch the wall with the side of my fist, rolling my forehead. Why does this shit happen to me? I hate it,
hate it.
A warm pressure settles on my arm. It’s gentle, but I flinch. At this point, my mother’s touch would startle me.
I know it’s him before I open my eyes, so I don’t bother. I turn and lean against his chest, covering my face with my hands. Guttural whimpers erupt from my throat, the smooth stroke of his hand on my spine highlighting my body’s shaking.
“What happened in there, Gen?” His velvety voice lures me from the dark, ashamed place inside my head.
There’s no way I’m telling him exactly what happened. I don’t want to think about it, let alone relive it. “You saw what happened.”
He lets out a shaky breath as if he’s trying to calm down. “You have to tell someone.”
Tell someone? Is he kidding?
He
knows—knows the gist anyway—and that’s bad enough. Lewis is everywhere, witnessing all my humiliations. I look weak in front of him, never how I want to appear. What Drake did to me, my inability to stop it … Does Lewis think I bring it on myself, the way Cali does?
“Gen?”
“No,” I croak.
His hand spreads on my back. “Then I’ll do it for you. I’ll tell management what I saw. You should make sure they know what happened, or you should quit your job.” His voice is firm.
“
No.
Don’t.” I pull away, pressing my fists to my eyes. They come away moist, but no tears fall. I won’t let them.
So tired of this shit. Never again.