My future was on the line, and I was willing to do whatever it took to make sure I’d have enough to set it up exactly how I wanted.
However, I’d fallen for the worst part of the game somewhere between my mother’s death and my job at Vogue. I’d started using my photographic memory to my advantage and adopted the unfortunate habit of stealing from some of the wealthiest clients, whenever they handed over their credit cards.
At first, it was just a few twenties here or there, a fifty to cover my cab fare home, a hundred to replace the silver strap on a shoe. But over time, I realized that fifty dollars to these men was like fifty cents, and contrary to most people’s beliefs, working as an editor for Vogue didn’t pay shit. (The true value was in the “exposure,” and “lasting long enough to get noticed and poached by a company willing to pay more”.)
From the outside looking in, most people assumed that my lifestyle was the stuff of dreams, but they didn’t know the half of it.
Every piece in my “six-figure wardrobe” was on loan from Vogue’s overstuffed back-order closet. My million-dollar condo was a guilt gift from my father, and by the time the lawyers sorted out my mother’s estate and paid her taxes, all that was left was a few small debts that fell to me.
I had nothing.
Sure, I could’ve easily accepted the inheritance from my father’s estate, but I knew there were strings attached to those millions. It wasn’t just, “Here you go, claim your funds and walk away.” It was, “Here are these drip payments and they can stop anytime you stop playing” my father’s game. Anytime I refused to show up to an event where he wanted me to be, anytime I refused to hang out with fellow socialites for a warm reception in the press. Even if we were slowly getting on better terms, I knew my father would never let me use his money to live my own life; I would pay him for it, in one way or another.
I had huge dreams outside of this city, and at the rate I was saving (Okay, stealing), I’d be able to start my own design house and work for myself by the end of next year.
As I was adjusting my earrings, my phone buzzed in my lap again. Michael.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hello, Meredith,” he said, his voice deep. “I’m returning your call from earlier. Was something wrong?”
“No, I was just wondering what you were doing tonight.”
“You.” He let out a low laugh. “But before that, I’m going to a private production of Wicked at Gershwin Theater around ten o’clock. You’re more than welcome to join me, if you’d like.”
“Since when does a Broadway play offer private productions?”
“Since one of the executive producers asked for it.” There was a smile in his voice. “One of the companies that I own invests a lot of money into Broadway shows. This is just a small way that they say thank you.”
I raised my eyebrow. This was easily the twentieth time he’d said, “one of the companies I own,” that had a completely different function than any of the others he’d mentioned. It was yet another thing he owned outside of Fahrenheit 900. Although I knew that he was wealthy from the way he dressed, the way he carried himself, and the way he implied it, I honestly had no clue what he really did for a living.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked.
“Um…” I cleared my throat. “I’m going to hang out at my secret job for a while.”
“You once told me that you were going to reveal what this so-called ‘secret job’ is.” He paused. “Is tonight a good time for you to finally do that?”
“Another night would be better…” I said. “One day, I’ll invite you to see me.”
“On that day, I’ll sit in the front row.”
I bit my lip at the thought of him ever coming to Club Swan. I highly doubted that I’d be able to focus for more than five seconds with him watching me dance and I could easily picture me beckoning him with my fingers, as I lay on my back just for him. Could easily picture crawling into his lap, in front of everyone, and letting him be the first and only man in that club to ever touch me.
“Are you still there, Meredith?” He was laughing. “It’s been three minutes and you haven’t said anything.”
“Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I think I’ll take a raincheck on Wicked, since I’ve already seen it, but I’ll call you later tonight.”
“Talk to you later.” He ended the call, and I let out a breath.
When the cab pulled up to the entrance of 120 Park Avenue minutes later, I handed the driver a fifty and stepped out. I took the elevator up to the top floor and was immediately met by the security guards.
“Evening,” they said in unison, motioning for me to walk past them.
I walked straight through and my second life unfolded in front of me with bright blue and white flashing lights.
With seven main stages and five smaller ones, this club was by far, one of the most sought after places for high-profile businessmen in New York. Their credit cards were checked at the door, all verified by me on the nights that I worked, and the charges always appeared as “Business Suite Rental,” so no one who ever glanced at their bills would know the truth.
This place was their dirty little secret. Drugs and liquor were easily at their fingertips, and they paid top dollar to be entertained for as long as they wanted to stay.
I dressed in my favorite outfit—a shimmering black bodysuit with matching feathers, and I buckled a pair of sparkling silver stilettos around my ankles.
I made my way to the stage opening, right at the moment my set-list was about to play. I moved from behind the curtains and strutted to the center pole—looping my leg around the metal before hoisting myself up as far as I could go.
I used my thighs to hang on and tilted my body backwards, letting my arms and curls fall toward the floor—hanging free until the music changed tempos.
When my routine began, I pretended like I couldn’t see anyone else in the club except Michael. He was sitting in the front row, leaning back, fat cigar between his lips.
As the smoke unfurled from the tip of his Cuban, I slowly twirled around the pole—making my way down to the ground. Arching my back against the pole, I moved my hips to the beat—teasing him with every move.
For a moment, I thought that he really was here, that my imagination was drawing him a bit too clearly. But when the music stopped, the lights in the room brightened a bit and he wasn’t there. It was the same suits as usual, the same Wall Street men I was seconds away from stealing a few grand from.
Sliding off the pole, I picked up the tons of bills that landed and headed backstage.
Twenty five hundred dollars…
Thrilled, I wrapped my silk slipcover over my outfit and walked to the dressing room. As I was stuffing my belongings into my bag, the club owner—Mr. Heights, stepped into the room.
“Good shit as always,” he said, crossing his arms. “You want to make tonight the night that you actually become a part of the team?”
“Depends,” I said. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve got a really special client coming in a few minutes,” he said. “He just dropped one hundred grand to buy all the tables and booths for his friends, and he wants a private dance in the grand VIP suite.”