An abrupt movement from the table by the wall and the memory of Thomas’s duplicity glitches. The man in the blue shirt stands up. You rise as well. Then you head toward the lobby with him trailing a few feet behind you.
It took less than forty minutes from the time you entered the bar for you to seduce him.
Thomas’s defense was sound; it appears that men are incapable of steeling themselves against blatant offers of temptation. Even married ones.
The flood of relief that accompanies this realization is so profound it has a weakening effect on the body.
It was all her fault. Not his.
Bits of shredded cocktail napkin, evidence of the contained anxiety, litter the table. They are scooped into a pile. The untouched glass of sparkling water on the table is finally tasted.
Several moments later, the bell of an incoming text peals.
It is reviewed.
And immediately, it is as though the busy, welcoming bar is plunged into ice and silence.
There is nothing save for the three lines from you.
They are read once.
Then again.
Dr. Shields, I flirted but he rejected me. He said he happily married. He went up to his room and I’m in the hotel lobby.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Friday, December 7
Being told to hook up with a man, and being paid for it, is the same as being a prostitute.
I’m trembling again as I stand in the lobby, waiting for Dr. Shields to respond to my text. But this time it’s with anger.
Did she really expect me to go up to Scott’s room? She probably assumed I would because of my confessions about my one-night stands on her stupid questionnaire.
My pumps pinch my feet and I alternate easing up my left heel, then my right one.
She still hasn’t responded, even though I sent the message several minutes ago. Now the front desk clerk is staring at me, and I feel even more out of place than I did when I walked in.
I can’t believe Dr. Shields put me in this position. It wasn’t about being in danger. It was about the humiliation. I saw the way David and his friends eyed me when I walked out with Scott. And I saw the way Scott looked at me right before he stood up from the table.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
The front-desk clerk has come from behind her post to stand next to me. She’s smiling, but I see in her eyes what I already know: I don’t belong in a place like this, with my sixty-dollar dress from a sample sale and my fake diamond earrings.
“I’m just—I’m waiting for someone,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Is that a problem?” I ask.
“Of course not,” she says. “Would you like to take a seat?” She gestures to the couch over by the fireplace.
We both know what her hospitality is thinly disguising. She probably thinks I’m a hooker, too.
I hear the rapid clicking of heels against the wood floor. I turn to see Dr. Shields striding toward us, and even though I’m upset by what she has just done to me, I can’t help but marvel at her beauty: Her hair is pulled into a sleek chignon and her legs are slim and impossibly long beneath the hemline of her black silk dress. She is everything I tried to be tonight.
“Hello, there,” Dr. Shields calls. When she reaches us, she puts her hand on my arm, like she is claiming me. I see her glance at the woman’s name tag. “Is everything all right here, Sandra?”
The clerk’s manner transforms. “Oh, I was just offering your friend a seat by the fireplace, where it’s more comfortable.”
“How thoughtful,” Dr. Shields says. But her tone is a subtle rebuke, and the clerk retreats.
“Shall we?” Dr. Shields asks, and for a moment I think she wants to leave. But then she leads the way to the couch.
Instead of taking a seat, though, I remain standing. I keep my voice low, but it’s thick with emotion: “What was that all about?”
If Dr. Shields is surprised, she doesn’t show it. She pats the cushion next to her. “Jessica, please sit down.”
I tell myself it’s because I want to hear Dr. Shields’s explanation. But the truth is, I feel a gravitational pull toward her.
As soon as I am beside her, I smell her clean, spicy perfume.
Dr. Shields crosses her legs and folds her hands in her lap. “You seem very agitated. Can you tell me what that experience was like for you?”
“It was awful!” My voice cracks unexpectedly and I swallow hard. “That guy Scott, who was he?”
Dr. Shields lifts her shoulders once. “I have no idea.”
“He wasn’t part of this?”
“He could have been anyone,” Dr. Shields says. Her voice is airy and distant. It’s almost as if she is reciting from a script. “I needed a man with a wedding ring to test as part of my study on morality and ethics. I selected him at random.”
“You were using me as bait? To trick some guy?” My words come out too loudly for this hushed, serene lobby.
“It was an academic exercise. I did let you know there would be real-life scenarios involved with this phase of my research.”
I can’t believe I’d ever thought we might be eating dinner together. Who was I kidding? I am her employee.
The tightness in my throat eases, but I can’t let go of my anger. Nor do I want to, because it’s what is finally giving me the courage to ask questions.
“Did you really expect me to go up to his room, though?” I blurt.
Dr. Shields’s eyes widen; I don’t think anyone could fake that kind of surprise.
“Of course not, Jessica. I merely told you to flirt with him. Why would you ever consider that?”
The minute she says it, I feel foolish. I look down at my feet. I can’t meet her gaze; it was such an extreme assumption.
But Dr. Shields’s voice contains no judgment; it holds nothing but kindness. “I promised that you would always be in complete control. I would never put you in danger.”
I feel her hand briefly touch mine. Despite the warmth of the fire, it is so delicate and cold.
I take in a few deep breaths, but my eyes remain fixed on the herringbone pattern on the wood floor.
“Something else is troubling you,” she says.
I hesitate and look into her cool blue eyes. I hadn’t planned on telling her this part. Finally, I blurt out: “Right before he left the table . . . he called me ‘Sugar.’”
Dr. Shields doesn’t reply, but I know she is listening to me in the way no one else ever has before.
My eyes fill with tears. I blink them back before continuing.
“There was this guy . . .” I hesitate, inhale deeply, and then continue. “I met him a few years ago and at first I thought he was amazing. You may have heard of him, he’s a well-known theater director now. Gene French.”
She nods almost imperceptibly.
“I was hired to do makeup for one of his shows. It was a huge deal for me. He was always really nice, even though I was a nobody. When we got the Playbill printed, he showed me my name in the credits and said I should celebrate it, that life had so many hardships and we should honor the triumphs.”
Dr. Shields is utterly still.
“He did . . . something to me,” I say.
The images I can’t ever seem to erase seep into my mind again: Me slowly lifting up my shirt, up over my bra, while Gene stands a few feet away, staring. Me saying, I really should go now. Gene positioning himself between me and the door to his office, which is closed. His hand moving toward his belt buckle. His answer: Not yet, Sugar.