Controlled: The Dollhouse, Part Two (2 page)

“
W
hich way
to the grand ballroom?” I asked the girl at the front desk of the Hotel Milan.

“
U
p the main
staircase and to the right,” came her clipped response. It was obviously clear to her that I was here to work and not a guest of the hotel. No reason to waste pleasantries on the help.

I
t had taken
me three hours, four bus transfers and a two-mile walk to make it to the Hotel Milan. This clearly wasn’t a place that catered to the public transit crowd.

I
was already
sweaty and tired. Thankfully, I’d packed clean work clothes — black pants and a white collared shirt, the standard attire for these types of things — in the backpack that I’d slung over my shoulder.

A
harried woman
wearing a dark suit and high heels, was at the entrance of the ballroom and shouting into a headset.

“
T
he tablecloths
on table four don’t match the rest, I need you to bring me cream, not off-white!”

I
approached
her quietly and waited for her to notice me standing there. But the woman continued to rant at whatever unlucky soul was on the other side of her headset.

“
A
nd why do
I see lilies in the main hall, when I specifically requested orchids? I swear to God, could you screw this up anymore if you tried?”

“
W
ho are you
?”

I
realized
that the woman wasn’t talking into the headset and that the last thing she said had been directed at me.

“
M
y name is Dalea Moreno
.”

“
I
don’t care
,” she snapped. Her hand touched the earpiece, as she responded to whoever was on the other side. “Get Mike over to the ballroom, the main stage needs to be moved to the right by two feet. What do you want?”

I
blinked
, not completely sure if she was speaking to me or not. “My name is Dalea Moreno.”

“
Y
ou said that already
.” The woman’s foot tapped impatiently on the marble floor.

“
T
rina sent me
. She said you need waiters.”

“
O
h
, that,” the woman said, her voice impatient. She indicated the back of the ballroom with the manicured fingers of one hand. “The food service area is set up through the doors in the back. Ask for Zach and tell him I said to get you a uniform.”

T
he woman
promptly turned away and returned to her conversation, not giving me a chance to say anything else.

I
walked
through the empty ballroom, which had already been set up with dozens of round tables covered in
cream-
colored tablecloths and set with fine silverware. A large chandelier hung in the center of the room, crystals reflecting off it like teardrops from God’s eyes.

I
’d worked
for the school’s catering company when I was in college, but that was mostly alumni events or sports functions, never anything as fancy as this.

T
he invitation
that Trina had handed me put the cost of this thing at almost a thousand dollars per plate, which was closer to what my family paid for rent than dinner.

I
pushed open
the doors at the back of the massive ballroom and was immediately confronted with a bustling scene. Dozens of people dressed in starched uniforms — made up of tuxedo shirts, black slacks, and bowties — hurried around the room.

S
queezing between two large
, silver tray caddies, I approached a guy who looked around my age. He was leaning against a wall divider and seemed to be the only one who wasn’t in a hurry.

“
E
xcuse me
,” I said.

T
he guy turned
to me with a devastating smile. “You’re excused, beautiful.”

I
cleared my throat
, suddenly nervous. This guy was the kind of hot that was dangerous, like he would rob a liquor store right before giving you the best sex of your life. He had dark hair and darker eyes — a gypsy who would come in the dead of night and steal you away. I was both attracted and repelled.

“
D
o
you know where I can find Zach?” I said, ignoring the compliment. “He’s supposed to get me a uniform.”

H
e gave
me a long once-over that made me want to slap his face. “Depends on who’s asking, sweetheart.”

“
M
y name is Dalea
. Trina sent me.”

H
e took a step towards me
. I fought the urge to back away as he slowly circled me. “What will you give me if I tell you?”

I
suppressed a shiver
— of fear or something else, I couldn’t say. “Forget it. I’ll ask someone else.”

H
e put
a restraining hand on my arm and the heat of his touch was practically burning. Was I reacting to him, or just desperate for a man’s touch on my skin?

“
R
elax
, baby girl. I’m Zach.”

“
G
reat
.” My voice dripped with sarcasm and I yanked my arm away. “The woman out there said you could get me a uniform.”

“
Y
ou mean Elsie
?” He laughed and the sound was dark and sensual. “I’m surprised she stopped yelling at her assistant long enough to even talk to you.”

I
had
to laugh at that. “Yeah, I feel sorry for whoever is on the other side of that headset.”

“
S
o
, you need a uniform right?”

“
Y
es
, please.”

Z
ach surveyed me
, his gaze lingering on my hips before moving up to my chest. I was about to say something indignant, when he spoke again. “Size four, right?”

“
U
m
, yeah. How did you know that?”

“
I
t’s a gift
.” Zach winked at me. “I was probably a gay fashion designer in a past life.”

E
verything
about him was so overwhelmingly masculine and physically dominant that I couldn’t quite imagine that. I must have made some sort of disbelieving sound because he grinned at me.

“
O
r I just spend too much
time looking at woman’s bodies.”

“
T
hat
, I believe.”

T
he look
he gave me was so frankly sexual that the breath caught in my throat.

C
heeks flaming
, I reached around to open my backpack and searched for something to break the sensual spell he tried to cast. “I have my own pants.”

H
e stuck
his hands in his pockets and gave me a crooked smile. “Changing area is behind those curtains. The shirts are on a rack to the right, just find your size. Hurry back, because we’re still prepping plates.”

“
O
kay
…thanks.”

“
O
ne more thing
,” he said, before I could walk away. “A bunch of us are going out for drinks when this thing is done. You should come.”

“
I
’ll think about it
.”

I
walked away
while I still had the chance, my heart beating hard.

I
t wasn’t
until I was back in the dressing area and flipping hurriedly through the racks of starched tuxedo shirts, that I realized something.

W
hile talking
to Zach and for the first time since I left the Dollhouse, I hadn’t been thinking about Julian.

I
’d forgotten
how much easier it was to work a catering gig than to actually wait tables in a restaurant. All I had to do was say “chicken or fish” in as unobtrusive a way as possible and remember to serve from the left. I might as well have been a brain-dead monkey in a penguin suit.

“
I
s this free-range chicken
?” A socialite dripping in gaudy jewelry and makeup that was too heavy asked me.

“
O
f course
, miss,” I said, though for all I knew it was the same chicken that you could buy at the Fresh Market in Englewood. “Would you like pepper?”

O
nce dinner was served
, most of the waitstaff returned behind the doors with just a few staying in the ballroom to keep drinks refilled.

Z
ach appeared at my shoulder
. “We have a few minutes. Come grab a smoke.”

I
didn’t smoke
but I’d been working in food service long enough to recognize a free break when I saw one. I followed him out the back door, which was propped open with a brick, where a group of people were sitting on milk crates.

“
T
his is Dalea
,” Zach said, his hand touching my back in a way that was too possessive.

I
shook
his hand off and stepped away a little. “Hi.”

I
f he noticed
me putting additional space between us, Zach ignored it. “Dalea, this is Collette, Jason, Molly and Aeryn.”

A
eryn
, a short, redheaded girl with a crooked smile, leaned forward and held out a pack of cigarettes. “Want a smoke?”

I
hesitated
for a beat too long and one of the girls – Collette, I think – broke in with a cheeky grin. “We have something stronger, if you want that.”

“
N
o
, thank you.” I had never done any drugs, not even during the year and a half that I spent in college. I wasn’t about to start now with a bunch of perfect strangers.

I
took
a seat on an egg crate and Zach took the one next to me, close enough that his knee brushed my thigh. I deliberately picked up the crate and scooted it to the side, pretending not to see his knowing smile.

“
S
o what’s your deal
, new girl?” Jason, the only other guy, asked me as he lit his cigarette. “We don’t see many new faces. What brings you uptown?”

“
I
normally work at a diner
, but I needed some extra cash. A girl that I used to go to school with told me they needed more waiters for tonight.” I shrugged uncomfortably, not happy with being the center of attention. “So here I am.”

“
W
hat girl
?” Aeryn leaned forward. “Someone from catering?”

“
N
o
. My friend, Trina, works for Berkmore Global – I guess they’re hosting this thing, or something.”

Z
ach’s eyebrows
disappeared into the fringe of hair that hung over his forehead. “I get it. You run with educated bitches.”

“
T
rina is not a bitch
,” I said, affronted.

“
B
ut I bet
she liked being the one holding the handout.”

“
I
t’s not like that
.” Trina and I weren’t close enough for me to feel especially moved to defend her, but I refused to let Zach have the satisfaction of thinking he knew anything about me. “We were roommates in college.

H
e surveyed
me with a look that was too knowing, like he already had me all figured out. “Well, that explains it.”

I
’d never been
prone to violence but I really wanted to slap the satisfied smirk off of his face. “Explains what?”

“
W
hy you’ve got
I’m-too-good-for-this written all over your face.”

“
I
never actually graduated from
college,” I said, rolling my eyes.
What a jerk
. “If that makes you feel any better.”

“
I
t does actually
.” His tone had turned from playful to pointed. “I guess that’s why you’re slumming it down here with us instead of sitting at one of those tables inside where you belong.”

A
eryn broke
in with an uncomfortable laugh. “Whoa, guys. Play nice.”

“
I
t’s fine
, I’m heading back inside.” I gave Zach my haughtiest look as I stood up from the milk crate. “And just for the record, I’m not slumming it anywhere. I’m too good for you because you’re an asshole.”

J
ason’s
low whistle carried me through the propped open door. “Nice one.”

I
couldn’t believe
the nerve of that guy. Maybe insulting a girl within the first ten minutes of meeting her was a trick that worked on some girls, but I definitely was not the one to put up with it.

N
erves frayed
, I joined the group of waiters heading back into the ballroom to pick up the dinner plates. I was at the point of swearing off men completely – wanting them, talking to them, acknowledging that they existed.

A
s I picked
up a plate from a man who hadn’t even bothered to look at me when he demanded that his water be refilled before I cleared anymore dishes, I heard the feedback of a microphone going live.

I
looked
up to see a beautiful woman on a raised stage at the back of the ballroom. She wore a floor-length red dress that shimmered underneath the twinkling lights of the chandelier. When she spoke her voice was deep and resonant like chamber music.

“
T
hank
you all so much for coming tonight. My name is Adriana Hathaway, and I am the chairwoman of the Chicago Children’s Hospital Foundation. As you know, all of the proceeds from tonight’s dinner and silent auction are going to support the construction of the Berkmore Cancer Wing at the Chicago Children’s Hospital.”

T
he woman waited
through the round of polite applause before continuing. “Now, I’d like to introduce the man who is responsible for putting together this wonderful evening. Since becoming CEO of Berkmore Global only two years ago, he has been a pioneer for corporate outreach in this city and is the recipient of this year’s Mayoral Prize for Excellence in Giving. I am very pleased to introduce the man who has done so much – Julian Berkmore-Hathaway.”

T
he plate
in my hand dropped to the floor as my fingers went limp. The sound of it shattering was covered by the standing ovation as he took the stage. No one at the table I was clearing spared me a second glance as they rose from their seats.

B
ut he must have heard
. His gaze found me in the crowd, electric green eyes bright as headlights on a country road. A shock like electricity ran through me. I ducked down behind the standing crowd ostensibly to pick up the pieces of broken china.

M
y face flamed
and I knew I looked like a ripe cherry tomato. I wasn’t ever supposed to see him again, that was the deal. It was supposed to be like he had never existed. I was supposed to be able to pretend that the Dollhouse was a dream – that it had no place in my reality.

B
ut my eyes
didn’t lie. Standing up on that stage was the man that had lit my body on fire and consumed my every thought with visions of his face. My patron.

M
y
Julian
.