The Willing (21 page)

He made many calls during the span of one hour, only one of which was to Evangeline. Most of what he said I didn't understand—too many acronyms, too much corporate slang—but the call to Evangeline caught my ear for the way it seemed to alter his mood.

When he hung up, Oliver's fingers didn't immediately return to clacking on the keyboard.

I glanced up from my tablet, where I'd taken to reading up on Emerson Industries in an attempt to puzzle out what the company was all about. "You okay?"

Oliver nodded slowly, but his frown remained. "Evangeline just reminded me there's a fundraiser I'm supposed to be attending tonight. She can't make it, so I have to put in an appearance for the good of the company." He cleared his throat. "She suggested I bring a date."

"Oh. Yeah, that's probably wise. I can imagine those things get a little boring after a while. Lot of handshakes and small talk, right?"

Oliver made a noncommittal sound. It might have been acquiescence, but he rose too quickly from his seat at the head of the table for me to say for sure. "I'm going to get a glass of water. Would you like anything?"

His mood swing was beyond mercurial. It didn't make much to deduce that Evangeline hadn't stopped at a vague suggestion.

"What's it for?"

Oliver paused in the doorway. "What's what for?"

"The fundraiser," I said and propped my chin in my hand. "If I'm going, I'd like to know what I'm helping to raise money for. I mean if it's baby chimps, sure. If we're talking about Cecil Holland redoing his house on the French Riviera, I might have a few objections." I wrinkled my nose. "Have you seen his wardrobe? I don't think I trust that man's taste."

"Highways."

"You want money to build highways?" Didn't the government pretty much have the market cornered in that department?

Oliver smiled tightly. "Highways in Sub-Saharan Africa. A lot of aid doesn't get where it should because there's a lack of infrastructure. It's not a sexy proposition, you won't see any celebrities campaigning for it, but it's a concrete solution to a score of problems," he added, rolling his eyes at the pun.

I knew just as much about solving the north-south inequality as I did fixing the hole in the ozone layer, but Oliver's answer made sense to me. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "I have a little black number I've been dying to put to good use for some time. You'll like it. It's got plenty of slink."

Oliver said nothing, but as he slid through the door, I thought I caught a glimpse of a smile on his pale face. He wouldn't have asked me to come with him to the fundraiser even if Evangeline suggested it. Not after I brought up our contract and the tenuous arrangement that bound us.

Yet precisely because I'd brought it out into the open, I felt like I could step out with him and not gamble my heart or my livelihood in the process. I wanted to believe there was a way for this all to work out. I could be his
plus one
, no strings attached, no by-the-hour fee. It didn't matter if I was recognized; Michelle often went to all sorts of parties with her clients and nothing terrible ever happened to her.

We parted around noon. Oliver offered to drive me home, but I told him I'd prefer to get a little exercise. It was only partly true. I wanted time to myself and I wanted Oliver to have the chance to change his mind. We were doing things backwards: we'd started with the submissive play and only now were we working our way up to a date. Of sorts.

I took the subway home, surprised by the empty carriages and the non-threatening midday commuters. It was true that I usually rode the train in the late evenings and very, very early mornings, when an overabundance of unsavory characters crept out of the woodwork, but the fact that there wasn't even one person in the whole train car who looked like they were thinking of shanking me was almost unsettling.

If anything,
I
was the most dubious-looking passenger. My short skirt and tight top did me no favors. At least I had shoved my wig into the depths of my purse, hopefully tempering the slutty look with rocker-chick chic.   

As I slotted my key into the front door, I realized with some surprise that though it felt like much longer, I'd really only been gone a day. Maybe even less than that, if my math was right. But what a day it had been.

When I had left the apartment yesterday, it had been to attend one of Madam Madrigal's parties and simultaneously blow off my rendezvous with Oliver. If anyone had said I'd be coming back knowing what it was like to feel Oliver's body writhing against mine in the throes of passion, I would've called bullshit.

The apartment itself was unchanged: freshly-bought flat pack furniture was still waiting to be assembled and the curtain-less windows had taken to streaming with the warm glow of afternoon sunlight. Dishes still awaited my presence, piled in the sink like archaeological artifacts. I thought of the first time I'd visited the apartment and how eager I'd been to make a good impression on the real estate agent—as if by charming her, I'd get a chance to own a place as nice as this one. The woman at the agency must have taken a liking to me and all my silly questions, because I got my dream apartment in the end.

Even Carrie and Duncan seemed to like it, if the late nights we'd spent between boxes last weekend were any indication. I wondered if they were doing okay.

Suddenly, I realized I hadn't heard from Carrie since yesterday and checked my phone for messages. There were none. There was also no image on the shiny screen. My phone simply refused to light up.

I fished out the charger from a box and plugged it into a kitchen socket. It would take a while for the battery to charge completely, but I had time until this evening. Cozying up to the thought of seeing Oliver in black tie, I went to change out of my work clothes.

The smartphone must have loaded itself back into the land of the living in record time because no sooner had I plucked off my clothes that the incessant shrilling of a dozen messages and missed calls blared through the apartment in rapid succession. I seized it quickly, propelled by the kind of urgency most people only manage in a crisis.

Carrie had called me sixteen times in the past twelve hours. There were a few calls from Michelle, too, which was unusual. But it wasn't really until I recognized Hunter's number in my missed calls list that I evolved from worrying to freaking out.

Carrie picked up on the first ring.

"Oh my God, where are you? Are you okay?" She sounded frantic and I felt guilt coil in my belly. Had she been waiting for me to call her back all night?

"Of course, I'm okay. I'm home... where else would I be?"
At Oliver's
, whispered my conscience. I don't know why I didn't tell Carrie about him right then and there. Maybe I thought I'd worried her enough for one day; I certainly told myself that shame played no part in the omission. "What's going on?"

"You don't know," Carrie breathed, shocked. "Oh, Jesus." I'd never heard Carrie sound so dispirited before. She was my rock, the person I depended on to hold it together when everything else seemed to be falling apart. "Okay," she said, gathering herself a little, "you should think about turning on your TV or a laptop or something— but maybe after you sit down."

She didn't have to tell me twice, I was already fumbling for the remote with my free hand. "What's wrong? Carrie, you're scaring—"
me
. All the terrible things that could happen in a world as dangerous and unpredictable as ours crossed my mind. I thought of wars and pandemics, of asteroids hitting the earth like they seemed to do in movies. I even thought of aliens, because I'd grown up attached to Ellen Ripley.

And then I flicked over to a twenty-four hours news channel.

The blood drained from my face as big, blocky letters flashed across the screen, spelling out: PROSTITUTION RING EXPOSED.

Chapter thirteen

Local news was full of it, flashing footage of the very club I'd left last night. In daylight, the place looked small and melancholy, more hole in the wall than exclusive establishment.

Reputed ties with organized crime syndicates
, was just one of the taglines. But the news anchor was mort intent on highlighting the "high profile clients of this illicit multi-million dollar business, which we are told numbers politicians and A-list celebrities—"

Carrie's voice overlapped the anchor's. I still held the phone to my ear, as if clutching an anchor. "Yeah," I said, my mouth full of cotton, "I'm—I'm here."

This must be what having an out of body experience feels like
, I thought.

"You need to get rid of your phone," Carried repeated. "Do you hear me, Jo? Your other cell."

I could hear her. I just didn't understand what she was talking about. "Madam gave me that phone." She called it a perk. It was more like a leash.

"Duncan thinks it's evidence. If they find it on you, you'll become part of the investigation."

"I don't understand..." What investigation? Wasn't I already involved? I struggled to clear my head. The strange overlap between Carrie's voice and the report made it difficult. I muted the television. "They've arrested Madam. Won't she be compelled to turn us all in?"

The footage was playing anew, showing police as they bundled my boss into an unmarked sedan. Attempts were made to conceal her identity, but I recognized the diaphanous black dress and the floral shawl. Madam Madrigal dressed like a flamenco dancer. She had flair for spectacle. I couldn't help think this was one act she wouldn't enjoy.

"You can always deny--"

"The other girls will testify that I was at the club last night." The scene I'd made practically ensured I'd be memorable. My head felt heavy, blood whooshing against my eardrums. "How—how can the police have known?"

Carrie sighed. "Someone must have tipped them off, I guess."

Could it be one of the girls, I wondered, or maybe even a client, trying to save his own ass by cooperating with police? Madam Madrigal had been careful to keep on good terms with past and present patrons. I was the thorn in her side, making her life difficult by embarrassing the very men who paid us.

"At least you weren't there when they busted the place," Carrie said, striving for optimism. I appreciated the effort.

"I left early," I breathed. "I went to... I went to see Oliver." A thought occurred to me then, insidious and awful, but uniquely tantalizing. "I blew him off. I said I needed to move our appointment to another date..."

"Jo? What is it?" Carrie's voice reached me as though from very far away.

It seemed impossible, but what if I was right?

With anyone else, I would have had doubts about follow-through; it was borderline suicidal. The world would forget Madam's name and mine, but our clients would go down in infamy as adulterers and perverts. Surely they were the ones drawing the truly short end of the stick here. I knew only one man who wouldn't care.

"Jo, talk to me..."

"I think I know who tipped off the police."
Our very own whistle-blower
, I thought, clutching at my forehead. "How could I have been so stupid? Christ—"

"Jo? Hello?"

"It was
Oliver
, Carrie." I had no proof beyond a gut feeling, but it was so strong it was almost enough to persuade me. "He must've wanted to punish me for cancelling our rendezvous on short notice."

"He wouldn't." Carrie's voice faded to a whisper. "It's a bit extreme."

"So was shutting down a sex club because he couldn't get laid," I shot back.

The more I thought about it and the more it made sense. I didn't actually know why Oliver had struck out the last time, but I imagined it had something to do with his precious pride being wounded.

Shame swept over me like oceans waves. How could I have slept with him? The son of a bitch practically warned me this would happen if I crossed him and I'd gone and let him have his way with me! I had given him everything he wanted, put up with his sob story and his company. I had broken my own rules.

"He looked me in the eye this morning and told me he wanted me to keep working for him," I murmured. I wanted to hit something—preferably Oliver, but I'd settle for a wall. All that held me back was the thought of damaging the plasterwork in an apartment I was now guaranteed to lose.

My day job was gone and now my nighttime employment had been sabotaged. I couldn't work for Oliver.

"Take a deep breath," said Carrie. "And buck up. We'll get through this."

"We?"

"What, you think I'm letting you struggle with this on your own?" Carrie scoffed. "I'm not bringing baby Carrie to visit you in prison."

I heard my breath catch. "You're keeping the kid." And naming it after herself, to boot.
There's my girl.

"As Madonna said. And keeping the husband, turns out. He's very convincing." I could hear Carrie's smile in her voice. "It's going to be okay, Jo. Start by getting rid of the phone. Then we'll get you a lawyer. Who knows, maybe we'll get lucky and you won't need one, huh?"

I echoed her maybe, but with very little conviction. I knew my chances of escaping prosecution for solicitation were microscopic. To say nothing of tax evasion for all the money I'd taken in and hadn't declared. The IRS could actually turn out to be the blow that knocked me out.

Carrie sighed, "I've to go. Early shift today... Promise you won't do anything stupid?"

"Like what?"
Other than put all my eggs into one unraveling basket?
My ability to plan my life had never been all that noteworthy, but now I was beginning to wonder if I wasn't just doomed to failure. Every decision I seemed to take fell apart. I hadn't felt so hopeless in a long time.

"You know what I'm talking about," Carrie said and clicked her tongue. "Take a mental day. Run a bath, do your nails... I'll come over tomorrow morning and we can figure this out together."

"What about the husband?" I quipped halfheartedly.

"I'll bring him, too. Three heads are better than two."