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4
SCENE 1
Lucky
Iarrive at the service elevator in my new server’s uniform of black button down dress and a white apron. I’ve swapped my hairnet for a white mini-cap and my boots for nude tights and flats courtesy of Meg. If my heart wasn’t slamming so hard against my ribs, I’d grimace at how ridiculous I look.
The service elevator has two buttons—B. Restaurant and B. Executive. My shaky finger hits the second button. I swipe at the sheen of sweat dimpling my forehead, suck in a deep breath and reassure myself of the unlikelihood of Clayton finding me here. The assurance rings hollow.
He once tracked a girl who stole two thousand dollars from him, all the way to the ends of Clusterfuck, Alaska. It took four months, but his patience was inexhaustible. He found her, dragged her back to Fresno, and chained her to a wall in his special room, reserved for clients with the sickest proclivities. When he let her go a year later, Abby left The Villa, and walked straight into oncoming traffic.
I chose New York because I hoped the sheer density of the population would buy me some time. That doesn’t mean I’m comfortable hiding in plain sight. I’d give my pinky to be back in the basement, handling piles of dirty plates and enduring Miguel’s ever-increasing cocky advances.
The elevator pings open and my heart threatens to give out altogether. I step out into a skylit atrium decorated with stunning water features, horticultural masterpieces and stylish furniture I’ve only ever seen in glossy magazines. Contrary to my fear, the room isn’t crowded, but again, I know I stand out like a nun in a whorehouse.
Already I’m attracting stares by standing in the middle of the sun-drenched space. I avert my gaze and head toward the sound of a hissing coffee machine. Two waiters, a young guy and woman about my age, are standing in front of a glass and chrome counter that looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. Behind the counter, a stocky chef fires off instructions to a team of four about specific dietary requirements and the temperature of foie gras before he spears me with a hard stare.
“Are you the extra I requested?” he snaps.
I clear my throat. “Yes, my name is Elly. Sully sent me up.”
His mouth compresses, and he points to the far side of the counter. “Stand there, don’t move. You’ll get your brief in five minutes.”
My brief? To serve food?
He returns to barking instructions at the two servers, who nod briskly and whisk away silver trays to opposite sides of the executive restaurant.
I wait, making sure to stay alert so I don’t repeat the spaced-out-in-the-alley incident Miguel witnessed. But my gaze wanders and lands on a magazine rack three tables away. On the front cover is an aerial picture of Blackwood Tower and on either side two men—one older and one younger—facing each other. The caption reads: Dynamic Duo or Dynamite Duel? Even in profile, both men are eye-catching enough to snag my interest. I’m just about to lean closer to scrutinize the cover when a throat clears next to me.
The chef looks even more annoyed than before. “You’ll be serving Mr. Blackwood today. He takes his lunch at exactly one o’clock.”
I nod. “Okay.” He starts to walk away. “Umm, I’m sorry, which one is Mr. Blackwood?”
The servers pause to stare with open shock at me.
The chef swears in a language I don’t understand and shakes his head. “How long have you worked here?”
“Two weeks.”
“And you don’t know what the man whose company you work for looks like?”
I shrug. “I wash plates and glasses in the basement,” I murmur.
He stares me up and down, his mouth twitching with disdain. “Figures,” he mutters under his breath.
I swallow the anger that rises and force my fists not to ball. “If you wouldn’t mind pointing him out to me, I’d appreciate it.”
His gaze doesn’t move from mine. “Mr. Quinn Blackwood is sitting in his usual seat by the north window. He doesn’t like being spoken to, so don’t try to be clever and engage him in any form of chitchat. He takes his coffee with a dash of cream and two sprinkles of cardamom, in that order. Stir without touching the sides or bottom of the cup and leave it in front of him along with his meal. Think you can manage that?”
“Of course,” I respond briskly, while frantically memorizing the list.
I know firsthand what craziness power and wealth induces in people, but what the chef’s describing borders on the ridiculous. But I’m in no position to complain. Sully has promised more money for working up here today. Pandering to some rich dude’s peculiar lunch ritual will go a little way to increasing my chances of survival for a few more days.
When the chef returns to hover over the poor minion who is preparing the tray, I look around again, trying to find my bearings. Where the hell is north? Geography wasn’t a strong subject in school. In fact, the only thing I excelled in was math and English, both of which account for zero when all you’re required to do is suck cock or lie on your back and zone out until whatever asshole on top of you is done.
My gaze frantically swings back and forth, trying to work out the exact position of the sun. On the third pass, I freeze.
He’s sitting beneath a window, sure, but then so are three other stylishly dressed guys. But while the other men are talking into cell phones or tapping away on tablets, this man is staring straight at the view.