Page 6 of Blackmail
“I’ll do my best,” I tell Loretta.
“Honey, that’s all any of us can do.”
I check my borrowed scrub top and head up to the second floor. In 212, I find Dahlia dancing to country music. Frankly, sometimes I wonder what the lady is doing here. She moves better than some guys at “Belle Argo’s PREMIERE gay club,” Dance! (I don’t know why they call it that. It’s the only gay club in this little beachfront town.)
I knock on the doorframe. “I’m here to convert you to pop music.”
Dahlia turns with a laugh. “My grandson says he’s going to bring me more albums, but he hasn’t yet.”
Now I see why Loretta sent me up here. Dahlia’s wearing a lovely pair of flat black dress shoes, flowy black pants, and what appears to be a men’s dress shirt. Honestly, she’s got fantastic taste in clothes. Except for the troubling detail that the shirt isn’t buttoned, leaving her assets on display for the world to see.
“So, how’s my best girl? I was told you’re refusing to get dressed again.”
She gestures toward herself. “Look at this bra. It’s pink lace. Why on earth would I cover it up?”
“I agree. You look so amazing that you’ll make everyone in this place jealous. Let’s consider adding a little mystery, you know? What do you say we button up everything except the top few? Then we’ve got a bit of peekaboo action without starting a riot.”
She raises one eyebrow. “I know when I’m being managed, young man. Luckily, you’re handsome enough to get away with it.”
I laugh at her sass. “So lucky. I’d hate to ever be on your bad side. Also, I wanna be you when I grow up.”
“You don’t need to be like me, Simon. You’ve already got plenty of spunk.”
Oh. Come. On. Top? Spunk? I’m already struggling to maintain my professionalism at this job today. Fine, I struggle with that every day. Is it my fault our administrator is a bag of dicks, and I needed to let him know?
Dahlia has arthritic hands, so I give her some quick help getting buttoned. This job has led me to wonder too much about getting older. If I make it to old age, will it be worse to be sharp like Dahlia and struggle to do things for yourself like you used to, or is it worse to be like Mr. Andrews upstairs, who’s able to Houdini his way out of the building at night, but doesn’t remember his kids and throws his sandwiches at the handsome, innocent nurse aide who only wanted to draw some blood?
Will I still be completely alone, like I am now? So many of the residents here seem to simply get parked and forgotten.
I love helping people. But getting old is terrifying.
At the rate I’m going, though? It’s probably not something I need to worry about. Especially not if I piss off anyone else’s significant other. I should probably feel like shit about it, right? Being a homewrecker? But I wouldn’t get those jobs if Brennan had never been called. And if it hadn’t been me, then it would be someone else. We all know I’m right.
“You look like my grandson with that expression on your face. Except your eyes are warmer. Such a pretty brown.”
I laugh. “Is that an insult or a compliment? Is your grandson hot?”
“He’s very handsome. A little gruff, but lovable. So many burdens. Just like you.” The lady has the nerve to boop my nose. Except she can’t straighten her fingers, so it’s more of a friendly punch.
I prefer to ignore my burdens, which works great until it doesn’t. Still, I keep trying because I’m no quitter.
“Hey, lady.” Dahlia’s mention of gruff, handsome men has me glancing back at the bruises on my arm. I give myself a full-body shake before I can get too far down memory lane. Again. Then I offer Dahlia my arm. “I’d love to stay and chat about your hot grandson, but I’m afraid other lovely ladies are demanding my time today. How about you let me escort you to lunch first?”
“Will you let me tell you about my grandson on the way down?”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
Dahlia’s trying to set me up with a nice guy, and nice guys don’t want to date someone like me. Long before becoming an escort, I learned I’m not someone people stick up for or stick around for.
Chapter
Three
SEBASTIAN
“You look like a man who needs to relax.” Daniel Corvus, one of my consulting clients, slides a drink to me across a shiny black tabletop. We’re in a private room at his club, Shadow, where I was an early investor. Over time, we’ve become friends.
This place was the first investment I made outside of my own company, and the only investment I’ve made with someone I consider a friend. Those relationships can get sticky if things go south, but his business plan intrigued me.
