Page 62 of Devoured
He motioned to me, his expression flat. Was Scarlett right, that I had to keep on guard when it came to him?
“How was it,” he said, though it wasn’t really a question, more like an obligatory statement.
“Good,” I said. I followed him inside. Men on ladders resting on top of the stage, gesturing to each other. The red velvet curtain lay in a pile between them. We hardly ever had them out, but to see them pulled off of the rafters in tangles of cloth on the wood flooring made my throat tighten.
“What happened,” I whispered.
Roland continued on, talking to one of the men standing at the foot of the stage. Some of the servers, still in leggings and oversized shirts, were gawking at them from the lounge. One of them waved at me, but I had no energy to return the gesture.
I wanted to punch Roland. To kick him in the nuts.
“What did you do?” I said, going towards him. He turned to me, then gently nudged the man back to work. “Are you high?” I asked.
He shot a look at me that instantly filled my stomach with dread. “No,” he said, growling at me. “In fact, I decided to take a break. Thanks for the accusation.”
So the lack of smile could have been from the side effects that came with withdrawals. Great.
Still, I would take dealing with this to the alternative.
Roland turned back around, facing the club and the work that was being done.
“We need to talk about what happened,” I said.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Fine. Can you at least tell me what’s going on?” I asked. He said nothing. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. These decisions were part of the business. Was he going to leave me out of it? “What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” he laughed, turning around slowly. “Excuse me, did you ask what my problem was?” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you liked that awful stage,” he joked.
There were scuff marks on the wooden planks, and after removing them repeatedly for Scarlett’s fire dances, there were cracks in the wood that you couldn’t see from the seats, but were painfully obvious if you were trying to bend and twist your body to the beat of a song. The stage had decades of wear, but it was still our stage. My stage. And the curtains completed it.
And Roland had changed something without asking me. Like I was only an employee, not his business partner.
The reality hit me then. That’s all I was. We had a bet, but that didn’t mean I was the owner or even a co-owner. I was an employee, the manager of the club.
Still, I couldn’t let it go. Iwouldn’tlet it go.
“You weren’t supposed to do anything yet,” I said. “That’s what we agreed on. Everything would stay the same until—”
“That’snotwhat we agreed on,” he sighed. “You assumed that’s what would happen. Relied on me to be respectful of your wishes.” He curled his fingers in and out, then angled his posture away. “But I’m still the owner. That hasn’t changed. And there’s going to be some upgrades around here, starting with this awful stage.” He gestured at it. “This is not broadway.”
I crossed my arms. “There’s a long line of tradition in red velvet curtains—”
“You know the strip club in Sage City has the same setup?” He kept his gaze on the stage. “Real classy. Let’s make sure you can’t tell the difference between the supposedly exclusive entertainment club for billionaires, and the fucking strip club downtown.”
That hurt. Not because it hurt to be compared to a strip club, but because he clearly meant it to hurt. To imply that what we had was somehow trashy. And who cared if they were similar? The strip club and our entertainment club were essentially the same; women entertaining men for money. The only differences were that we broke more laws than they did, and our clientele had more money. So who cared if we had the same stage?
But I pushed it down. We had other matters to deal with.
“Couldn’t you have warned me?” I asked. “I would have appreciated it if you told me so I could mentally prepare for this.”
“Not my problem if you can’t handle change,” he said.
“What the hell is your problem?” I asked. “Last night—”
“Last night was a mistake,” he said. He stared at the scabs on my face. “You’re right. I know that. I messed up.”
I waited for a moment, giving him a chance to speak. To apologize. But I knew those words wouldn’t come. Admitting fault was as close as he would get to an apology.
