Chapter 4
Sylvia
“More water?”
Sylvia stood next to the table with enough attention to keep her boss off her ass. A pitcher of ice cold water balanced in one hand.
The man dining with his beautiful date sat back with a satisfied smile on his face. Yes, yes, we all see this pale babe you’ve got here. Men of means loved to show off their conventionally girlfriends in Portland. All their mistresses had tattoo sleeves, blue hair, and ripped stockings, but by God their public girlfriends were acceptable hotties. This became even more apparent there in Northwest Portland, where the rich who wanted the local “weird culture” lived and gentrified everything to hell and back – all while the hipsters were too stoned to give a shit.
“We’re good, thank you.” The man took the lovely woman’s hand and gave it a kiss right in front of Sylvia. “Although you could bring us another round of cocktails. Another one of what you were having, my sweet?”
The woman giggled. Sylvia knew that giggle. She’s newly in love. I hate her. She glanced back at the man. Older… low 40s, but still relatively younger looking. High-end department store suit. Mid-range cologne. Rich enough to get himself a hot girl like this and take her to a fancy Italian restaurant for dinner on a weeknight, but not rich enough to afford the really nice shit. Hmph. Not good enough for Sylvia, after all. Her exorbitant tastes commanded boyfriend material made out of pure gold.
“Right away.” Sylvia returned to the bar where she relayed the cocktail order to the mixologist. While bottles poured and olives plunked into glasses, Sylvia took a two minute break in a dark corner, praying for a good tip from the suit and his hot date.
Yeah, right. She got five bucks… on a credit card. So it would be shared with all the other employees instead of being rightfully pocketed into her coin purse. I get more dough in ten minutes at the strip club.
Sylvia hated waitressing more than she hated stripping, that was for sure. The clients were about the same when it came to entitlement, but waitressing paid so much less and made her feet feel like shit by the end of her night. But she had bills to pay, and her insistence on living in Northwest Portland meant paying more than her shitty craftsman house was worth. That she split with a roommate, no less! Sylvia hadn’t managed to save real money in months. A shame, too. She had every intention of leaving Portland as soon as she could. Hollywood called. A friend of a friend had told her a new escort company was starting up and needed experienced girls. It was her first real lead since Sebastian went to prison and left her without a cash source.
I used to make thousands a night without even taking off my clothes. She always had that bitter thought when she assessed her situation. Billionaires asked for me by name. Sylvia’s greatest mistake was believing her patron when he said he wanted to marry her. She had walked away from the sweetest gig a girl like her could ask for, and by the time she returned, she was too traumatized to work there again.
Sebastian was the closest thing she had to a real connection since leaving New England. Then the bitter fuck went and got arrested. Sylvia had to constantly remind herself to thank the stars she managed to get her two jobs so quickly. Waitressing was hell, but it was one of the nicest restaurants in the neighborhood, and that said something. Stripping was in her work history, although her boss at Decades was a shady fucker who would snipe her tips if he could get away with it. But the tips she managed to stuff in her purse before taking the first bus of the morning home helped pay the rent.
Then there was her third unofficial job. The soliciting, as it were.
Two charges on my record. Sylvia groaned to think about it as she cleaned out her locker for the night. The walk home was short, but it was after ten and the local loonies were already out high off their asses and harassing anyone they passed. Sylvia rarely worked her third job in this area. Too close to home. Also, she knew the loonies who might take her up on her soliciting. Not that any of them could afford her services.
“Night,” she said to a coworker as they parted ways on the sidewalk. Sylvia held her purse close to her body as she walked down the narrow street. Her coworker shouted something after her, but she didn’t register it. Once they left the restaurant? Sylvia stopped caring.
Friday night in Northwest Portland was always a vibrant time, regardless of the season. At the start of summer, when the days were nice and long and the weather finally letting up? It was borderline chaos. The outdoor chairs at bars and restaurants were stuffed with smokers and IPA drinkers. A healthy combination of high-end sedans and restored junkers lumbered down the two lane street, interspersed with buses picking up last-minute passengers off the sidewalks. The shops – located in converted houses and the odd brick building – were closed up for the night, but tourists still stood outside windows shopping with imaginary money. It was the kind of vibe Sylvia adored, all the way down to the three minute scuffle that started up outside a local bar. I live for these throwbacks to earlier times. The architecture, the food, the neighborhood spirits… if Sylvia could afford it, she would buy one of the old Victorian homes next to her rental house and ignore all the things she disliked about Portland for the rest of her life.
The atmosphere instantly turned quiet when she veered down her residential street. An ambulance zoomed by en route to the local Legacy hospital, but otherwise, the street was dead quiet – and dark. Suspiciously dark, if Sylvia didn’t already know where she was going and knew every homeless person by name. Like Sam Jean, who lived between two houses that let her stay in their shared yard as long as she cleaned up after herself and didn’t make too much noise. She was curled up asleep behind her bush now, snoring beneath a navy blue blanket while her ratty platinum blond hair tangled with dirt and leaves. She was one of the only people in the neighborhood willing to roll on bare ground.
And the local cats. Like Benson, who was always sitting in his driveway, waiting for Sylvia to give him pets on her way home.
“Who’s a sweet baby?” Sylvia’s love for cats never manifested in her own furbabies. Maxwell Carlisle, the fucker who stole her naiveté, had promised her all the cats she wanted after she moved in with him. Sebastian was allergic. Now? She couldn’t afford one, even though she often thought about kidnapping Benson.
“Watch it!” A woman bumped into Sylvia and scared Benson back into the bushes. Purple jersey flashed in the corner of Sylvia’s eyes as she stumbled toward the edge of the sidewalk. Fucking joggers! Black yoga pants, Nike shoes, and a lavender sports tank raced down the sidewalk. I hate night joggers. They were worse than early morning joggers. Brash, rude, and liable to run out in front of traffic at any moment, the midnight jogger had become Sylvia’s worst enemy on her walks home late at night.
A car passed behind her. Or it should have passed. Instead, it backtracked, pulling up behind her.
The driver side window rolled down. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Sylvia jerked up; Benson disappeared into the bushes. Nope. Not him. When she looked over her shoulder, all she could do was groan. There Joseph Montoya was, looking sharp in a suit and tie in his shiny black sedan. One arm hanged out the window. That was not a mere Rolex on his wrist. That was a watch Sylvia recognized as being worth half her house. Rich bastards. They’re all the same. Joseph may have been in law enforcement, but he was rich.
“Are you stalking me?” she snapped at him. “Don’t make me call the…” Oh. Never mind.
“Happened to be in the neighborhood having dinner with an old friend.” That boyish smile was toxic to Sylvia’s system. Ha! I remember when I used to easily fall for those kinds of smiles. Sylvia was as bitter as Portland coffee. Joseph wasn’t getting through to her anytime soon. “Had a moment to think over my offer?”
Sylvia scoffed. “As if! I would be out of my fucking mind to take you up on something like that.” Was he kidding her? Going undercover for such an operation? He didn’t love himself. Or her. “Blow my balls.”
She continued walking down the sidewalk. No use hiding where she lived from a man like him. He could easily look it up and show up at her door whenever he wanted.
“That’s not very nice.” What! Was he following her? The black sedan inched along the street. A few lights turned on in the surrounding houses and apartment buildings. “What’s it going to take for you to even consider it?”
Sylvia stopped. “Seriously?” Oh for fuck’s sake – she could smell his cologne. All of the Alphabet District could smell his fucking cologne. “You’re asking me to put myself in danger, and you’re not even going to pay me.”
“Is that the only language you speak?” Joseph rolled right through a stop sign without looking in either direction. Man clearly had a death wish. “Money? Because I can speak money, too. I’m fluent in it, actually.”
“I’m sure you are. Your father is Horatio Montoya and your mother is Genevieve Stone. You’re more loaded than the gun on your hip.”
“You sure know a lot about my family.”
Sylvia glared right at him. Those chestnut brown eyes sparkled even in the darkness. Hate him. Hate him! What right did eyes have to sparkle on a night like this? When he was talking to her like this? “You told me about them. You never told me their names – because you were undercover, apparently – but you said your parents were loaded and that’s how you made your fortune.”
“I may have stretched the truth on some matters.” Joseph waved his hand in her direction. “Surprised you looked up their names.”
“After last night? Yes. Now fuck off.”
She reached her block and stopped. Joseph pulled his arm back into his car and stared at the empty road before him. “My offers still stands, Sylvia. I’m at the office from nine to five, sometimes later. Come by at your convenience to discuss the finer points of you going undercover sometime over the next week… if you decide to take me up on my offer, of course.”
“Not going to happen.”
Sylvia pulled out her house keys and wished that the lights were on in the craftsman looming behind her. Posey’s out late with work too, I guess. Empty house on a Friday night in Northwest Portland? At least there was a cop in the area.
“Still, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. Have a good night, Sylvia.”
She didn’t wish him the same. Sylvia wandered up the short walk to her front door and entered, going straight to her room upstairs while Joseph drove off down Irving Street. I can hear his motor from here. Men and their penile compensating cars. Not that he has much to compensate for…
“Knock it off,” she muttered, turning on the lights in her room. This was her slice of privacy in a city that demanded a few hundred bucks a month to rent a closet to sleep in. Sylvia had been lucky to find this one for only eight hundred, plus a share of utilities. It was a fairly large room overlooking the street, and she made due without a closet by lurking around the local used furniture store and charming the occasional chest of drawers out of a young man working there. White Christmas lights hung from the burnt orange walls in dramatic drapes, illuminating her printouts and cutouts of Old Hollywood stars looking glamorous and seductive. Sylvia was as straight as they came, but even she swooned over Greta Garbo.
Her latest love was Audrey Hepburn. For years Sylvia was married to the roaring ‘20s and dirty ‘30s, even basing her look around the flapper aesthetic. Twenty-year-old me was so pathetic. Nevertheless, Sylvia often slipped into the language of the flappers when pressed. Which was often.
After watching Sebastian go to prison, however, Sylvia decided it was time for a more serious change. She grew out her hair and sold strings of pearls that no longer held any meaning to her. She still wore little black dresses whenever she had the chance, but instead of evoking the classic CoCo Chanel image, she did up her hair like Audrey’s and sat coolly behind her last remaining pair of Prada sunglasses at local coffee shops. Sylvia Rogers always turned heads, male and female. The women stared at her until they decided how they were going to copy her look. The men stared at her until their hard-ons prompted them to buy some of her services. On a good day, anyway.
Sylvia flopped into an old leather tub chair that squeaked beneath her weight. She didn’t bother turning on any lights save for the lamp by her bed. Unfortunately for her, she did not have the run of the house, even when her roommate was out. Posey’s parents owned the house and let their daughter use it while she went to school at Portland State. Posey, however, was a snobby little fuckface who thought she owned this house. She only rented out a room to pocket some extra cash. Her parents probably didn’t even know she was playing landlord.
Whatever. Sylvia didn’t have to sign any documents aside from some flimsy roommate agreement. All Posey had done was call some of Sylvia’s references and make sure she was employed enough to pay her bills. She didn’t even turn her nose when she saw the strip club Decades on Sylvia’s application. While the two were not friends at all, they had a mutual understanding of Stay out of my hair and I’ll stay out of yours. Also, no drugs!
Sylvia opened her window and let the June air into the room. Late spring crickets chirped. Sirens went off in the far background. The delighted voices of passersby on the sidewalk made her wish she had a date to go on. A real date. Not a work date.
She hadn’t been with a man for no pay since Maxwell. The man she loved – and the man who swore he loved her. Apparently he loved many women at once, and had promised to marry every one of them. He couldn’t have told Sylvia this before she quit her job at one of the coziest pleasure houses in the nation?
Not that Sylvia wanted to keep playing the courtesan forever. Eventually her youth – and her patience for the industry – would run out. Then what? She only had a high school education. Every job around there wanted her to have a graduate degree. Even the supermarket positions.
Fuck you, Maxwell. Sylvia slipped into bed and stared at the photograph tacked to the wall next to the window. Her and Maxwell, hugging one another at a gala dinner right after they became engaged. Sylvia never had the heart to destroy it. It reminded her of a better time when she was happier, more optimistic. And fuck you Sebastian. She had no pictures of him, and preferred it that way.
Fuck you, Joseph. Sylvia turned over and closed her eyes. Deep down, beneath the bitterness and cynicism she had acquired since coming to Portland, was the young woman still desperate to find her prince charming. For some reason, Joseph Montoya had always pinged that part of her heart.
She hated him for it.