Stella

The Tower turns out to be the Callister Savings and Loan Building: imposing, but hardly the stuff of nightmares. There’s something comforting about the smell of burnt coffee from the Starbucks on the ground floor, the way the sunlight dances on the mirrored windows. It’s all so...bright and normal. Like a day at the office.

BeeBee would sweep through those doors like she’d come to buy the place. No—like she already owned it. She’d set down her dog—a bright Tang orange, today, to match her bag—and let it dance about her feet while she waited for the elevator. No one would dare tell her no dogs allowed.

I take a deep breath. Me and BeeBee, we’ve got this.

Jeeves opens my door and I step out, thrusting my purse into his hands. “Hold this.” He’s startled enough to obey. Or maybe he meant to confiscate it, anyway. Maybe I just made his job easier.

Whatever. I’m taking the win. I stride across the plaza like this was all my idea, hoping Brightman’s watching from on high—seeing me not take his shit. Really, a simple phone call would’ve sufficed. He didn’t need to disrupt my entire day. Soon, I’ll be telling him that myself.

In the elevator, I slide myself between Jeeves and the buttons, angling my body to keep him at bay. My spiteful little power-plays are starting to irritate him. I can tell by the way his voice grates when he tells me “Top floor.”

It’s a long, awkward ascent: forty floors of stiff-backed silence. Jeeves doesn’t get off with me when the car comes to a stop. “Follow the lights,” he says, and stabs a button. The doors hiss shut, and I’m alone.

Alone. I really am alone. There’s...seriously no one here. A huge reception desk dominates the lobby. Two phones are ringing, and a couple of monitors are on, but all three chairs are empty. Nobody’s waiting on the plush sofa stretched out under some kind of modern sculpture—or maybe that’s a lamp. The water cooler’s still dripping, like someone just poured a drink... But if they did, they took it and went.

“Hello?”

No answer. I look up. There’s a security cam trained on the elevator, but the light’s out. Same thing over the reception desk. So no one’ll know I was here?

Someone might still be watching. I draw myself up, forcing a smile. Why, no, that wasn’t a shiver. Follow the lights? Fine. I can do that. The hallway to my right follows a window-wall, lit only by the sun, but the one straight ahead has every third lamp turned on. Reminds me of a plane making a crash landing: emergency lights lining the aisle, leading to exits I might or might not live to use.

I start walking. This isn’t some pitch-black fuselage, packed with screaming passengers. It’s a normal, boring office. With white carpets. So...they’re not planning to shoot me. Count one in the plus column.

The lights march down a second, narrower corridor. The doors are spaced closer here, and the walls sport bulletin boards in place of paintings. This must be where the rank and file work. I step lightly, listening for any sign of life, but there’s nothing but the wind. One more turn, and there are no doors at all, just a set of long Plexiglas partitions sectioning off ranks of cubicles. I stare into the shadows, convinced I feel eyes on me, but nothing moves.

It’s all starting to get to me, the dark, the quiet, the dead cameras. Everything’s dead in here, even my footfalls muted by the carpet.

At last, I hit the end of the line. The last lamp beams down on a ficus in a red ceramic bucket. It looks like it’s auditioning for America’s Got Talent.

“Is this supposed to be a joke?”

Something clicks to my right. A sliver of light appears under a door I hadn’t noticed.

I raise my fist, but—no. Fuck knocking. This has all been very intimidating, very cloak-and-dagger, but it’s time to take charge. I walk right in.

“Miss Rossi.” There’s a woman here—blond, maybe fifty—at a plastic fold-out desk. She has a stiff, bullish stance that’s at odds with her Oscar de la Renta suit. I get the feeling if I screamed “Atten-hut!” she’d salute without thinking. Another grunt in Brightman’s personal army.

I spot one more chair—fold-out, like the table—and a whiteboard on wheels, with a paint-spattered sheet draped over it. There’s a camera in the corner, powered down, like the others. The chair bumps along the carpet as Blondie pushes it out with her foot.

“Take a seat.”

I hesitate. “What is this place?”

She gives the chair another nudge.

“Listen, I have other things to—”

“Then take a seat.” She’s writing something, not even looking at me. “Sooner you fall in, sooner you’ll get back to your day.”

Or I could get back to it now. Walk out and never look back. But I’ve never been able to peel myself away from a mystery, especially one this bizarre. I sit down.

“I’m Katrina.” She skates a sheet of paper across the table. “Sign here.”

When I don’t move, she taps the dotted line with one bright red nail. There’s polish smeared on her skin: a single carmine smudge, just below the cuticle. It’s distracting. Offputting. I look away, shifting my focus to the contract. It’s a non-disclosure agreement, a standard “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” deal. Fine: it’s not like I could blog this, anyway. I scrawl my name at the bottom.

“Now what?”

“This is your invitation to the club.”

“To the...club?” Surely, she can’t mean....

Katrina taps her phone. “’Is there a secret, super-exclusive swingers club I’m somehow not a member of? Some kind of...Tinder Groupon?’ Your words, yes?”

That post never went live. I swallow hard. “Well, yeah, but—”

“So the answer is ‘yes’, and this is your invitation. In or out?”

“I’m—” Out, obviously! Or...in? There’s a story here, but...no. No. The second I open my mouth, I’m Countess BeeBee forever. Unless I claim the blog was a ruse, all along, my ticket to a world of....

“Well?”

“I need more information. I mean, who’s in this club? How much say do I get, when it comes to partners? Do I—”

“You misunderstand.” Katrina drops her phone into her purse. “This is a very exclusive club. The members you identified are the only members. And the next cycle starts next month.”

“Cycle?”

She exhales, exasperated. “You guessed it already. We do this in three-year cycles: one year each with Messrs. Brightman, Gunnarsson, and Moss, following which you retire comfortably on a salary of between quarter of a million and one million dollars per annum, contingent on performance.”

I realize my mouth’s hanging open, and shut it with a snap. “Performance!?”

Katrina glances down, like she’s reading off a script. “Quality of companionship. Discretion. Adherence to the terms of your contract.”

Quality of...what? People say yes to this? I jam my toes into my shoes under the table. They pinch. Yep: definitely awake. “The terms of my contract?”

“There’s a code of behavior. An image you’re expected to project. And, of course, a confidentiality agreement.” She looks down again. “And in your case, a cease-and-desist on that blog. Your online activity will be limited to—”

“Absolutely not.” No, no, and hell no. I stand up. The confidentiality agreement’s one thing: judges love striking those down. If I uncover anything illegal, I won’t even need a judge. But there’s no point to any of this, if I don’t have a presence—a place to break the story.

“Miss Rossi, if you walk out that door—”

“You’ll what? Tell on me?” I glance at her smeared nail. Suddenly, it feels like I’ve got the upper hand.

“Your name will be released, but not only that—”

I plant my palms on the table and lean in. “So, let me get this straight: you’ve brought me here under—”

“Let me put this another way: you don’t set the terms here.”

“You think?” I have the advantage—I know I do. “You’ve brought me here on pain of exposure, and now you’re demanding I sign a contract that strips me of my income, and possibly includes some kind of sexual congress—is that right?”

“Sit. Down.” Katrina doesn’t move, or even raise her voice, but there’s something in her tone, something electric. Commanding. My knees turn to jelly. This place is claustrophobic—like an interrogation room. What was I thinking, trying to—

“Sit.”

My hands are shaking. I clench my fists. There’s no danger here: just a washed-up drill sergeant in an empty office. “You know, a good lawyer might even make a case for human trafficking—a poor woman forced to choose between prostitution and humiliation....”

Katrina snorts. “Try it. See how far you get.”

“I can see the press conference, now: ‘In the end, my freedom meant more to me than my reputation. More than any amount of money’.” I draw myself up to my full height, more to still my trembling knees than in any show of defiance. “Freedom. What’s more American than that?”

“Uh-huh....” She fixes me with a steely gaze, clearly unimpressed with my theatrics. “So your answer’s no? That’s all you had to....“ Katrina cocks her head, like she’s listening to something only she can hear. I spot a Bluetooth earbud tucked into her right ear, almost hidden by her hair. “Why are you so determined to keep your blog?”

“Well, to—” To blow the fucking whistle, of course. What can I say? “I mean, it’s a brand I’ve spent three years building.” I sound like a social marketing tutorial. “I’ve put a lot of myself into it.”

“A lot of...yourself.”

Yeah. I’m not impressed, either. I need some fire, some passion. “Look, it might seem silly to men who have billions, but for me... This is a steady living that’s all mine. Something I’ve built from nothing—my own little empire.” Better.... “Countess BeeBee’s given me independence. A voice. Contacts I can use.” I look past Katrina, straight into the camera. The light’s not on, but I’m sure they’re watching now. “I won’t lie. I was going to out your little arrangement. It’s naughty, it’s hilarious, and you guys are hot. You’d have got me a zillion hits. But I’ll sign away my right to post about you. Just not my right to post at all.”

Katrina listens again, then shoves another set of papers at me. “Agreed.”

Really? I sag in my chair, dizzy with adrenaline withdrawal.

“You’ll take these home. Read them carefully. Bring them back tomorrow, signed, same time. We’ll have a new social media contract waiting.”

That’s it? “Don’t I at least get to meet—”

“At the appropriate time.” She pulls out her phone and turns away.

I stare, slack-jawed. Something’s wrong. I got what I wanted, so why do I feel so...manipulated? Was this all a test?—a setup, to see what I’d do? Did anything I said even matter? They were probably laughing their asses off on the other side of that camera: some nobody blogger, threatening three billionaires with the law?

It’s all I can do to stand up slowly—to make myself stride, rather than scurry, out of the room. If I’m going to join this game, I’ll have to be smarter. Already, I’ve given too much away.

I hurry back past the cubicles, the bulletin boards, the empty lobby with its dripping water cooler. My mouth’s dry as a bone, and I’m nearly running by the time I reach the elevator. Getting off at the lobby feels like re-entering the real world: almost too much, an onslaught of light and color and people. I need fresh air, space. The sun on my face.

The sliding doors open before me. I close my eyes and suck in a deep, fragrant whiff of the city.

“Your bag, ma’am.”

I open my eyes. My purse—of course. I take it back, far more meekly than I turned it over. “Thanks, Jeeves.”

“Starkey.”

“Hm?”

“You’ve got the contracts. You might as well have my name. Which is Starkey. I’ll be your...assistant, should you choose to sign on.”

Bodyguard, maybe. Babysitter, for sure. Assistant? Not bloody likely. “Nice to meet you.”

“And you.” He gestures at the limo, still parked in the loading zone. “Where can I take you?”

I shake my head. “Nowhere. I....” Have no intention of getting back in that car. “I think I’m actually—the Leroux Gallery’s just down the street, right?”

“I could check for you.”

I’m already backing away, ready to be done with this place. “No, that’s... I think I saw it on the way over. I’ll just be—yeah. Bye, Starkey!”

Safely tucked into a nearby cafe, I break out my phone. Google Maps tells me I’m thirty miles—and two entire boroughs—from my destination. I give up on the gallery and sign into Wordpress instead.