Page 7 of State of Ruin

I do not feel comfortable with Sinclair Voss. Not even a little. He’s so intimidating. Guys like that are used to fancy, accomplished women—women who are a part of their world. If last night was any indication, I don’t even know how to speak to the guy without it being awkward, let alone do all kinds of X-rated things with him.

I bend my head and cover my face with my hands, my skin heating even more at the thought of actually having sex with Sinclair Voss. It’s so ridiculous a concept that my brain absolutely can’t process it. Sure, he’s a sexual creature—I can process that much. After all, he’s a member of this place, and Pixie had some strong words to say about his appetites. There’s no way you look like that and don’t take advantage of it. So while I suppose I can, in theory, imagine him fucking someone, I can’t imagine him fucking me. I can’t even imagine being in a room alone with him, for chrissakes, let alone naked and at his mercy and⁠—

Shit, shit, shit.

“Hey.” Katrin puts a warm hand on my shoulder. “Don’t faint on me, okay? It’s all good. I wouldn’t have even bothered you with it, except I figured that sum of money might give you pause.” She rubs my shoulder gently. “I know there are… challenges at home.”

Her reminder of the quid pro quo Voss is offering stalls me, and I raise my head, looking bleakly up at her. My panicked brain is fixating on the sex part, the transactional nature of this indecent proposal, but she’s right.

Ten grand.

Ten grand.

I won’t even think about how I could possibly be worth that much—I can’t. Honestly, I suspect I’m fine in bed at best, and that’s in the eyes of guys who are pretty normal when it comes to sex and don’t go to freaking sex clubs to get their kicks.

Instead, I think about the money. The actual, physical sum he’s apparently proposing. Five figures in my checking account. Months and months of rent. Hospital bills, and physical therapy, and Fleur, and… just everything.

“Ten thousand dollars,” I whisper, just to make sure I got it right, that I’m not hallucinating. I feel embarrassed saying it out loud, as if I’m daring for one single second to shoot for the stars, even if I don’t dare to think about what I’d have to do to earn it.

Katrin removes her hand and tilts her head, studying my face. “That’s right. To be honest, I’m sure you could get more. You could always negotiate. Guys like him always lowball on the starting offer.”

“No,” I say quickly. I’m almost positive I’m not saying yes to this, but I’m absolutely positive that, if by some freak twist of fate, I did say yes, I wouldn’t negotiate. There’s no way I’d put that kind of performance pressure on myself.

“Fair enough.”

“How would it even… work?” I shrug lamely and let my shoulders drop. I’m asking about all of it, every last detail of the machination. I am so far out of my depth here that I’m drowning. But I guess she takes the question at face value.

“You’d be the judge of that,” she says. “Obviously, we have extremely strict codes of conduct here, which he’ll be familiar with. All that stands if you guys have a private rendezvous, just like it would with any other hookup he has here. I would make it very clear to him that his membership was on the line if he overstepped by a fucking inch. He needs to know that his billions don’t count in my house—only his behavior does.”

She holds up her hand and starts to tick items off her fingers. “NDA—that comes from him, like I said. Men like Voss like their women fully erasable from history. We could facilitate by placing his fee in escrow before anything happens. My starting point at all times is to assume the worst of the guys here. I would strongly suggest you set boundaries in advance on paper. Safe word; hard limits. If you did want to move forward, you’d do so with the backing of the club. I’m here to protect you at all costs.”

I feel so shaken, so vulnerable, by what feels like the most invasive, profane kind of offer, yet I can’t help but be struck how unusual this is. Here I am, a random bartender, sitting with the manager of a club whose members pay hundreds of thousands of dollars, and she’s making it sound as though I’m special and he’s the liability.

Voss may be treating me as an object, no doubt about it, but Katrin is treating me as a person of value, as a human being who should be safeguarded. She doesn’t seem impressed by his wealth, his family name. If anything, they’re red flags for her. Honestly, it’s touching to be seen this way, particularly by an unwilling party who’s been caught in the middle of this situation. Her kindness and her badassery make me feel protected, even if I know that the best will in the world couldn’t protect me once I walked into that room with him and closed the door behind us.

Even so. Ten thousand dollars is ten thousand dollars, and maybe, just maybe, it’s some kind of fucked-up breadcrumb from the universe at a time when breadcrumbs seem very few and far between.

But what price would I have to pay? How does a man like Voss extract his pound of flesh? Indecent Proposal was a classic in our home when we were teenagers. Maman had a major thing for Robert Redford, so we watched all his movies a thousand times, but this one was a favorite. As we grew older, Sylvie and I would discuss what exactly happened on John Gage’s yacht. The suspense used to tear us apart—but in a good way. Now it’s tearing me apart in a super scary way.

I’m spiraling; I can feel it. My stomach is flipping in protest. No, no, no. You cannot be considering this. Still, I meet Katrin’s eyes and ask, my voice quavering, “When do I need to decide?”

CHAPTER 5

Elyse

One of the benefits of working evenings is that I’m free to help my sister out during the day. Otherwise, I would worry about what being in the house by herself all day might do to her morale. Besides, someone needs to pick Fleur up from school, and walk Jambon, and do the grocery shopping.

Today, especially, I need some fresh air and distraction before this indecent proposal tips me from severe anxiety into full-blown panic.

I park Sylvie’s wheelchair next to the bench and put the brake on with my foot. “This good?” Jambon crosses in front of me, wrapping his leash around my legs so he can rest his cutesy face in my sister’s lap. He wants to care for her more than he wants to stretch his old legs.

“Yeah,” she says, looking around us and digging her fingers into our dog’s scruffy fur with both hands. “Thanks.”

I’ve driven us to Dennis Collins Park so that we can look out at the water and Fleur can work off some excess energy. She’s still in her first month of kindergarten, and I suspect the schedule will take some getting used to. As we hit the end of September, it’s warmer than I’d like, but not unbearable. The breeze coming off the water helps. The unbearable heat is one aspect of living in Hell’s Kitchen that I do not miss.

“How about you, missy?” I ask Fleur as I take a spin to untangle myself from the leash. “What are you going to do?”

“Wanna go to the playground,” Fleur whines, and my sister and I exchange an amused look. She’s so predictable.