The VIP Room(148)

Kat: It's a school night and it's past ten. Go to bed!

Lizzy: If you promise you'll be careful.

Kat: I promise.

The ride is smooth. It's like the car is gliding over the city. I close my eyes and rest my head against the tinted window. The glass is cold. It's almost spring, but it's still so damn cold.

The car comes to a stop. "We're here." Jordan steps out and opens the door for me. He offers his hand.

I take it and step onto the street. A rush of cold, even in my heavy winter coat. We're in downtown New York City, in front of a very tall building. Jordan walks me inside. He slides a key card in front of the elevator's sensor and punches the button for the penthouse floor.

"Mr. Sterling's office is to the right."

I step into the elevator and the thick steel doors slide together. Penthouse floor. The top of this massive building.

The walls and ceilings are all mirrors. I look okay enough, but certainly not like the kind of girl a guy like Blake would date.

Ding. Penthouse. A chrome sign reads Sterling Tech. It's shiny and new, just like the limo. Fluorescent lights are off. Desks are empty. The soft glow of the city at night streams through the windows. It's that gorgeous shade of royal blue--a mix of sky and river and office drones burning the midnight oil.

I turn right, as directed, and there it is--a huge office with double doors labeled Blake Sterling, CEO.

This is so beyond my league it's funny.

I knock gently.

"It's open," Blake says.

Deep breath. I step inside. His office is sleek and modern. Hardwood floors. Wall to ceiling windows. A sit to stand desk and one of those nine hundred dollar chairs.

Blake nods to a couch. "Have a seat." He moves to a wet bar in the corner of the room. "What do you drink?"

"What do you have?"

He doesn't blink. "Anything you want."

"Really? What if I want iced rooibos tea with a hint of lemon and a splash of lime vodka?"

"Then I'll get it."

I stare at him, but it doesn't help me figure anything out. "Really?"

He nods. "Is that what you want?"

"Gin and tonic."

He mixes drinks, takes a seat on the couch, and hands me a glass.

His eyes fix on mine. That stare is penetrating. I feel naked despite the coat buttoned at my chest.

This drink is nothing like the gin I drink at home. It's smooth, pure, and very expensive.

"It seems like a nice place," I say.

His stare softens. "Would you like a tour?"

"Sure."

Blake sets his drink on a side table, stands, and offers me his hand. I take it, and we step into the main room.

He reaches for a light switch.

"Don't. I like the dark," I say.

He looks at me like I'm crazy.

"You can see the entire city. The view goes for miles and miles. See." I move to one of the tall windows and look out at the Hudson. I turn, and I can see all the way up to midtown. The Empire State Building is lit up in blue today.

He nearly cracks a smile. Nearly. There's some kind of joy on his face. He's pleasantly amused at the very least.

"I suppose you're used to it."

"Would you like to work here?" he asks.

"Doing what?"

"I can find an entry level position for you. Any department you want."

"Better for your fake girlfriend to work in an office than in a restaurant?" I ask.

"Appearances are important." His eyes pass over me. "I'm glad you understand that."

"It doesn't take a genius to figure you’re judgmental." I take a long sip. It manages to cool some of the heat inside me. "People treat me differently if I'm in my restaurant gear."

"Worse?" he asks.

"Sometimes. Sometimes there's this wage slave solidarity. If I'm at Duane Reade or Staples or something. People will complain about their long day or their bosses if they can tell I'm on my way home from work."

Blake studies me. It's like he's a scientist and I'm an animal at the zoo. His eyes pass over me slowly. I can see him making mental notes, assessing my potential. If only I knew what the hell my potential was.

"You're a smart girl," he says.

"And what convinced you--my cleavage?"

He says nothing.

I manage not to roll my eyes. "Next thing I know, you'll be taking off my clothes and telling me how smart I look in my lingerie."

"I wouldn't waste my breath if you were in lingerie."

I swallow hard. "Of course. I just mean-" I clear my throat. "You don't know me. Or that I'm smart."

"You posted about your college acceptances on Facebook."

"That was a long time ago," I say.

"But it's still there. Even though you haven't updated your page in two years." He makes eye contact. "You were accepted to two Ivy league schools, to three SUNYs, to NYU."

"And?"

"You could have done anything with your life, but you stayed here."

"You already know about my parents," I say.

"You value family."

"Yes."