Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(29)

“Hello,” I say. He drags his eyes over my gown before showing me his teeth again.

“Well, hello,” he responds. “Philomena, is it?”

“Yes.” I hold out my hand, and he brings it to his mouth, placing his damp lips against my knuckles. “And you are?” I ask.

“Interested,” he says, still holding my hand to his mouth. It’s inappropriate, but as I tug my hand back, he grips tighter. I dart my eyes around quickly, but the only person who notices me is Leandra. She stares back as if ready to judge my behavior.

I don’t want to be rude to an investor.

“And your name?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. Pleasant.

“Steven Kohl,” he says, finally dropping my hand. I quickly clasp my fingers behind my back, out of his reach. He takes a step closer to me.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kohl,” I say.

He looks me over again, and then smiles again. “It’s funny,” he says. “I can actually hear that you’re full of shit. They’ve trained you well. Very well-rounded, indeed.” Only when he says it, he glances at my breasts.

I think about the lessons in class, that even with this man acting improperly, it’s up to me to keep up the decorum. Manage his behavior by appeasing him, not antagonizing.

“And are you thinking of bringing a girl to Innovations Academy, Mr. Kohl?” I ask, trying to find a conversation topic. He laughs again and sloppily drinks from his beer bottle.

“I’m going to invest directly,” he says. “I’m hoping you’re available.”

“Available for what?” I ask, confused. But he only stares his response, as if he enjoys not telling me.

There’s a flash of movement behind him, and suddenly another man steps between us. Winston Weeks, a major investor in Innovations Academy. The ice in his short glass rattles as he takes a sip. Mr. Kohl falls back a step when Winston Weeks turns to him.

“How is your wife, Mr. Kohl?” Mr. Weeks asks smoothly. “I recently attended her gallery to thank her for her investment; her art is exquisite. Have you found work yet?”

Steven Kohl stares at him, not exactly offended by the question, but . . . threatened? Whatever it is, Mr. Kohl takes another messy drink from his beer, the liquid spilling off his chin, before murmuring a goodbye and walking away. When he’s gone, Mr. Weeks turns to me.

Winston Weeks is in his early thirties, the sort of handsome that comes with power—sharp suit; expensive haircut; straight, white veneers. Although we’ve never had a private conversation, I’ve met him at open houses before, watched him make conversation with the guests. Rarely with the girls.

“Hello, Mr. Weeks,” I say, smiling politely. “It’s nice to see you again.” I offer my hand, surprised when he shakes it instead of kissing it. It occurs to me that I prefer this greeting, even if it’s unusual.

“It’s nice to see you, as well, Philomena,” he says. He offers his arm. “Will you accompany me to the bar? I seem to be dry.” He holds up his glass of ice to indicate he needs another drink.

“Of course.” I take his elbow and walk with him. He nods at several people along the way, each of them seeming impressed by his presence. In awe.

I drop his arm as he orders his drink and take a moment to study him, wondering why the guests are so enamored by him. Or intimidated—I’m not sure.

As Mr. Weeks waits for the bartender to pour his drink, he turns to me. “I’ve been thinking about increasing my investment, Philomena,” he says. “I’m working toward opening a school of my own.” The drink is set in front of him, and he watches my eyes over his glass as he takes a sip.

“That’s very interesting, Mr. Weeks,” I say. “Innovations has a great education model. I recommend it.”

He chuckles softly. “Yes, I know.” Before the bartender walks away, Mr. Weeks requests a glass of red wine. When it arrives, he sets it in front of me and then looks away and whistles, like he has no idea how it got there.

I laugh, suddenly feeling very mature, and pick up the delicate glass. I bring it to my lips and take a sip, the heavy scent burning my nose. The bitterness on my tongue. The heat down my throat.

“Now what about you?” Mr. Weeks asks, both of us moving to the end of the bar where there’s more room to stand. “Do you like it here at Innovations?”

It’s a strange question, one I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked. “I do,” I tell him.

“And what do you like best?” he asks.

“I like living with the other girls.”

This seems to surprise him. “Really?” he asks. He turns to survey the room. “I agree you’re all very charming. But . . . you’re close?”

“They’re everything to me,” I say honestly. “I love them.”

Mr. Weeks studies my eyes for a long moment before he smiles. “I’ll admit your answer is endearing,” he says. “Your parents must be very proud of the kind of girl you’ve turned out to be.”

“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Weeks,” I say, my voice slightly hoarse. I take another sip of the wine. “I don’t see my parents often. We don’t see anybody, really. The academy rarely takes us out. Even though we’re very charming, as you said.”