13. Mel

"You've got this," I coach myself, bringing Silvia's confident voice to my mind to help fortify my nerve. Mixed in there, I try to remember Dani's encouraging praise—she's the one who inspired me to look into modeling in the first place.

It's been so long since I've spoken to either of them. Silvia, I spoke to just a few days before I left—two months ago now. But both women give me strength, even from this distance.

While not nearly as far as I had anticipated running, Boston just felt like the right place for me to attempt to reignite my modeling career. As soon as I stepped off the train and into the bustling city, it felt like home away from home—a smaller New York where I wouldn't have to think about Mikhail or Captain Zmeya or even Pyotr or Gleb ever again.

Or so I'd hoped.

But thoughts of Gleb have been impossible to vanquish. Now more than ever, it would seem.

Still, there's no going back, even if I miss New York and its inhabitants more every day. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I peer up at the towering skyscraper, its sleek facade made entirely of glass.

Then, I step into the open reception area.

"Hi, I'm Melody O'Mara," I say, stepping up to the front desk and smiling at the sharp-lipped blonde behind the computer. "Here for a meeting with Mr. Henry."

She takes her time looking up from whatever fascinating content must have her attention. When she does, she eyes me with a level of interest that says she could care less why I'm here. "The Boston Chic office is on the forty-sixth floor," she states.

"Um. Thanks." Collecting my bag, I head toward the bank of elevators and press the call button.

I shouldn't be this nervous. After all, they've already seen my headshots. I've done the interviews. Hell, they've hired me, for god's sake. This meeting is just a formality, Mr. Henry's assistant assured me. Part of the onboarding process. He likes to meet each of his new models before handing them over to his photographers.

But it's daunting meeting the editor-in-chief regardless. And a wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm me as I ride the elevator up to the forty-sixth floor alone.

Not now,I scold myself, swallowing the taste of bile.

And with sheer determination, I succeed just as the doors ding open onto the smaller reception area that belongs to the Boston fashion magazine. It's my first time at headquarters since models are hired through a recruiting office. I look around the unfamiliar space, trying not to panic.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asks.

I smile at the sharply dressed, bespectacled man who looks to be in his late twenties. "Yes. Thank you. I have a meeting with Mr. Henry?"

"Oh yes, Miss O'Mara? He's ready for you. Just through there." The receptionist gestures to a glass-enclosed meeting room, and my heart flutters as I spot another finely suited man sitting at a round table. He looks distinguished with combed-back gray hair and a well-trimmed beard.

A woman sits beside him, her red hair pulled into a tidy French roll.

"Thank you," I say, trying to hide the quiver in my voice that surfaces whenever I'm nervous. Striding toward the room with a confidence I don't feel, I grasp the handle and open the glass door. "Mr. Henry?" I ask.

"Ah, Melody, please, come in," he insists, smoothing his tie as he rises from his chair. "Let me introduce you to Susan Bentley. She's our head of HR."

"A pleasure," I say, shaking both their hands even as my nerves spike. Why would the head of HR want to sit in on a casual meet-and-greet?

Mr. Henry clears his throat uncomfortably as we settle into our chairs, and then he turns on an almost pained smile. "Miss O'Mara. It really is a pleasure to meet you. Um… but it has come to my attention recently that we may have had a misunderstanding when we hired you."

My heart sinks as I struggle to keep the smile on my face. "Oh?" I ask.

"Yes. See, in the paperwork you filled out during onboarding, you mentioned you're pregnant?"

"Oh. Well, yes, but that's temporary, I assure you," I say lightly, hoping my humor might break some of the tension and give me time to think.

Ms. Bentley hums her amusement, but the discomfort on Mr. Henry's face tells me all I need to know. Another of my modeling opportunities is about to die a painful death. After the first three let me go right there during the interviews, I figured this was too good to last. But it's not like I could hide my condition for the entire nine months. And no one seems interested in giving an inexperienced pregnant model a chance.

He clears his throat uncomfortably again. "Yes, well, I believe congratulations are in order," he says awkwardly. "But that doesn't change the fact that we hired you to model for the teen section of our magazine."

"Right…" I say. I know where he's going with this, but I'm not about to let him off the hook without saying it—that having a pregnant teen modeling for their magazine might hurt their image. Wouldn't want to promote irresponsible choices, now would we? The sarcastic thought is enough to revive the nausea creeping up my throat.

How can no one see that this is the responsible choice?

Did I intend to get pregnant?Of course not.

Would I go back and make better choices if I could? Absolutely.

I never should have had unprotected sex with Gleb. Obviously. And I sure as hell should have remembered to pick up an emergency contraceptive. But I'd had too much on my mind at the time to be thinking clearly. So here we are.

I'm dealing with the consequences, and I'm not asking for any handouts. I plan on raising this child as a single mom. But for fuck's sake, does everyone have to kick me while I'm down? How am I supposed to support a child on the income I make at a grungy little diner?

"I'm sorry, Miss O'Mara, but that's just not the image we were looking for when we hired you. But if we're looking for models to pose for a maternity line, I'll let you know." The words are well rehearsed. I'm sure Ms. Bentley was coaching him right up to the moment I opened the door.

And as I watch my modeling dreams shatter across the floor, I can't hold down the nausea any longer. "I think I'm going to be sick," I state, covering my mouth.

"Oh," Mr. Henry says, his chin drawing back in disgust.

"Do you have a… bathroom or… trash can?" I ask, between heaves, I fail to suppress.

Ms. Bentley scrambles for something beside her and barely launches the small office trash across the table to me in time. Burying my head in the flimsy plastic, I bring up the remains of my meager breakfast.

And firmly close the door on my opportunity to work for Boston Chic.

* * *

"It's not funny,Hannah. It was mortifying!" I exclaim as we stand in the back of Big Mike's Diner while I prep another pot of coffee.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry. I know it's not funny," she says, trying her best to stifle her snorts of mirth.

"You're a bitch," I snap, even as I join her laughter.

"Yeah, but did you just… hand the trash back to them after you filled it up?" she asks. "I mean, I would have if I were you. What jerks."

That makes me laugh even harder. "Oh, man. I should have! No, I literally set it on the table and ran. No goodbye, no sorry about that. I literally just booked it."

"Oh, man. I would have loved to see their faces."

Slowly, the smile dies from my face, and my eyes drop as I pick at the peeling corner of the coffee maker label. "Yeah," I agree half-heartedly.

"You still worrying about paying rent?" Hannah asks, her voice softening as much as her thick Boston accent will allow.

I nod. "I know I have some time to build up a bit of savings, but how am I supposed to make money once the baby comes? I can't afford rent and daycare on a server's paycheck."

"I know you said no strip clubs, even though those girls make sick money for the hours they work?—"

"That's a hard no, Hannah. They have to be willing to do lap dances and get all up in guys faces and…" I shudder. "No. Not happening."

"You didn't let me finish," she presses. "I heard you loud and clear the last ten times. But have you ever thought about Pearl's? It's that burlesque lounge off Beacon Street. It's like a high-class establishment or something, and I hear the girls make awesome money. Plus, they offer housing and daycare for single mothers if you sign on with them full-time. A friend of my cousin's started working for them a few years back, I guess, and she couldn't be happier there."

"What's burlesque?" I ask, suspecting I won't like the answer.

"Well, okay, so here's the thing. You might have to do a few performances in some skimpy outfits or something. But it's not just like stripping on stage. And from what I understand, the guys never get to touch you."

Worrying my lip, I consider what she's saying.

"Just go check it out after your shift. You have, what, ten more minutes 'til lunch ends? And if you decide it's not for you, then no harm, no foul. But I hear they're hiring, and I'm sure they'd snap up a girl like you in a hot minute."

Against my better judgment, I stand outside the front doors of Pearl's a half hour later. The hours say they don't open until 5 p.m. But when I grip the gold rod handle and pull, the heavy door swings open without so much as a sound.

No one's at the host stand, though a sign tells me to wait to be seated. After several minutes of hesitation and craning my neck to see around the corner, I walk past the sign and down the ramp into the main room.

It's a massive establishment with several floors of dinner seating looking out on a rather impressive stage. The main dining area bumps right up against the stage, with the performance space set high enough so everyone can see.

To my right, at the back of the dining room, is a long bar with red leather bar stools spaced evenly along its length. Soft clinking informs me that someone is messing with glasses somewhere out of sight.

"Hello?" I ask, stepping up to the bar and leaning over it.

A tall woman with a sharp black bob cut and an impressive amount of eye makeup straightens to look at me.

"I was hoping I could speak to someone about a job. I heard you're hiring?"

"You'll want to talk to Keoghan about that," she says, pointing to a man reclining leisurely in a booth near the back of the dining area.

Blond curls cover his head, and he has a casual confidence, his dress shirt open several buttons and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Colorful tattoos cover nearly every inch of his exposed arms and neck.

"Thanks," I say, and taking a calming breath, I head straight for him despite the two other men he sits with.

His blue eyes find me before I reach the table, and he watches me with mild amusement as his buddies turn to watch me approach as well.

"Hi, I heard you were hiring and came to inquire about the dancing position," I say. "Melody O'Mara," I add, extending my hand. And thankfully, it's steady even though my voice wavers dangerously.

One corner of his lips curls into a cocky smirk, and a dimple appears. "Do you dance, Miss O'Mara?" he asks, and rather than taking my hand, he lets his eyes roam appraisingly down my body.

Thankfully, I had the sense to change out of my uniform before coming over, so I'm dressed in a decent pair of jeans and a nice shirt.

"I can learn," I state confidently.

"Take a seat," he suggests, gesturing to one of the open chairs across from his booth.

I do, keeping my back straight as I hold his company in my periphery. So far, these men have been perfectly respectful. But they don't look like your everyday businessmen. I get the sense that, despite their fine clothing, they're perfectly capable of violence, should the occasion arise.

A strong sense of foreboding washes over me as they call to mind the first time I met Pyotr Veles. But they're definitely not Russian. If anything, I'd pin Keoghan's accent as Irish, so they're not Bratva.

Relax, Mel. You can't come waltzing in asking for a job and then judge the man in charge because he has tattoos. And a ridiculous amount of muscle for a club owner.

"Do you know exactly what kind of burlesque lounge this is, Miss O'Mara?" Keoghan asks.

"I was told I might have to dance in skimpy outfits but that it pays well."

"We pay better than well, I assure you. We take good care of our girls here."

"My friend told me you offer housing for single mothers," I add, my heart rate kicking up a notch.

Keoghan nods, his eyes appraising me once again. "If that's something you require."

"And soon-to-be mothers?" I press. Might as well get the ugliness out of the way right now.

"I don't make a practice of turning away women in need, Miss O'Mara. But I don't offer free handouts either. Or couples housing. So, to be clear, the father's not in the picture?"

"Correct."

"Then, I don't see a problem. We have a contract, of course. Essentially stating that the girls who board in the single-mothers facility won't be bringing guests over to spend the night. It's the best way to ensure fair and safe boarding to all the women I offer shelter to."

"Understandable." Not that I intend to have a man I would bring around anyway.

"Daycare is provided for your shifts, free of charge. And in return, you'll work full-time for me. That's six shifts a week, either four to eleven or six to one a.m., when the club closes. You give three stage performances as well as private dances upon request?—"

"I was told this doesn't involve lap dances," I cut in, panic rising in my chest. "That the men don't touch us."

Keoghan holds up a hand, silencing me with a commanding gesture. "They don't. Ever. My men ensure that. But you may be asked to interact with the crowd during performances on occasion."

What "interact" means exactly, I'm not sure, but I feel better knowing they have men to enforce the no-touching rule.

"Look, Miss O'Mara, I won't beat around the bush. The kind of dancing you'll do for my lounge is most definitely sexual in nature. But this is not a sleazy strip joint. It's a high-class establishment where customers pay top dollar to watch beautiful women perform. Any private dances will take place in a room where you and your customers will be separated by bulletproof glass. And my men are trained to protect you from anyone who might try to test that line."

Bulletproof glass? What kind of line might they try to cross that would require something as extreme as that?Though if Keoghan's friends here are any representation of the protection I might have, I doubt anyone would come near me without my consent.

Taking this job would go against everything I'd hoped to make of my life. For a moment in time, I really imagined I could become a professional, someone people took seriously. That I could be more than just an object of men's desire.

But I'm running out of time—and options—with a baby on the way. And this job would solve all of my most pressing concerns. I can worry about my dignity later.

"Well then, Mr.…" I falter, suddenly realizing the bartender never gave me Keoghan's last name.

"Kelly," he provides, his smirk returning in full force.

"Well, Mr. Kelly, if it's still available, I'd like the job."

This time, Keoghan extends his hand across the table, and it nearly swallows mine as I accept it.

"I look forward to working with you, Miss O'Mara."