Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“He said he doesn’t want you overworking yourself, so you’re consistently in top shape to perform for him.”
I scoff. “Oh, I bet he does.” I bite my lip, suddenly remembering who I’m talking to. This is way more than I’d earn at my bar job in two weeks anyway, but still, that’s not for him to decide.
I don’t think my boss is upset with me at all, rather we both realize how odd the request is.
I feel like I’m making a deal with the devil.
“Once you’ve signed the contract, he’s waiting outside with a car for you.”
“He wants me to sing now?” I ask, shocked. I haven’t had time to get dressed, and I’m wearing a throw-over loose dress because I had adjustments made to my costume.
“Yes. He wants you to sign and go with him now.”
I look at the contract and take the pen Matthew holds out to me. I offer a curt smile as I hesitate to sign.
The money is double, so can I really complain? No. I’ll sing in his bathroom if that’s what he requires. But the clause of having to quit my other job? That’s just some controlling assholeness right there.
“I’m just going to read over it quickly,” I say with a sweet smile. “Actually, do you mind if I speak with him about the contract?”
Matthew seems reluctant but agrees. “I need the contract on my desk next time you’re here. Remember, though, Lena, we need his sponsorship, so don’t do anything that jeopardizes that.”
“Of course,” I wholeheartedly agree. I do want that money. It will help me pay my student loans off so much faster, and maybe I can move to a nicer part of town. But I don’t want to depend solely on the man who threw me out of my last gig.
Walking past the dressing room, I head out the back door to find Alek waiting for me, leaning against his expensive-looking car. His gaze lands on me the moment I walk out of the door. It’s almost dark, and seeing this man parked in an already empty parking lot looks strange. He adjusts his gloves expectantly.
“A new contract?” I say with a hand on my hip, the contract pinched between my fingers.
He takes in my bright-purple dress, but surprisingly, he makes no comment about it. But neither does he comment on the contract.
I walk closer, and he goes to open the door, but I wave my finger back and forth. “Hell to the no, old man. You and I are going to negotiate on this contract.”
There’s a slight shift in his expression. I’d even say he might be surprised if he weren’t so robot-like.
We have an awkward standoff. This guy might as well be mute in the way it seems as if speaking inconveniences him so.
“Okay, then have a good day,” I say as I flip my hair over my shoulder and turn back toward the door.
“I don’t negotiate,” he grits out.
“Oh, he does speak,” I say audaciously. “And I’m not someone who is told what to do,” I add.
He appraises me, almost curiously, as he pushes off the car and comes toward me. Not so he’s close enough to touch, but enough to try to intimidate me. “What is it you wish to… negotiate?” His jaw clenches. “Is the money not generous enough?”
I scoff in disbelief. “Generous?” It’s fucking incredible money, but I don’t give that away. “I mean, it’s okay. I won’t be quitting my job, though.”
“You don’t have to leave here.”
“I’m talking about the bar job, and you know it,” I say with my hand on my hip again. “You don’t get to dictate what I do and don’t do in my spare time.”
“On the contrary, you signed that you won’t sing elsewhere professionally in your current contract. This is no different. A sacrifice.”
“Not the same thing, old man.” I sneer. His eyes flare hot at the use of “‘old man,”‘ and I realize I’m getting under his skin. For better or for worse. I must be an idiot for sassing someone who is clearly as dangerous as this guy is. “Why do you even want me to sing for you? You clearly don’t even like me.”
He seems to struggle with his words until he plucks the contract and pen out of my hand, making sure not to touch me. He presses it against the car window and begins to write. Once done, he steps to the side, as if summoning me without words. I move into his space, which he’s clearly uncomfortable with, and see that he’s scratched out and signed the clause about me leaving my bar job. Instead, it says:
Thou shalt not call Aleksandr Ivanov “old man” or imply in any comment, jokingly or not, that he is older than he appears.
I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling, and raise my eyebrows. “You’re serious about this.” I point at the contract, trying not to laugh. He doesn’t seem amused. Who even writes “thou” these days?