Page 16 of Desperate Measures
“It might help if you explain,” I say mildly.?2
Tink lifts up a red dress that seems more holes than fabric. She holds it up, nods to herself, and sets it aside. “Not my job, princess.”
“I’m not a princess.”
“You’re Yasmina Sarraf, daughter of Balthazar Sarraf. That’s as close to royalty as it gets in Carver City. At least in Sarraf’s piece of it.”
It’s not a point I’m willing to argue, because she’s right. “How do you know Jafar?”
“Other than by reputation, I don’t.” She considers a green dress and puts it back onto the rack. Tink looks at me and sighs. “I’m not a comforter. We’re not going to bond over our mutually shitty circumstances and become besties in the course of a few hours while I do the job I was hired to do. That’s not how this works.”
Silly to feel a sting over that realization. Sillier still to be so desperate for companionship that I reach out to anyone unconnected with my father who crosses my path. I sigh. “I won’t put you in the difficult position of making small talk, then.”
A ghost of a smile pulls at Tink’s full lips. She really is a cute little thing and full of the attitude of someone ten times her size. “You can small talk all you want. I just want to make it clear that I want no part of some harebrained escape scheme you’re no doubt coming up with as we speak.”
Curiosity sparks in me, a welcome relief to the confusion and anger. “Do your clients often come up with harebrained escape schemes?”
“My clients? No. Their women—and men in some cases? Almost always.” She shrugs. “The world is a strange place sometimes.”
“Apparently.” Oh yes, I’m curious now. I accept the red dress she hands me and pull it on. As Tink moves around me again, this time with pins and a concentrated expression, I can’t help but ask my next question. “Have you ever been tempted to help?”
“Once,” she answers around the pins in her mouth and then uses one to nip in the waist of the dress. “It didn’t end well. Not for me and not for them.” She pins the other side and stands back. “Oh yeah, I’m good.”
I look down my body. The red dress clings to me like a second skin, dipping down low between my breasts and even lower in the back. It’s slit up both sides nearly to the hip. “It’s indecent.”
“Exactly.” She frowns and adjusts the front of it, businesslike despite the fact that she has her hands all over my breasts. “You’ll need tape for this.” She frowns hard. “Then again, if you’re going to the Underworld, tape is a shitty-ass idea. Someone will end up ripping it off, and then you’ll have sore nips.”
I blink. “I think you’ll need to run that past me again.”
Tink starts to laugh, but the sound dies almost immediately. Her green eyes go wide. “The Underworld. Carver City’s worst-kept secret, the sex dungeon to end all sex dungeons? The place where most of the business in this godsforsaken city goes down?”
I’ve never heard of such a thing. I know what sex dungeons are—I do read—but only in the most fictional sense. I had no idea that one existed in my city. Though can it really be considered my city if I’ve never set foot in it? Jafar’s penthouse might stand in what appears to be downtown, but it hardly counts as visiting. My father’s home definitely doesn’t count.
“Off with the dress.” She gives an impatient motion with her fingers.
Everything about Tink radiates impatience, but I suspect it’s nothing personal. I should have recognized that from the beginning.
I carefully extract myself from the dress and pull on the next one she shoves into my hands. It’s black and feels wicked against my skin. The V on this one isn’t quite as deep, but it’s short enough that I can’t stop myself from tugging at the hem.
“Stop that.” She smacks my hands. “You look uncomfortable, and uncomfortable is not sexy. Confidence is sexy.”
“I’m aware of that,” I bite out. “Flashing my pussy at everyone I come into contact with isn’t my idea of a good time.”
“You’re missing out.” She tugs the dress a little and nods to herself. “This one won’t need adjusting. Good. You’ve got a rocking bod, princess.”
That almost sounded like a compliment. “Thanks?” Why do I care what this woman thinks of me and my body? I push the thought away, already knowing I won’t find the answer appealing. “Tell me about the Underworld.”
“Not much to tell. It’s your typical classy joint, except people go there to fuck in kinky ways. Some of them are employed by the dungeon. Some of them are patrons.”
“Is Jafar a patron?” I shake my head. “What am I saying? He must be if we’re going there.”
“Mmm.” Not an answer, but it turns out I don’t need one.
At her motion, I exchange the black dress for a deep jade-green one. And on it goes. Tink dodges most of my questions, but halfway through our time together, she actually stops insulting me. Progress, but I have the sinking feeling that I won’t be seeing much of her in the future. How often does one need a stylist? More accurately—how often does an owned woman need a stylist?
We finally settle on six dresses. They’re all beautiful in their own way, and every single one of them would give my father a stroke if he saw them. The thought brings me a spiteful kind of pleasure, and I can’t bring myself to feel guilty for it.
It’s only as she’s packing up that I realize what I’m missing. “We forgot underwear. And night clothes. And jeans.” Something to wear in public.
