Club Alpha by Marata Eros Read Free Book Online Page B

people. But it's not what propels you through this life. The male players of Club Alpha, without fail, do not want a woman driven by the dollar.”
    I sigh.
    “I heard that.”
    “I know, I'm just—I didn't like what happened today in the stairway.”
    “I told Zaire no triggers. Was it, Greta? Was it a trigger?”
    I think about it. It was frightening, but no, it wasn't a trigger.
    “Your attackers were white males of a certain order. Tall, large men.”
    “They were still guys,” I argue. But it wasn’t the same. Men of color are never a trigger. However, my distrust for males overall is a simmering pot that never comes to a boil.
    Now, if it had been a group of white men on that same stairwell…
    “Not the right type.” Gia says, her words echoing my thoughts. “And if this is indeed a CA ruse, it stays within the rules Zaire accepted for you.”
    I'm quiet for a moment, suddenly wishing the distance across the pond wasn't between us.
    “But it's not without challenge. It's part of your therapy.”
    “But why mine? I mean, I can't ever repay you for what you've done. All that you've given me.”
    “Because, Greta, you were meant for great things. And a group of men and their viciousness will not rob you of your destiny. Your fate will include love and hope.”
    “I don't think I can.” I roll my lip into my teeth, chewing on it lightly.
    “Yes you can, Greta. Do you trust me?”
    I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes.”
    “Then let whatever will happen, happen.”
    “Okay,” I say.
    “Good. And? By the way, good job for taking the bull by the horns with hotel management. You would have never done that even a year ago.”
    She's right.
    “I was a bitch, and klutzy with my delivery.”
    “I doubt you were a bitch. Sometimes assertive females are labeled bitch— by men. Other women think of them as ʻopinionated.ʼ”
    I laugh. Gia's transparency is something I adore.
    “Don't let a man's discomfort with your thoughts diminish you.”
    “No.”
    “Go get ’em, tiger.”
    I grin, feeling lighter.
    “Thanks, Gia.”
    “Now hang up on me so I can get back to my life of leisure.”
    I swipe at my eyes.
    “ ʼKay, bye.”
    “Goodbye, Greta.”
    I pass my thumb over the smiling Gia, with her coal-black eyes and swarm of big hair fro-ing out behind her.
    I want to be her , where ambivalence has no home. Decisiveness and determination are the only things that share the space of her mind.
    Nodding, I release my beat-up lip with a small smile.
    I'm working on me .
    I fall asleep with my clothes on, and without a nightmare in sight.
     
    *
     
    “Hallo, Ms. Dahlem.”
    Mr. Aros bends low over my hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss it. I leave it loose as countless etiquette courses have taught me. Dead weight of the hand when being kissed. Check.
    If I help him lift, I'll smack him in the face.
    That won't get me any points in a clothing line deal.
    Today, I’m wearing my charcoal pantsuit. The dark gray is elegant, keeping it out of dowdy territory. I pair it with a sherbet-orange silk blouse shell of the palest variety, the color appears to shimmer like the ice cream. Buff pumps peek out from the long inseam of the pants, which are a blend that promises to never wrinkle.
    I have done my research, and Aros is a typical tall Scandinavian, though he's really a Dane. Red hair and a six-feet-seven-inch frame towers over me even with the heels that make me five inches taller.
    “It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I say in perfect Norwegian.
    Though I speak two languages, I have some degree of fluency in Danish, Swedish and can stumble through Spanish and French.
    “ For mig så godt ,” he replies in Danish. Nice to meet you as well.
    I smile.
    He grins back. Perfect white teeth stand out from a complexion that is uniquely olive.
    “Now that we've done the dance of tongues and I know you can speak in my native language as well as the one of this country… please,