I pick the kitchen. I blast through the doors and lean on the garnish counter.

“‘Sup?” says Jerry, the skeevy head cook with a septum piercing, from behind the line. Shit.

“Hey,” I say, pulling out my phone to check Facebook, although it’s more to avoid conversation with Jerry.

What did Lorena mean she was once me? Oh shit, is she checking up on me? Did my mom hire her? No, Abigail, that’s impossible. She was here your first night. Stop over-thinking!

“You want me to make you a dinner to take home with you?” says Jerry with leering eyes under his tattooed forehead. “I can make you something special, my own creation.”

I’m about to say yes, but Jerry’s snarly stare makes me say, “No, but thank you.”

I careen out of the kitchen and back onto the floor. Jerry scares me a little. I think he spent time in prison.

I sit at an empty table and take out my phone. I go to the Kindle app and try to read some Lukas Thorn:

A true submissive wishes to serve. She experiences a thrill that goes beyond a typical orgasm from intercourse. The very act of pleasing her Dom ignites a torrent of blissful sensations that spread throughout her body. In this highly aroused state, a woman may achieve a full-body orgasm from the slightest touch or command.

A warm flow breaks out between my legs. I can’t read this here. I look at my watch. Almost four o’clock. We should be picking up soon. I need some tables to keep me busy, dammit!

I look over at Lorena, pretend smoking while gazing out at Ocean Drive. Okay, now my curiosity is piqued. Something about what she said is gnawing at me. I tuck my phone into my apron, get up, and walk over to her.

“So, did you find them?” I say.

“Them?” says Lorena.

“The answers you came here looking for.”

“I did, dear. But it was too late. I was fifty years old. My time had passed.”

“Why? Fifty’s not that old.”

“It isn’t twenty, dear.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.

“Don’t be. See, I was sold a bill of goods. The perfect man, the perfect house, the perfect kids, the perfect life. And it was all bullshit. Which is not to say it can’t happen . . . nor doesn’t happen for some . . . but as women we are told we are not sexual. We are told by society that if we have a sexual thought . . . well . . . , we must be sluts, right?” I laugh. “I always believed it. And God, how much I missed! Do you know how many hot young studs wanted to fuck me when I was twenty years old?”

I giggle. It’s odd to hear an old woman use the word fuck in such a casual tone. “A lot, I bet.”

“Thousands. They practically lined up, dear. I could have had them all. Did have a few. One in particular taught me some very useful skills. But then I tossed it all away because everybody told me I needed to settle down, get married, and have babies. It’s what women were supposed to do back in those days. It ruined my career, made me an attendant to a house that needed to be scrubbed and vacuumed before I made dinner, and chained me to a man I didn’t love.”

As she speaks, I notice that her dramatic flair creates a strong presence around her. I can easily envision her dominating a room telling stories as people listen in rapt attention. “Did you have kids?”

“Two. Just like I was supposed to. I did everything properly. A boy and a girl, just like the manual says. When they were grown, I left the putrid sloth of a man I married and came here to start over. But like I said, it was too late.”

“Do you still see your kids?”

She frowns and looks away. “Truth is, dear, and it does pain me to say this, I was a bad mother. Some people aren’t meant to have children. I was one of them. I made some mistakes and I regret them. I’ve tried to make amends, but I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes in life that’s impossible.”

There is a long pause. I suddenly realize that I really like this woman. There is a spirit about her that is warm and nurturing, yet ballsy and defiant. Not to mention she’s sharper than anyone her age I’ve ever met.

“Anyhoo,” she says, “I’m sorry to bother you with all this, dear.” She takes out her purse and fingers through her money. I notice an iPhone in there. Nice.

“Oh, I haven’t gotten you your check yet. Let me go print it for you.”

“Don’t bother. Just subtract it from this. The rest is for you.” She hands me two one-hundred dollar bills. The total for her one drink was going to be seventeen dollars, so I’m confused.

“Um,” I say. “You gave me two. Take this back and I’ll get you change.”

“No, Jayd. I want you to have this.” She takes something else out of her purse and shoves it into my hand. It’s a business card. “My address is on there. I’m hosting a private party this Thursday. Eight p.m. I want you to come.”

“But I—”

“Sh. Don’t answer. I realize I was too forward in offering you that job. My apologies. I didn’t mean to alarm you. But don’t say no until you’ve seen what I have to offer. It’s better than this. If you don’t like it, then just enjoy yourself. I call it my ‘Sunset Chill’ party. I have one every Thursday. Bring some friends if you like. Dress sexy, not too elegant but not too casual, either. The password at the desk is ‘Whistle.’”

“Whistle?”

“Yes, you know how to whistle, don’t you, dear? You just put your lips together and blow.”

I laugh. “Um . . . okay.”

“Don’t make the same mistake I did, dear. An old woman once made a similar job offer to me. The only difference is that I said no to her. And then paid the price for it.”

She gets up slowly, her cane falling to her side. I bend down to pick it up, but she slaps my arm and says, “I’ll get that!” She snatches it up, and stands to face me with another pensive stare. “I can see it in your eyes, Jayd. You want to be free. Don’t let them dictate your life. You will regret it.”

Oh my God! Those were Zander’s exact same words before he . . .

Now I’m beyond weirded-out.

I put my hand up to my open mouth, trying to squelch a tear that wants to form in my eye.

“Thank you so much for the tip,” I say, dumbfounded as she shuffles out the door and to a waiting limousine. I watch as a tall bald man in a black suit with a goatee opens the door for her, closes it once she’s inside, gets in the driver’s side, and coasts away down Ocean Drive.

I look at the business card she handed me. All it says is:

Lorena MacCall

(305) 555-6976

. . . and her address on West Ave.

“Oooh, the old bat have a new amiga.”

I startle, Javier’s voice in my ear. I play-hit him. He’s out of uniform, carrying a backpack, headed for the door.

“Shut up, she’s nice! You know, Javier, when I first met you I liked you. Now I realize you’re a real prick.”

“A real prick who can make you moan and scream in delight. Anytime, chica, you just say the word.”

“I’m sure your girlfriend will love that.”

“She never know.”

I give him the finger and he leaves.

Two hundred dollars! That’s a one hundred and eighty three dollar tip! Holy shit!

My head is reeling from all this, but I don’t have time to think. Almost on time, the place fills up and I’m busier than hell.

Chapter 2

I’m back on Ocean Court again, trying to figure out where this damned submission school is.

I might be obsessed.

The sun is disappearing behind clouds, thunderheads moving in. I’d better get to the bus stop soon before it downpours.

I spin slowly, examining the four corners of the buildings. Nothing but adobe and brown doors. Is it one of the brown doors?

Today is Thursday, my first day off in six days. I came over here to Ocean Drive to buy a dress I saw in the window of a boutique the other day.