by Ella James
Josh Smith is Michael Lockwood's third cousin. Last time Smith saw Lockwood: the morning before Smith told the FBI that I liked to tie girls up.
Michael Lockwood took a bus to San Luis two days ago. He had lunch in a hotel and went to the men's room twice.
The night Priscilla invaded my plane, a man searched both of my homes in Vegas. Marchant's guy, Dave, captured the whole thing on film, proving that, for now at least, the bad guys have no idea that we are onto them. When he later pulled up an image of Gus Victor, the man's mug shot matched the face of the guy searching my homes.
Two years ago, just before Priscilla's affair with Governor Carlson began, one of the governor's mistresses went missing. Maybe. Missy King was a working girl and rising porn star the governor met on a gambling trip. He put her up in a fancy Vegas apartment complex—that part, we've confirmed is true—where she lived until she didn't. There are no missing person reports, and there has never been a police investigation. But her friends tell Dave they think she was kidnapped, and the LVPD did nothing to find her.
Priscilla's phone is bugged as of today, so I'm looking forward to the next time she talks to the governor. Or to Smith. Or Lockwood, for that matter. I'm hoping they’ll fill in some of the pieces, because right now I don't know what this is.
In a few days, I'll go down to San Luis myself to see what the hell could be down there, but tonight, the most important thing I can do is go to the gala. In my most ambitious plan, I can get my hands on Lockwood's cell phone. He'll be there because, like me, he's brawling at the Joseph Club tomorrow night in the name of charity.
Marchant wouldn't sign up for the brawl—something about winning making him look like a pimp and losing making him look like a loser—so I paid my five grand and slid into a spot vacated by a Vegas councilman who sprained his ankle.
There was nothing Priscilla could do to keep me out of the party at the Heat Mansion, so she pretended to be pleased. I wonder if she's coming up here now to try to keep me away.
As if on cue, the door to my penthouse swings open with a swoosh of air. I let her get a few paces inside before I slam the door shut, jumping on her from behind. I sweep her up into my arms and tear her mink coat open.
She squeals, and I hear something drop. I spin her in a circle and see a big, leather bag sprawled on my floor.
"What did you bring me?"
"Why don't you open it and see?"
I strip Priscilla to her open-nipple bra and crotchless panties before I dump her on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace and open the bag.
What's inside is vile. And it doesn't make my cock soften at all.
Chapter Sixteen
~ELIZABETH~
When Marchant Radcliffe started Love Inc., it was a high-end brothel on the Vegas Strip. If the Wikipedia page can be believed, Marchant never wanted to open 'just another brothel'. He wanted a place where the escorts were treated like any other profession—they have excellent health insurance, 401Ks, and the top performers can even buy a small stakes in the company.
He wanted a different kind of clientele, too. Wealthy. Connected. Men and women who appreciated an upscale ambiance and a whole lot of privacy.
I'm guessing this must be Wiki's way of saying he wanted to keep the riff-raff out. Eliminate tourists, bachelors, and shut-ins.
After only a year or two, he opened another location in a rural area southwest of Vegas, on a plot of land so large it's a bonna fide green spot on my GPS. If I recall, it's something like two hundred acres. For several years, the location on the strip acted as a sort of gatekeeper. If the escorts liked a client or the client was regular enough, they got invited to the ranch. The strip location was swanky enough that it competed easily with more established places, so Love Inc. grew as a name-brand, but all the while, the ranch was building an identity of its own.
According to Forbes, the ranch location made more than $600 million last year. It has two dozen full-time female escorts and seven full-time male escorts who live on the grounds, setting their own prices and choosing their own clients. Many of them have worked there five years or more. The place has a job-satisfaction rating comparable to Google.
Somehow, the Love Inc. Ranch has come to be known as the 'fluffy bunny' ranch. I've heard it's not fluffy—all kinds of prostitution goes on there, even some of the more hard stuff—but it's nicer than most other places.
I bypass Vegas, veering onto an interstate and following it southeast. It's eight thirty, and I'm starting to get a serious case of belly bats (the unrelated more serious cousins of butterflies).
It takes me almost forty minutes to get past Vegas and into the dry, flat land to the southeast of the city. In that time, I manage to contain my excitement/horror/hysteria by clinging to the 'fluffy' part of this place's nickname. I think about sparkling fixtures; plush, animal skin rugs; gleaming hardwoods; gourmet foods; and beds so soft you might actually want to climb into them with a stranger.
I veer off the highway onto a smaller, freshly paved two-lane road, its dark asphalt gleaming in the glow of an almost-full moon. Suddenly there are lamplights, and although the land on either side of the road is reddish desert dirt, my GPS tells me I'm within eight miles of my final destination.
Holy belly bats!
I can't believe I'm actually doing this.
As I grip the wheel, I wonder who will greet me. Richard? The manager, Rachelle? What if it's Marchant? When I spoke to Richard this morning, he didn't say. Why didn't I ask?
I look down at myself. What if I'm not dressed right? Should I have worn a skirt or something? Maybe something more glam? Black slacks? My Manolos? I slow my car, pulling over on the side of the road, and reapply my lipstick. It's red, at least. That should be a good thing—I think.
As I flip my mirror shut, headlights, then tail-lights, wink past me. I recognize the shape of the vehicle: a limousine.
I pull back onto the road, excited and frightened to see that, just ahead, a billboard shines over the road.
I squint and slow down.
'Selling Scarlett'. And there I am, stretched out on my stomach, airbrushed and fake-tanned, but still very much the version of myself I was a few days ago when Richard asked me to send these pictures. I'm on a billboard, stamped with the Love Inc. Symbol.
Holy moly. Suri did a nice job posing me against white sheets in the great room. I don't even look like me. I look...like an escort.
My stomach clenches, and I try to feel okay about that. This is my choice, I remind myself. I'm doing this for Cross.
Another half-mile, and there's another Love Inc. billboard. This one features a stunning black-haired beauty with yellow eyes and a supple, suntanned body clad in jade green lace. She's opening a bedroom door, beckoning with her finger, the tiniest smile on her cat-like lips.
Another half-mile and another one. Except that this one has an arrow, pointing to a road that intersects this one. There’s a brick guardhouse, and metal arms blocking both the entrance and exit.
Oh my God. I'm really here.
I roll my window down with sweaty fingers, and the beautiful face that appears behind the glass is framed by long, curling red hair.
"Scarlett!" She grins. "You're the VIP tonight." She leans to the left, and a door behind her opens. Out steps a tall, bulky man with thinning brown hair and a devilish smile.
"Scarlett." He stretches his hand out the window.
I grab it. "Richard." I recognize his voice.
"How do you like the sign?" he rumbles.
I blush. "It looked very...professional."
The redhead laughs. "Nice save." Her voice is kind. Warm. "I'm Marie V." She stretches out her hand, and I smell a pleasant scent that reminds me of sunlight and linen. "It's my off-night," she explains, "so I'm on booth duty for a few hours. The clients like being welcomed by a familiar face."
I nod, because my brain is blown. "Why don't you drive on through?” Richard says. “I've got you all set up for tonight. The valets will take you
r car and you'll be met in the doorway by some very friendly women who will help you get acquainted with the place."
Marie V. leans forward. "There's food, too. Make them take you to Alan, our cook-slash-guard. Or," her eyes gleam, "if he's already on his way back out here, just go grab a sweet roll. They're amazing."
She looks so mischievous, so gleeful, that I can't help smiling. "Thank you. I feel ten percent less nervous."
"Make it one-hundred," she says, and Richard chuckles.
"There's nothing to be nervous about, Scarlett. We don't bite—unless you ask."
I can barely think straight as I drive ahead, following a curl of asphalt that rolls through unnaturally green grass, beneath enormous trees between whose branches I can see the winking stars. Lamp posts line the road, but it's the greenery that really gets me.
It doesn't belong anywhere in the Midwest. In fact, it reminds me a little of New Orleans. Then I remember that Marchant Radcliffe went to Tulane—where he met Hunter—and I shake my head. Well, duh.
The driveway rolls on forever. After five or ten minutes, the trees thin some and the iron lamp posts glow a little brighter. I'm reminded of my Hugo readings as I notice the stone wall rising ten or fifteen feet above the drive, on my right side; a fountain featuring mermaids, lit with spotlights; bird baths; benches; gardens.
Then I crest a small hill and see an expanse of soft, gold light, and my eyes focus on the largest English manor house I've seen in all my travels.
Holy crap, it's bigger than a frickin' castle. My gaze clings to the balconies, doors, windows, and ivy crawling the stone mansion, visible behind the flickering light of torches. My mouth drops ever further when I realize there are two smaller manors situated in a horse-shoe around the driveway.
I gape at the brutally trimmed shrubs and the fruit-bearing trees that blot my view of the open sky. I feel like I am in the South. Of England.
"Gorgeous..."
A plump white rabbit flits in front of my car, and I laugh. So that's the fluffy bunny thing! I roll another hundred yards or so, and come to a stop right in front of the manor. A valet in a red and black uniform comes down the stairs, trailed by two bellmen pulling a cart. My luggage is unloaded while a woman in a beautiful royal blue gown appears on the stairs. She steps out to greet me.
"Scarlett. I'm Juniper Francis. Come inside. Your luggage will follow you." She’s British—or a prostitute that specializes in voice fetishes (if that’s a thing). She's got coal black hair with stylish bangs; her hair is pulled into some kind of up-do that compliments her flawless, porcelain doll face.
I glance at my brown slacks and soft blue blouse, feeling dowdy. My heart beats hard as I step up the stairs, and the woman—Juniper—holds out both hands to me. I take them, with only a little hesitation, and she squeezes my hands.
“You're the one on the billboard,” I realize.
She laughs. “So are you.”
We pass through two huge, thick wooden doors held open by women wearing black and red skirt uniforms, and I try not to gape as we step inside a vast foyer. It has to be at least 30 feet high, with ornate, white-washed wood walls and three-pronged iron candelabras that flicker as we move. Directly above my head is a sparkling crystal chandelier, and a few steps in front of me, an ornate double staircase that seems to fall out of the sky. I'm blinking up at it when I hear a good-natured chuckle. I look down, into the laughing brown eyes of a striking African-American woman. She's tall and curvy, dressed in a cream gown that's part party-wear, part nightgown.
"Hi.” Her red lips curve. “I'm Geneese Loveless. You must be Scarlett." Her smile widens. "You're so pretty!"
Geneese holds out her hand, and Juniper clasps my other one, and together we walk around the stairs, through another set of smaller, but just as ornate double-doors, and into a room so huge I can only describe it as cavernous.
I'm struck first by the size of it—it's as big as a football field, for sure—and next by how much there is. There are so many little nooks, each with its own couch, love seat, and recliner; right offhand, I count at least twenty of them. The room is further divided by huge bookshelves, made cozier by coat racks and partial walls and house plants. The three dark wood walls framing the room are punctured by huge, two-story windows. The rug running under everything—a soft, camel-colored fabric—spans the entire room.
“Holy heck—” I say, embarrassed by my language.
“The rug?” Loveless asks. “Yeah, it's really, really big.”
“It’s a custom job, of course,” Juniper says, and all I can think is blow job.
We stop beside a big desk that looks like it belongs in the oval office. The woman sitting behind it, looking at several rows of security monitors, smiles at me and says, “Hello. I'm Rachelle.”
“Nice to meet you,” I murmur. I'm hardly even looking at her, although she's very pretty with blonde Curly Temple hair and doll-sized blue eyes. There's so much going on behind her shoulder, I feel A.D.D. trying to take it all in. There are several mini bars, two elevator banks, a hallway cutting into each wall, and so many decorative details: moldings, glasswork, antique-looking fixtures, you name it.
“This is the heart of the main house,” Rachelle says kindly. “It can be a little overwhelming at first, but it's really very cozy.”
As if on cue, a beautiful blonde in a ruby red gown leads a young man in an obviously bespoke suit to one of the elevators. I can hear him telling her about his day as they pass.
“All that’s left is the signatures.”
She applauds. “Your first merger!”
This is real, I want to say out loud, because it seems like—okay, I guess it is a (former) frat boy’s idea of paradise. This place is really freakin' real. This is where people come to sell their bodies.
The notion makes me feel frozen, so it's a good thing Geneese tugs on my hand. “Want to work out with us? Our shift just ended, and it's boxing night.”
Chapter Seventeen
~ELIZABETH~
I'm tired, and I don't really want to work out, but if this is what they do at Love Inc., I will do it. I can already tell this place is its own little universe, and the last thing I want is to stick out any more than I already do.
Juniper and Geneese have let go of my hands, so I feel a less like a five-year-old.
“There are stairs,” Geneese says, as we pass a brunette sitting on one of the couches, reading a magazine, “but it's hard to look elegant going up the stairs. Anyway, that's what boxing is for. You ever boxed?”
“I have before.” I spot another couple—both with black hair—sitting together on a love seat, and Juniper explains, “This is where we meet our clients. They have to pass Rachelle and the cameras and then they wait for us in a pre-set spot. It's a security measure. Marchant Radcliffe—that's the guy who built this place—based it on the dormitory system. At uni, you know, or rather college.”
I nod as we pass a beautiful bookcase and a little nook filled with bean bag chairs. The rug under my feet is spotless and looks soft enough to lie on. About twenty yards ahead, rising from the floor and up into the ceiling, is the nearest elevator bank. The elevator is old-fashioned and iron—pretty, if an elevator can be pretty.
“It's beautiful here.”
“Some of us have rooms here,” Juniper says. “The others bunk in the whorehouse.”
I must look surprised, because she blinks. “You do know there's an actual whorehouse where we're made to fuck for our dinner, yes?”
I'm totally confused, and totally at a loss for what to say, when Geneese elbows Juniper. “Girl, that's so wrong.”
“So I hear, so I hear.” Juniper smiles wickedly, and Geneese presses the “4” button on the elevator.
“Your room will be here in the main house, with some of the girls who can't get on with the others, or have a wooden leg, or need to be watched closely,” Juniper says as the doors glide open.
I smile weakly, hoping she’s joking.
Geneese pul
ls me inside and then releases my hand. “I'm kind of a touchy feely person,” she says smiling. “You have to bat me off.”
I smile back at her, and she laughs. “You look nervous. Don't be nervous. This is a good place. You'll like it here.”
I nod. “This is a first for me.”
“Well of course,” Juniper says. “You're a virgin.”
The doors ding open, and we file into a hardwood hall with a deep crimson runner. The walls are done in creamy velvet wallpaper, and the ceilings are high, dark wood, punched in little hexagons where the chandeliers are mounted. On this floor, they're spindly and brass.