Selling Scarlett

by Ella James

  “It smells delicious,” I say, and Geneese smiles. “This place is supposed to be appetizing.”

  The hall ends in a rounded nook where a portrait of a half-nude woman hangs, spotlighted and framed by gold tassels.

  We walk a few more steps and Juniper pulls out a key, tries it in the antique-looking brass lock on one of the wide, wood doors, and pushes the door open. It creaks, and as soon as it swings open I can smell flowers.

  Geneese waves her hand for me to go first, and as I step inside the lights come on automatically. A few steps on lush hardwood topped by a thin oriental rug, and I'm out of the small foyer and into a large living area. I've been in enough million-dollar homes to know the furniture and fixings are all nice, none of that mass-produced hotel crap. The claw-footed Victorian couch is really a Victorian couch, and the dainty chairs on either side, covered in lush lime green fabric, are probably also from England. A glance beyond my immediate surroundings reveals mirrors, original artwork and framed photos adoring the walls, and a full kitchen over to my left. There's a dark hall out in front of me, and at the mouth of it is all my bags.

  “That was fast,” I say.

  “We aim to please. Why don't you come and see your room?”

  Geneese waves me down the hall; she and Juniper follow. I almost gasp when I see the bedroom. At the center is the biggest canopy bed I've ever seen in my life, with lush crimson bedding, yellow and cream pillows, and a canopy so thick it actually creates walls around the bed.

  At the foot of the bed is an old-fashioned soaking tub, and all along the outermost wall are windows—no, doors. Doors that lead onto a candle-lit balcony.

  “This is really nice,” I say, feeling almost intimidated.

  “We want you to feel like a princess when you are here,” Juniper says.

  “Oh, I do.” I turn a slow circle, and Geneese says, “I've always liked this room. You got a good one.”

  “I believe it.”

  They go into the living area while I change, and as soon as the bedroom door shuts behind them, I drop into the nearest chair and put my head into my hands. My cheeks feel warm, my heart is racing, and my stomach is about to fly out of my chest. Damned belly bats.

  I stand up, dig some work-out clothes out of my bag, and pace as I wriggle into them. It's not just nerves, I realize. Some of what I feel right now is real anxiety. That I don't belong here. That I can't handle the task ahead of me. That I'll fail.

  A virgin at a brothel...

  I'm in way over my head.

  I try to talk myself up as I pull my hair into a pony-tail. I think about Cross and Suri and Crestwood Place, with its familiar fields and my familiar bedroom, smelling like my favorite vanilla bean lotion and coffee from the Keurig I keep right beside my bed. I picture myself reading one of my text books, and I remind myself that I can use this experience as school research. That makes me feel a little more level, so I'm gathered as I make my way into the living area.

  Juniper grins as I step out of the hallway. “Looking sharp,” she says, and Geneese points. “Your legs are so long and tight.”

  “I bet yours aren't much different,” I say.

  “You sure you're game for working out? You had a long trip if you drove. I wasn't thinking about that earlier.”

  “No, I'm okay. I want to see more of the place, and I missed my work-out today, so this is good.”

  Juniper gives me the story of how Love Inc. came to be as we walk back to the elevators, and it’s pretty much what I read on Wiki. Back on the first floor, we exit out a side door and follow a shaded stone walkway around a small garden. The path leads us to the smaller manor house, and as we approach it, I can see the curtains hanging in the windows don't match—some are red, some blue, some pink.

  “This is where the escorts and the trainers and the tutors live,” Loveless tells me. “Behind the big house—” she points between the main house and the manor where the staff lives— “is another wing where Marchant and his buddies have their private suites. The other building across the way,” she says, pointing across the courtyard at the third manor house, “is where we do official things, like see a doctor or go to the media lab or study if we want. If someone comes out here, like to fix the roof or a plumber or something, that's where Rach meets them. Can't have strangers in and out of the big house.”

  “There are privacy issues,” Juniper says.

  “That makes sense. Is Marchant Radcliffe here often?” I ask. I feel slightly nauseated, but Juniper shakes her head. “He's in and out. He trusts Richard and Rachelle to keep us straight.”

  The door opens for us from the inside, and we step into a smaller, more relaxed version of the 'big house'. It's decorated in vibrant lavender, deep purple, and silver, with silver fixtures, a ping-pong table, a pool table, and a cheery fireplace.

  "This is our building," Geneese says. "You can call me Loveless, by the way. Everybody else does.”

  I follow them to the second floor, past identical faux wood doors decorated by welcome mats and the occasional potted plant. While we walk, Loveless and Juniper tell me about the gym below the building. As I wait for them to change, sitting in a plush chair outside Juniper's room, I feel awkward again, like the new girl, and I wonder how much they like me, or if they feel obligated to entertain me. I decide eventually that they both seem real enough, and even if they're being phony, there's no point in worrying about it.

  A few minutes later, Juniper emerges from her flower-adorned doorway in nothing but a black leotard and hot pink sneakers. She smiles and hands me a bottle of Evian. “I'm glad you're working out with us. I was wondering about you.” Before she says exactly what she was wondering, she asks, “Do you have your own bag?”

  “Gym bag?”

  She shakes her head. “Punching bag.”

  “Not my own, but I've used them at gyms.”

  “It's therapeutic,” she smiles, but I get the feeling she doesn't have too many demons.

  She slants an eyebrow at me and gives me a look that's caught somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “I know what you're thinking,” she says coyly. “I'm British, and I don't seem like a whore.”

  I gape, although that isn't really what I was thinking—I'm too shell-shocked to have gotten that far—and Juniper bursts out laughing. I make a mental note that she doesn't think she seems like a whore. I’ll enjoy dissecting that later.

  “I am an escort,” she says, “but I'm also a cliché.”

  “Huh?”

  She grins. “I’m a student. I'm studying at a distance, and later I'll probably also teach that way. But this has been my job for seven years.”

  My eyes widen, and she nods. “I'm an expert in the field of cock and balls.”

  Now it's my turn to crack up. We're both smiling when we get to Loveless's room.

  She comes out in turquoise tights, an orange sports bra, and high-top trainers, looking like a model for sports clothes. As she turns to lock her door, she looks over her shoulder.

  “I can't wait to get to know you. We haven’t had any new blood in months.”

  “Druscilla,” Juniper reminds her.

  “That girl's as exciting as a roll of toilet paper.”

  Juniper elbows Loveless. "A soft, sweet roll."

  “True,” Loveless says. “But Scarlett, she's got secrets."

  I laugh, though my heart is in my throat. “Secrets?” I shake my head. “I'm afraid I'm an open book.”

  But Juniper nods. “Richard hasn't told us anything about you. I mean, flat-out nothing. You're shrouded in mystery.”

  “Am I?”

  “Well, a few of us know you want to keep everything quiet,” Loveless says.

  I chew my lip. “Wow. I didn't realize Richard had discussed me with anyone else.”

  “Just Loveless and Rachelle,” Juniper tells me. “Rach is the manager here, as I'm sure you know, and Loveless is the Head Girl." I arch a brow, and they both laugh. "We try to keep it light," Loveless says. "And I do give me
an head."

  I blush, and Juniper says, "You will, too, before it's over. We'll teach you."

  When my eyes widen, she says, "Don't worry. We'll use a dildo."

  Loveless nods as I try to get my face to return to its regular color. "A big, blue dildo. You've got a whole box of treasures waiting in your room. But we can talk about the sexin' later. For now, we want to hear more about you."

  My stomach flips, and I hate myself for it. For being so un-smooth. I'm in my twenties now. I should be more confident. Less afraid of what everyone thinks. After firing off a quick, sarcastic thank you to my Mom, who's got to be the source of my perpetual fear of others' judgments, I sigh. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where are you from?” Juniper asks.

  Seeing no reason to lie, I say, “I'm from California.”

  “Wouldn't be the Napa Valley area, would it?” Loveless asks me. She's wiggling her eyebrows.

  I gape, truly taken aback, and they eagle-eye me.

  I quickly pull it together, feeling a little more confident as we file into a stairwell. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” Juniper says. “We've got one of those Superman kind of clients. Loveless and a few of the other girls are half in love with him. Quite pathetic, really.”

  “I am not,” Loveless says defensively. “He's just a mystery. Well, he was," she says, looking troubled.

  “Who is he?” I ask, trying maybe too hard to be one of the girls. Honestly the thought of any client scares the poo out of me..

  Loveless looks over her shoulder, casual as can be. “His name is Hunter.”

  “Hunter.” I barely have enough air in my lungs to get the word out; I'm slayed by the image of Hunter locked around beautiful Loveless.

  “We should go by first name only,” Juniper interjects. “Privacy,” she tells me with her brows arched. “Hunter's been a client here for years, but he mainly just sees Sarabelle, Loveless, and Marie V.”

  I'm silent as I imagine Marie V. and Loveless with their paws on Hunter.

  Hunter visits Love Inc.? The shock of it makes my chest ache, although why am I surprised? His BBF owns the place.

  We push through a metal door, into hallway that quickly leads us into a fabulous gym, and my brain is so rattled I'm barely able to follow them over to a hot pink mat. Hunter visits escorts to have sex. Hunter comes here. Holy shit, this is bad news. Holy shit. I can't run into Hunter here!

  “What happened to make him stop coming?” I manage after a moment. Automatically I expect a joke about my wording, so I'm kind of surprised when they exchange a dark look.

  They both look somber. Loveless, especially, has a blank look in her eyes. “It makes me so upset, to think about that,” she says quietly. “Something terrible happened.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  ~HUNTER~

  I find a receipt from a bar in San Luis in Priscilla's handbag while she's cleaning herself up in the guest bathroom off the living area. It's from a place called MIGHTY'S. Interesting.

  I fold it and slide it into a desk drawer. I'm surprised to find my fingertips shaking just a little. With what? Anger? Excitement that the trail of clues seems to be leading somewhere, even if I still don’t know where?

  I realize belatedly, as I sink down on a leather chair to catch my breath, that I'm shaking because my back is ripped to shreds. The next heartbeat, I'm raging, because she did come to my place to keep me away from the party tonight, and my stupid ass let her. I let her whip me because when she placed it in my hand I heard Rita's voice inside my mind, and I would rather be whipped to shit than have to go through that.

  But when the fog clears, I feel so stupid that I let her whip me. I also feel sticky blood on the back of my briefs.

  I stand up. “Fuck.” I even got a little on the chair.

  I'm shaking in earnest now, because if there's anything I hate it's fucking blood. I turn a circle, squeezing my eyes shut as I realize I can't leave Priscilla alone in my house.

  I grit my teeth against the throbbing pain and push a chair in front of the bathroom door. Then I rush back to my bedroom, where I keep a first aid kit. I grab a fresh pair of boxer briefs, a black towel, and an Ace bandage, figuring gauze won't be enough to keep the blood off my tux.

  My stomach churns as I stride back into the living area. Priscilla is pounding on the bathroom door. “Hunter, you bastard! I have a party to host at my mansion!”

  I shove the chair aside and she strides out, looking like an evil creature in her fluffy coat. “Hunter,” she says with mock concern as her eyes flick over my face and shoulders. “You're bloody and you're pale as a ghost. You need to go lie down. You look like hell.”

  When I lock my jaw and hold out the bandage, her blue eyes widen. “Surely you don't expect me to...”

  “Yes, I do, Priscilla.” I hand her the bandage and the little metal clasps and turn around, trying to ignore her as she gasps and starts piling on the faux sympathy. “Oh you poor doll. This has to be excruciating.”

  “Yeah yeah,” I mutter. “Just start wrapping.”

  “But Hunter, what you need to do is shower. If I wrap it like it is, you'll get an infection.” I can hear the subtle improvement in her tone, a little happiness as she thinks her plan falls into place. “Hunter, I know we agreed to go as a pair, but why don't you stay in tonight? Just relax. You've earned it, surely?”

  “Wrap my back, Priscilla.” I level a look over my shoulder that I hope kicks her ass into gear, and a second later she starts wrapping.

  She works quickly and she's not gentle. The bandage is tight as she steps in circles around me, wrapping me from abs to collar. I clench my jaw and shut my eyes and inhale through my nose. Fucking Priscilla.

  I can gauge the width and depth of the wounds by the way they feel under the bandage. The superficial cuts near my shoulders and my hips just sting, but the deeper slashes throb with every heartbeat.

  “Tell me if I hurt you,” she says in her sing-song voice.

  I wouldn't tell her this shit hurt if my life depended on it. Priscilla is a masochist, but she has a sadistic side, I learned tonight. She brought the whip to keep me out of the party, but she definitely enjoyed using it.

  “All done,” she says after what feels like a thousand years. Pain is a hot vice around my throat, clouding my mind, making my body cold and light enough that I feel like I could float away. I ignore this and dress myself, trying as hard as I can not to wince or even move stiffly.

  “You have a high pain tolerance,” she remarks as I slip into my coat. My stomach is churning because it hurts so much to lift my arms, but I give her a smug smile and move briskly as I grab my keys and slide my phone into my pocket.

  Priscilla wants to take her limo, and I make the calculated decision to indulge her. I'd like to get as far off her radar as I can tonight, and acting easy-going will help with that goal. I tell her as we slide into the limo that I don't plan to be at the party long. I can see her perk up as she pours two glasses of chardonnay.

  I arch my brow, roll my window down, and dump the glass out, and Priscilla laughs like it's the funniest thing she's ever seen. I smirk and lean forward a little in my chair. There's something irritating about being around a woman who knows she got the drop on me. Makes me feel weak. I'm pissed off by the time we roll up to the gaudy monstrosity that is the Heat Enterprises mansion: two stories of sleek gray stone with massive gold lions guarding the blood red doors, but before we get there, there's a moat and drawbridge. The water in the moat glows sparkly red. Priscilla grins when she sees the place.

  We spend thirty minutes, if not longer, greeting a long line of Priscilla's 'business acquaintances', everyone from city officials to local mafia. I get caught with her when a gossip columnist pulls out her camera. I don't duck out of the picture, but I don't smile either.

  The house is tricked out with cameras in every wall; speakers in every ceiling; and a red, orange, and yellow (“heat”) color scheme in every room, and every table
is stocked with pamphlets explaining domestic violence, the charitable cause to benefit from tomorrow night's fights.

  Priscilla flits off with one of her camera people to pose for a photo with the assistant mayor—only in Las Vegas would the assistant mayor attend a porn star’s benefit—just about the time I start feeling sick.

  It’s my back. My skin is burning. I’m on my way to the bathroom when I get intercepted by Marchant’s cousin, Samuel. I talk to him for twenty minutes about some development ordinance he wants the city to pass. He wants me to help, and I have no fucking idea what he’s talking about, my back hurts so bad.