“Good evening, Miss Atussi.” She shakes my hand as briskly as if I were here on a job interview.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” Her eyes dart to the desk, and I see she’s got my file before her. “I’ve just been going over what I have on you. I see you have some college.”
“An associate’s degree . . .” I say. “I wanted to go to a four-year program, but money . . .”
She’s moved on. “Performance experience, that’s good. Local plays. Amateur dramatics. Church choir.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Service experience, you’ve got plenty of.”
Flipping burgers, she means?
“I worked for a dentist during college,” I said. Like somehow working for a dentist was more respectable than flipping burgers. Like somehow flipping burgers was something to be ashamed of—when I was applying to work as a prostitute.
“So, you can work with people.”
“I mostly did filing,” I say. “Calling in for records.”
“I see. So fresh.” She gives me the once-over and I don’t even have the foggiest idea what she’s thinking. “So fresh and young. Stand up.”
I stand up.
“Walk.”
I walk.
“No, no, no.” Her voice is low but clear. “It’s all wrong. You walk too fast—too much energy. Too bubbly. Like you’re someone’s kid sister.”
“But I’m only . . .” I automatically protest.
“I don’t care how old you are. You’re over eighteen, aren’t you? You’re a woman, not a girl. These are worldly men we cater to here. Men who want women who know how to feel comfortable and assured in their own skin. Who feel luxurious in their own bodies. You see the starlets, the supermodels, these men take on dates to events, premieres, launch parties? They may be young, but they’ve seen the world. They’re self-assured, confident, and sophisticated beyond their years. Not jejune girls-next-door.”
I almost flush.
“Well if they’ve got starlets and models as girlfriends,” I can’t stop myself from being sarcastic, “I don’t see what they need us for, anyhow.”
Josephine Walters (Mrs.) shakes her head. “I imagine a girl like you would know more about the psychology of the opposite sex than that.”
I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment, so I force myself to keep my mouth shut. But I can’t bite my tongue. “I’ve been busy,” I said. “Earning money. Supporting my mom. Doesn’t give me a lot of time to date around.”
“Then I’ll summarize it for you in a nutshell. Clearly you like things done quickly. Men at the Blue Room–they want it here, and they want it all. They want the illusion. They may have famous and beautiful companions outside of the Blue Room, but that’s nothing, nothing, to what they can have in here. Here is where they can let their wildest dreams, their most depraved fantasies, their most unorthodox desires come true. And the girls at the Blue Room will satisfy these desires. They will go wherever those men take them.”
Is that where Rita went? Wherever some man took her?
“So, you mean sex.” I know I should hold my tongue, but I can’t. This place—this woman—are filling me with rage.
“Please! So vulgar!” She raises her head at me. “This isn’t Nevada. Prostitution is illegal here. We would never, ever formally encourage our girls to sleep with clients.”
I nod.
“What happens between you and our clients, romantically or otherwise, is between the two of you.”
“I understand,” I say. I read between the lines. We want you to sleep with them, but if something goes wrong, then it’s your problem, kid. You’re on your own.
Josephine Walters (Mrs.) smiles. “Men come to the Blue Room because we offer them the best. We offer them a place where they can get their needs and desires met. In other words, this is the place where they can get what they need—and what they can’t get anywhere else.” Her lips are like rubies. “Clear enough for you, Miss Atussi?”
Chapter 7
I’m sure what to expect next. My experience with Josephine Walter (Mrs.) leaves me shaken. The way she speaks about the things I would have to do—why, it was if she’s talking about mergers and acquisitions: something formal and businesslike and utterly expected! I can hardly believe the meaning behind her words. Even after a few days in the world of the Blues, I’m utterly bewildered by how . . . normal it all seems. Having sex for money, in the world of the Blue Room, is a boring everyday occurrence.
I wonder for a second if I’m doing the right thing. If there isn’t some other way to find Rita, some better way, some way that doesn’t require me to sacrifice my virginity in the process. But I know now that I’m Rita’s last hope. The police never care about girls like Rita—strippers, hookers, whatever you want to call them. And if the clientele here at the Blue Room is as powerful as I’m starting to understand it is, then the last thing any policeman in this town wants to do is to piss them off, ask too many questions. That’s just the way things are in this town. The rich get richer and the poor get—whatever it was Rita got.
I’ve got to find out what happened to her. I’ve got to find out why.
I sit alone in my room, catching my breath. I’m almost tempted to smoke a cigarette, but I’m pretty sure if I do Josephine Walters is going to descend on me like a hawk and give me a lecture about spoiling my teeth and skin. They treat us right, here, that’s for sure. Like prized cows, fattened for the slaughter.
From my suitcase I take out a little ribbon, a locket dangling on the end of it. Rita bought it for me a few weeks after she started working at the Blue Room.
“You work so hard,” she said to me. “You’re so beautiful. You deserve a little something for yourself.”
I remember how I stared at it in amazement. That silver must have cost her a fortune—that’s what I said. I remember telling her how I couldn’t accept a gift like that—how I couldn’t understand how a girl like Rita could make so much money, so fast.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Mr. X.”
She smiled at me sadly.
“It’s my very first spend,” she said. “I wanted the first money I earned at the Blue Room to go to somebody other than myself. It makes me feel better that way . . .”
“You don’t have to . . .”
“Do you know how big my student loans are?” She swallowed. “My mom and dad—they co-signed my med school loans. But my dad lost his job—and they’re gonna lose the house, too, if they’re saddled with my debt.” She inhaled sharply. “I’m going to do what I have to do. I got them into this mess. I’ll get them out.”
The first night I wore the locket, I thought I’d sell it. I was desperate at the time, making barely more than minimum wage at my receptionist job, and all I could think of was how much I could pawn it for. It was so tempting. How many hours of my shift would it get me? Fifteen? Forty? Enough for a whole night’s sleep at a time? Enough for fifteen minutes of Rita’s time at the Blue Room.
But after hearing what she said about it being her first purchase, I couldn’t sell it. I couldn’t bring myself to. Rita had wanted to do something nice for me—she’d given it to me—she’d bound us together.
Even today I feel responsible for taking it. What would have happened if I’d insisted, if I’d refused to take it at all, if I hadn’t looked at that locket and seen dollar signs, and instead told her that what she was doing was dangerous, insisted that she stop?
She might be with me, still, in our apartment. Doctor Rita—or almost. Successful, happy, paying off her med-school loans the old-fashioned way. But such an imagining—I don’t have time for hypotheticals. I don’t have time for nice little alternatives. All I know is that Rita was my best friend, like a sister I’ve never had, and now there’s a bigger chance than I want to admit that she’s dead.
So I finger the locket. And I tell myself I’ll do what I have to do. Virginity’s just a social construct, after
all; sex is just a thing you do with your body. Sex is just an act. Finding Rita is another act. I tell myself that’s all I need to know.
So I sit down with my schedule, and I see I’ve only got five minutes of reminiscing before
7:00 pm. Facial.
7:30 pm. Makeover.
I don’t even have to go anywhere. A small, quiet brunette raps at my door within seconds of the clock hitting seven; she covers me with poultices and ointments and scrubs which probably cost more than a whole month’s salary at Dr. O’Donovan’s office.
As they plump and primp me, I start to feel sick again. It’s not just the thought of having sex with someone I don’t love. People do that often enough, I guess. It’s being surrounded by so much money. It’s the same feeling I had when Rita gave me that necklace. The Creme de Mer ointments, the Clarins creams, that distinctive perfume that you know only oligarch’s wives can afford—all of the smells, the tastes, the sensations, remind me that everyone around me can buy and sell me in a heartbeat. The kind of money that could save my mother’s life? That’s just a tip scrawled on a credit card bill for one night on the town.
It makes me sick, at first.
And then I start thinking.
One jar of these creams. Sell it on ebay for $200. Ten of those—that’s a long way towards covering Mom’s hospital debt. Pocket a necklace or two—that’s a round of chemo.
A stack of Washingtons by the bedside? That’s an experimental, aggressive treatment. The kind that might save someone’s life. The kind that last-ditch attempts are made of.
And then it hits me.
I’m like Rita.
I want that money just as much.
Everyone around me is buying me, selling me, like I’m a toy. Terrence Blue wants to buy and sell me. At once I hate everyone around me, all these people who think they own me, who think they know what I’m like. The people who thought they owned Rita, too, before they got tired of owning her—whatever that means.
If I’m gonna be bought and sold, I’d better be the one doing the selling. I want to make a profit on my own back.
All these people—Terrence Blue, Angus the businessman—I don’t want to just fuck them. I want to be them. I want to have the power they have. I want to buy and sell and trade with the best of them, rip them off and send the proceeds to my mother in Nevada.
Whoever my first patron was, no matter how ugly, no matter how repulsive, I resolved to screw him. In more ways than one. I was going to do this my way. Just like Terrence.
As the girl leaned over me and started putting make-up on my face, changing me into a creature of unrecognizable beauty, a girl who hardly looked like me at all, I thought of all the girls I knew back home who lost their virginities for far less romantic reason. At parties with guys, in the back of fraternity houses, out of peer pressure, out of fear of being the last virgin at our school.
I wouldn’t just do it for money. I’d do it for knowledge. For power.
One day, I swore to myself, I was going to walk into a room with Terrence Blue and buy and sell this place from right out under him.
“Here, Miss Atussi!” The girl rolled out a mirror to show me what she’d done.
I couldn’t believe the sight of me. I was dressed in a form-fitting mint-colored minidress, the heels on my feet sparkly and diamond-encrusted. My hair was smooth and sleek in a pageboy style; my lips were glossed and my eyes were blue, pouty, smoky—the eyes of a femme fatale. I didn’t look like some cheap streetwalker, I thought. If I was going to be a prostitute, I was going to be a damn expensive one.
“Sexy!” I heard Mrs. Walter’s voice in the doorway. “Sexy, Miss Atussi, is more than just having expensive shoes. It’s about more than how much skin you reveal. It’s about how you carrying yourself. It’s about how you look men in the eyes. Our Blues Girls look and act like a million bucks. Unattainable. Worthy of being won. These men are powerful men who seek out the best—like challenges. They bet on racehorses, collect artwork, stay at the nicest hotels. They want their sex to be the best experience they’ve had, too. If you’re too easy, you’re not worth it. If you play hard to get but display enough interest in him, then you will present a challenge to him. He will want you. Make him crave you, and you will find yourself cherished.”
I didn’t know a lot about being alluring. But I knew a lot about pretending. Back before money was too tight for me to think about anything but work, I’d wanted to be an actress. Well, I’d act now.
My first patron wouldn’t know what hit him.
“He will meet you in the hotel tonight to take you to dinner downstairs at Azure. Then he will follow you back up to your room after dinner to—get to know you better. If you please him enough during that time, and he stays until morning, you’ll double your income. Given your—unique—status, that would net you about twenty-five thousand.”
My jaw drops. “Dollars?”
“Dollars—what did you think?”
My jaw’s still hanging open.
“But only if you impress him enough. The only thing guaranteed is dinner.”
“What’s the point of hiring a hooker if you don’t want to sleep with her?” I can hear myself get nasty.
“This patron is selective,” she says. “He wants to see if he likes you enough to take things further. His time is precious and he doesn’t like to waste it.”
I’m almost insulted. Not only do I have to sell my body for money—I have to convince someone I’m worth it?
“Now, you look perfect,” Mrs. Walters says. “Don’t mess up your makeup before he sees you. As for after—well, men like ruining a woman’s makeup themselves. But let it be a man’s doing—not some mess you make between now and then.”
I say nothing. I’m too stunned to come up with a clever remark.
I go back to my hotel room and try to relax. I turn on the television, listen to music. I try to turn on my computer only to find that the wireless is blocked. I guess they’re not too keen on us girls having any contact with the outside world while we’re here.
I watch the clock tick down.
8:25 . . . 8:26 . . . 8:29.
8:30.
The doorbell rings.
Chapter 8
At once I snap to my feet. I’m on it, I tell myself. Elegant. Unattainable. Alluring.
At least until I knock over the vase on the bedside table.
“Oh, shit!” All the alluring in the world flies right out of me as I try to pick up the pieces of the vase. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Not really the reaction I was hoping for!”
Terrence Blue is standing in the doorway.
He’s all dressed up—so much so it takes me a second to be sure it’s really him. In the Blue Room, Terrence had gone for grunge, but now he’s quite the gentleman: clean-shaven, in an impeccably tailored suit.
Surely he knows the client’s coming! Or is this all part of Terrence’s sick sense of humor—to try and throw me off my game when I least expect it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s the vase. It’s probably a Waterford or something—I’m sorry.”
“No harm done.” He just strolls in like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he does. “I’ll just replace it then.” He picks up the pieces and starts putting them in the trashcan. “I’ll get housekeeping in here while we’re gone.”
“Not that it isn’t lovely to see you,” I try to smile. “But you’re kind of ruining my concentration.”
“And what is it that you’re concentrating on, dear Staci?”
“I’m preparing for my . . . uh . . . work meeting.”
He shuts the door and looks me up and down. I can feel how his eyes sear into me. It feels terrifying—and good, at the same time. I’m in disarray—mentally, physically. How can this man have such an effect on me? I think I’m powerful, think I’m strong, ready for all the challenges that lie before me, and then in a heartbeat this Terrence Blue can have me up against a wall, panting, desperate.
“You
look delectable, Staci. I’m sure your work meeting will go very well indeed. Makeovers always do a number on my girls—but you’re a butterfly, now. Completely transformed. Into the glam femme fatale I always knew you were.”
Before I can say anything Terrence has me up against the door, his hand moving up my inner thigh, fingering my panties.
Great, I think. The last thing I can afford right now is to ruin the expensive La Perla lace panties that were part of my work uniform. But Terrence has already got them soaked through. As much by the look he gives me as by his sensual touch.
The heat is overpowering. His hands against my thigh, his fingers caressing deeper, rubbing me just enough to get the blood pumping and that breath so shallow in my throat. All I know right now is—I want him. I want him so badly I’m willing to throw everything else away if he can just let me come.
And he knows it.
He knows I’m enjoying him just as much as he’s enjoying me. The thrill of the chase. Combat in caresses. He knows I know it too.
“You’re just as excited about me as I am about you.” His breath is warm against my neck. “Your body is more talkative than you are, Staci.”
“Terrence.” His fingers are in all the right places, now, moving faster and faster, bringing up my heart rate with each slow and torturous caress. It’s hot, so hot, and all I want to do is tear off that expensive mint gown Mrs. Walters has bought for me. No, who am I kidding? I want him to tear it off.
“I love watching you,” he whispers. “Your face.” He probes deeper, and then his fingers are inside me, pressing upwards, into that rough patch of flesh that sends me wild. I’m moaning—I know that now—and I can’t stop myself. I don’t know if I want to. “So full of desire and passion.”
He’s getting rougher, now. Almost violent. But his eyes are fixed on me and I know he’s listening to every beat of my heart, every sharp intake of breath. I know he knows he’s going to push me exactly how far I can go—and no further. He knows my body as well as I do.
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