by Alta Hensley
“I like it,” Matthew said with a nod. “The contract proves the woman is giving consent.”
“Yes,” I said. “Plus, we can add any line items that may be a bit extraordinary like Victor expects with his dolls.”
Victor smiled and lifted his drink in a mock cheer. “I like your thinking, my friend.”
“And those sex parties that we have all been talking about hosting lately in The Tasting Room,” I said which had all of their eyes light up. “We can move forward with those now. The women will go into each sex party with clear expectations, the members will also know the rules, and official contracts will be written for each party. The difference with the sex parties, however, is that the staff won’t lose their jobs if they engage in a contract in The Tasting Room. That will be considered as part of their job—if they want to attend. No mandate will be set that any female has to attend. The Tasting Room is where the business happens, and once a contract is signed, the members can use one of our hotel rooms, or take the woman home. If it is just one night of sex, the contract will say so. If it’s more, then we will stipulate that as well. We are putting consent on paper, gentlemen. Putting it in writing so we don’t get fucked up the ass in litigation. And just for fun, and to add some ceremonial aspect to it, I was thinking we could have both parties prick their finger and seal it with blood.”
“I like,” Harley Crow said. “Anything with blood is a winner in my book.”
“And you don’t think this is prostitution? You are saying you want our members to buy the women,” Alec said with skepticism. “That’s illegal if you ask me, Mr. Lawyer.”
“No,” I replied quickly. “The members are asked to pay when the sex ends. When they are done and want to end the contract. The sex is free, but ending it is not. The Tasting Room is different, and yes, I guess you could call it prostitution, or you can call it arranged dating. But no one is being forced to enter that room.” I released a large sigh. “I’m not saying this idea of the contract is completely on the up and up. Hell, it won’t even hold up in a court of law. But it’s better than what we have now. It at least makes it very clear what is expected by both parties. If, by some chance, we do land in court again—which is very likely—when we pay off the judges, we can at least put their minds at ease that the entire situation was consensual. Or at least as close as we could get to it.” I looked down at the document before me. “The latest suit is because Jackson Latham brought one of our staff to his little house of horrors, tied her up for three days, and sexually ‘tortured’ her as the claimant states. But we all know that Jackson is known for his kidnapping kink, and we also know Jessica James knew of that kink and she and Jackson had been fucking around for weeks. But this was her payday, and now this poor fucker is going to have to pay out the ass and pray to God he doesn’t have criminal charges placed against him because it’s her word against his. He claims consent; she claims kidnapping. If they both had signed a contract—with a little stamp of blood from both parties for pizazz—where it states what his kink is and his expectations, then he wouldn’t be in this position, and Spiked Roses wouldn’t be a codefendant in this really fucking expensive lawsuit. We have legal issues out our ass, so much so, that I have had to hire a legal team to help me out.”
“Not all women are guilty of looking for that payday you mention,” Prince Roman argued.
“I know that,” I said with a nod. “And it has also become our job to protect the women who work for us. This does that. Often women get fooled or blinded by all the promises of love and care. And when they let their guards down, they ultimately get screwed. I don’t know about you, gentlemen, but I have yet to hear of a love story emerging from Spiked Roses. So, with this contract, it protects their interest. Black and white. And every woman hired will see this contract upon employment. They never have to sign one if they don’t want to. Never. Unless, of course, they want to fuck a member of Spiked Roses or attend one of the tastings. Then, it is mandatory. Mandatory for our members too. If they want to fuck, or have fucked one of our staff and we find out, they must sign a contract or forfeit their membership and all fees associated with it.”
“But do we really need to clean house?” Prince Roman asked. “I guess I’m not a heartless fucker like all of you,” he said with his trademark charming grin.
“It’s setting the stage,” Matthew added. “We have to build an unbending reputation starting now. It’s better to start over and from the beginning than to expect people to change. No one likes change. And right now, the women are talking. They know how much others are getting as a payday in the settlements and want a part of that as well. So, we need to start fresh. Show that we are taking control, and this suing shit is about to come to a screeching halt. Fast.”
Matthew was clearly on my side, but the others didn’t seem as convinced.
I stood up like I had started the meeting and like I always did in court when I really wanted to drive the point home, and said, “Gentlemen, please pull out your wallets and place whatever cash you have in the center of the table.” When no one immediately did as I asked, I added, “Come on, you stingy bastards, humor me and do it.”
Each man begrudgingly did as I asked as they reached into their pockets. Hundreds of dollars were placed by each man, and, in some cases, thousands.
“Matthew, do you mind counting that up for me?” I asked.
Matthew took hold of the cash and quickly counted. “Nine thousand and fifty dollars.”
I nodded and then reached over to the intercom and hit the button, waiting for the secretary to answer.
“Yes, sir?” came a soft voice on the other end.
“Lena, can you come in here please?” I asked.
A few moments later, Lena came in and stood by the door, looking nervous as she scanned the room and saw all the founding members sitting around the table. She wore a tiny black dress that accentuated every delicious curve of her body, black pumps that tightened the firm muscles of her legs, and her long black hair flowed freely down her back. She had the look of a beautiful baroque goddess, and I knew by a quick glance at every man in the room, that she was one of the most fuckable women any of us had seen in a long time. My cock twitched at the thought of having it buried deep inside her while all the men watched on with envy.
“Lena, did you get a response from the new HR manager who we offered the job to yesterday?”
She diverted her eyes from the staring men and looked at me directly. “Yes, sir. He said he will start with the new hiring tomorrow first thing. I also told him you or one of the founding members would be overseeing the interviews.”
I nodded. “Very good, thank you.” I motioned for her to go ahead and leave, which she did quickly without saying another word.
Lennon Wolf whistled and leaned back in his chair. “Woo, she is a looker indeed.”
I smiled. “That she is. I can see you all agree.” It was obvious on each man’s face. “It’s clear you all want to fuck her. I sure as hell do. So, who here is prepared to buy her and sign that contract I mentioned? Right now. Buy her so you can fuck her within the hour. Anyone?”
I paused and looked around, seeing that not one man was jumping up and saying yes.
“No one? No one wants to sign the contract?” When no one answered, I added, “Good. Do you see, gentlemen? This will help keep our members in check. Many will sign the contract because we are all dirty bastards, but it will make the business man come out in all of us and at least make us pause and think about our actions. It will hold us accountable. It will also make the parties in The Tasting Room more profitable, because those contracts are short term and don’t require the same commitment.”
I buzzed Lena back in and waited.
“Yes, sir?” she said with more confidence this time as she entered the room.
“Lena, you are fired. Spiked Roses is terminating all current employees effective immediately.” I pointed to the large pile of cash in the middle of the table. “Take what’s there.
It’s yours. Consider it your severance package.”
Tears filled the poor girl’s eyes and her lip began to quiver.
“Nothing against you, Lena. But Spiked Roses is about to be reborn.”
2
Anita
I wanted a rattlesnake to bite me.
I always did as I trekked my way along the sagebrush on Interstate 80. I didn’t want to die exactly—or maybe I did. It didn’t matter really. I just wanted a rattlesnake to strike from the shadows of a dry bush and pierce my skin with its venomous fangs. I wanted to feel the fear of knowing I could die. I wanted to feel the pain as the lethal injection sizzled through my veins. I simply wanted to feel something. Anything at all.
I wanted to look Mother Nature straight in the eyes and say “fuck you” as I struggled for each breath. I wanted to fight the battle of survival, walking along the edge of life and dark oblivion. I wanted to feel toxins, poison, death. All for one reason.
I was bored. So very bored.
Every day, beneath the Nevadan desert sun, I would walk the same path. I’d kick the sage with my worn Converse-covered feet in hopes I would wake a rattler from its slumber. For years, I did this ritual. For years, I remained bite free. I couldn’t even have that excitement in my life. I was destined for boring. Fated for a life of nothing but tedious existence.
And today was no different as I walked to my place of employment, grateful for the breeze in the air caused by the cars and large semi-trucks zooming by me at ninety miles an hour. The speed limit was seventy, but I couldn’t blame a single soul for wanting to race through my piece of shit town. If you could even call Muckaluk a town. I think the truckers saw it as exit 222, mile marker 51. That was all it really was. A mile marker. A mile marker in Humboldt County near Coal Canyon. This was my home. This was my hell.
Dust devils and sagebrush.
Rain clouds always in the distance promising showers that never came. Broken promises all my life.
I lived in a singlewide trailer that had been owned by my meemaw and pappy before they died. They were too poor to even afford a spot in a trailer park, so the trailer was dumped underneath a pine tree behind a long-abandoned gas station that no longer had any glass in the windows and had most of the roof missing due to neglect. Meemaw used to tell me that as long as we had the electricity and sewer bills paid, we were living in the lap of luxury. Though many months growing up, we did not live in that so-called luxury she spoke of. Even when we did have our bills caught up, we were then lucky if we had enough food to survive on. My grandparents’ disability checks barely gave us what we needed.
So, I was grateful when one of the few residents of exit 222, mile marker 51 who actually owned a house was in need of a caregiver and housekeeper. I jumped on that opportunity at the age of fifteen, lying to good ol’ Virgie Peterson that I was indeed sixteen and old enough to hold the job. Luckily, she had hired me six years ago. Luckily, I had a way to take care of my grandparents financially as first Pappy died, and then followed closely by Meemaw only six months later. So, I guess I should have considered myself lucky. And I tried to be grateful every single day because my meemaw had taught me to always find one good thing in your day even if you felt it had turned out to be total shit.
Today I was grateful that rattlesnakes lived under sagebrush.
Come out, come out, wherever you are...
Another semi raced by me—too close to where I walked—scaring away all the rattlesnakes. Fucker. This truck had a license plate revealing it was traveling from Vermont. Such a long drive to enter the depths of Hades. I wondered if the driver had even noticed me kicking bushes along the highway as I walked toward an old Victorian house that sat out in the middle of nothing but desert scrub brush with the interstate a few feet from the front porch. Or did my brown hair blend in with the dirt all around me? Did my small frame look no bigger than the signs that gave the numbers of miles until the next big town? The next town worth going to… if there were such a town in the state of Nevada. And if the trucker did notice me, why didn’t he stop? Was I scary? Sad? Pathetic? Maybe I reminded him of all the failures in his own life. Maybe stopping to ask me if I needed a ride would somehow open the doors to heartache he would rather leave behind. Maybe I was seen as an apparition. The ghost of nothing. That was me. Nothing.
I’d once tried to hitchhike when I was thirteen with no destination in mind. My meemaw got wind of it and spanked me with a carpet beater for doing so.
“Your restless soul will get you killed,” she had said between stinging swats.
Though I didn’t like upsetting my grandmother, I didn’t really mind the punishment. I liked the pain in a way. Maybe that was when my fascination with being bit by a snake began.
Who knows…
And though I never tried to hitchhike again, I was never able to settle my soul like the other people who lived along the interstate had. My soul screamed for release. It hollered and pounded from deep within, begging for mercy. Exit 222, mile marker 51 was killing what was left of my soul, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
“You walk too close to the road,” Virgie called from her porch. She was sitting on an old rusted porch swing like she did every morning awaiting my arrival. And every day she greeted me with the same chastisement.
“And you shouldn’t be out here breathing all the diesel fumes from the traffic,” I countered as I had done every single day for the last six years. We were like an old vinyl record set on repeat. A record playing in a damn insane asylum where there was no escape, and we had no choice but to muddle through our drug-induced lives.
“And you should wear a hat. Protect that pretty face of yours,” she added as I walked up the five steps in need of repair. “Take it from me. I once was pretty like you. Now look at me. I’m a dried up raisin.” She put out her wrinkled and frail hand in front of her and examined it. “I even used all those fancy hand creams in my youth.” She snorted. “Lots of good those did me.”
I sat down beside her, ignoring the loud creak of the rusty hinges on the swing. Someday it would crash beneath us, but for today it held. “You’re still very pretty.” I took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “You may be dry, but what do you expect when you live your life as a desert rat?”
“Is that what we are? Rats?” she asked as she stared at the steady stream of cars driving by.
“We could be worse.”
“Worse? Than rats?”
I smiled. I loved the bizarre conversations this woman and I could engage in. “I better get to work. I want to get out of here by three. I have an appointment with Roy.”
Virgie released my hand and slapped the top of my thigh. “Girl, you don’t need anymore tattoos! You have more than enough. You almost have no skin left to cover.”
“You can never have enough tattoos. I still have plenty of empty skin.”
“Your entire arm is covered. I would say that is enough. Please tell me you aren’t planning on doing the other one too.”
I was. But not yet. I still had to finish my back and the tattoo that ran over my ass and thigh. Virgie didn’t truly grasp how many tattoos I had since she never saw my back, my right butt cheek, or my upper thigh. When I was done, I planned on having my entire right side tatted. I wanted the entire right side of me to appear as if I had been dipped in multicolor ink. My soul was gray, but my spirit was not… These tattoos were my only way to keep some color in my life.
“I thought you liked the flowers I did on my shoulder,” I pointed out.
Virgie shrugged. “I did. I do. I just don’t know why you put yourself through the pain, and why you mark your pretty skin.”
“It doesn’t really hurt.”
I wished it hurt more.
“Needles going into your skin hurts.” She pushed the swing back with her feet, rocking us back and forth. “And Roy stinks.”
I snickered. “He does.”
Roy was an old biker and about as cliché as one could be on what a biker dude woul
d look like. Long gray hair with matching beard that almost hung down to his oversized belly. He always wore an old Harley tee or a shirt that he had collected at a biker street fair in Reno called Street Vibrations. His favorite thing was to cut off the sleeves and make a homemade tank top. It always showed off his armpit hair that also was gray like his beard. And he stunk like B.O. and gasoline. I didn’t mind the smell really. I had gotten used it. Roy treated me well and was really quite talented. But the best thing about Roy is he would tattoo my body for a six-pack of Pap’s Beer and twenty bucks for the ink. I think he liked my company, and maybe liked the peek he got of my ass or another part of my body. But he was harmless. I liked him and all the stories he told of his biker gang days. He was a bad ass who somewhere along the line lost his way. He never told me how he ended up at exit 222, mile marker 51, but no one really did. Maybe the story was too sad. Maybe it was too dark. Maybe they just didn’t care. It happened, so all they could do was accept their shitty fate.
Virgie stood up, taking a few moments to make sure her knees wouldn’t buckle beneath her before she started to walk. “You are too damn pretty to be hiding behind all that ink. It’s nonsense.”
I smiled, knowing this was a topic that Virgie and I would never agree on. “I like them.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“They’re part of me,” I said as I got up and opened the front door for both of us.
Virgie snorted. “Well, you got that right. It’s not like you can wash them off.”
I walked straight to the kitchen and started washing the few dishes in the sink from the night before and morning. I didn’t see any pots or signs of a cooked dinner. “What did you eat last night?” I called out to her as she settled herself into her Lazy Boy chair.