by Linnea May
"Certainly not," I retort, shaking my head. "But I need someone who can fake that."
"A girl’s heart works differently than a man’s," she reminds me, her voice taking on a wise tone. "I doubt you'll find one who's as calculating as you are."
I regard her with a quick look, my eyes narrowed and eyebrows knitted.
"One thing is for certain," I say. "If a girl like that exists, I'm sure she'll be in that catalog."
Belinda's eyes follow my motion as I get up from my seat.
"Let me know when you have something new to offer," I tell her, nodding a quick goodbye as I make my way to the door.
"Certainly," she replies.
I knew this wouldn't be easy, but I didn't expect it to be this hard, that’s for damned sure. This agency has served me well for the past several years, and I was confident they could provide me with whatever I needed, even now that my demands have changed. My campaign manager insisted that if it’s my goal to run for Congress that I should have an attractive woman at my side. I objected at first, but I could see his point. There's nothing more disruptive than the spread of rumors and gossip about a man's personal life when he's a political candidate. Especially in a case like mine, where it's all too easy to dig up some dirt...
Things are a lot easier if there's a wife or a fiancée in the picture. As long as there's a woman hanging on your arm and a visible ring on that damn finger, it gives you credibility; she makes you appear mature and loyal, even at a young age. It's stupid, but if I want to play the game, I will have to abide by the rules.
I walk through the halls of the agency as I've done many times before, my hands buried in my pockets, my gaze lowered as I contemplate the problem at hand. There's not much time left, and if I don't find a suitable girl within the next month, I might have to change my plan. I wouldn't be the first Congressman without a spouse at his side.
As I head for the elevator, my eyes wander off to the waiting area that's located at the entrance. I've never seen anyone sitting there before, and have actually always wondered why a high-caliber escort agency would even need a reception and waiting area. Privacy is always maintained and clients are never asked to wait when they arrive for an appointment.
I’m somewhat taken aback when I notice a young woman sitting there. It appears that the same rules don't necessarily apply to the girls hired to work here.
She's sitting in the far back corner, her hands neatly placed in her lap, and her back straightened in an unnatural pose when she turns her head in my direction. Our eyes meet, and for a moment it looks as if she's about to jump up to greet me. She remains put when she sees that I’m not making an effort to rush over to greet her. Her long, ash blond hair is tied up in a ponytail, a hair style that I've never once seen on any of the girls representing this establishment. She's wearing dark-colored skinny jeans and a prim white blouse layered beneath a fake leather jacket, and her lips are painted an intense red, standing out against the pale color of her skin. She's a beauty, that's for sure. A bit on the slim side, but it matches her narrow frame. I usually prefer my women with a little more flesh on their bones and lush curves, emphasizing all the right places. She looks like a teenager who's not finished coming into herself yet, even though I know she must be at least eighteen years old to work here.
She looks smart, sassy, and very well put together. How come I've never seen her profile in any of the files I've been looking at? Is she new?
A beep announces the arrival of the elevator shortly before the doors glide open in front of me. But instead of stepping inside, I turn on the spot and head straight toward the pretty stranger.
Chapter 3
Ann
It's happening again.
What is it with me and handsome men? Why is it that every time an especially gorgeous specimen crosses my path, I appear to forget about everything I pride myself in? My brains, my ambitions, my strength and determination, my confidence. All of this goes right out the window as soon as a man I deem handsome comes into view.
Though, this guy in front of me now is definitely more than just handsome. For a moment, I worry he’s the person I'm supposed to speak to, even though my appointment is supposed to be with a woman.
He's tall and broad-shouldered, a man who's impossible to be overlooked. The navy blue tailored suit hugs his buff frame and defined arms perfectly, allowing me to conjure up an image of the powerful muscles hidden under the lavish fabric. His chocolate brown hair is styled in a sharp undercut, dark strands gelled to one side while the other is shaven. The cut suits his chiseled jaw line. His dark brown eyes are fixated on me as he strides toward me in wide, confident steps.
I don't know why he's approaching me, but with every step that brings him closer, I can feel my heart speeding up in anticipation.
He stops right in front of me, still not saying a word. He plants his feet in a wide stance and I notice his hands are still buried in the pockets of his form-fitting suit pants.
Instinct tells me that I should get up from my seat, if only to gain height on him, or to introduce myself properly, just in case he really is here to get me for the interview, but I resist the urge. The way he approached me is anything but courteous, and since he came up to me, I reckon that he's the one who should start the conversation.
It appears he's of the same opinion.
"Are you new?" he wants to know.
At first, I have no idea what he's trying to say and just stare at him with a dumbfounded expression on my face as I try to interpret his question.
"New?" I finally croak, tilting my head to the side.
All at once the meaning behind his question becomes apparent.
He thinks I’m an escort!
"No!" I bark at him, jumping up from my seat, only to realize how much taller than me he really is. I was hoping to gain some confidence by standing up, but with him standing so close and towering over me like this, it doesn’t have the desired effect. Instead, I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze above me.
"I'm not an escort!" I insist, a little too loudly. "I am here for the interview."
"The interview?" he asks, obviously oblivious to what I'm talking about.
"I'm here to interview Miss Barry," I explain. "For an article."
I don't know why I feel the need to explain myself to this man, but something inside me hates the idea of him thinking that I could be up for purchase.
"Miss Barry," he repeats, and a smug smirk appears on his face. "I didn't know she’s responsible for public outreach now."
"Public outreach?" I repeat his words, frowning at him.
"What's the interview about?" he asks, jutting his chin forward.
I huff with indignation.
"Who are you? What business is it of yours?"
Mr. Adonis chuckles, visibly amused.
"You're right," he says. "My name is King, Jared King. It's nice to meet you, Miss..."
"Porter," I blurt out before thinking twice. "Ann Porter."
I impulsively shake his hand with the same spontaneous knee-jerk reaction that made me automatically reply to him. It makes me angry with myself that I'd behave completely differently if he wasn’t so attractive. I hate this weakness of mine, but I don't know how to fight it. Even his handshake makes me nervous. His touch is firm, possessive, dominant - enough to knock me to my knees.
We look at each other in uncomfortable silence, me with anticipation while he continues to study me. Now what? He told me his name, but I still don't know why he approached me.
"Do you work here?"
He chuckles and shakes his head.
"No, Miss Porter, I don't work here," he says. "I'm one of the agency’s patrons."
"Patrons?" I repeat. "You mean client? You buy women?"
He regards me with a serious look as if to warn me not to overstep. "You said you're here for an interview?"
So, he chooses to ignore my question. That means my assumption was correct.
I nod. "Yes, with Miss Ba
r-"
"What kind of interview?" he interrupts. "Is this some kind of school project? A term paper?"
I frown at him. Is he mocking me?
"No," I reply. "I'm a reporter. I work for the Daily Liberty."
His expression clouds over instantly, but just for a split second. His eyes flicker and he presses his lips together, his face contorting in a grimace of shock for a very short moment. Is he just surprised, or did I say something that frightens him?
"Something wrong?" I ask, speaking in a high pitched voice to feign innocence.
He's quick to shake his head. It requires effort for him to appear as relaxed and checked as he did before.
"No, no," he says hurriedly. "I’m just surprised. You can't blame me for assuming otherwise when I first saw you, young lady."
Young lady?
Who does he think he is? What makes him think that it's okay to talk to me in this disparaging manner?
I swallow dryly, shaking my head at him. Well, if he's an agency client, he may just not be familiar with any other way. He seems way too sophisticated to adhere to that simple logic, but if he's used to buying women for pleasure, he simply may not know the proper way to talk to women.
I make a point of looking over his shoulder to check the hallway behind him, even though there's no one there.
"Well, if you're not here to fetch me for the interview, I don't think we have anything further to discuss," I say, fixating on him with what I hope is as piercing of a gaze as his. "If you'll excuse me."
I make an attempt to move past him, despite lacking an idea of where to go to, but he stops me. I jerk back when his hand closes around my upper arm, pulling me back with aggression that I hadn’t been expecting.
"It'd be a pleasure to find your pretty face in that folder the next time I come here," he whispers huskily, his lips close to my ear. I gasp in surprise, trying to battle the ominous heat rushing to my face.
"Excuse me, wha-"
"It's a pity, really," he adds, scanning me seductively from head to toe, lingering when his gaze reaches my breasts. "You have no idea how much money you could make with this."
With that, he releases my arm. Turning his back to me on the spot, he briskly leaves me behind as he strides away.
Chapter 4
Ann
I'm still shaking when I'm finally called into Miss Barry’s office for my interview.
What was that all about? Who was that man? And why did he say that to me?
You have no idea how much money you could make with this.
Is he trying to entice me to become an escort because he’s interested in buying me?
That’s ridiculous, I think to myself, but the thought gives me an odd flush of heated embarrassment, anger and... something else. Something I can't quite put my finger on. It's a strange feeling, not as uncomfortable as the other two emotions, but not entirely pleasant either.
I'm nervous when Miss Barry shakes my hand and gestures for me to sit down, but it's not because of her. She looks like just the kind of person I would expect to see here. She's tall, probably about fifteen years older than me, and dressed to the nines. Her outfit and make-up have a burlesque touch to them. She's rather pale-complexioned, her lips dipped in a crimson shade of red that stands out against her light skin, as does the deep black mascara around her eyes and the equally dark hair. Her black blouse stretches around a pair of tits that are too big for her frame to be real. I'm sure she worked on the other end of the operation before switching to this administrative position.
"Can I offer you something to drink?" she asks, as I sit in a chair opposite her desk. "Water? Tea? Bourbon?"
I look at her, trying to figure out whether she was joking about that last suggestion. However, Miss Barry regards me with an expectant expression, cocking her head to the side awaiting my response.
"It's two in the afternoon," I say, bewildered.
She huffs and waves me off.
"Right," she says, rolling her eyes at me. "So, water then?"
I nod. "Water would be great, thank you."
Miss Barry walks over to a little bar table in the corner of her office where she pours a glass of water for me before pouring a tumbler of bourbon for herself.
"I'm sure you don't mind," she says, lifting her glass to her lips after placing the water in front of me.
I shake my head, feeling oddly belittled by the way she’s choosing to act around me. Miss Barry sits down sedately in her leather chair behind the desk. She casts me another one of those looks, as if I was a little child, someone she has trouble taking seriously. She sips at her drink and raises her eyebrows at me. "So?"
I recollect myself and hurry to gather my notes and take out my tiny recorder.
"Is it okay if I record this?" I ask, holding up the device.
Miss Barry nods. "Sure, dear."
I'm not sure how I feel about the way she addresses me, but I let it go. It's probably safe to assume that she's not used to talking to women who are not part of this world, women who are not cute little “honeys, bunnies and darling dolls” who live to serve the needs of kinky men. Men with very particular tastes, the kind of clients this agency caters to.
I know this is no ordinary escort agency. I’ve already uncovered enough details during my research to understand that the clients who frequent this place are not only insanely rich, but also come with twisted tastes. If they were just looking for a girl to accompany them to some kind of high class event, or to have a fancy dinner with them and then join them in their lavish hotel rooms, they wouldn't contact this agency.
The clients who turn to Violent Delights always seek something more, something special, something that has a much higher price tag than similar services offered from an ordinary escort service. And I'm curious to see how much Miss Barry is willing to reveal about these specialized and customized services, not to mention the outlandish prices the clients are willing to pay for them.
Miss Barry watches me calmly as I open my notes and set up the recorder. I can't help but notice that she's studying me similar to the way that man was earlier. Examining, considering, wondering - as if she's deliberating the possibility of convincing me to join her ranks.
I shake off the unpleasant thought and try to concentrate on the questions I have prepared for today. I begin the interview by confirming some of the information I've already gathered. This is standard procedure, and just like most people being interviewed, Miss Barry is cautious and reticent at first, but starts opening up after a few minutes, adding extra comments and anecdotes not directly related to the question being asked. As she becomes more talkative, my questions become more daring and are less directed at the business as a whole and the story behind Violent Delights, instead focusing on the areas that really interest me.
The clients and the girls they seek.
"Is there anything you can tell me about the way you acquire the girls working for you?" I ask. "How do you find them?"
Miss Barry looks at me with an amused expression and laughs.
"Oh, honey," she exclaims. "We don't find the girls. They find us!"
I cast her a quizzical look. "So they're just desperate and-"
"No, no, not at all," Miss Barry interrupts me. "It's nothing like that. If you're desperate for some quick and easy money, you don't come here. We have a comprehensive application process that's not open to just anyone, and we certainly don't hire every girl who applies."
She pauses to take another sip of her bourbon, and to make me wait for an expanded version of her explanation. I know this move is deliberate, and she's enjoying my bewildered gaze.
"These girls are more than just high-class hookers, dear," she continues. "They need to bring more than beauty and the will to please to the table."
"Like what?"
When our eyes meet, I notice that hers are laced with fierce intensity as she prepares her next response.
"Brains," she says. "And stability - emotional and psychological. Each girl h
as to pass a variety of tests before we even consider hiring them."
"And then? What happens after they're hired?"
"Depending on the conditions they've set for themselves, we'll add them to our different catalogs and then offer them to potential clients. Not every client is a good match for every girl. The selection process can be quite... tiring."
She exhales loudly with that last sentence, rolling her eyes as if she's remembering something - or someone - highly unpleasant.
"And what does that process look like?" I inquire. "You mentioned there are tests? What kind of tests?"
Instead of giving me a reply, Miss Barry regards me with a contemplative look, scanning me from head to toe, the same as that guy Mr. King did. My hand instinctively wanders up to the collar of my blouse, pulling the fabric closer together as if this would help to shield me from her curious eyes.
"Would you like try it?" she asks.
"Try what?"
"The application process," she says. "If you have some extra time, we can complete some of the tests."
She pauses then, a little smirk appearing on her face before she continues speaking.
"Isn't that the best kind of research?" she asks. "Hands-on?"
I blush and inhale audibly. There's something about the way she looks at me that's extremely unsettling, but I can't put my finger on it. In fact, I don't even know if the feeling she evokes is even negative. It's just ... disconcerting.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-three," I reply instantly. "I’m turning twenty-four in about six months."
"Good," she states. "I assume you're not a virgin?"
I let out an indignant huff. "Not that that's any of your business, but no, I am not."
"Pity," she says, using the exact same word that guy used before. "You could make a fortune here, especially if you were untouched."
