Rhodium

by Elise Noble

  “Count me in. As long as they’re not allowed to leave a mark on me, I’ll do it.”

  All the talk of spanking made me cringe. Hands, rulers, paddles. Who would want to do that?

  Then Octavia turned to me. “So, Stefanie. Have you thought about moving up to two rubies?”

  I swallowed a chunk of chocolate muffin, and it went down the wrong way. Chrissie thumped me on the back as I took a gulp of coffee to ease the tickle.

  “That’s when the sex starts, isn’t it?” I whispered.

  “Yes and no.” Octavia sounded so matter of fact, as if we were discussing a sandwich menu. “Straight sex or minor fetishes.”

  I dreaded even thinking about it, but at the same time, I felt compelled to ask. “Minor fetishes?”

  “Some men like the girls to dress up or speak to them in a certain way. There’s no sex involved, but due to the unusual nature of some of the requests, the money’s better.”

  “Like what?”

  Over a low-fat lemon slice, she described the proclivities of the men who could afford to indulge themselves. The banker who liked girls to walk all over him in high heels. The elderly gent who got his kicks from having a life-sized teddy bear watch TV with him every Saturday night. Apparently, he whacked off by himself, no contact necessary. Then there was the millionaire who enjoyed dressing girls up like Barbie and having them ride around his house in a tiny electric car.

  “And they pay for this? Why?”

  “Yes, they do. Because we offer complete confidentiality. Many of these men have wives and families who wouldn’t take too kindly to their extracurricular activities.”

  “Go on, give it a try,” Chrissie said.

  “We’re actually a bit short of two-ruby girls at the moment. They either move up to three or leave when they graduate.”

  The teddy bear couldn’t be worse than the coffee bean, could it? “Okay, I’ll try it. No sex, though.”

  So how did I go from feeding fruit to old men while wearing a bunny outfit to Oliver Rhodes? Desperation. And some really awful luck. They say disasters happen in threes. Well, Oliver was my fourth.

  CHAPTER 3

  IT WAS A Wednesday afternoon when my world fell out from under me. Quite literally. Disaster number one.

  The rain fell faster than the stock market on Black Monday as I ran out of college, already late for my date with a man who liked me to wear an adult-sized onesie covered with teddy bears. And I’d forgotten my umbrella. Typical. I paused in the doorway before muttering to the heavens, “Anything else want to go wrong?”

  Yes. Yes, it did.

  I slipped on a candy wrapper and tumbled to the bottom of the steps. I knew I’d done major damage the instant I landed—the crack from my arm was a dead giveaway, as was the bolt of pain that burned all the way to my shoulder.

  Do you know how much it costs to pin a broken arm? I didn’t then, but I do now. Thousands. Thousands I didn’t have, not least because I needed to take six weeks off from Rubies while it healed. Not many men had fetishes for being stroked with a cast. Believe me, when the rent came due, I checked with Octavia.

  Then my little brother phoned. I called him little, and I called him my brother, but in reality, he was sixteen, my stepbrother, and at five feet nine, three inches taller than me. Mom married his father when I was ten, a year after my daddy died. At first, the speed with which she moved on upset me, and for a couple of years, our relationship stumbled as I came to terms with it. But now I saw what I couldn’t back then, and what she would never admit. She needed a man to complete her. Alone, she’d been a shell, a half-woman. The big wide world and Maxine Amor did not mix. And I swore I’d never become her.

  Ten-year-old me forgave her perhaps faster than I would have, because with Chester, her new husband, came my new brother. All too often Mason used to steal my candy and borrow my dolls to become victims of his action men, but he was so damn cute while he did it I forgave him every time.

  And now he had a problem. I’ll call it disaster one point five because, in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t warrant a whole number of its own, not when compared to the rest of my life.

  “Stef, I had an accident.”

  “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, but Pop’s new truck’s got a bit of a dent.”

  “Bit of a dent?”

  “It needs a new fender.”

  I couldn’t keep my groan in. “What did you hit?”

  “The gatepost at Reggie’s place.”

  “Oh, Mason! What were you doing there? Reggie’s always getting into trouble, and he’ll take you with him.”

  “Just hanging out. But Pop’s gonna kill me for the truck. He told me not to drive it.”

  “You should have listened.”

  “I know, I know. But you gotta help me. If I don’t get rid of this dent before him and Mom come back from vacation, I can kiss my trip with the band goodbye.”

  Mason played the tuba, and he’d been invited over to England to play in a parade along with the other students in his school’s marching band. He’d talked about little else for months, and knowing Chester, who was big on discipline, Mason’s fear of being grounded was justified.

  Shit. I cursed silently in my head because Mason and his potty mouth didn’t need any more encouragement. “They’re due back next Tuesday?”

  “Yeah. Joey’s dad can fix it at the shop, but it’ll cost six hundred dollars. Can you lend it to me? I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

  He wouldn’t. He never did. And six hundred dollars was my emergency fund. But Mason was Mason, and when I used to sneak out at night to see my boyfriend back in high school, he’d covered for me every time. I owed him one.

  “I’ll wire it over. Just promise me you won’t drive the truck again.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  The combined total of disasters one and one point five, plus the bill that landed for my tuition, led me to the most shameful night of my life, at least pre-Oliver Rhodes. The night Octavia, who may have been lovely but would always be a businesswoman first and foremost, auctioned off my virginity. It was the only thing I had left of any value.

  As the bids rolled in, each one from a man with more money than morals, I thought time and time again about giving up and going home. Mom would have welcomed me back, but I knew if I did return to Hartscross, I’d be stuck there. Stuck with the I-told-you-sos and the whispers of “poor girl, she never was cut out for the city.”

  Chrissie did her best to help by preparing me for what was to come. Luckily, she had no inhibitions when it came to talking about sex—in fact, it was her favourite topic of conversation.

  “Will it hurt?” I whispered one night over a glass of wine.

  “Maybe a little. A sharp pain, but it’ll be over quickly.”

  I closed my eyes and took another slug of wine. I felt ill at the thought of it, but how else could I pay off the bills? So many times I nearly pulled out of the deal, quit college, and ran back home, but the prospect of my stepfather’s disappointment stopped me. He was the one who’d convinced Mom I could do this, and if I returned to Georgia with my tail between my legs, he’d lose face as well as me.

  No, I needed to go through with it.

  And, to be honest, it could have been worse. The auction winner, a wealthy businessman, prided himself on the number of V-cards he’d collected. If his brags over dinner were to be believed, he’d moved into triple figures. So I lay there, half-drunk, while he lubed me up and eased himself into me. Chrissie assured me sex could be pleasurable, but I just felt dirty, and not in a good way. I counted the seconds as he pounded away, trying not to wince at the scratch of his beard against my chin and, worse, the burning ache between my legs.

  But he paid, and he paid well. Half of my medical bills were gone in just one night. And after him, the floodgates were opened. Only metaphorically, of course. Getting wet for a man wasn’t something I’d ever experienced. A month later, after some tuition from Ch
rissie involving a large black dildo that scared the crap out of me, I learned how to use my hands and mouth and moved up to the lofty position of three rubies.

  I hated myself, but I survived. Mason sent me a calendar every Christmas, and I used it to count down the days until I could escape the lifestyle I’d fallen into, graduate, and get a job that didn’t involve spreading my legs for any man who cared to pay my hourly rate.

  One hundred and sixty-nine days. That was how many I’d had left when disaster number two happened. And as disasters go, it would take some beating.

  CHAPTER 4

  LOUD HAMMERING ON the apartment door woke me up, and I groaned. My phone informed me it was almost lunchtime, but it was Saturday, and I’d been out working until three in the morning. I needed a sleep-in. Hell, after the night I’d had, I deserved a sleep-in.

  My client, a British fashion model who had two loves in life—money and himself—had decided on a little food-play. He’d covered me in honey, which wouldn’t have been so bad in itself had he not then attempted to stick a banana into the back door. Judging by the whipped cream on the nightstand, I think he was trying to create some weird version of banoffee pie.

  I’d practically stuck to the sheets as I attempted to roll off the bed.

  “Get the hell away from there!”

  “Oh, come on. Ease up on the attitude.”

  “No way. I don’t do that stuff.”

  “I’ll pay you extra.”

  And that was them. The four words that made me feel worse than any others. Every so often, I’d go on a date with a client who made me feel worth something, one who took me for dinner, had an actual conversation, and, when he fucked me at the end of the evening, almost made me forget his pickup line consisted of a sixteen-digit credit card number. But those were few and far between. Most men made me feel like trash.

  “It’s not about the money.”

  “With your type of girl, it’s always about the money.”

  He lay there laughing as I pulled on my dress—easier said than done, as it kept sticking to my skin. Then I’d had to ride the bus home smelling like a beehive, with freaks and weirdos buzzing around me like they thought they could get a freebie.

  So, screw the door. They could come back later or hope Chrissie answered it. It was probably for her, anyway. In my whole time in Richmond, my only visitors had been debt collectors, and I’d kept them away for over a year now.

  “Go away,” I mumbled into my pillow.

  The knocking stopped, but ten minutes later, the visitor came back. “It’s the police. Open up, please. Your neighbour said you were home.”

  The police? Oh, hell. Octavia had warned us about the risk of arrest for what we did, but she always made the chances sound so slim. The maximum punishment for prostitution in the state of Virginia was a year in jail or a twenty-five-hundred-dollar fine, but for a first offence, she assured us we’d only get a slap on the wrist. Chrissie swore she could spot an undercover cop a mile away, and all my recent clients apart from the model had been repeats. We always tried so hard to be careful. Had we been caught?

  I tied my bathrobe around myself and pushed my hair back out of my eyes. Time to face the music.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this the residence of Christina Walker?”

  “Yes?”

  I willed myself to breathe slowly. So this wasn’t about me. Just keep calm.

  “Detectives Briggs and McConnell. Can we come in?”

  I took the chain off the door and swung it open. Both cops looked tired with dark circles under their eyes. The fatter of the two—I didn’t know whether it was Briggs or McConnell—had a rumpled look about him, as if he’d slept in his cheap suit.

  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  He’d called me “ma’am.” That had to be a good sign, didn’t it? If he was here to arrest me, he’d just have brought out the handcuffs.

  “Stefanie Amor.”

  “And you’re Ms. Walker’s roommate?”

  “That’s right. Do you want to speak to her?”

  They glanced at each other. What did that mean?

  “She’s here?” the skinny one asked.

  “Well, I guess she’s in her room.”

  I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days, but that wasn’t unusual. Our class schedules meant we often passed like ships in the dark. But she rarely stayed out, not unless someone paid her for the entire night, and most of our clients were too cheap for that.

  “Could you check?”

  “Sure.”

  I knocked gently, then a bit harder when she didn’t answer. Still nothing. I cracked the door open and peered inside.

  “Oh. She’s not here.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  I thought back. “Thursday evening. She was getting ready to go out.”

  Another look passed between them.

  “Are you close?” the thin one asked.

  “Reasonably. We’ve been roommates for almost two years.”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but we have reason to believe Ms. Walker passed away.”

  It took a few seconds for me to process his words. Chrissie, dead? No way. There had to be a mistake. She was twenty-two, the same age as me. She had her whole damn life to live.

  “Ma’am? Would you like to sit down?”

  He didn’t wait for my answer, just lowered me to the sofa as my legs gave way from under me.

  Chrissie was dead.

  My best friend was dead.

  Disaster number two, and the path to my collision with Oliver Rhodes was set.

  CHAPTER 5

  IF I’D HAD half a brain, I would have left town after disaster number two, Chrissie’s death. But common sense had deserted me when I got my first ruby.

  No, it took disaster number four—an encounter with Mr. Rhodes himself—to send me running. After that, I gave up on the idea of the city, of making something of myself, and slunk back to Georgia to lick my wounds. And grieve.

  Not only for Chrissie but for the victim of disaster number three. Another friend, dead. I’d always dreamed of meeting a man who loved me for who I was, in spite of what I’d been, and number three did. Lyle knew my history, and he still cared. It showed in the manner he spoke to me, the way he walked me back to my room at night in the temporary accommodation we both shared. The nervous smile that flickered when he asked me out on a date. A date we’d never got to go on.

  What happened? Well, that’s a whole other story.

  Perhaps Lyle wasn’t everyone’s idea of a catch, but I’d have been proud to take him home to meet Mom and Chester. Even better, he wasn’t a Rubies client. He’d had a heart, and he’d had a career. A lawyer, no less. Not the greatest one in the world, even he admitted that, but he was improving. A tadpole. One day he’d have become a frog, and who knows, maybe even a prince?

  Not like Oliver Rhodes. Oliver Rhodes was a great white fucking shark.

  But now I was done. Done with murder investigations. Done with Oliver. Done with Richmond. Done with all the disasters. Done with the big city and college and the illusion I could make something of myself.

  Welcome to Hartscross, Georgia. Population: 1,523.

  “Pippi, breakfast’s ready.”

  That damn nickname. From ages six through eight, I’d been obsessed with Pippi Longstocking, refusing to wear my hair in any style but pigtails or answer to anything but a fictional name. Every birthday, I’d begged my parents for a horse and a monkey, or even a ship. Money never ran to the horse or the ship, and the closest I got to the monkey was a stuffed toy. When I arrived back in Hartscross, it was still sitting on the shelf in my bedroom, exactly where it had been for the last thirteen years.

  And the nickname stayed too, if only in my mother’s mind.

  “Just coming,” I called out.

  I rolled out of bed and trailed down the hallway. Back in Richmond, I’d had the luxury of an en suite, but now I faced the daily strugg
le of finding a bathroom slot. For a teenage boy, Mason sure spent a lot of time in there.

  “Will you hurry up?” I banged on the door, desperate to pee.

  “Almost done.”

  Ten minutes later, I was crossing my legs as the door swung open.

  “What do you do in there?” I asked.

  Mason’s hair was half an inch long, he didn’t shave his legs, and as far as I could work out, his tan was natural.

  He shrugged and flashed his teeth. “Flossing’s important.”

  I shoved past him and locked myself in before doing my business then attempting to wash my hair in the old claw-foot tub. It didn’t have a proper shower, only one of those handheld attachments, and my hair was so thick it took forever to get the shampoo out. When I finally walked into the kitchen, Mom’s pancakes were cold and so was her demeanour.

  “Pippi, you need to start waking up earlier. Half of the day’s gone by the time you get downstairs.”

  I’d always been a night owl while Mom got up with the larks, but it wasn’t worth the argument. “I’ll try.”

  “And if you’re staying in town, you’ll need to look for a job.”

  “I know.”

  Mainly because she’d said the exact same thing every morning for the last two weeks.

  “I spoke to Mrs. Mackey at the store. She thinks Darly might have an opening for a shampoo girl at the salon while Patty has her baby. Think of that, Pippi—you’d get free haircuts.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  Mom bustled around the kitchen, reheating my pancakes and fetching a jug of maple syrup.

  “Don’t leave it too long. Jobs are hard to come by in this town.”

  Yeah, I knew that. Once a girl graduated from high school, she had two options in Hartscross—work a dead-end job for minimum wage or start popping out babies. Neither appealed, not to mention the slight logistical challenge of the second option for a single girl.

  Of course, that didn’t deter my mom.

  “And you’ll need to keep your eyes open for a nice boy. How about Sheriff Bose’s son? His girlfriend ran off to the city the way you did, and Randy’s quite the catch.”