by Zara Cox
My body jerks into the present. I turn away from the camera and tighten my belly against the persistent heat. The sight of sour-faced Wendy waiting just behind Todd helps dissipate the electricity sizzling through my blood.
I stand and follow her. She hands me a russet-colored lace Basque and thong and I change.
Todd directs me to the bed and again allows me to strike my own poses. The sensations return, stronger than before.
My mind whirls with more than a touch of confusion. How can I be enjoying this? How can my body be this hot when everything about what I’m doing is wrong?
Yes, I’m doing this for a blindingly simple reason—to keep myself alive and to keep Clayton from discovering the secret I hold locked in my heart. But a part of me is also enjoying the thrill of dressing up in nice lingerie, wearing makeup and playing minx with the camera. Because I know the man with the mechanical voice will see it?
Yes.
The answer slides deep into me, twists within my groin and hardens my nipples as Todd snaps away. The silk sheets tangle around my body. I let my fingers glide over it, loving the texture, wondering how it would feel warmed by two bodies instead of one. I slide my hands up, rest them on either side of my head. I know my body is on show, my nipples clear to see beneath the lace, but I don’t care. In fact, the idea makes me hotter. So much so, I feel a deep pang of regret when Todd calls a halt.
The third and final scene before the vanity mirror is simple. In a purple and black slip that barely covers my naked ass, I pick up the gold-cased lipstick, lean forward and slide the tube across my lip. Without instruction, I allow my gaze to find the lens through the mirror. The faster clicks of the camera tells me I’m doing something right, and when Todd mutters, “Fantastic!” beneath his breath, elation spikes through me.
I’m sad when he lowers his camera. For the first time, he smiles. “That was good. Really good.”
I return his smile. “Thanks.”
He hands me the gown to cover up and I see a cheeky gleam in his eyes. “You’re the kind of girl that gives people the idea that gay guys like me can be convinced to switch lanes.”
I laugh. “Thanks, I think.”
He grins and walks away.
Fionnella is waiting for me once I change back into my normal clothes.
“The boss would like to see you. Leave your stuff, you can get them after.”
My heart leaps into my throat. I try to read her face but she’s too good for me. I leave the room, my mind a chaotic vortex. He said we wouldn’t speak again until my training was done. So why does he want me? Have I blown it?
Has he already seen the pictures and decided I’m no longer suitable? The thought of losing something I’m even now not sure was ever in my grasp fills me with so much anguish, my fingers shake as I turn the door handle and enter the familiar room.
Everything is the same, and yet I sense a difference in the atmosphere. A subtle shift I’m unable to pinpoint exactly.
“Lucky.”
The way he says my name draws a shiver.
“Hi,” I manage as I shut the door behind me.
“Sit down.”
My movements lack perfect coordination as I move forward, and for the first time since this whole surreal situation started I experience real fear. Oh, I’ve been afraid for my life since fleeing The Villa. But there’s nothing like being offered hope, and having it yanked away from you without explanation.
Fists balled in my lap, I stare at the surface of the table. Looking into the camera is too much. My desperation is too raw.
“Look at me, Lucky.”
The request is absurd seeing as he’s not in the room with me, but I know what he means. I want to pre-empt rejection with a plea. Or a fuck you. But words refuse to form.
I look into the camera.
“I’m told we have an accommodation problem.”
Shock spikes through me. “I…what?”
“You’ve been evicted from your motel.”
Fionnella.
My gaze drops. “Yes.”
“Lucky.” The demand is robotic, but no less intractable.
I find the lens again.
“A situation like this is potentially disruptive. Do you agree, Lucky?”
Potentially. All’s not lost. Yet. I clench my gut against premature relief. “I won’t let it get in the way of what I’m doing.”
“It already has.”
“How?”
“I’m here. Talking to you.”
I ignore the sting of the words. “Right. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“You said you wouldn’t fail me.”
“I haven’t,” I answer, sharper than I intended. I wince and bite the inside of my lip. “Not really. I’m sorry Fionnella had to disturb you, but I had things under control.”
“How?” He throws my question back at me.
My gaze drops again, even though I sense that doesn’t please him. But I can’t bear for him to witness my shame. “I was going to find another place tonight.”
“Where? And before you think of lying or refusing to answer, know that I won’t allow you to leave until I have an address where I can reach you.”
I glare at him. “I wasn’t going to lie.”
“Good.”
He waits.
I purse my lips, stomp down hard on my shame. It doesn’t die a complete death but it’s temporarily maimed. “I was going to find a bed at a shelter for the night, then hunt for somewhere else to live tomorrow.”
Thick silence pulses through the wall, feeds through the lens. I’m not even sure if he’s in this apartment or this building, never mind the same city as me. And yet I feel him. Around me. Above me. Inside me.
“A shelter.”
I nod.
“Remember the guy in the bar, Lucky? The one who wants to fuck you more than he wants to live? Do you think that guy would want the woman he craves to be spending the night in a shelter?”
Who is this guy? Who the fuck is he to mess with me like this?
Fuck him and fuck this bullshit.
I charge to my feet and glare straight into the blinking light of the camera. “That was a made-up fantasy. This is my life! I’m sorry if I ruined your grand plans for the evening. You think I enjoy being made homeless? You think I enjoy being tossed out on my ass without getting my money back for the rathole I had the privilege of calling home, or some dumb fuck telling me the only way I’m going to get my money is to suck his cock?”
I know I should stop, but my last nerve is shredded to pieces along with my hope. And if all I’m going to get out of this acid trip is a waxed crotch, nice smelling hair and a few free meals, then I deserve to rant a little.
Because, fuck karma.
“I know I’m nothing more than some expendable commodity to you, but you have no right to call me out for doing what I need to do to survive. I said I’ll take care of it and I will. If that’s not good enough for you, then too bad.”
My chest burns with the need for air and I realize I haven’t taken a breath throughout my outburst. Several quick breaths, then I toss the brand new phone on the table.
Thank God I didn’t throw the burner away.
“Are you done?”
I raise my chin. “I’m most definitely done.”
“Sit down.”
I don’t want to. I don’t want to be led by the nose into hope again. Besides, it’s way past time to get off this crazy train. “No, thanks.”
“I’ve spent time and resources on you, Lucky. Sit down.”
“Or what?”
He doesn’t respond. I walk backward until my ass hits the door, keeping my hands loose at my sides. So I can what? Make a quick escape if I need to? When every single person in this place reports to him? When I need a special passcode for the elevator to go either up or down?
If things head further south than they are now, I’m fucked. But I’ll remain standing for the fucking, thanks.
“Would you like m
e to help you with your little problem, Lucky?”
My no surges up my windpipe and hovers on the tip of my tongue. I pause. Swallow down the yes that threatens to take its place.
This was too good to be true right from the start. Had I been reading this in the paper or watching it on some shitty documentary on TV, I’d be screaming at the brainless bitch for being so gullible.
But reality is a stark, terrifying place.
“You need help, Lucky. I’m offering it. All you need to say is yes.”
The fight drains out of me so swiftly and so harshly, it actually resonates as physical pain within my bones. I want to drop where I stand, hand over the life I’m fighting so hard for to somebody. Anybody.
Him.
My booted foot kicks back against the door in a feeble attempt not to give in.
But he has all the time in the world.
Whereas I can count the grains of sand left in my hourglass.
I pick up my heavy head. Attempt to shake it, but it moves in the opposite direction.
“Say it, Lucky. If you want my help, say yes. Give yourself to me.”
My heartbeat slows to a drugged thudding. I look into the camera. “Yes.”
***
Q
She’s mine.
And now she’s exactly where I want her.
Fully under my control.
PART TWO
LUCKY
11
FLASHBACK
5 March 2015
The Villa
My day starts like any other, with the alarm going off just after midday and bitching from a hung over Lolita, the girl I share a room with. She’s twenty-four to my twenty-one. Those measly three years are one of many reasons she hates my guts.
The other reason is because she thinks I’m standing in the way of her promotion to become one of Clay’s Entertainers.
To keep The Villa’s Entertainers exclusive enough to attract wealthy patrons, Clay limited the girls to a cozy dozen and instituted a fancy booking system that involved said patrons going on a waiting list. Lolita was gagging to be promoted after one of the Entertainers fell down the stairs and permanently damaged her back. Clay promoted me instead, earning me an enemy for life.
But the truth is Lolita was overlooked because she sucks at giving blow jobs and she sucks at fucking, although she’s moderate at hand jobs. The one thing she does excel at is pole dancing, courtesy of some fancy ballet training she received from rich foster parents before they decided she was the wrong side of adorably nuts and tossed her back into the care system.
For the last six months, I’ve endured her vitriol. Recently, after overhearing her tell one of the girls that she hates my hair and intends to cut it off while I sleep, I’ve taken to sleeping with my hair carefully pinned to my skull and secured with a swim cap.
It’s uncomfortable as hell, but so far I’ve woken with my mane unmolested.
I hear her moving around in the room and pretend to be asleep. My first client isn’t until two, so I have time to wait for her to shower and leave before I get up.
I also have time to go over my plan, make sure every angle is covered. It’s only a matter of time before Clay discovers the documents in his safe are fake. I’m only a handful of people allowed in his inner sanctum. He doesn’t know I’m aware of the existence of his safe, but that won’t matter. I need to be far away from here when he connects the dots, because then he’ll know I’m the only one with the answers he needs.
Answers I promised to take to the grave.
Behind me, I hear Lolita disappear into the adjoining bathroom. I peel the swim cap off my head and moan in relief as I take out the hairpins.
Once all the pins are out, I sit on the side of my bed and massage my sore scalp. This is getting really old. I return the cap and pins to a different hiding spot, this time in the zip up section of Lolita’s least favorite handbag. She found three of my previous hiding spots and slashed the caps to shreds. I would be amused by her antics if I weren’t so goddamn fed up with wasting precious time to go to the sports store in Getty Falls to replace them. The last time I went into the store, the cashier looked at me funny. I could tell he was dying to find out what sex toy I intended to fashion from a swim cap. I remained silent and let him conjure up his own pathetic fantasy.
I’m in the middle of laying out my outfit for the day when I hear a knock. My grip tightens around the pearl choker my client favors. The only people who knock on the doors of the North Wing are people who don’t belong in the North Wing.
The North Wing is strictly out of bounds to patrons of The Villa and most of the male staff. It’s where the girls in the upper echelons of The Villa hierarchy have their sleeping quarters. The only way to access it is through a set of double doors in the East Wing, via a security coded entrance, which is also monitored by two of Clayton’s bodyguards twenty-four seven.
At this time of day, before The Villa’s doors open, the only person who could be knocking is—
“What, you’re too good to answer the door now, are you?” Lolita pauses in the bathroom doorway, her wet hair clinging to her damp skin, a towel draped over her voluptuous figure.
I force my fingers to release the choker and walk to the door. I gulp down my relief when I see who it is, although it’s short lived.
“Hey, Ridge,” my roommate greets sultrily from behind me.
The mountain in front of me barely acknowledges her with a nod before his gaze drops back down to me.
Great, something else for her to hate me for.
I stare at Ridge Mathews.
Of all of Clay’s minders, he’s the one that frightens me the most, and most of them are ex-military or mercenaries and pretty damn scary to begin with. They’re supposedly here for our protection, but I’ve seen the way Ridge’s eyes follow me when we cross paths. I suppress a shudder and maintain a neutral expression.
“Clay wants to see you, asap.”
Six words no girl at The Villa wants to hear first thing upon waking up. Or at anytime during a twenty-four-hour cycle.
In the mirrored picture next to the door, I see Lolita’s expression drop from sneer to sympathetic for a split second before she catches my gaze and normal service resumes.
“Oops, has Daddy’s little girl been naughty?” she sniggers.
“Shut up, Lolita,” I throw over my shoulder.
She laughs, drops the towel and walks bare ass naked to her closet. “Come find me after if you need cooling cream for your paddled ass.”
I don’t bother responding to her. To Ridge, whose gaze is fixed on me the whole time with an intensity that is extremely unsettling, I say, “Tell him I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I need a shower.”
He nods, and although his gaze doesn’t skim lower, I feel as if he’s stripped me naked just by looking into my eyes. I step back and shut the door, then continue to the bathroom before Lolita emerges to deliver another dose of envy-laced snark I’m not in the mood for.
I intended to take a bath before work, but I rush through a shower and don a loose sundress and cowboy boots, catch my hair in a ponytail and slide on a touch of lip gloss before I leave the North Wing.
The Villa is a grand residence, despite its soiled reputation. A Pre-Colonial mansion built by a baron with original Deep South roots, the rambling four-story has been revamped with questionable decor but top of the line contemporary amenities, including a security coded elevator that goes straight to the basement, where Clay’s office is located.
I exit to the hum of photocopiers and computers and the occasional ringing of a phone.
Clayton Getty treats whoring like the rest of the legitimate businesses he inherited from his father. No one has the temerity to question him because he owns every single person in Getty Falls, be it through bribery or intimidation.
To my memory, the only person who ever dared to cross him was the man I grew up thinking was my father. And he paid dearly for it.
As if conjured up from
my thoughts, Earl Gilbert emerges from the door leading into Clay’s office and slows to a stop when he sees me.
“The fuck you dressed like that for?” he sneers the moment he catches sight of what I’m wearing.
“I don’t start work till two. You’ll just have to contain yourself for a while longer before the slutty-outfit parade comes out, Dad.”
His one functioning eye, the one not gouged out by Clayton Getty in retribution for daring to take what was his, blazes holy hell at me. “I told you not to call me that. You keep giving me lip like that, girl, you’ll see what that gets you—”
“Enough of that, Earl. Bicker with her in your own time. Lucky, get in here.”
For the thousandth time, I puzzle why Earl didn’t leave Getty Falls after what Clayton did to him. I can only conclude that either Clayton spared Earl and turned him into a glorified lackey as an example to others or he believed in the keep your enemies closer mantra.
I don’t skirt out of arms’ reach the way I normally do when I’m within spitting distance of my father because I know he won’t lash out at me while Clayton’s within earshot. Although he hasn’t done that lately even when Clayton’s not around. Not after seeing the way I handled a drunken client recently. Earl knows I’m not afraid to defend myself.
Still, he eyes me with icy malice as I walk past him and enter Clayton’s office.
“Shut the door, Lucky.”
I obey and turn around, the tendrils of fear I felt in Ridge’s and my father’s presence, giving way to the real, unadulterated McCoy.
Clayton Getty is tall and broad-shouldered, his frame more suitable to a farmer or a bounty hunter than to a brothel boss. His dark brown hair is kept neat and his beard trimmed by a once-a-week stylist.
Although Clayton uses the basement of his ancestral mansion as his office, he’s very much the king in charge of his empire. He swivels his throne-like chair as his gaze sweeps me from head to toe.
“Earl has a point, you know? There’s a standard dress code Entertainers need to abide by, even when they’re off duty.”
“Sorry, Clay. Ridge said it was important,” I slip out the white lie.
