by Logan Fox
God, she wanted to rip the man’s clothes off again. Yes, she felt as satiated as a cat with a tummy full of cream, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still devour several mice, a squirrel, and make a valiant attempt at a raccoon.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Whatever had possessed Mr. Armani in the dining room had evaporated; that sex god had been replaced with the officious businessman of before.
There was a manila folder on the coffee table — a loose sheet filled with text and a fountain pen on top of it.
Pearl stared at the papers as that arthropod of earlier began its long journey up her spine again.
“And that?” she asked, her voice husky.
“A non-disclosure agreement.”
“And under it?”
“A contract.”
She switched her gaze from the paper to Mr. Armani. He stared out the window for a second and then slumped down beside her. His arm snaked over the back of the couch, almost touching her shoulder, and he gestured with a loose-wristed hand toward the folder.
“Sign the NDA. Then you can read the contract.”
She stared at him for a moment. Those green eyes were bright with lingering residues of lust, his face still flushed. And yet, what had happened mere minutes ago could have happened to someone else; someone on a different continent, a different planet.
Pearl slid the loose paper out from under the fountain pen and scanned it. It seemed legit. Nothing nefarious here, right? Her eyes stalled on her name; Pearl Buchanan.
“How did you—”
“Sign it or leave.”
Her cheeks heated, and she flashed him a glare he didn’t seem to notice.
“What, I can’t tell anyone I came here and had sex with you? Lucky for you, I still don’t know your fucking name, so I doubt anyone—”
“Owen Morrison.”
Pearl took a deep breath, her voice faltering. “—would believe me.”
Her hand paused over the single sheet of paper. She scrawled her signature on it, dated it, and flapped it at him until he took it from her.
“There. Happy?”
He twisted his head in concession and flicked a finger at the contract.
“Read it.”
Pearl took up the folder. Her fingers traced the letters embossed on the bottom right corner.
F. P.
Not his initials. Maybe the company he worked for? Or his employer. It was almost impossible to believe that someone who lived in an apartment like this had a boss, but hell, her world view was currently busy having its head dunked in a toilet bowl, so what did she know?
“What does this stand for?”
“Read it.” She shot him a withering stare to which his only reaction was a small huff of amusement.
Pearl read the contract. Tried to read the contract. The entire thing consisted of legal gobbledygook. She made a show of scanning her eyes down each page, frowning at more dense sections of text, and pausing for a few seconds on the last page; the only piece of legible English phrase in the document was her name. There were several ‘addendum's’ attached to the end, but she didn’t even bother trying to read those.
She snapped it closed and lifted her eyebrows at him. “I have no idea what this means.”
“I didn’t expect you to.” Mr. Armani exhaled slowly. “Do you have a lawyer?”
She cocked her head at him. “I pole dance for a living. No, I don’t have a lawyer.”
“Then you should find one.”
“Mmm… I’m good.” Pearl looked away from him, pursing her lips. “I’ve already made plans for tomorrow.”
“Would you like the gist of it?”
She rolled her eyes and turned back to him. “Obviously.”
Owen’s smile lifted. “A hundred-thousand dollars.”
“Is… how much this pillow costs?” Pearl asked, tugging at the corner of a black suede throw pillow nestled between them.
Owen huffed through his nose. “Is how much you will be paid.”
“For tonight?” Blood drained from Pearl’s face and collected in a congealed mass in the pit of her belly.
He laughed. “For a month of your time. Your… services.”
Pearl’s stomach twisted. So here it was, out in the open. And dear God, what an ugly, deformed thing it was. She sat back, whatever fire had been brimming inside her instantly extinguished by his words.
For a moment, just a moment, she’d thought Mr. Arm—Owen had had a thing for her. That he liked her. That he wanted her to be his girlfriend. Something soft and fluffy like that. It had felt soft and fluffy when he’d been sucking her clit.
No… it hadn’t.
It had been hot and dirty, not soft and fluffy.
Pearl shrugged into the sofa, running her gaze over the array of ornaments displayed on the walls: vases and books and figurines.
“Sex, right? Every day? Or… every night?” She pointed at the folder. “Does it say stuff like how often and what kinds and all that shit?”
“You’ve read it.”
“I’ve scanned it. It’s in lawyer speak.”
“Which is why I suggest you find one.”
Pearl took a deep breath, turning to him.
“I thought you didn’t pay for sex, now you want to give me a hundred thousand dollars to sleep with you for a month?”
“Not with me, sweetheart.”
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
Owen’s eyes sparkled. He’d brought his iced coffee with him, and he tugged at his straw as he studied her over the rim of the frosted glass. She opened her mouth to repeat her question, louder perhaps, but his flash of a smile cut her off before she began.
“Have you heard of the Fox Pit?”
Pearl’s mouth slowly closed. Her eyes flashed to the document, to the initials embossed on its corner.
Mystery solved.
“Should I have?” she asked in a strangled voice.
“We try and maintain a low profile, so hopefully not.”
“We, who?”
“It’s a gentlemen’s club.”
“That’s… disgusting.”
“Sex?”
“A sex club. They’re disgusting.”
Owen shrugged. “We provide exclusive membership for gentlemen with an exceptionally high net-worth. Membership includes the use of our facilities in Vermont and the services of our foxes.”
“You want to hire me out to a bunch of billionaires?”
Another sip of iced coffee momentarily halted the interrogation. Those green eyes fixed on her, unreadable in their intensity.
“Our members visit the Fox Pit where you and the other girls stay. They can—”
“Wait.” Pearl sat forward with her hand raised. “There are girls that have agreed to this?” She stabbed the folder, sending the pen rolling onto the coffee table.
Owen caught it before it fell to the floor.
“Yes. Nine, in fact.” He set the pen back on the folder. “We are looking for an even ten.”
Pearl gaped at him.
She eventually closed her mouth, but this didn’t help with the production of words. None that made sense, anyway.
“You… how… why would…”
Owen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Take the contract, Pearl. Have someone read over it. I’ll need your response by midday tomorrow.”
He rose, paused, and stared down at her.
Pearl found her feet with effort but did manage to glare back at him. “I wouldn’t count on it,” she said.
Owen’s only response was a small, knowing smile.
Pearl didn’t know any lawyers, but she did know a guy who’d tried — and failed — his bar exam a few times. Next best thing, right? Plus, she was pretty sure he was into her… which meant she might not even have to pay him to look over the papers Owen had given her.
She lay like a corpse on her bed, arms folded over her chest, eyes staring up at the flaking, damp-stained ceiling above her. Her fingers idly tra
ced the welt on her leg where Owen had left his mark on her.
The Fox Pit
What a joke.
She snorted, but couldn’t close her eyes. Her mind kept replaying snapshots of last night back to her. Some were pretty. Some weren’t.
Sex. But not with him. A whole bunch of rich men, but not him. So why was he the one sent to recruit?
Because he was in charge of acquisitions. Acquiring things. Acquiring women for his Fox Pit. Pearl snorted again. She had to go to the club tonight and dance her ass off. She should be sleeping, not lying here wondering what went on in a place called the Fox Pit where women were paid three-thousand dollars a day. Well, roughly three-thousand dollars.
Holy fuck. Three-thousand dollars.
Her gaze roved across the ceiling, following the lines of her apartment. It was a short, depressing journey. She fumbled for her phone, scrolled through her address book, and stared at the name. What if Greg had changed his number? When had she last spoken to him? She checked the time: it was half-past six in the morning. Way too early.
She set her phone back on the nightstand and continued her investigation of the ceiling.
One hundred thousand dollars.
Thirty days.
Shit.
5
Lawyer Up
Greg answered his phone at forty minutes past nine. He sounded hung-over, grumpy, and surprised to hear from her. She bribed him with a greasy, fast-food breakfast, took down his address, and raced to find a cab.
He lived in an apartment that looked just as bad as hers. Obviously, his lawyer stuff hadn’t panned out, which meant she was possibly barking up the wrong metaphorical tree. Except, what she’d thought to be a tree would probably turn out to be one of those tacky, artificial cellphone towers instead.
Pearl rang the bell and waited. Her stomach churned at the thought of meeting up with someone she’d seen more than three years ago, had made out with in an alleyway after too many Jagerbombs, and had then blown off because all she could remember was that she hated the way he’d kept saying ‘man’ at the end of every sentence.
A buzzer sounded. She pushed through the door, finding her way to Greg’s apartment minutes later since the elevator had a large ‘Out of Order’ sign on it and she had to climb four flights of stairs before she got to his floor.
Greg answered the door after the fifth knock.
“Hi.” Pearl lifted the bag of room temperature take-out. “I come bearing food.”
“Pearl.” Greg’s voice was huskier than she remembered, but that could just have been the hangover. He was badly in need of a shave and a haircut, unless he was going the hipster route and trying to grow a beard.
He gestured her inside.
Despite the few extra lines around his eyes and mouth, Greg looked the same as he had in his college years: chestnut brown eyes shadowed by thick brows and dark hair.
If he hadn’t been wearing a ragged pair of jeans and a wrinkled vest that exposed a clumsy tattoo of a dragon on his bicep, she would have attributed the mess in his place to a party he’d thrown here last night. But, all things considered, this was probably just the way he lived.
Greg hurried past her, clearing an empty pizza box from the sofa and stacking it atop another on the coffee table.
“How’ve you been, man?” he asked, standing beside the couch with two beer cans in his hands, scanning around as if looking for somewhere to stash them.
“Good, I suppose.” She shrugged, setting down the paper bag and shoving her hands in her pockets. “Guess things could always be better, right? I’m not exactly living on a yacht, or anything.”
“Yeah, I hear you.” He decided to put the beer cans back on the coffee table since every other surface of the house was already occupied with an assortment of ornaments or empty take out boxes or more beer cans. “You want something to drink, man? I’ve got beer. Or… okay, just beer.”
“No, I’m fine.” She took out their two meals, hesitating until Greg took his from her hands and wiggled in beside her on the couch.
He was already devouring his food before she’d unwrapped her burger. They ate in silence. Delicate excuses for pizza weren’t exactly filling. Neither was mousse someone else ate off you: all of the pleasure, none of the calories. She smiled to herself and brushed crumbs off her hands.
“So what’ve you been up to?” Greg asked. He balled up his wrappers and tossed them into a corner. To think what was lurking there… Pearl hurriedly cut off the thought.
Nope. No thinking. Talk. Talk was good.
“This and that. I… dance now.”
Greg nodded. He dipped his head, staring at his feet for a moment. He wore a pair of scuffed-up trainers that used to be white.
“I hear you, man. Hey, so I did eventually pass that goddamn bar, believe it or not. Eighth time’s the charm, right? I was still waiting for my results when…” He cleared his throat and grabbed hold of his ankle, bringing it up to his knee. He began toying with his laces.
Pearl sat up straight. Bad news on the way?
“My parents, man. They died a couple of years ago. Never even knew I passed the bar, man. Shit timing, right?”
“Car crash?” Pearl asked quietly.
“Nah.” Greg’s hand paused. “Robbed at home. Offed by a couple of thugs.”
Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth, couldn’t think of anything to say, closed it again.
“Anyway, the insurance paid out. Paid out a lot, man. Kinda figured I didn’t need to go into all that corporate bullshit. What’s the point, right? Was just gonna do it for the money, anyway.”
“Shit, Greg.” Pearl sighed and put her bag on the floor, her appetite extinguished.
He waved a hand and pointed to the folder on her lap. “This it?”
“Yup.” She put her hand over it, pushing it down. “I… do you want some background… or…”
“Nah. Just let me see.” He flicked his fingers at the file.
“It’s all Greek to me. Tried to read it again last night, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. If you could just tell me if it’s legit. What exactly I have to…” she felt a blush creep up her cheeks and tried to suppress it. Greg didn’t seem to notice: his attention was fixed solely on the file. He had a hungry gleam in his eyes.
Pearl let out a breath that puffed out her cheeks and handed it over. Greg sat forward, pushed a burger box out of the way on his coffee table, and opened the file. He studied the first page, turned it over, and set it carefully aside on the left-hand page of the file. Read the next. With each page done, he would turn it over — making sure there was nothing on the back — and then place it neatly on the left.
Pearl watched him for a few minute while she ate the rest of her breakfast, her eyes moving between Greg’s fixed study of the contract and his apartment. So that was probably where the ornaments came from: they were artifacts from his dead parents. They looked like the kind of things parents would horde: a cuckoo clock, porcelain ballerinas, a paperweight with a dandelion inside. Her chest clenched as she thought about what Greg must have gone through, losing both his parents in something as violent as a home invasion. Luckily, she’d just lost hers to the wanton twists of Fate: she’d never even known her parents, them having abandoned her at birth. Her roving gaze found an ashtray, the roaches of several joints inside. This made her eyebrows perk up. More surveillance located a bong, peeking out behind a lazy-boy positioned in front of a large flat-screen television. The leather was torn in a few places, its stuffing mushrooming out.
When she turned her eyes back to Greg, she jumped. He was staring at her, eyes confused, mouth working around his next words.
“What?” she asked.
“You serious, man?” Greg turned back to the file. He flipped back a few pages. “Like… are you… I mean…”
“Okay… Greg? Use your words, buddy.”
He tapped a page. One of the addendums if she wasn’t mistaken, and she probably was.
�
�Who are these creeps?”
“Which creeps? I only know one. And… I don’t even know if I can tell you his name because of that NDA thing I signed.”
Greg closed his eyes and gave his head a quick shake. “Shit, I totally forgot. You have like ten bucks on you, man?”
“Uh… maybe?”
He waved a hand toward her. “I don’t need the money. I mean I do, but not—” he broke off, ran his hand through his mussed up hair and sighed heavily. “You have to pay me so that I’m like officially your legal counsel.”
“Oh.”
“That NDA was probably just as serious as this thing—” he tapped the file “—and I don’t want you getting into shit.”
Pearl tucked her chin in, blinking at Greg for a moment before snatching up her purse and digging through it for a note.
“Five bucks fine?”
“Yeah whatever, man.” He took the note from her, folded it, and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans as he momentarily hoisted his ass off the couch. “So I’m officially your legal counsel in this matter, got it?”
“Yup.”
“Good. Okay.” He ran both hands through his hair this time.
If Greg tidied himself up a bit, he’d be quite the catch. But only if he did something about his apartment. How in the hell did anyone live like this?
“The contract states that you’ll be staying at this ‘Fox Pit’ place — whatever the fuck that is — for thirty days. During which time you’ll be expected to perform certain services for any of the owners and guests of the venue. Now…”
Greg whipped out another page from the contract.
“They’re expecting some pretty fucked up shit from you. One: dancing. Pole dancing, go-go dancing, lap dancing—” he glanced up at her before returning his frowning, chestnut eyes to the page “—and so on. So, you’ll be a stripper for them. Then…”
He retrieved a new page.
“Second: serving them. So bringing them drinks, food, etcetera. Third: servicing them.” His eyes were wide when he looked up from this. “Yes, there’s a distinction. The first, that you serve them food. The second: that you serve yourself up on a fucking platter.”
