Richer Than God

by Amelia Wilde

  “She’s turning pink,” comments Delly in a searching tone.

  “She likes it,” Savannah answers flatly.

  “I can hear you,” I snap, and it makes them both laugh again. But it’s broken the spell, and by the time Lydia goes to work on my legs, they’re gone, off in front of one of the clothing racks. Savannah reappears as I’m stepping off the table. My legs feel weak, shaky, and Savannah looks irritated. I’m sure she was hoping I would faint or die, and now that I haven’t, she has to carry out the rest of Zeus’s instructions.

  “Here.” She thrusts a dress at me. “There’s a dressing room in the back.”

  I hold my head up high and go toward the only direction that seems like “the back.” It’s behind the dress racks—one single, wide door. It’s surprisingly light when I pull it open and throw myself inside.

  Alone.

  The door catches me as I sag against it, the dress crumpled at my chest. My skin still stings from the waxing, all raw and pink. As pink as the room I’ve just entered. Savannah undershot it by a lot when she called this a dressing room. It’s no single mirror with a curtain and a set of fluorescent lights. Blush pink walls surround sunken shelves, and the shelves themselves are full of lingerie sets.

  New. With tags. In every color, from one side of the room to another. There are bras and panties and beneath that, shoes. I’ve walked into an upscale boutique hidden inside a spa inside a whorehouse. It makes sense, I guess; they have to look pretty.

  We have to look pretty.

  I shove away the thought of what’s to come and shake out the dress in my hands. Savannah’s terrible, but she’s chosen a good color for me—black at the top, transitioning to a deep purple on the bottom. It’s a gown, really, and feels unspeakably expensive.

  I’ll need a bra for this.

  I choose one of the sets, double-check to make sure it’s my size, and hang up the gown while I put it on. I’m trying to zip up the dress behind my back when the door flings open.

  “Are you ready?” Delly’s voice is not what I expected to hear. “Oh, let me get that for you.” She does, and our eyes meet in the mirror. She’s still deciding about me. “Savannah says the girls are waiting to help you with your hair.”

  I could almost cry with relief. “I’m sure I could figure it out.”

  She shakes her head. “We’ve got it.”

  We go back out into the cloud of hairspray, and someone sits me in one of the salon chairs, and then I’m lost in a forest of hands and voices and featherlight touches. Makeup brushes and blush. The practiced tug and pull of a curling iron.

  When I open my eyes again, I’m not waiting in the mirror.

  It’s another version of me. Beautiful. Sophisticated.

  Not a virgin.

  9

  Zeus

  I’m early to the dining room. It’s the one I reserve for my private use, built specifically without a view of the mountain. The river that cuts through the city is vaguely visible from here in flashes of light on water.

  I’m early, because I can’t stop thinking about Brigit. My sweet, naïve little whore. Who liked what I did to her earlier in spite of herself. Who cried with it. I can still feel her swallow under my thumb. Fuck. It’s like being slowly lit on fire, thinking of her. It’s not so scorching that I have to stop, but I should. That’s where this is headed. All emotions are tiny disasters in the making. And now, look. I’ve let mine get the better of me.

  Curiosity. I’ll chalk it up to that. Women like Brigit do not routinely walk into this building and insist on selling themselves. Reya tells me she was wearing a cardigan outside. A fucking cardigan. Where did she come from?

  “You wanted me cleaned up. Well, I’m clean now.”

  I turn away from the window, and there she is, transformed. My breath catches at the sight of her—catches with an aftershock. I don’t feel this way about beautiful women. I don’t. But she’s stunning in a gown that blooms from purple into black, ending in a square neckline that’s so demure and lovely that it’s obscene.

  I know what they put her through at the spa. I thought a hundred times about going down there to see it for myself. A rare misstep—I should have done it, because they’ve hidden all the embarrassment from me and made her look like a little goddess. Savannah’s fingerprints are all over this. She thought a gown like this would do less for me than something low-cut and sheer.

  She was fucking wrong.

  I want to tear this off of Brigit a thousand times more than I’d want to rip apart some of the see-through bullshit the girls wear when they’re not feeling confident. Awe—it’s awe making my chest feel like it’s expanded a hundred times over.

  “There. Now you don’t look like you just fell off a turnip truck.”

  Brigit blinks, looking down toward the floor, but it’s a momentary hesitation. She almost manages to look comfortable in high heels as she crosses the room. Such a performance. I’ve never seen another person put on a show like this. “You still look the same.”

  “And how is that?” I go around the table and pull her chair out for her. My father might have been a psychopath and a murderer, but even murderers need manners.

  She eyes me curiously, her green eyes catching in the afternoon glow from the window. “Gorgeous.” It’s almost a sigh. “And mean.”

  “Please. I look mean while I’m sliding your chair in for you?” Mostly, I do it so she can’t see how hard my heart is beating. The effect she has—it’s too much. When she’s seated, I go back to my own place and straighten my sleeves. “Your family must have been as soft as they come. Do you live in the city?”

  “Now I do.” Brigit lifts her napkin, places it delicately in her lap. She sits so straight in her chair that I want to bend her over the table and teach her several things about the limits of politeness. The silence goes on.

  “And where did you live before?” I prompt. We don’t need menus, since I’ve already ordered all the food, and there’s nothing to do but look at her. Someone has curled her hair, letting it fall in gentle waves around her face. They brightened her with makeup, making her shine like a jewel. Men would pay a handsome fee to fuck her first. Too bad for them.

  She names a suburb on the outer bounds of the city. It’s not one of the richest ones, but it’s not a part of the slums either. It’s a liminal space. The people who live there could just as easily move up or move down. Brigit certainly hasn’t stayed put. “All by yourself, then?”

  “It was my father’s house.” One of the staff comes in from the attached kitchen and pours water. She waits for him to finish then lifts the glass to her lips. I have never been jealous of glassware before, but I’d like to crush it into tiny shards. My fist tightens, waiting. “My mother doesn’t live there.” This is practically no information, and she knows it. “Who punched you?”

  My hand goes to my face, and I pretend to brush away an eyelash instead. “My brother. He put my head through a window.”

  And the look on his face when he did it was an expression of such searing pain that I thought for sure he’d kill me. He thought someone he loved was dead, and he was prepared to tear down the building, beginning with me. It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to care that much about anything. Honestly, I didn’t know he was capable. The revelation still dogs me, nipping at my heels, digging claws into exposed flesh.

  Brigit considers this, taking another sip of water. “What were you fighting about? Does your family know you own a whorehouse?”

  So many parts of that sentence are laughable. “Of course. They couldn’t be prouder.” Another rush of emotion—what the fuck? It’s like she’s staring right through me with those big green eyes, seeing everything that I’ve tried to cover with expensive suits and smiles for years, for fucking years. It’s the taste of the word prouder in my mouth. That’s what it is. I haven’t even lied. My father would be proud, up to the moment he discovered that I’ve been keeping the women alive. “After all, my father brought me to m
y first hooker when I was twelve.”

  Brigit gasps, horrified, one hand gripping the side of the table. Innocent thing. “Twelve? That’s not right. That’s… that’s abuse.”

  “Is it?” Brigit can never know what’s really happening in this conversation. What’s boiling under my skin. “He was doing me a favor, in his way.”

  I can still see that woman’s dark hair. The pink lace of her panties. The thin lines of pain on her ass from my father’s whip. I can still feel her throat under my hands and my father’s over mine. I can still feel her breath. How shallow it got, how close to stopping.

  Brigit seems enraged on my behalf, which is as interesting a thing as I’ve ever seen. There’s fire in her eyes, in the set of her jaw. For me. And she has no idea what happened in that room. No one does, except my father Cronos, and the memory is rotting with him in his grave. Brigit’s anger is energizing. It makes me want to feel it too.

  “You don’t let twelve-year-olds in here, do you?”

  I give her a sharp look. “No.”

  “Why not?” Her voice is hot, challenging. “Wouldn’t you be doing them a favor?”

  “This is a strictly over-eighteen establishment.” I give her a onceover, letting my gaze linger on her tits, rising and falling with every breath. “You are over eighteen, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she shoots back.

  “Then what do you have to be concerned about?” I laugh then arrange my face into something resembling seriousness. “Is there something you’re concerned about, sweetheart? You can tell me, you know. I’m here to listen.”

  “You’re an asshole.” Her fingernails dig into the tablecloth. She’ll ruin it if she’s not careful.

  “Obviously.”

  “I should leave.”

  It’s an empty threat, and we both know it, but my entire body readies itself to block the door. “Go then.”

  I’m watching her like I don’t give a fuck, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. Caring is not a default setting for a man like me. It’s not the fact that I care that has every detail of her standing out, my skin supersensitive to the clothes I’ve been wearing all day. The air between us thickens. The ice in my water clinks against the glass.

  Brigit breathes.

  “What will I find outside, if I go?”

  “Clients arriving for the night.” In black, unmarked cars. The drivers will linger as long as they’re here, circling the streets of the city. The whorehouse comes to life while the sun sets, and outside, the men who fill my coffers wait for the perfect opportunity to come in and take their pleasure.

  “So I could find one of them.” Breathless now, but she gets it under control. “I could do what I came here to do.”

  I laugh again, and she reddens underneath her blush. “You’re funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m trying to—”

  “Sell a virtually untouched pussy for a paycheck. I know.” I lean forward, like we’re at a business meeting. This is supposed to be a business meeting. “Go. Walk out of here right now, find one of the guests, and name your price. But when you’re finished, don’t come crying to me.”

  I can picture them so vividly—the tears in her eyes. The shame. It’s like one of my paintings, stripped bare for me to look at without obstruction. But another instinct roars to life. No one else will make her cry. No one else will make her face scarlet with shame. Only me.

  Brigit clears her throat. “What would be worse? Them, or you?”

  “Me.” Without hesitation, me. I’m surprised she even dares to ask the question. “But there’s something to be said for the devil you know.”

  “I don’t know you.” Also true.

  Dinner arrives. “That’s for the best.”

  “Is it?” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, which have been expertly covered in a lipstick that I want to wipe off with my thumb.

  It is better for her not to know. Much better than the alternative. I pick up my fork and look her in the eye. “I’m not the one for sale. Now, hurry up and tell me more about you, Brigit. It will be so much easier to sell you off that way.”

  10

  Brigit

  I can’t tell what’s going on behind those golden eyes, and it’s the most frustrating thing. How could someone so gorgeous be so difficult to read? I want Zeus to make sense, but he doesn’t. I want him to look rough, with dark hair and dark eyes and scars, but he doesn’t. I want him to be kind, but he’s not.

  That’s a lie. I’m not sure if I want him to be kind. If he did that, then what he said would be true—I don’t know him at all. But I do. I know his mouth on mine and between my legs, and I know how his hands feel. I know the way he watches me. That’s not nothing.

  I keep telling myself it’s not nothing all the way through dinner. The waiter clears my plate before I’m finished, and then Zeus stands, towering over the table. “Come with me, sweetheart. It’s time.”

  “Time for what?” My heart climbs up into my throat and beats there. He can’t possibly mean it’s time to take on a client. Take on a client—that’s the clinical way of putting it. Let a man fuck me for money. Spread my legs for that man. I can’t do it. The thought makes me lightheaded. “I thought you said—”

  “Men will like you better if you’re pretty and compliant and silent,” he comments, leading the way out the door. He’s so tall that I have to hurry to keep up with him, making me unsteady on the high heels. The other girls dressed me up like one of them. They made me look elegant and knowing, but my steps aren’t elegant.

  I lose track of the twists and turns, and he doesn’t slow down to let me get my bearings. He doesn’t so much as look at me. Zeus walks directly to a huge, dark door looming up in the middle of a wall decorated in deep-green paint and gilded frames. Opens it. Goes through. At the last moment, he catches my elbow in his hand and pulls me through with him, keeping me close by his side. It’s a fleeting touch, like I burned him.

  It’s a large space, but it looks intimate, because the ceilings are low and the only light comes from lamps on tables snugged close to sofas and armchairs. And the chairs are filled with men.

  Men talking in low voices, the occasional burst of laughter rising above them. Men with their white sleeves rolled up to their elbows, jackets slung over the backs of chairs. Men with their hands around thick crystal glasses full of an amber liquid. Men with bright eyes.

  They’ve come here after work. Men in suits, coming to this lounge after work like it’s any bar in the city, any restaurant.

  Something’s missing.

  My memory supplies the women in the spa this morning, their dresses shimmering in the light, and their absence taps me on the shoulder.

  I’m the only one.

  A hush ripples out from where I’m standing, and Zeus touches me again, fingertips light on the small of my back. An electric sensation burns up to the base of my neck. Forward. Go forward. We move closer, and the silence ripples out. It’s the break before a storm, the eerie quiet with a green sky. And then the first droplets come.

  One of the men stands up, drink in hand, and then there are more. Even the ones who stay seated watch, eyes tracking every movement.

  “What did you bring us, Zeus? She’s got small tits.” I’m torn between wanting to know who said it and pretending to be nonchalant, so I only catch the moment when the man smiles. It’s a predatory grin. Cold lances across my gut.

  “Is her pussy tight, at least? I bet it is, with a dress like that.”

  Laughter, low and heavy with drink.

  It happens slowly, smoothly; one by one, they all get up. They all move as a group to my side of the room, taking seats nearer the door, lounging against a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. As if anyone reads here.

  They keep circling.

  Testing.

  Sharks in water.

  If the women were wolves, the men—they’re more dangerous by far. But none of them are as dangerous as Zeus. He’s completely at ease, standi
ng nearby, not seeming to care if they get close. My breath gets shallow. There are no good choices. I can’t twist my hands into my gown. I can’t edge into his side and hope he puts his arm around me. That would mark me as the fool I am.

  Or maybe they can already tell.

  “How is she at sucking cock? Or do you not know?”

  “I bet she chokes,” one answers.

  I can only see white shirts out of the corners of my vision—white, ironed shirts and dark jackets. The scent of cologne wraps around me. It’s the last warning. They’re close enough to touch. A white sleeve flashes, a hand comes close, and then an arm cuts across. A fist tightens on the sleeve and pushes it back. Zeus laughs, and for the first time, I register he doesn’t laugh because something funny has happened. He laughs when something threatening has happened. Nothing could possibly threaten him, so….

  The man who reached for me, his hand angling for the dip between my legs, stands back, hands up. “I only wanted a sample.”

  “I’m still training her.” There’s no room for argument in Zeus’s tone, light as it is.

  “Then I want first dibs,” the man counters.

  “Second,” shouts another.

  “Third.” That call comes from a man in the back, and the energy in the room sharpens.

  “Reya.” Zeus doesn’t raise his voice at all, but then she’s there, her ledger in hand.

  “Repeat your claims.” Reya raises an eyebrow, her lips curving up in a smile that reels me in too. For a single heartbeat.

  “What are they claiming?” I should know this, but I need to hear him say it.

  “The order that they’ll fuck you once you’ve passed your inspection.” Zeus puts his hands in his pockets and keeps watch as the men line themselves up, calling out to Reya to write their names down. First. Second. Third. Sixth. Tenth. Twelfth.