Granted, being a lousy waitress wasn’t making me any decent money whatsoever. So, they were no doubt unhappy I couldn’t make the payments they so undeservedly expected me to pay for my father’s debt—as though it’s my fault my father gambled away every last cent he ever earned before becoming indebted to the tune of five million dollars plus. When our little meeting turned into a business proposition, I will admit I was shocked. Usually, our “meetings” turned into me being used as a punching bag for ten minutes or so, followed by me promising to try harder to make my payments, yada, yada, yada. Oddly though, this meeting was actually just that, and while it started with me kicking and screaming and them cramming me in the back of a car with overly darkened windows, it ended in a decidedly different manner—and I without a bruise on me. Well, that was a first.
The proposition was simple enough. I would become a gentlemen’s escort. I almost laughed at the idea, but fortunately managed to rein in my tongue, which does manage to get away from me at times. They were dead serious, and I was equally shocked. I’m not escort material. I’m five feet two when I’m not slouching, I’m pale, and I burn rather than tan, and while my skin is even and flawless, it looks childish and immature given my lack of cosmetic know-how. My best feature is my hair, and while other women look at it enviously, they have no idea what a nightmare natural ringlets can be. I keep my hair long, if for no other reason than it allows me to pull it back easily. My locks are auburn, and I ignore them as much as possible. We don’t get along, and when I pay too much attention to my oh-so-enviable curls, they tend to rebel, and I end up looking like a scarecrow. The rest of me is easy to miss. I have a slight build, which I think means not the least bit womanly whatsoever—at least according to my new boss. It shows in my small boobs—an A cup when I stick my chest out—my small hips, and the fact that I weigh barely over one hundred pounds after a big meal.
So, when Derek insulted me by telling me that I looked like a boy, he really was just telling me the same thing I’ve always known, and, quite frankly, have heard before in my long and depressing twenty-two years on this earth—I’m not beautiful enough for any man to desire. I get it, loud and clear, thank you, mean man with dark eyes, who hates my guts and will now be forced to have sex with me! But it doesn’t stop me from feeling a certain degree of relief anyway.
When the men approached me with the business proposition, I might have nearly laughed at them, but I have to admit, I was intrigued. The women work three to four evenings a week for five to six hours at most, and they make ridiculously good money. So good in fact, that, if I could pull it off, I could be free of the thugs in five years’ time. There was also the fact that they live in luxurious apartments at Trimbles, the gentlemen’s gaming hall on the Upper East Side of Manhattan where the women work as escorts. How this translates to me: no more sleeping in dirty old hotels or, worse, on the streets when I can’t afford a roof over my head. The past five years have been filled with nothing but my constant search for food, money, clothing, shelter, and security. And Trimbles provides all of that on top of a handsome salary. I just have to sleep with men for a living. How hard can that be? It can’t possibly be more difficult than sleeping on the streets, can it?
It’s not as if my life has always been so disastrous. Five years ago, I had parents, a home, an education, clothes, even friends, but that was all lost in an instant. While the secret of how it was all lost will die with me to protect my own well-being, I will also fight tooth and nail to free myself from the proverbial ties that bind me to my well-kept secret. I’ve been left with an exorbitant debt, not my own, payable to ruthless animals who would see me dead before they see me fail them. But it is these very thugs who have recommended Trimbles as a way out for me. They see money, but I see security, safety, a warm, dry bed, and, perhaps at long last, freedom.
I was granted an interview, to my great surprise, and arrived only an hour ago to the impressive twenty-five-story building that houses Trimbles. When I met Mr. Grayson, I hated him instantly. Mid-fifties, if I’m guessing, tall, handsome, but ruthless. There was a glint in his eyes that told me he is not to be trusted, and he is the first inkling I had that, while this life may offer a warm place to sleep and a good paycheck, it will not offer even a shred of humanity. When he told me to strip as he left me in the room I’m now waiting in, I panicked for the first time. How can I do this? I’m a virgin, and up to this point, I assumed that I’d remain one until the thugs decided beating me to a pulp had lost its appeal and fucking me might get their point across more effectively. I suppose I should be grateful I’ll lose that part of myself here, rather than in some dirty old run-down house that they seemed so intent on dragging me to for our little “meetings.”
But when dark-eyed Derek entered the room along with ugly Aaron and kind Frederick, I almost bolted naked through the door. Now, here I am, apparently hired—for some unknown reason—and given to a man that terrifies me more than any other I’ve ever met, and who, let’s face it, hates me despicably. But he’s quite beautiful, mid-thirties, tall and lean, no doubt strong and fit. His features are exceptional. His hair is as dark as his eyes, thick and perfectly disheveled. He’s beautiful, but intimidating. He looks like a model, quite frankly, just a very, very scary one. It’s the intimidation oozing from him that terrifies me most. Were I not so afraid of him, I’m sure I’d find him incredibly appealing, but he’s just so damn terrifying, and regardless of what Frederick has told me of him, I don’t sense at all I’m in good hands. Then again, the last five years of my life have been as much hell as I hope to experience in this lifetime. Surely I can handle a bit of sex for money. This must be better than starving on the streets, waiting to die at the hands of criminals. But even as I do my best to convince myself I can handle this, my resolve waivers. I’m scared, really scared.
Chapter 2
“I’m sooooooo sorry you’ve been waiting! I can’t believe Mr. Pennington didn’t tell me to come get you! Thank God I ran into Frederick in the hall, otherwise you’d have been here all night! When I mentioned it to Mr. Pennington, he just shrugged and … well, he can be a jerk. Frederick said you’ve been waiting for nearly two hours, but I’m here now!” The beautiful blonde now standing in front of me took less than a millisecond to enter the room and say all of that. What an incredible talent she has!
The woman pulls me into an instant hug. She’s the epitome of what Derek was referring to when he spoke of the “whores” who work at Trimbles. She is extremely blonde, extremely voluptuous, and extremely beautiful. She’s far taller than I, her makeup is done perfectly, and the dress she wears hugs her curves like a glove. She walks with confidence and exudes feminine charm. I am nothing like this woman, but she doesn’t seem to care in the least that I’m completely out of place here in my jeans and flat shoes. Instead, she instantly accepts me and is ready to be my very best friend. She introduces herself as Liz as she walks me from the room. She talks animatedly about how happy she is to have a new face in the house, and she starts speed talking as we walk to the elevator, overwhelming me with every last detail of information she thinks I will need to know.
Apparently, the men of the houses are addressed as sir or mister, and our particular mister is a “Pennington … Derek Pennington.” Good to know. Apparently the man of a floor has complete control of the women in his charge. He decides everything from the clothes that are appropriate for her to wear, to the men she will sleep with. The man of a given floor has every right to use his women as he sees fit. They do so regularly, and are, in fact, expected to—quality control of a sort. The only exception is when a woman is working. A house manager is not to have sex with his women twelve hours before or after she has been with a client. A house manager from another floor may choose to use a woman not under his charge, but it is ultimately up to her own house manager whether the other house manager will be allowed to use her. I shudder to think of ugly Aaron touching me again, and I pray silently I won’t ever be handed over to him.