She didn't complain, or give dirty looks, or act upset by my presence. Instead, she introduced herself formally and grabbed a suitcase from my hand, and we walked up the stairs. I couldn't help but stare up at the high ceilings or memorize the various abstract paintings on the wall.
The upper floor had several doors lined against the wall, and I wondered how many women lived here at one time.
"Don't worry. You'll get used to being here. It doesn't take long."
Her words and voice were reassuring, soft, and motherly, although she couldn't have been much older than me.
"How many women live here?"
"Right now there are five of us here, six including you. The rest of the girls have their own places but drop in occasionally. Here we are."
The fourth door on the left would be mine.
Inside were beige walls, a sleigh bed, and a large window with a balcony. At least I had that.
"I'm right next door," she said as she pointed to the right, "if you need anything."
I smiled.
"I'm happy you're here, Jennifer. It seems everyone else is sewn into cliques. Plus it's nice to no longer be the new girl."
She gave a sincere smile and shut the door.
I unpacked my clothes and laid them in the dresser and then opened the balcony door and stepped out. The backyard had a hot tub and a pool, and a patio bar and pool house. I only imagined the kind of sex parties that happened down there. My mind went wild with naked people strutting around the pool, having sex with one another in the corner, and the moans. Oh gosh, the nasty moans. Sometimes my imagination even scared me.
Three knocks tapped on the door, and I barely cracked it. Mr. Felton leaned against the frame only enough for me to see his face.
"Yesterday was a mistake. I wanted to apologize."
"It's not like I enjoyed it anyway."
"Of course you didn't. I wouldn't expect a virgin to."
"Bastard," I whispered.
And then he walked away.
Ten
Mr. Felton and I didn't cross paths for weeks. The memories of getting naughty in his office were just that, memories. Mistake memories, if I were to term them correctly.
Training sessions, one after another, continued to bore me to death. I never knew there were so many forks and spoons, or that there were proper ways to eat spaghetti, sip wine, or cut steak. Sitting up straight and making sure to act like a lady were top on my scold list along with learning to speak only unless spoken to. No swearing, biting nails, or making ugly faces. Act interested in what the clients have to say. Men do not like women who act like barbarians, my coach said after I ate fried chicken.
Barbarians? She would die in Texas, where everything was bigger and the trivial things didn't matter. Where we walked around with barbecue sauce on our T-shirts because it was easier than changing, and being barefoot was natural. Texas, where the sun always shone, and where everyone worked hard until their dainty hands had calluses.
Coach demanded practice in four-inch high heels, taught me to laugh genuinely at stupid jokes, and flirt with my eyes. Twice a day, exercise was required, cardio in the morning and afternoon with weight lifting every other day. I essentially attended princess training. Where the hell was my prince?
The contract stated I would have a dedicated week of training, but I didn't expect mannerism school. I expected to watch porn, learn how to give hand jobs, blow jobs, and to pop my ass out when I walked. My views on being a call girl were steadily changing.
Lori laughed when I told her that. Her response was, "The Elite are classy individuals, Jennifer. Not whores that are picked up on the side of I-10. You have to make the men feel important. It's easy, really. Our clients act like gentlemen, and they do nice things to make a girl feel special. I have a great time with my Number One, you know, the man I'm most compatible with out of all the clients," Lori said.
I loved her. She was my saving grace. Although I kept my deep secrets to myself—more specifically the ones about Mr. Felton—she knew most things about me, and I her. She was no Abbie, but was the closest alternative, and would be returning from a business trip the next day. Until then, I would be alone in the lion's den.
After I strutted my way through hell, also known as Jennifer's mannerism training, I was given a manual with dating guidelines for The Elite.
Trust between client and employee must not be broken.
Never kiss on the lips because it's too intimate.
No blow jobs, hand jobs, or any sort of sexual acts on the first date.
All dating curfews must be followed.
And the list continued with more No's than Yes's. Of course, the fine print stated that if agreed upon beforehand or if the price was right, some of the No's could become Yes's. Each case would be reviewed and approved on an individual basis. Along with the guidelines, we were given specific to-do's such as checking our email each day. Most correspondence from Mr. Felton arrived that way. Nothing personal like a phone call, or a text, but rather a group message sent to every girl. Tomorrow would be the night that I met one of my matches.
The email clearly stated the instructions:
The limo will arrive at eight. All girls will be escorted to the corporate office's convention center, which will be setup for the client meet and greet.
Below was a reminder of how everyone was matched:
Both client and employee must take the match survey to see if they have fully compatible personalities.
The client must decide if he is attracted to his matches, and then a bid is placed.
The highest bidder is granted access to the employee. Documents will be signed between both parties, creating a legally binding contract.
Lori would be back in the morning.
She would help calm my nerves before the big night.
The group of women lined up against the walls. We were handed specific numbers and were instructed to place them over our left breast. Before sticking on my number, I peeked. Lucky number thirteen.
The doorway at the end of the hallway opened.
Mr. Felton.
He was dressed in a navy blue fitted suit jacket with straight-legged trousers. It had to have been designed by Brioni because only James Bond himself could pull off that look. I swallowed hard and kept my eyes to the ground. His voice, confident and smooth, traveled down the hallway with the directions. But we knew what to do; it was in every manual we were required to read.
Turn around and face the wall so blindfolds could be attached. Don't speak unless spoken to.
We were never to know all the clients that used Mr. Felton's services; it was a part of the nondisclosure agreement. So, everything was done behind closed doors and blindfolds.
The softness of the material rubbed across my cheeks and eyelashes. I squished my nose a little and peered down. I had moved the material a quarter of an inch, and if I tilted my head a tad, I could see. It was directly against the rules—rules that I had just broken.
Lori, and another one of the girls whose name I didn't know, grabbed my hands and all the women were escorted to the main room where a stage awaited us.
Curiosity killed me. I lifted my head and caught glimpses of men of different ages and sizes. They sat around circular tables eyeing their forms, which included headshots and the numbers of their personal matches. The men were like cattle herders, but they all wore expensive suits and ties, the most sophisticated of gentlemen, the upper class, the only ones that could afford The Elite.