Chapter 1

Eighteen Years Earlier (FLASHBACK)

Friday, July 8, 2006

Flagstone, Nevada

Threadbare fabric swayed in the morning breeze, more holes than cloth at this point. The curtains – if they could still be called that – did little to keep out the relentless desert glare. Shards of incoming sunlight painted Colt’s bare chest in a patchwork of shadow and gold. He squinted against the assault, his brain yielding to the unwelcome transition from blissful oblivion to gritty alertness.

Fourteen years of practice had him sliding off the bed and into his chinos with the stealth of a cat burglar. No stirring from the shapely brunette cocooned in tangled sheets just a few feet away. Good. Another night, another blur. Colt had no complaints. It was just ... empty, like all the others.

His gaze drifted back to those pitiful excuses for window dressings. When was the last time his father, the iron-fisted owner of Happy Ending Ranch, had bothered to replace them? Hell, when was the last time Dad had given a damn about anything in the house beyond its utility for quick fucks that translated into even quicker bucks?

Colt cinched his belt around his waist. I really need to cut back. The thought ambushed him, as startling as it was vague. Cut back? On what, exactly? The flesh-filled carousel of in-house prostitutes, desperate and willing to do anything to earn his favor? The exhausting charade of lust and morning-after indifference? Everything? Nothing? His fingers tightened on the belt, knuckles whitening. Ehh, fuck if I know. Colt released an old man’s sigh, shoulders buckling under the weight of questions he couldn’t fully form, let alone answer.

The mirror at the dresser-drawer didn’t pull any punches. Bloodshot eyes, hair that defied gravity, and a five o’clock shadow creeping toward midnight. When did I start looking so ... worn? Colt leaned in, tilting his chin left, then right. No fingernail scratches. No lipstick smears. Not even one of those little lovebites Sherilyn was so fond of leaving. Nothing. Huh? Much tamer, I suppose, than that raucous fuck with Laterika on Thursday.

Colt’s fingers traced the edge of the mirror, muscle memory seeking a high-five with his reflection. A year ago, he’d have been grinning from ear to ear, riding the high after another night of indulgence. Damn, dude, you’re living the dream. House manager, nightly pick of any girl. You hit the jackpot of life. Those thoughts rang hollow now, echoes from a stranger.

Colt’s hand dropped, leaving a smudge on the mirror. He leaned closer, eyes mapping new lines around his mouth, the permanent furrow between his brows. When had that appeared? The face staring back at him wasn’t the once-cocky kid who would one day inherit the keys to the kingdom. It was a man on the wrong side of thirty, chasing mindless thrills down a dead-end road.

His Henley slid over thick, dark hair, then down to hug the six-pack he worked so hard to maintain. One last glance at Sherilyn’s bare ass peeking out from tangled sheets. She’s cool, a sweet girl, but – he cut the thought short, jaw clenching. Score, snore, out the door. The unofficial motto of Colt McCarron, brothel manager extraordinaire.

The Lady Slayer strikes again! The voice of his coworker and best friend, Jim, echoed through his mind. But this morning, there was no high, no illusion of victory. Just an emptiness, vast and hungry, threatening to consume the very core of who Colt thought he was.

Forty-five minutes. That’s all the quiet he had left before Happy Ending Ranch opened its doors, before the same old song and dance kicked off. Meh. Leering men fumbling with wallets. Women with plastic smiles and hollow eyes eager to take it like a champ, to further fuel their drug addictions. Stuttered moans and creaking bedsprings behind closed doors. Oh, God. Colt’s fingers traced a path to his temple, pressing against the phantom headache already forming. Can I just go back to sleep?

Pamela Prescott stood before the cracked vanity in her room at the Twin Tops Motel, applying another coat of bubblegum pop lip gloss. The mirror, like everything else in this dustbowl of a town, had seen better days. Hell, it had probably seen better decades.

Ain’t exactly the Bellagio, is it?

Indeed, the Twin Tops Motel had proven to be a far cry from many of its contemporaries in Las Vegas, some 175 miles south. Where Vegas promised glamour and excess, this place reeked of stale cigarettes and shattered dreams. And pot. The carpet, once presumably a shade of beige, now bore a mishmash of stains. The bedspread, a riot of faded flowers and mysterious burns, looked as though it might sneak away in shame if given half the chance.

But none of that mattered to Pamela. This fleabag motel was just a pitstop on her journey to something greater.

The ancient air conditioner wheezed and sputtered, its plastic casing vibrating with each labored breath. Pamela offered it the evil eye, half-expecting the thing to give up the ghost right then and there. A bead of sweat trailed down her temple. The thermometer on the wall – stuck at a mocking sixty-eight degrees – might as well have been a decoration for all the good it did.

At age eighteen, Pamela’s golden hair cascaded over her shoulders in carefully tousled waves, framing a face that was equal parts girl-next-door and smoldering temptress. Her fingers readjusted her white crop top, even transforming the sweat into an asset, a dewy glow that accentuated her impressive curves. The denim shorts she wore left little to the imagination. Every curve, every inch of sun-kissed skin was a weapon in her arsenal, and she had intentions of using them all.

A mix of emotions swirled in her chest – excitement, determination, and yes, a tendril of fear that she ruthlessly squashed. This was her moment, her chance to grasp the future she’d been dreaming of since she was old enough to realize that her body could be a ticket to untold riches.

You’ve got this, girl. Months of webcamming, stripping, and escorting back home in Maryland had prepared her for this moment. Pose, close, take the gross.

On the adjacent nightstand, the alarm clock’s red digits glowed like a countdown to ignition. Forty-five minutes until her interview at Happy Ending Ranch, just a block down the street. Forty-five minutes until all her meticulous preparation crystallized into action – the next, most daring leap yet in her bid for a self-made future.

A car backfired outside, the sound bouncing off the motel’s paper-thin walls. Through the grimy window, Pamela observed Flagstone’s dusty main street in full morning swing. The paper mill’s smokestacks loomed in the distance, belching plumes that hung like storm clouds over the horizon. Delivery trucks jockeyed for position outside storefronts, while locals streamed in and out of Tesoro’s Restaurant and Lounge across the street, clutching to-go cups of coffee. Kids loitered near the convenience store, probably looking for trouble. It’s not much different than Maryland, really. Just hotter and a lot less ... green.

Pamela squared her shoulders, again assessing herself via the mirror. “This is your time to shine. You’re gonna walk into that ranch and knock ‘em dead.”

I’ll get a coffee and call home to Mom but can’t be late for the interview. With a deep breath, she grabbed her purse – a knock-off designer number that looked just real enough to pass muster – and headed for the door. The key clinked against her fake acrylic nails as she locked up, the sound as crisp as the new page she was about to turn.

Pamela stepped further out into the oppressive heat, heels clicking against the cracked pavement. At the end of the cul-de-sac loomed a weathered Spanish-style villa, its peeling paint and sagging porch at odds with the stylish neon signs proclaiming Legal Brothel, Nude Girls, Jacuzzi, VIP Room, and, of course, Happy Ending Ranch.

Pamela’s steps faltered for a moment, dainty fingers clenching into balled fists. Yet another glimpse of her reflection, this time in a parked truck’s mirror steeled her resolve – blonde hair gleaming, crop top perfect, eyes hard with ambition. Pamela’s lips curved upward, a predator’s smile in a Barbie doll package. She flipped her hair over one shoulder and strode toward the restaurant, silently vowing to turn this dusty old town into her personal gold mine.

Brindle’s fingers drummed a nervous beat on William’s desk. “Mr. McCarron, I’ve gone over these numbers a dozen times.”

William’s pen scratched across the paperwork for a long moment until he drawled, “Your point?”

“They don’t add up.” Chords shifted in Brindle’s neck, her expression unsettled. “I’ve worked nine parties this week. Nine. But the books only give me credit for eight.”

William’s eyes flicked up for an instant, then returned to the ledger. He licked his thumb, turned a page. “Uh-huh.”

“Mr. McCarron, please. I’m pointing out a discrepancy that I’m sure you’ll want to correct. I work hard for my money and don’t want to be shortchanged a hundred and twenty-five bucks. That’s groceries for two weeks.”

A heavy sigh escaped William’s lips. He set his pen down with exaggerated care and leaned back in the recliner, eyebrows hooded. “Brindle, Brindle, Brindle. How long have you worked here?”

“Three years, sir, and –”

“And in those three years, has our bookkeeping ever been off? Even once? Has any other girl ever complained?”

“No, but –”

“Then why,” William’s chair creaked as he tilted it back, “would it start now? With you?”

“I can prove it. Tuesday night, I had –”

“Enough!” William’s fist came down hard on the desk with deafening force, rattling its contents. “You’re questioning the integrity of our ledger and ultimately my business ethics? Implying that I’m cooking the books?”

“N-no, I’m just –”

“Because it sounds an awful lot like you’re calling me a thief.”

Brindle’s jaw dropped open. “I would never –”

“Eight parties. That’s what your ledger says. And that’s what you’re getting paid for. You want more money? Start hustling and make it.”

“But sir, I distinctly remember –”

“What you remember and what happened are two entirely different things.” He’d cut Brindle off yet again, meeting her gaze with those trademarked cold, steely eyes. “Maybe lay off the Corona during your parties, huh? Doing so will aid your ability to correctly add one plus one.”

Brindle’s cheeks blazed red. “Look, please, just listen to me. I –”

“You want to keep working here or not? Because you are really starting to get on my fucking nerves.”

Her shoulders curved inward, her voice barely audible. “Yes, yes, of course. I ... I’m sorry for the confusion, sir.”

“Then we’re done here. Take your pretty little ass and get the hell out of my office. We open in fifteen minutes.”

Brindle ricocheted off Colt’s shoulder and through the doorway, eyes downcast, fingers fluttering at her mouth. Colt’s gaze ping-ponged between Brindle’s retreating form and the mountain of immovable stone seated behind the desk. No wonder all the girls say Dad’s office is the gateway to Hell. William’s fingers clenched the pen as a muscle in his cheek spasmed. The door closed with a soft click, a sound others may equate to a trap springing shut.