Chapter 8

Well, I’m certainly glad that I didn’t take Sammy up on his offer. Pamela traced idle patterns on her bare stomach, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. The television mounted on the wall flickered, its images dancing across the bedroom unnoticed. Outside, that pack of coyotes started up again, their yips and yowls filtering through the half-open window. Never thought I’d miss the sound of Dad’s old lawnmower or the boring buzz of suburbia, but here I am.

Pamela drew in a lungful of oxygen. Gone were the damp, grassy notes of home, replaced by something dry and sharp – was that piñon pine? Eyes now veiled behind closed lashes, she conjured sounds of her old life: the hum of cicadas, a car cruising down her neighborhood street, the clatter of skateboards on the sidewalk. But when she opened her eyes, reality crashed back. The vast, desert landscape beyond her window was a far cry from Maryland, but then again, so was her new profession.

Sammy’s indecent proposal from Wednesday evening played on autoloop in her mind. “Five grand in cash, Dakota. Three nights at The Venetian Las Vegas, just you and me. The money would be tax-free. I’ll pay for all the food, all the entertainment. I’ll take you on a thousand-dollar shopping spree too. You’d be crazy to pass this up.”

God, was it tempting. Sammy had dangled the offer like a forbidden fruit, ripe for the picking. But something about his aggressive nature and the look in his eyes – a predatory glint that spoke of ownership rather than partnership – gave her pause. He seemed like a good man, but I ... I didn’t know if I could trust him. My gut kept screaming at me to tell him no.

Even when Sammy doubled down, increasing his offer to ten thousand, Pamela’s resolve didn’t waver. I wonder what Colt would think or do if I told Sammy yes and agreed to meet him in Vegas for sex. She flipped onto her side, taking the pillow with her. Would I be out of a job now? Still, no one had ever offered her such exorbitant money.

Sammy purchased two hours (paying $500 total) and promised Pamela he would come back in the future to party with her again. “Sweet Jesus, you’re a find. Eighteen and still got that new car smell. Fresh face, tight body, and probably still believe in fairytales. God, I love this whorehouse.” He gestured a little too excitedly and nearly toppled off the bar stool. “Can’t wait until I get to fuck you again, darlin’. Might even bring a friend next time named Marvin – we’ll see if you can handle two dicks at once.”

Yeeeeeah ... something was off about that guy. In the corridor, exaggerated giggles and the clip-clop of high heels announced yet another girl escorting a john to her room. You know what? Colt was right. What would happen if Sammy turned out to be a deranged psychopath and Pamela found herself alone in a hotel room with him? May never get out. Or any other potential off-the-books client? At least here, there are rules, people to back me up. And Colt to protect me. Pamela hugged the pillow to her chest, a lifeline in the darkness. Thank God I said no to Vegas.

Many of the faces and names from the past seven days had begun to blend together, a fuzzy carousel spinning in her mind. I’ve been with three guys already tonight. No, wait. Four. Is it four? Pamela covered her eyes with both hands as she mentally ticked off names. Kenny, Joe, Doug, and yeah, Johnathan. That’s four.

Pamela rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling as it seemed to ripple and dance above her. Ugh, Doug and that beer belly. Somehow, she could still smell his rancid breath. Eww, foul. Since her arrival, Pamela had fucked fifteen clients. In fact, Jim pulled her aside after the last party and told her she’d grossed more sales than any other girl this week. Yay me, I guess? Head of the class in Dick-Taking One-O-One. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, but sleep felt miles away. It was only one-thirty in the morning. Wonder what Mom and Dad would think if they knew their little girl was the star pupil at Whore High.

She shifted, trying to find a comfortable position in this bed that had seen it all. Justin ... sweet guy. Shame I had to shoot him down when he asked if we could date outside the house. Her expression fell into disrepair. He bought three hours. Shit, I hope my refusal doesn’t dissuade him from wanting to party with me again. He’s good money.

Pamela’s toes curled involuntarily. And that guy with the foot fetish. What was his name? She yawned, her jaw cracking like brittle twigs. Whatever, doesn’t matter, but never knew my toes were so ticklish. And my feet too.

“Listen up. Fetish requests like that?” William summoned Pamela into his office afterward. “You always add a premium price tag whenever a perp asks for something kinky or out there like toe sucking. Milk ‘em dry. No exceptions, you hear me?” William glared at her without blinking. “You skimp on charges, you’re robbing me. And trust me, Chesapeake, you don’t want to know what happens to girls who steal from me.”

In the bedroom, Pamela closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath, holding it in. No wonder Roxanne and Laterika told me that you never want to be called into that man’s office. For anything. Turning her head a fraction and straining to hear the familiar notes of a song emanating from the parlor, Pamela looked skyward.

Thank God for Colt. Even with William’s looming shadow and intimidating presence, Colt told Pamela never to worry because he wouldn’t allow anything bad to happen to her here. Oh, she’d heard the stories about how William would bend random girls over the desk in his office at random times and fuck them. Blake said he’s much more than a creepy old man; he’s a monster. “That won’t happen to you,” Colt stressed to Pamela this morning. “I swear, it won’t, so stop worrying.”

She clung to those words now, even as fear gnawed at the edges of her mind. Brindle said it would be different if William paid us for our time, even if just the house minimum, but he takes whatever he wants for free. In this lion’s den, Colt was Pamela’s only trusted ally. But was he strong enough to stand against the apex predator if push came to shove? Pamela’s hands trembled as she pulled the bed sheet around herself, as if it stood any chance of warding off the chill of uncertainty seeping into her bones. I mean, I like Colt. But I don’t want to fuck his dad.

Additional flashes of the past week flickered through her mind like a broken film reel. Has it really been fifteen guys like Jim said? Fifteen faces, fifteen bodies, fifteen dicks inside me.

Rhett. The name hit her like an uppercut to the chin. That lowlife piece of shit. She’d only stepped away for a moment to use the restroom, but it was long enough. The image of Rhett hunched over her phone, guilt plastered across his face when their eyes met, would be forever seared into her memory banks. My pics, my texts, Mom and Dad’s numbers ... oh God. Panic clawed at her throat, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead.