Chapter 1

Saturday, March 22, 2025
Flagstone, Nevada

Kristanna Grimsmo may have memorized a thousand Hollywood scripts in her young life, but none had featured a plot twist quite like this.

Just think of it as immersive theater. Very immersive. Kristanna raised the glossy applicator to her mouth, then faltered. The wand hovered midair, a smear of crimson suspended, hesitating – just like her. God, who am I kidding? I’m about to bang my way out of debt. Cobalt eyes went rogue as she traced the curve of her lips, the same mouth that had delivered Shakespeare at Pepperdine and pitched television commercial taglines for products she couldn’t afford. This isn’t cinema ... it’s the freaking red-light district. Her belly churned with an acidic brew, boiling more volatile by the second. Dad still introduces me as his “little star.” Mom thinks I’m one audition away from breaking through. Kristanna smacked her lips together – hellfire red, unapologetically bold – before they parted with an audible pop. They can never know.

The bathroom light flickered, casting shadows that hollowed her cheekbones and underscored the resignation swirling around her. Pivoting sideways, Kristanna confronted her reflection and felt her breath hitch at how perfectly her figure had been transformed by the silver minidress. I look like one of those social media sluts begging for attention. Each rhinestone seemed to mock the gravity of her situation, glimmering like the mounting bills and final notices that had driven her beyond Hollywood’s reach to Nevada’s desert, where state law permitted what morality condemned, and where men would travel across continents to purchase what she’d never once dared imagine selling.

Until now.

The fabric didn’t simply adorn Kristanna; it showcased her as merchandise, the blingy patterns drawing attention to breasts that would soon be manhandled, hips that would be gripped, thighs that would be pried apart.

Her forehead contracted into rigid lines as if the atrocities that awaited collided with her thoughts. Get it together, Kris. Time to suck it up. This is the gig now. Not exactly SAG approved, but it pays better than any typical casting couch audition ever will.

A few months of this, and those loan sharks won’t be blowing up your phone anymore. She ducked her chin, eyelids lowering as if listening to the voice only she could hear. Think of it: Financial. Freedom. No more dodging your landlord. No more selling plasma for gas money. No more waking up to find your electricity cut off – again.

Her eyes thrust open, resolve rushing in like a struck match. And then, Norway. Family. Mom, Dad. The fjords. Where no one needs to know what paid for the ticket home.

Beyond the lone glass window, the neon sign of the Twin Tops Motel buzzed and flickered, casting intermittent pulses of light. The bedspread, stiff with age and discount detergent, scratched against her fingertips as she sat to fasten the straps of heels she’d bought specifically for this “interview.” Every few minutes, the in-room smoke detector chirped, begging for a battery change no employee would bother with until it stopped altogether.

Four years in Los Angeles (and the United States itself) had taught Kristanna many things, none of which had prepared her for this moment. I’ve never felt more ashamed of myself than I do now. The twenty-three-year-old learned how to smile through rejection, how to live on ramen for weeks between jobs, and how to feign enthusiasm for terrible scripts just to stay on an unscrupulous casting agent’s radar. Over time, she had come to learn that talent meant nothing without connections, and connections meant nothing without the right look.

A thousand scripts, a thousand potential masks later, and here Kristanna was, ready to sell the only thing that had ever truly belonged to her.

My soul.

The bulb again flickered in its rusty socket, fighting the same losing battle as the rattling air conditioner unit and the faucet’s constant drip. A strip of wallpaper had peeled away in the corner, revealing three different patterns beneath – flowers, then stripes, then something that might have been geometric before the glue turned it into abstract art. Kristanna shifted her weight, and the floorboards screamed bloody murder. Through walls thin as cardboard, she’d witnessed the motel’s midnight orchestra – television laugh tracks, domestic warfare next door, and shameless fucking by the older couple in Room 14. And I smelled pot – lots of pot. Here, secrets crawled through the stucco like cockroaches, multiplying in the dark.

Ain’t exactly the Waldorf Astoria in Beverly Hills, is it?

Indeed, the Twin Tops Motel was a far cry from many of its contemporaries in Los Angeles, some 450 miles west. Whereas La La Land seduced with visions of sun-kissed beaches and red carpets, this place promised nothing and delivered far less. Dust devils twisted through the lot, collecting discarded wrappers in their dance. Against the perimeter fence, yesterday’s newspapers flattened themselves like desperate stowaways. Even the sunlight entering through the blinds appeared reluctant, flaying striped shadows that resembled prison bars across the dilapidated room.

Kristanna stood, adjusting her minidress one more time, mentally reciting her lines for today’s performance. Not Shakespeare. Not Tennessee Williams. Just carefully crafted answers about why a classically trained actress was applying for work at a place like... that.

On the adjacent nightstand, the alarm clock’s green digits glowed like a countdown to ignition. Forty-five minutes until her interview at Happy Ending Ranch, just a block away. Forty-five minutes until I throw away everything my parents ever believed in and wanted for me. All they’ve sacrificed will become meaningless.

Outside, a car backfired with a thunderous crack that rattled the windows and sent pigeons scattering into the desert sky. Kristanna observed Flagstone’s 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, likely searching for trouble.

It’s nothing like Oslo, really. Nothing ... at all. Just brown, and a lot less home.

Kristanna realigned her posture, once again dissecting her reflection. “Starving artist to prostitute.” One eyebrow inched upward. “At least I’ll be eating, right?”

With a steadying breath, she grabbed her purse – a knock-off designer piece that looked just real enough to pass muster – and crossed the room in silence. Her fingers played with the zipper, sliding it back and forth in a mindless rhythm. Stop it. Stop worrying. It’s your body. Your choice. Your ticket home. The key clinked against her acrylic nails as she locked up, the sound echoing like a funeral bell for her old life.

High heels released their unmistakable taps into the morning air. At the end of the cul-de-sac stood a Spanish-style villa that defied her expectations. Gone was the seedy establishment she’d imagined; instead, a sophisticated property with white stucco walls and terracotta roof tiles that gleamed under the Nevada sun. Professional landscaping framed the entrance – desert palms and carefully arranged cacti gardens that would have looked at home in any upscale Palm Springs neighborhood. Sleek LED displays mounted on the exterior proclaimed Legal Brothel, Nude Girls, Jacuzzi, VIP Room, and, of course, Happy Ending Ranch. The house stood unashamed, a legitimate business in the only U.S. state where the buying or selling of human flesh was perfectly legal.

Kristanna’s stride faltered, wrists locked tight, tendons standing out like cables beneath her skin. Coffee. I need my morning coffee. Yet another glimpse of her reflection, this time in a parked truck’s mirror, threatened to rupture her nerves. Look at you now. How could she have allowed this to happen? For her life to spiral to this point? Not commercially appealing, just commercially available.

Kristanna straightened her spine as if she were on a Paris runway and sashayed toward Tesoro’s Restaurant and Lounge, mentally tallying how many strangers’ hands – and dicks – it would take to erase $130,000 in credit card and student loan debt.

A chime pierced the solitude of deep, blissful sleep. Three notes, rising and falling, then repeating.

Mia Flores burrowed deeper into her blanket on instinct, creating a makeshift cocoon with only her fingertips exposed. While oblivion’s embrace beckoned her to return, it couldn’t stave off the day’s inevitable demands. One hand snuck out, fumbling across the nightstand, brushing past a half-empty water bottle before finding the phone. It was silenced with a practiced tap, then Mia winced while stretching. Oh, fuck. The cotton blanket unfurled as she eased onto her side. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The repositioning stirred a burst of vanilla from her skin, though tainted by notes of some stranger’s drugstore cologne. Fucking mongers. Oxygen rushed into Mia’s chest, wrinkles creasing her forehead as her lips peeled back, followed by a measured release that hissed between her teeth. Dull fire radiated from her jawline, her breasts, her pussy, to the small of her back, a reminder of yesterday’s bookings. Not quite the stabbing pain of long-term, legitimate injury, mind you, just the physical toll of seventeen hours on her feet, on her back, on her knees.

Mia anchored her palms on the mattress and pushed herself upright. A new pain infiltrated her shoulder, drawing another sharp breath. Her mind flashed to Client #3, the balding supermarket manager with yellow teeth and a gut that sloshed when he moved, who’d pinned her in positions that defied anatomy for two agonizing hours last night. Another Fumblefingers Rotmouth.

The cash had been good. The stains on her memory, her violated depths, were the expense of doing business.

A purple-black stain mapped Victor’s possession across Mia’s hip bone, the precise imprint of his thumb that had pinned her to the mattress while he’d rutted inside her last evening, his final thrusts brutal enough that she’d bitten the pillow to keep from crying out. She skimmed its perimeter, assessing the damage. I’ve had worse. Makeup would cover it for today’s workload.

Neon butterflies flitted across the walls, their soft, electric glow blending with the LED strips framing the room in waves of purple and pink. The light transformed the ordinary drywall into something liquid and seductive. To the left, Marilyn Monroe’s visage loomed from a framed print, her classic smirk both timeless and invasive, flanked by faded snapshots of distant, grassy landscapes.

“You’re getting too thin,” Mia’s grandmother would say if she could see her now. If she were still alive. The impromptu thought was accompanied by the phantom scent of saffron and garlic from Sunday dinners in their old Santo Domingo apartment. Te extraño, abuela... Mia pushed the memory away.

The woman in the mirror cranked her neck about, a movement Mia recognized as her own yet somehow belonging to someone else. The light show caught the golden undertones in her complexion, the Dominican heritage that had descended through generations to surface in her features. Thick obsidian waves framed Mia’s face and shoulders in disarray, yesterday’s styling products still holding the loose curls that attracted better business. Residue clung to her complexion, evidence of exhaustion winning over proper mascara removal when she’d collapsed into bed at four this morning.

Time to move, chicka. Mia rubbed the sleep from her eyes with one hand and covered a yawn with the other. More limp dicks await.

Bare feet plodded across the commercial-grade carpet to the adjacent bathroom. The door swung open with a familiar squeak, revealing a stark contrast to the more refined public areas elsewhere in the ranch.

No gilt-framed mirrors hung overhead like in the foyer. No polished hardwood greeted her feet like in the main bar. Just clean white tiles, chilled in the morning, arranged in perfect, utilitarian blocks. The shower stall stood in the corner, a simple glass door with a chrome fixture that delivered consistent pressure and temperature, one daily reliability in a life ruled by booking cancellations, overaggressive mongers, and grueling physical labor.

The vanity reflected fluorescent truth rather than the gentler lighting throughout the lounge. Three neat rows of plastic bins lined the countertop, arranged by function: foundations sorted by shade, concealers, lipsticks organized in color families. My daily warpaint.

Mia twisted the shower dial leftward. The pipes awoke and groaned themselves behind the wall before releasing a rush of water against the glass enclosure. She stepped back, watching the first tendrils of steam curl upward, gradually fogging the small space.

Waiting for the temperature to climb, a ping emanated from her smartphone. She squinted through the thickening mist at the screen, now lighting up with the latest text from management.

REMINDER! New interview today at 10. Keep reception area professional. Client satisfaction scores for the week posted by EOD Saturday.

Another interview, huh? An actress, Jenn told me. My ... favorite type. Turnouts arrived with regularity – women running from something, chasing after nothing, or selling themselves to survive, each convinced their situation was temporary, unique, justifiable. Yada, yada, yada. Five years ago, that had been Mia, her engagement ring pawned and restraining order in hand after her relationship dissolved into physical violence, Happy Ending Ranch the endpoint of a journey with no other destinations.

The shower reached ideal temperature. Glass walls now fully obscured by steam, Mia slipped out of her G-string and stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind her. The water hit her shoulders first, hot enough to redden her skin on contact. She tilted her face upward, letting ribbons cascade across closed eyelids, parted lips, the length of her throat, down her torso.

Her movements were purposeful yet unhurried – this ritual marked the transformation between her sleeping self and her working self. Every morning, she scrubbed away Mia Flores, whose expired student visa and traumatic breakup had left her stranded in a country she believed only valued her for one thing, and became “Amelia,” the exotic seductress who commanded top dollar for her services.

Forty-five minutes until the doors open. Mia worked shampoo through her hair, considering the actress scheduled for today’s interview. Probably another California casualty. Pretty enough for bit parts and commercials but not striking enough for leading roles. They often arrived overcompensating, name-dropping famous actors they’d brushed paths with and boasting about screen tests that went nowhere, desperate to establish they weren’t “that kind of girl” while literally applying to become exactly that. Will she stammer about her “serious acting career” and use words such as “just temporary,” “exploring options,” and “between projects”?

Today’s rejection, tomorrow’s employee orientation.

Welcome to the real casting couch, honey. Mia shook her head in a swift arc. Tonight, you’ll cry. Next month, you’ll be showing the latest turnout around.

Mia rinsed her hair and reached for the conditioner. Whatever else could be said about Happy Ending Ranch, the infrastructure worked. Lindsay’s doing, no doubt. Twenty-five years old and running this place like she’d graduated with an MBA instead of taking over Colt and Pamela’s family business through sheer force of will. Mia still couldn’t wrap her mind around it – someone barely older than herself commanding such authority, transforming what had been an antiquated operation into a bristling enterprise.

The brothel ran like a well-oiled machine, clean and legal under Nevada state law, every health certificate and business license on full display.

It was all so... normal. That was perhaps the most disorienting part for newcomers. The expectation of sordid conditions and exploitation splintered against the reality of employee safety, regular meetings, and an open-door policy. Mia couldn’t help but admire Lindsay’s iron grip on every aspect of the operation, from facility maintenance to the weekly performance reviews that tracked client satisfaction metrics. Where most women their age were still figuring out how to pay rent on time, Lindsay was building an empire in six-inch heels and Honey Birdette lingerie, never once apologizing for the nature of her business. No, Happy Ending Ranch wasn’t a dive bar with disco rooms; it was managed with the same professional standards as a five-star spa or posh Vegas resort.

Still, it’s a shithole. It is a whorehouse, after all.

Mia exited the shower and found a towel, wiping condensation from the mirror with a palm. Her reflection stared back, droplets tracing down her neck and collarbone. Time to armor up. Moisturizer, foundation, concealer for all the little imperfections.

She wondered what the actress would make of all this. Would she last a week? A month? Would she still be here a year from now, going through the motions with the same practiced efficiency Mia had mastered?

Only time would tell.

Her smartphone read nine-thirty-five. She retrieved her makeup essentials from the counter, a routine so ingrained she could do it blindfolded. Saturdays at Happy Ending Ranch meant a parade of weekend warriors with fistfuls of cash and pent-up demands. Can’t wait until Little Miss Former Soap Opera Extra meets the foot fetishist with the fungal infection. By midnight, they’d be swarming the bar, leering at tits and ass and maxing out their credit cards. By morning, Mia will have earned enough cash to otherwise silence her body’s urgent pleas for mercy.

Hopefully.

Amelia, reporting for duty. Humanity, checking out.

Kristanna pushed open the door to Tesoro’s Restaurant and Lounge, wincing as the bell announced her arrival. The silver minidress that had seemed so empowering in the motel earlier now felt like an obnoxious sign flashing “LOOK AT ME” in this small-town diner.

Her ankles wobbled atop unforgiving heels as conversations ceased mid-sentence. A waitress paused with a coffeepot suspended. The truckers at the counter turned their heads like synchronized puppets. Nearby, a father shifted to place himself between his children and the unwelcome stranger.

Kristanna’s fingers fidgeted with her purse strap, the synthetic fiber growing damp beneath her touch. The smell of pancakes and coffee collided with the gaudy perfume she’d applied. I knew I overdid it. Kristanna spent years learning how to blend into backgrounds on film sets, to disappear until her three lines were needed. Now, when she desperately wanted to be invisible, she stood against the cavalcade of dozens of righteous eyes.

“Table for one?” The hostess – gray-haired with reading glasses dangling from a beaded chain – peered over half-moon spectacles, her expression oscillating between pity and outrage. She glowered at the plunging neckline where rhinestones clung to her breasts. Silver fabric stretched taut across Kristanna’s hips, the material so thin it captured her silhouette in explicit detail. The dress surrendered six inches above the knee, exposing thighs that tensed under the collective scrutiny. When Kristanna shifted, the hem rode up, forcing her to hook a finger beneath the fabric and offer an embarrassed tug downward.

A strategically placed cutout revealed a slice of midriff, complete with the glint of a navel piercing. Her back was bare save for two thin straps crisscrossing shoulder blades that flexed up and down. The heels – clear plastic platforms with silver accents – added half a foot to her height and subtlety to none of her movements, forcing an awkward arch to her spine that transformed every step into something between invitation and distress signal.

“Corner, please,” Kristanna said, voice cracking on the second syllable. She swallowed with a click. “Away from the bar.”

The hostess wadded her mouth. “Follow me.”

Those forty or so steps might as well have been a catwalk of shame. She moved through the continued silence broken only by the occasional whisper and scrape of utensils gone still. Past a horseshoe-shaped counter where men in industrial work clothes froze mid-bite at her approach. Past a booth where a mother pulled her teenage son closer, as if Kristanna might contaminate him with whatever she carried. Past a table where three gray-haired matrons surveyed her from head to toe, their verdict delivered through tight-lipped frowns.

Kristanna channeled her Norwegian heritage, generations of ancestors who’d faced mid-day darkness and ice-locked winters with composure rather than complaint. Head high, back straight. Keep walking. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

The vinyl seat grabbed at her thighs, again forcing the hemline to retreat dangerously upward. Why does it keep doing that? Body crumpling, her fingers darted to restore minimal coverage. Come on, now. Settle down. Pretend you’re on camera. Stay in character. Outside, she could see the architecture of Happy Ending Ranch rising against the desert backdrop, its adobe facade and ornate signage somehow both mundane and menacing.

“Coffee?” A waitress in her fifties appeared, name tag reading “Martha,” weathered features that had witnessed so many girls like Kristanna arrive in Flagstone with hope, only to leave with their forever stripped away.

“Yes. Please.”

Martha set down a mug and filled it. “Food?”

Kristanna’s stomach knotted. “Just toast, maybe.”

A pencil hovered above her pad. “Got eggs coming off the grill. Protein might do you good.” Something softened in her expression. “Long night ahead.”

Not a question. Not even an accusation. Just fact, delivered without judgment but with complete certainty about Kristanna’s destination.

“I’m not –” The denial fizzled as Martha cocked her head. “Thank you. Eggs would be good.”

Once alone, Kristanna became aware of a hushed conversation two booths over.

“– what a Jezebel –”

“– those places need to be shut down –”

“– what kind of parents raise a girl to –”

She stared into her coffee, ripples forming as her hands trembled. A decade of acting lessons had taught her to embody emotions on command such as joy, grief, rage, and desire. None had prepared her for this surrender of self, what pure survival instincts had forced her to become.

Her phone vibrated. Dad calling again. The screen displayed his smiling face, windburned from a day on his fishing boat. If nothing else, the old man was persistent. He sure doesn’t give up. Tongue poking in her cheek, Kristanna swiped it to voicemail.

In the parking lot, a patrol car’s door emblazoned with the Sulaco County sheriff’s emblem opened before the engine had fully quieted. Two officers emerged, adjusting utility belts as they approached the entrance. Kristanna’s pulse quickened. What she was about to do wasn’t illegal here, but old instincts surged: the same hyperawareness she’d felt when collection agencies started calling, when final notices appeared in her mailbox, when the bank threatened to repossess her car.

The bell above the door jangled as they entered. The shorter officer surveyed the landscape – standard procedure, she assumed, until his rubbernecking ceased once noticing her. He nudged his partner, whispering something that made the taller one turn her way too. The man’s jaw burned, a muscle also pulsing at his temple, his entire demeanor morphing into contempt.

“Mornin’, Martha,” he eventually said as they claimed seats at the counter. “My usual.”

“Coming right up, Tony.” Martha poured coffee for both gentlemen, then disappeared into the kitchen.

Kristanna’s eggs arrived – two sunny-side up alongside burnt toast she couldn’t fathom swallowing. Martha eased the plate onto the table, the absence of her typical no-nonsense demeanor a welcome surprise.

“On the house.” Her voice was calm, sympathetic. “You look like you could use a break.”

The unexpected kindness threatened to break Kristanna completely. She sputtered and struggled to form any vocal response, so instead focused on the table as tears threatened to spill.

A little girl leaned out from her booth, wide-eyed with innocent curiosity. “Mommy, why is that lady dressed like a princess in the morning?”

“Hush,” the mother hissed, yanking the child closer. “Don’t look.”

But everyone was looking. The officers at the counter. The truckers on the other side. The elderly couple whose breakfast had gone cold while they observed this sinner in their midst. Even Martha, who kept drifting past Kristanna’s booth without reason.

She forced herself to cut a piece of toast, to lift it to her lips, to chew and swallow past the knot in her throat. The clock on the wall ticked toward the appointment. Each second carried her inexorably toward the unthinkable.

One hundred and thirty thousand dollars in debt. Three final notices. One eviction warning. Two failed auditions last week.

And one legal brothel down the block.

The eggs congealed as she pushed them around with a fork, creating patterns that led nowhere. I feel nauseous. A children’s maze with no exit. Just like her life, a series of dead ends and wrong turns.

“Is it ... always like this?” she asked when Martha made another round. “The way people react?”

Martha scanned the establishment, taking in all the stank-eyes and whispers directed toward their corner. “I can tell ... this must be your first day.” She hesitated. “The girls don’t come here much. They have their own kitchen at the ranch. Better that way.”

The implication was clear: once Kristanna crossed that threshold, this side of town would be effectively closed to her forever. I think it already is, really. No more casual breakfasts in diners. No more anonymous mornings. She would be defined solely by her new profession.

A freckle-faced boy twisted in his seat, mouth agape. “Is she a movie star?”

The father glanced over, face contorting as he took in Kristanna’s appearance. “No,” he said, turning the boy away. “She works at that place we don’t talk about.”

Crimson rushed up Kristanna’s neck, spreading across her cheeks in a flush she couldn’t control. All those years of training. Bit parts in a handful of B-movie flops. A trio of auditions for a national yogurt commercial. And now, her identity relegated to: that girl who works at that place.

Hands trembled as she again reached for her coffee. The ceramic mug clattered against the tabletop, drawing attention. Liquid sloshed over its rim. Kristanna stilled, mortified by this small loss of control that felt emblematic of her entire life.

Martha materialized with a cloth, wiping up the spill wordlessly. But her presence brought something Kristanna hadn’t expected – compassion. “First week’s the hardest,” she soon said. “After that, you’ll adjust.”

Before Kristanna could respond, the door opened again. A man in his mid-sixties entered wearing an expensive watch and clothes that spoke of money and position. He surveyed the landscape before finding the officers at the counter, ambling toward them with the confidence of someone accustomed to respect.

“Sheriff Spaeth. Deputy Samples.” He nodded to each. “Busy night?”

“Nothing major, Mayor Bradley,” the younger deputy replied. “Just the usual Friday night disturbances.”

The mayor. Kristanna sunk deeper into her booth as the men conversed, aware that this person – this public figure – would soon know exactly what she did for a living too. In a town this small, everyone would know. The mayor, police, waitresses, the paper mill workers, even the children.

Her phone buzzed again. Mom this time. Your father is buying you a special gift for when you book that yogurt commercial! When will you know?

Kristanna choked back a sob. The distance between her parents’ expectations and reality stretched like the desert itself: vast, unforgiving, impossible to cross.

The mayor finished his conversation with the officers and pivoted on a shoe. But before he got to the door, he put on the brakes and favored Kristanna with a look. Their eyes met briefly – his curious, hers terrified. Understanding flickered in his expression, not of her specifically, but of what her presence in that dress, in this town, signified.

He smirked, a gesture so small it might have been imagined, before exiting with his to-go cup.

That simple expression contained multitudes. Acknowledgment. Acceptance. Perhaps a hint of future patronage. The realization made Kristanna’s stomach lurch. You know you’re gonna have to be with fat, unattractive older men like that. It’ll be part of the job.