Chapter 2

Forty-Five Minutes Ago (FLASHBACK)

Oh, fucking shit ... not the alarm! Emily Wilson burrowed deeper into her blanket on instinct, creating a makeshift cocoon with only her fingertips exposed. Oblivion’s embrace may have been tempting, but even it couldn’t stave off the day’s inevitable demands. She reached over, brushing past a half-empty water bottle, and found her phone. It was silenced with an angry tap, then Emily stretched while wincing. Whyyyyy? The blanket unfurled as she eased onto her side. Fuck!

The repositioning stirred a burst of sandalwood from her skin, though tainted by notes of some stranger’s discount cologne. Emily hissed out a breath and wiped her brow. These men are wretched. Dull fire radiated from her jawline, her breasts, her pussy, and the small of her back, a reminder of yesterday’s bookings. Not quite the stabbing pain of long-term, legitimate injury, just the ongoing toll of a unique type of physical labor only a woman in her profession could truly understand.

Emily anchored her palms on the mattress and pushed upright. A new pain infiltrated her shoulder, drawing another sharp breath. Her mind flashed to Client #3, the balding drugstore manager with rotting teeth and a gut that sloshed when he moved who pinned her in positions that defied anatomy for two forgettable hours last night. There isn’t enough ibuprofen in the state of Nevada.

The cash had been good. Her violated depths and the stains on her memory were the cost of doing business.

An unsightly bruise mapped Victor’s possession across Emily’s hip bone, the precise imprint of his thumb while he’d rutted what little load he had, his final thrusts so brutal and uncoordinated 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.

LED strips lined the bedroom’s ceiling, casting everything in a blood-splattered glow that reminded her of the old crack dens in Phoenix. The walls were a collage of years gone by: decade-old burlesque photos, lanyards from comic cons she’d worked, mementos from Sturgis motorcycle rallies, and an official NBA basketball signed by Steve Nash. A mini fridge hummed in the corner, stocked with meal prep containers and Monster energy drinks. Above her bed, a neon sign: ENJOY THE VOID.

“You’re still trying to fight the world. Where’d my happy girl go?” Emily’s grandmother would say if she could see her now. If she were still alive. The unexpected thought was triggered by the phantom scent of fresh tortillas and green chile from Sunday dinners in their old Scottsdale apartment. Happy don’t pay the bills, memaw. Emily pushed the memory away.

The woman in the mirror cranked her neck about, a movement Emily recognized as her own yet still belonging to someone else. The psychedelic light show revealed the pallor of her skin and dark circles under her eyes that even the best concealer couldn’t fully mask. Her hair, black shot through with electric green streaks, hung limp and tangled. Residue clung to her complexion, evidence of exhaustion winning over proper mascara removal when she collapsed into bed at four this morning.

Get up. Go. Emily rubbed the sleep from her eyes with one hand and covered a yawn with the other. The parade of mediocrity awaits.

Emily plodded barefoot across shag carpet to the adjacent bathroom. The door swung open and greeted her with its yellow walls and cracked grout. It looked the same yesterday. It would look the same tomorrow. Ahh, the comforts of home.

The floor tiles were always cold in the morning, some loose enough to shift underfoot. A shower stall stood in the corner, its door missing, replaced by a decorative curtain. Kittens on them. I hate kittens. The vanity had a crack running through it as well, splitting her reflection in two. Three rows of plastic bins lined the countertop, arranged by function: foundations sorted by shade, concealers, and lipsticks ranging from oxblood to midnight.

Emily twisted the shower dial leftward. The pipes shrieked before releasing a stuttering spray against the enclosure. She stepped back, waiting to see if today would be a hot water day or another ice-cold wakeup call.

A cathedral-like organ, lasting only two seconds, burst from her phone. She squinted through the thickening mist at the screen, lit by the latest text from management.

>> REMINDER! Newbie coming in for an interview this morning. If hired, senior girls assist as needed. Make her feel welcome! We need her to stick around.

Oh, the new turnout? Make her feel welcome. Emily’s jaw tightened. Ahh, forced camaraderie. My specialty. Turnouts arrived from time to time: women running from something or selling themselves to survive, each convinced their situation was temporary. Another lost soul joins the flock. A decade ago, that had been Emily, strung out on cocaine and living in a Phoenix motel, Happy Ending Ranch the endpoint of a journey with no other destination.

Except jail.

Or death.

The water reached a passable temperature. Emily slipped out of her G-string and stepped inside, yanking the plastic shut behind her. Kenzie’s curtain needs to meet my lighter. The water doused Emily’s shoulders, hot enough to redden her skin. She tilted her face upward, letting ribbons cascade across closed eyelids and down her torso.

This daily ritual marked the transformation between her sleeping self and working self. Every morning, she’d scrub away Emily Wilson, whose rap sheet and track marks made employment anywhere else difficult, and become “Amethyst,” the curated, gothic hellcat who commanded top dollar for her services.

It’s only eleven-thirty. I’m making good time. Emily worked shampoo through her hair, the text still burning in her mind. Senior girls assist as needed. Translation: do management’s job for them. For free. Even worse, house rumors suggested the turnout was a pixel-perfect eighteen-year-old blonde homecoming queen from California. How refreshingly original. This script writes itself.

Emily gave herself a thorough rinsing and reached for the conditioner. Whatever could be said about Happy Ending Ranch, the infrastructure worked. Pamela’s doing, no doubt. She still couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea of someone barely older than herself wielding such authority, hitched to the boss yet still turning tricks. Girl got the crown, but she’s still down here in the crypt getting run through like the rest of us. Not my idea of devotion.

The brothel was like any other in the state: health certificates to keep the badges happy, licenses paid to avoid raids, and NDA forms signed in triplicate. Documentation cannot sanitize what happens here. Colt did his best to keep everything professional, and Pamela made sure the girls were treated fairly.

But at the end of the day, every day, they all went to bed reeking of strangers and dirty money.

Amethyst exited the shower, snatched a towel and wiped condensation from the mirror. Her reflection stared back, head drifting to one side. How long is little Miss Tinseltown gonna last? Would she make it through the week? A month? Would she still be here a year from now, going through the motions with the same detached efficiency Emily had mastered?

Yeah, no.

She smirked at the thought and gathered her makeup essentials, another routine so ingrained she could do it blindfolded. Mondays at Happy Ending Ranch typically meant weekend stragglers trickling away until next time while a wave of fresh Vegas tourists poured in, hoping to start their vacation with a bang. Not the circus that was Saturday nights, but enough business to keep a girl busy.

By midnight, men would be swarming the bar, leering at tits and ass and maxing out their credit cards. By morning, Amethyst will (hopefully) have earned enough cash to otherwise silence her body’s urgent pleas for mercy.

Oh, which reminded her: where is that damned ibuprofen bottle? She needed four just to start the day.

(CURRENT TIME)

“Lindsay. You’re early.”

At that deep, masculine voice, her eyes snapped up and made contact with Colt for the first time.

Holy fuck!

A delicious specimen greeted her, purple dress shirt straining over a barrel chest, tribal tattoos across biceps snaking out from beneath rolled-up sleeves. At six-foot-two, Colt McCarron exuded an air of control and assertiveness that crackled like electricity and embodied Lindsay’s ideal of an older man to a T and then some: stylish, windblown brown hair; brooding eyes that threatened to consume her; a prominent jawline peppered with scruff; and a tanned, ripped physique that spoke of dedication and discipline.

Wow, just ... wow. She jutted her breasts outward and shimmied her hips on pure feminine instinct. Using her sexuality to obtain what she wanted wasn’t her preferred method, but gosh dang it, because it always worked so well, what better option did Lindsay have? Hellooooo, it’s a whorehouse...

“I’m Colt McCarron, the general manager of Happy Ending Ranch.”

Wait, what? Lindsay did a double take. Did you say general manager?

“Such a pleasure to meet you. Been a long time coming, hasn’t it? Please, sit down.”

“I thought ... you were the ... the ... the... owner?” Lindsay squeaked out those words as heat blazed across her face. No. No, no, no, no. Get it together. Don’t screw this up.

“I am, but prefer not to use that term. Not in the workplace, at least. Others may take offense or perceive it the wrong way. I prefer general manager.”

“Oh.” He had the kind of voice, Lindsay theorized, that made people apologize before they knew what they’d done wrong.

“Please excuse my mess. I’ve been doing some summer cleaning this morning.”

Mess? What mess? Lindsay surveyed his office, struck by its organization. Perfectly arranged and gleaming, the office surrounded her with the fragrance of leather, wood, and orange furniture polish. Wish my room back home was this tidy. Mom wouldn’t have nagged me to clean it day after day.

Opposite her, a seating area beckoned, bathed in soft light filtering through a large window that framed the desert panorama. Lindsay imagined sinking into those deep cushions, the worries of the world melting away. A desk sat beside the window. To one side, a compact kitchenette sparkled with stainless steel appliances, promising a haven for late-night snacks and early-morning coffee. The ceiling featured a painted summer sky, soft blue with wispy clouds. Such a different vibe than out front.

“How are you? I trust you had an okay trip?”

Lindsay’s eyes dropped, unable to hold his gaze. Her heart thudded as a bolt of unfamiliar nerves sprouted. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. What’s happening to meeeee? She hovered in place, torn between the urge to step closer and the instinct to flee.

“California girl, huh?” He retreated a step, assessing. “So pure, so innocent. Yeah, you’ll definitely do well here, especially with the older crowd. They’ll eat you alive.”

Lindsay dove a hand into her backpack, punching through lip gloss and Victoria’s Secret tags, and – No! Don’t go for the rosary! She blinked then kept her lids shut while recalling Sunday mornings at church and her father’s passionate sermons.

I’m really here, really doing this. Her eyes opened, a world away from Citronelle and the suffocating morality of her upbringing. Would she one day be like those trashy girls on the daytime talk shows her mom would scoff at? Or, worse yet, would she and her mother both be guests on a “Save My Daughter” episode? Mom would cry and pray on camera. Her face contorted at the thought. But by that point, I’d probably be so turnt up that I’d roll my eyes and laugh it off.

Remember why you’re here: independence. No more Citronelle ... no more Packard. Lindsay drew a deep breath, her lips curling into a defiant smirk.

“Bring on that older crowd.” Thorns spread behind her smile. “Bring ‘em all on.”

And yet, just like that, her spine went liquid.

Pamela crept a hand across Lindsay’s back and massaged it. The touch threw Lindsay for a loop. Packard and Eddie would paw and grope, but Pamela’s fingertips delivered a soothing caress, a whisper in the wind. “I love that confidence, honey. I just love it.” She edged closer, sliding her thumb along the shell of Lindsay’s ear. “Hmm, your hair smells... so good.”

Colt stepped forward and offered his hand.

So sexy. Colt had enormous hands, and Lindsay feared he could snap her wrists like twigs if he got the urge. The thought aroused the submissive in her. A man’s hands.

“Do you know how really, really, really ridiculously gorgeous you are?” Pamela asked, carefully sweeping Lindsay’s hair to the side and exposing the back of her neck. “You belong here. I can tell.” She took it in for a moment, that neck, its delicate texture. “I’m so thankful you found your way to us.”

OhmiGod! Lindsay could pick her poison here; she opted to focus on Colt’s hand engulfing hers, calloused palm against moisturized skin. She stared at the exchange for a beat before allowing her eyes to drift over his chest and up his arms. Her mouth watered when she got to that tribal wrapping around his bicep.

She sensed primal urges unfurling again, the same type that once had Gina brand her as bleacher girl and slut before she even had her driver’s license. No wedding ring on Colt’s finger. Well, at least that would be one less thing for Mom to crucify her for once the real reason for Lindsay’s relocation to Nevada finally came out.

Shit! Just wait ‘til Gina hears...

Twenty-six years of working at the brothel had sharpened Colt’s eye to a razor’s edge. He was constantly surrounded by prostitutes who could crash social media feeds with a single bikini pic, and physical assessment of women in general had become as automatic to him as breathing.

“Pamela, stop touching the new girl.”

His initial observation of Lindsay was her luxurious, yellow-blonde hair and how it complemented the healthy glow of her skin. With it styled in a voluminous ponytail, he recognized this girl as a natural blonde – the essence of summer, a goddess of the sun. Good and simple. He’d seen too many applicants arrive with elaborate styles such as waterfall braids, complex updos, and desperate attempts at sophistication. Those were invariably the ones who brought drama and demands, who treated this like a modeling gig rather than a legitimate job. No, thank you. Not the type of girls I want associated with my house.