Chapter 3

Sharp guitar riffs and flatline vocals invaded the solitude of deep, peaceful sleep. Stark and relentless, rising and falling, looping every eight seconds.

Emily Wilson burrowed deeper into her blanket on instinct, creating a makeshift cocoon with only her fingertips exposed. While oblivion’s embrace still beckoned, it couldn’t stave off the day’s inevitable demands. One hand snuck out, sweeping across the nightstand, brushing past a half-empty water bottle before finding her phone. It was silenced with a practiced tap, then Emily stretched while wincing. Whyyyyy? The cotton blanket unfurled as she eased onto her side. Why do I exist?

The repositioning stirred an aromatic burst of sandalwood from her skin, though tainted by notes of some stranger’s discount cologne. These men are wretched. Oxygen filled Emily’s lungs, 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, just the physical toll of seventeen hours on her feet, on her knees, on her back.

Emily 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 drugstore manager with rotting teeth and a gut that sloshed when he moved, who’d 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. The stains on her memory, her violated depths, were the expense of doing business.

A purple-black bruise mapped Victor’s possession across Emily’s hip bone, the precise imprint of his thumb that pinned her to the mattress while he’d rutted what little load he had, 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.

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 various stages of a life gone by: decade-old burlesque photos, lanyards from comic cons she’d worked, and an official NBA basketball signed by Steve Nash. A mini fridge hummed in the corner, stocked with meal prep containers and protein shakes. Above her bed, a neon sign she’d purchased off Amazon: 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 impromptu thought was accompanied 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 somehow belonging to someone else. The psychedelic light show caught the pallor of her skin and the 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.

Bare feet plodded across the ancient shag carpet to the adjacent bathroom. The door swung open and greeted her with its yellow walls, rust stains, 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 fixture routinely sputtered and groaned, water temperature jumping from arctic to scalding without warning. 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 and clanked behind the wall before releasing a stuttering spray of water 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 up with 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, chasing after nothing, or selling themselves to survive, each convinced their situation was temporary, unique, justifiable. 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 destinations.

The water reached a passable temperature. The curtain pulled across, Emily slipped out of her G-string and stepped inside, yanking the plastic closed behind her. The water doused her shoulders first, hot enough to redden her skin. 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 daily ritual marking 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 else 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 like the rest of them. Girl got the crown but she’s still down here in the crypt getting run through. Not my idea of devotion.

Yet, 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. The same lineup hustle, the same desperate women, the same disgusting mongers. 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, Emily went to bed reeking of strangers and dirty money.

She exited the shower and snatched a towel, wiping condensation from the mirror. Her reflection stared back, droplets tracing down her neck and collarbone, and her head drifted 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 practiced 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 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, Emily will have earned enough cash to otherwise silence her body’s urgent pleas for mercy.

Doubtful.

Amethyst, reporting for duty. Soul, clocking out.

PUBLIC HEALTH NOTICE: Law requires every brothel prostitute to be tested regularly. Customers must use a latex condom during all sexual activity. THIS DOES NOT GUARANTEE FREEDOM FROM SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASES.

“Okay, okay, this is real. Just –” Whispered words dissolved as Lindsay studied the scratched and dented metal placard on the front door. “And they say romance is dead.”

She reached for her phone and then angled its screen until her reflection stared back. Lindsay applied a fresh coat of lip gloss and brought the device closer, scrutinizing herself with an arched brow. Dad would literally die if he saw me now. A chill coiled up her backbone. Mom would kill me. Then ground me. Then kill me again. She smacked her lips together – hellfire red, slick as sin – before they parted with a sharp pop. They can never know.

“Girls, Girls, Girls,” the marquee proclaimed in yellow neon, unlit for now, above the weathered mahogany door. Lindsay knew from the photos on Happy Ending Ranch’s website that come sundown, it would strobe and stutter, casting an invitation for everyone to see, reeling in overeager men with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Another neon sign, also not illuminated, featured the silhouette of a cowgirl complete with a Stetson, boots, and a lasso frozen in midair. Mastercard and Visa decals were below it because, well, why not swipe your card for pussy?

“You’re officially going to hell.” Lindsay jabbed the doorbell before fear could consume her and she’d talk herself out of following through.

Maybe I have it all wrong. Were Mom and Dad right about her skipping town? Behind her, life carried on, engines idling and voices drifting past. They will find out eventually, you know. The collection of stoners, still at the convenience store, still gesturing and looking her way. You won’t be able to hide this forever. Lindsay’s mouth twisted. You’re not the daughter they raised anymore.

At least on the surface, Flagstone wasn’t much different from Citronelle. The same relentless sun sealed the valley into a pressure cooker, concrete rippling as the 105-degree heat twisted the air into funhouse mirrors. The same thrift stores and boarded-up storefronts with their sand-scoured “For Lease” signs. The same rusting pickup trucks in driveways, alongside hollow promises that next month, next year, next time would be different.