Chapter 7

“Are you sure you’re okay? Want me to pull over? There’s a rest stop about a mile up the road.”

“No, no. I’m fine. I really am.” Lindsay’s forehead found the passenger side window, skin meeting glass with a thud. Her index and middle fingers traced tight circles against her eyelids, coaxing starbursts of red and purple in the self-made darkness. Lindsay’s excitement for a daylong shopping spree alongside Jim was ruined by the harsh reality check she received first thing this morning at the Sulaco County Sheriff’s Department.

“Hi. I’d like to apply for a sheriff’s card.”

Once the older, heavyset woman at the counter realized Jim was accompanying Lindsay, she resisted the urge to lash out, fists clenching at her sides. “God almighty, they keep getting younger. What are you, twelve?”

Lindsay wound the backpack straps around her fingers once, twice, a third time. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You reek of it already. That brothel stench.” A desk drawer snapped shut with a bang, causing Lindsay to flinch. “Have you applied for a sheriff’s card before?”

She pivoted her torso to the side. “Umm, no.”

Red blotches crept up the woman’s neck as she shoved the paperwork across the counter hard enough that it scattered, one page helicoptering to the floor. “You’re so young. So pretty. Why do you want to throw your life away and become a good-for-nothing whore?” Her mouth twisted around the word as if it tasted foul. “Is that something to strive for? To be proud of? How could you do this to yourself? To your family? Have you no respect for them?”

Everything in Lindsay screamed to run out the door, down the street, all the way back to Citronelle and into the protective arms of her mother and father. Instead, her body had become petrified stone as the woman’s words kept coming and all she could do was clutch at Jim, wondering if the roaring in her ears was blood or shame or the sound of everything she’d dreamed about crumbling around her.

“Nice to see nothing’s changed around here, Irene.” Jim’s mouth curved up at the corners, but the rest of his face remained slack. “Still spreading sunshine wherever you go.”

Jim ushered Lindsay to a back corner of the lobby. “You’re not out of the woods yet.” His finger motioned toward each line. “Sign here, here, initial this. They’ll run you through every database they’ve got: credit, criminal, probably access your third-grade report cards. Then comes Suzi. She’s religious. Really religious. Scripture quotes and everything. She’ll ask if you were molested. If you’re on drugs. If someone’s forcing you. She’ll say ‘reconsider your choices’ about fifty times.” He tapped the paper. “Just keep signing. When Suzi starts her shit, you give her nothing. Don’t engage. Yes, no, I understand. That’s it.”

“All whores go to Hell!” Irene rose, palms anchored on the desk after two grinding hours of forms and lectures. “You’re gonna burn forever because of this!”

In the car, they’d passed a billboard that read FORGIVE MY SINS JESUS; SAVE MY SOUL. Lindsay’s throat convulsed, acid burning her mouth. Oh God. She pitched forward until ribs met thighs, shoulders hitching with the effort of not sobbing out loud.

The engine’s pitch dropped. Gravel crunched under slowing tires. When she finally looked up, the car had stopped and Jim was studying her face.

“Contrary to what you’re telling me, you’re not okay.” He jammed the gearshift into park. “Talk to me, sweetheart. What’s going on? Are you still upset about earlier?”

“I ... I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” Lindsay undid her seat belt, opened the door, and staggered out to the rest stop’s parking lot. Her hands trembling as if she was freezing despite the July sun searing the asphalt all around her, she plopped herself down on the nearest curb.

Within seconds, Jim’s shadow fell across her and he folded down, knees cracking, until their shoulders touched. “I told you earlier, you can’t let that mean old bitch get into your head. She treats all the girls we bring in like absolute shit; it’s what she does. First time I brought Kenzie here, Irene called her a wetback whore and threatened to have ICE waiting outside, to have her deported back to Puerto Rico. Thing is, that was complete and total bullshit because being from Puerto Rico, Kenzie is already a U.S. citizen.

“With her, it’s all intimidation tactics. Other girls, though? Others will clap back at her.” He stifled a laugh. “Last Christmas, Sahara sent Irene a postcard from Cabo that said getting fucked on the beach daily. Something you’ll never experience.” His hand found Lindsay’s wrist. “Just ignore her. She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know any of us. She just knows she’s sixty and bitter and you’re eighteen and beautiful, and that kills her.”

But ignoring what happened was easier said than done. Mean old bitch or not, that woman had forced Lindsay to look at everything from a different point of view. Was accepting a job at Happy Ending Ranch the correct move? When her medical results came back this morning and she’d been cleared to work, Lindsay was sky-high with excitement. But now, mere hours later, she found herself overcome with doubt. Do I really want to go through with this? But what choice did she have? I can’t go home. Not anymore.

What right does that hag have to talk to me like that? Back in Citronelle, things were different. Lindsay was on a first-name basis with over half the town because she worked at the fairgrounds every summer. She always met them with cheerfulness and was never impolite. Her parents raised her to be respectful of everyone, especially her elders. Mom says a smile is the best makeup any girl can wear.

This whole idea of fleeing home at eighteen to work here could implode spectacularly. One misstep, Lindsay knew, and she’d be trading fishnets for handcuffs. Sheriff Spaeth, the town’s crusading moralist, was gunning to crush the brothel and its stable of bedwarmers. Still, prison seemed tame compared to Mr. and Mrs. Anastacio ever finding out that their little girl had taken to hawking her pussy to make ends meet.

Whore.

That label hit hard. Being called one gutted Lindsay to her roots and provided her first reality check for the new life she had chosen. It was taboo to say that word in the industry, but in all fairness, it was the truth.

Lindsay hadn’t heard the other ladies say it yet. They cloaked themselves in softer terms: working girls, working ladies, courtesans, providers. A brittle shield against hard truth. Colt mentioned “prostitute” yesterday, but said it was a nasty word too. Not as nasty as whore, though.

Think about what you’ve done, the decisions you’ve made. Lindsay’s new reality crouched in wait, ready to pounce as soon as Jim’s vehicle returned to Flagstone. How long would it be before she’d be flat on her back, legs spread for the assembly line of cock? Stranger’s cocks. One empties his balls, another’s already unzipping. Like that guy last night, the one Nicolette said had sewer breath. Scarlett claimed this past Saturday, she had sex with eight different guys over fourteen hours.

Eight. Different. Guys!

As much as she wanted to visit the upscale lingerie boutique in Oakfall that Pamela recommended, Lindsay needed to compose herself before getting back into the car. “I’m gonna use the ladies’ room. I’ll be back.”

The metal door clanged shut behind her. Lindsay dove into the furthest stall, slid the lock, and doubled over. Tears streaked her cheeks, dripped off her chin. Seriously, am I cut out for this?

“You’re awfully quiet. It’s unusual for you. Haven’t said anything since we left the rest stop.”

Lindsay startled as she whirled to face Jim. She grated her teeth into a smile and hoped it didn’t appear as anxious as she felt. “I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.”

On the highway, Jim swept the hair on his forehead back as he took a moment to inspect Lindsay. Oakfall waited at the next turnoff. She’d departed for the sheriff’s station in gray sweatpants and a loose-fitting checkered blouse to maintain her modesty and not rouse any eyebrows.

But once they cleared Flagstone, Lindsay stripped down to skintight denim shorts with frayed edges and a fluorescent orange halter top. Sexy was an understatement. In all his thirty-five years of working at the house, Jim had never seen a woman as stunning as Lindsay.

Even better, she was untouched with zero experience. Screwing her boyfriend back in high school meant nothing. Lindsay was as pure as the driven snow, yet also ripe for the picking. Innocent until proven filthy? In time, this gal would become a marquee attraction at the brothel.

But only if things stayed positive and people like Irene were kept out of her life.

Jim was quick to realize yesterday that Lindsay shattered every stereotype about women who sought work in the skin trade. Loving family, proper upbringing ... the whole Norman Rockwell picture. Who’d believe it? Sad, but true. No broken home in her past. No sob story. Daddy never raised a hand or crossed a line.

Truth was, most of the ladies passing through Happy Ending Ranch came from decent backgrounds. They’re just regular girls, really. But try telling that to the ignorant masses. In their minds, every working girl was running from daddy’s fists or chasing the next fix.

That’s the only reason she chose this life, right? She’ll be dead in five or six years from an overdose.

In reality, no, that wasn’t the case. Still, Jim admitted a few underwent difficult struggles, whether at home or elsewhere. But find me a profession where that isn’t true. Doctors, lawyers, hell, even your friendly neighborhood barista. Courtesans are no different.

Certainly, Colt has cleaned the place up by leaps and bounds from when his old man ran it.

“Where are some of your favorite places to hike?” Jim could have said he understood Lindsay’s negative frame of mind and asked if she wanted to discuss it. But he knew a better way to go about this. He could tell she was rattled and now second-guessed her decision to leave the sanctity of her family. I don’t want her to bail on us and go running home. Working girls obtaining their sheriff’s card through Irene (and her sharp tongue) was a necessary evil.

What’s worse, it needed to be renewed every six months.

Last evening, Jim inquired about Lindsay’s interests so he could list them on her biography page for the website. She mentioned that, more than anything, she loved to hike.

Lindsay tucked one leg beneath her. “The Clouds-to-Cactus Trail, without a doubt. My dad and I hike it two times a year.”

“Clouds-to-Cactus Trail? Where’s that located?”

“California. It originates in Palm Springs and ascends over ten thousand feet to San Jacinto Peak.” Lindsay blinked away the excess moisture before adding, “It’s twenty-one miles long and can be difficult for beginners, but Dad and I have hiked it so many times it’s old news for us these days.” She put her hands behind her head. “We’re pros.”

“Impressive. I’d go hiking a lot back in the day.” Man, I haven’t done any of that in thirty years. Where did all the time go? It just flew by. “Two miles up, huh? I bet it’s freezing cold when you reach the top, even in the middle of summer.” Or is it? He didn’t know.