Chapter 42

Blowing out a breath as she emerged from her bedroom, Lindsay was on a mission to talk to her best friend – again. It was easy to find her as the smell of cinnamon percolated through the air. Francisco is off today, so that can only mean one thing. Following the scent, Lucy soon joined her, rubbing and bumping against Lindsay’s ankles.

“You look cute.”

“I’m baking.” In the kitchen, Pamela’s blonde hair was piled on top of her head. At thirty-one weeks pregnant, she wore maternity clothes, a black apron with the embroidered inscription, Real Men Make Your Panties WET, NOT YOUR EYES, and had smudges of white powder on her nose. Per her custom, she stopped what she was doing and wrapped both arms around Lindsay for a good morning hello and hug.

Pamela liked to hug.

“Baking, huh? So that must be flour on your nose, then, and not cocaine. Makes sense now,” Lindsay teased.

“You’re a comedian, aren’t you?” Chuckling, Pamela swatted her with the oven mitt. Her eyes then crossed downward, verifying the substance on the bridge of her nose. “Hmm.”

Lindsay reached down and picked up her wiggling little companion. She pressed kisses to Lucy’s warm, soft fur as the feline sniffed and bunted at her shoulder. “Oh, I missed you overnight, babycakes. Have you been a good girl for Aunt Pamela? Been behaving yourself?”

“That is like, the best cat ever,” Pamela had a faint streak of flour in her hair too. “No issues, no problems. She’s been keeping me company all morning. Curious, yes, but hasn’t made any motion to jump up and try counter-surfing yet. You really hit the jackpot with her.”

A refugee from Citronelle as well, Lindsay rescued Lucy from the alleyways almost a year ago. Once a stray who fed on scraps and struggled daily to survive, Lucy received all the food, love, and shelter she could ever need as Happy Ending Ranch’s unofficial mascot. She treated the house as her kingdom, too, allowing all the silly humans to loiter about and bump their bodies together in strange ways as long as they provided her with plenty of food and affection.

Glancing at the time on her smartphone, Lindsay suppressed a frown. “Christina must already be on her way home to Cincinnati. She has a layover in Houston, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Pamela said as she added more flour to the dough she was rolling. “Colt is almost back to the house from Vegas. Christina was on the plane two hours ago.”

Lindsay, Pamela, Colt, and Christina had a long talk yesterday evening in the office, and it was unanimously decided that Christina, at the very least, needed to press pause on her new career and reevaluate things. “You’re welcome to stay and work in the LPIN industry if you wish,” Colt initially told her. “That’s your choice; it’s up to you, and I cannot stop you. I cannot tell you how to live your life. Just be aware that if you do decide to continue working, it won’t be happening in this house.”

But Christina opted to make the smart decision and return home to her family, particularly her parents, who were worried sick about her. She squashed fears of resorting to anything drastic, thankfully, and had a good, long discussion with Suzi later on as well.

“I know what it’s like to be mentally traumatized,” the former prostitute, now age fifty-two, said to Christina. “To be emotionally abused, all of those things, but there’s a healing process, and we need to transition you from being a victim to a survivor. What Charlie did to you today is reprehensible, and there is no call for it.

“I remember that I always used to want to be a model. Cindy Crawford, Kathy Ireland, I loved those people – Stephanie Seymour – I wanted to live their life, to be them. I wanted to get to the big time like them. And I was lookin’ for the man who was gonna help me to become this famous model. But it turned out he was a pimp.

“When he came in front of me, he had the Cadillac, he smelled good, he looked good, and I wanted that. And he told me, I’m gonna help you to get to be that pretty model because you are so pretty, girl, you are gorgeous. And I believed him. I was eighteen, the same age you are now.

“But eventually, what happened was he put me on the street. It’s scary when you get on the other side and they close that door, isn’t it? The casting agent from California coerced and manipulated you last week, didn’t he, Christina, in exchange for a film role and promises of fame and riches? As for me, all I remember was that I’d be praying, please God, let it be over with, and let me come out of this room safe. And then, whatever the payout was for that night, I had to turn it over to him. My pimp.

“And that’s how we get locked in, Christina. That’s how we get locked in. And the same thing happens at brothels too. They take fifty percent of your gross right off the top and hit you with fee after fee. God, I worked at this house for years myself. For years ... and I hated it. You need to go back home, distance yourself as far away from prostitution and pornography as you can, and never look back. Forget all of this ever happened. Nothing good will come out of being here.”

In the current moment, Lindsay made a face. “I wonder if Suzi hit Christina with that same holier-than-thou speech she spewed on me two years ago.”

“You need to realize something.” Pamela stopped rolling and looked up at Lindsay.

“What?” she asked, setting Lucy down and sliding into the breakfast nook.

“You want to own this house one day, right? This business? You want to take on that responsibility? You want the dual role of owner and sex worker at the same time?” Pamela shook her head as if that was an insurmountable task. “You need to learn to manage, Lindsay, and handle all the varying personalities and volatile situations that happen here. But before all that, you need to understand that not every girl approaches this job the same way you do. In fact, no one does. Only you.

“Tell me, what would you have done yesterday if you were tending bar, and Charlie threatened you like he did Colt? How would you have responded? What would you have done if he took it a step further and put his hands on you? If he threw punches at you?”

Okay, Pamela had Lindsay’s attention. She’d always looked up to her, admired her, and valued her opinion.

“I ... uhh ... I...”

Pamela continued, “Ninety percent of the girls who’ve worked here absolutely despise this job and this house. They’re not like you, honey. They don’t fill with anticipation when the doorbell rings like you do. They don’t guess if it’s a Hollywood actor, a politician, an athlete, or just a garbage man and get all excited like you do. They just don’t care. You, on the other hand? No matter who it is, or what these men do, you welcome them with open arms. You crave sex, and it doesn’t matter who it’s with. There’s nothing wrong with that, either. It’s to be commended, and any guy who pays money to be with you, any woman, they’re in for the time of their life because of it. You are, like, the ideal, picture-perfect courtesan. The prototype. Because the sheer joy you receive from this is all you truly need. The money is secondary to you, isn’t it? You need it, too, I guess, but the sex is what drives you.