Selling Out (3 page)

She ushered us both inside. “What happened?”

Any number of things could have happened to this girl. Drugs
or violence or rape, that sort of thing. Likely some of them had already
happened, but not tonight. “Nothing. I think I got her before she… Well, she’s
just been like this since she got in the car.” I shrugged. “Shock, maybe.”

“Wait for me,” Marguerite ordered as she pressed the intercom.

I nodded and leaned against the wall, relieved to release my
charge. These little field trips were a glass of cold water in a parched
expanse of desert, but there was a cost. There was always a cost, and in this
case, it was the removal of my blinders—but only temporarily. The ones that
said this was all my choice, it was all okay. Because if the life was something
for her to escape from, then what the hell was I still doing in it? Oh God, why
couldn’t I get out?

But we weren’t the same, Laura and I. I didn’t have that
lost look in my eyes. No confusion, no pain. When blue-gray eyes stared back at
me from the mirror, I saw nothing there at all.

Whoever ran the desk buzzed the door open, and Marguerite
ushered them both inside. There was another inside-locked door between the
administrative areas and the dormitories, every level another chance to stall a
rampaging ex-husband or ex-pimp before they could do harm.

I wondered if Henri could make it inside the inner sanctum.
Probably. My boss had oodles of money, much of which I’d made for him, and he
hired military dropouts like they were going out of style. Good thing this
place only housed girls from fifty-dollar pimps—small-timers lucky to find
their own tiny dicks, much less track down a missing girl and break their way
in here.

This place wasn’t a haven for me. I had always known that,
but it seemed to matter more now, when I needed one, when my own safe place had
been violated. Maybe it had been foolish to send my resources here. I could
have flown to Tahiti, never to have been heard from again. Never would have
seen Allie again either, or her daughter. Never seen
him
again. No, it hadn’t been an option. Still wasn’t.

The girl would probably go through medical first, get
checked out. Lucky for me, I wouldn’t be around for that. Wouldn’t find out the
dirty little details, and that was the only reason I continued to do this.

Make it right. It had become a mantra, a compulsion. I was
too far gone, but I could bring them to safety. The contained little community
was a refuge, but not for me. The dingy walls and speckled floor tiles of the
entryway were already closing in on me. I didn’t suffer poverty gladly. There
were only so many compensations for being a prostitute. One, really—money, and
I intended to use it to the fullest. Initially, I had given Allie financial
support. Now I resorted to luxury fabrics and label clothing, and when they
didn’t fill the void, I came here.

Marguerite came back into the foyer. “Thank you.”

Her businesslike demeanor was the only reason I could handle
her gratitude. “At your service, of course.”

“She said she’s thirteen.”

Unexpectedly, my stomach lurched. She wasn’t the youngest
I’d seen on the streets, but suddenly she seemed like a baby. I was getting too
old for this. How long had it been since I was her age? At least a decade—more.
Back then, I’d lived in a fancy house with a princess bed and frilly clothes.
I’d earned them.

“So,” I managed to say. “Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”

“Shelly.”

Her voice was too soft, too kind. Too damned understanding
when she didn’t know a single thing.

“You look tired. Have you been sleeping okay?”

I went to sleep just fine, to my regret. The nightmares were
like quicksand—the more I struggled, the faster they pulled me under. “I’m fine.”

“We have therapists here. They can—”

“What can they do?” I scoffed. What could they do except
make things worse?

“PTSD is not uncommon in women who—”

“Enough.” I took a deep breath, looked away.

Was it true? Did I have PTSD? Maybe. Probably. What did it
matter?

When I was in the tenth grade, I tried to seduce my World
History teacher into a higher test score. He’d looked at me with shock, which
had morphed into that damned understanding I’d learned to despise. Then came
the therapists.

At the end, the teacher had been fired, courtesy of good old
dad, and my home life got a hell of a lot tougher in retaliation for making
trouble. I’d figured out then I was better off alone, and nothing had changed.
Nothing ever changed.

“You’re breaking the rules,” I told Marguerite.

She made a little sound of resignation. “Okay, we won’t talk
about it.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know why you pretend you don’t care.”

So much for not talking. “You should know by now that no one
cares about whores.”

“Then why do you do it?” she challenged.

I flashed her my wicked smile. “Getting rid of the
competition.”

“Okay, Shelly.” She blew out her breath. “You’re right. I
broke the rules.”

I handed her the envelope. Marguerite accepted it with a
grim face. Ah, something Ms. Faust and I had in common: taking money from
someone we didn’t like. I wondered if it ever got easier for her. Every month I
brought a wayward girl to this place. Each time, Marguerite pried another
secret from my lips. I wasn’t worried. It would take far too many months, years
even, to get them all, and I would never last that long.

“How’s your cop?” Marguerite asked, as if we were two
girlfriends shooting the shit.

My heart beat faster, but I donned a mask of polite
curiosity. I had mentioned Luke once, offered his services in getting a
restraining order for one of the boyfriend pimps. Marguerite had refused,
housing the girl until she could move her to another city through her network
of shelters. The operation was costly and dangerous but still preferable to
dealing with cops. Another thing we shared.

“Haven’t spoken to him in a while.” Unfortunately, the
truth. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering what he thought about you getting out.”

She was fishing. No way she could know I had quit or had
tried to.

“It’s not really his business,” I said blandly.
Not really your business.

She shrugged. “Seemed like you really liked him.”

Except he didn’t want a prostitute for a girlfriend; he’d
basically said as much. More than that, he didn’t deserve one. I had quit,
fled, had wanted to never go back to hooking, but clearly that wasn’t in the
cards. My lip curled. “Come on, sweetheart. Do you really think someone like
him can have a real relationship with someone like me?”

It was a joke, but I held my breath.

“No,” she said finally. “But you deserve to have some fun,
even if it’s only for a little while.”

Yeah. That was what I thought. Maybe it was for the best
anyway, that I would go back to the one thing I could do so well. I never could
have afforded to fund this place on what I made as a cashier or any other
normal job. I swept out the door with a “Bye, honey” and a swing of my hips.
Girl’s got a reputation to rebuild.

I drove home on fumes and climbed directly into a
scalding-hot shower. I scrubbed away the rejection from earlier, the fear and
the stench of the streets. After using up half the bottle, I poured the rest of
the soap out and watched as the peach-colored gel swirled down the drain. I
couldn’t have used it again anyway, not after using it today. Maybe it was
strange, but the rituals kept me sane, and what did they hurt? Who did they
hurt? I lay down on the cold, hard floor of the tub and curled into a ball on
my side, letting the water rain down on me.

Distantly, I heard the phone ringing, but I couldn’t have moved.
Not until the water turned cold and I began to shake. I pulled myself up and
turned off the shower. After throwing on a large shirt to sleep in, I grabbed
the answering machine and climbed into my plush bed with
six-hundred-thread-count sheets. I curled my body around the little black box
and pressed Play.

“Hey, it’s me.” He sounded tired. “I guess you’re busy.”

There was a pause, which I scribbled in with well-deserved
recriminations. I might not have been with a client today, but I would be
tomorrow. This was my life. I could apologize for it, but I couldn’t change it
any more than a ship could change the tides.

“I worked a double shift today,” he said on the recording.
“One of the other guys, his wife went into labor, so I took over for him.
Wasn’t too bad, though. Just tiring. For her, I mean. It took her ten hours to
push him out, so what the hell do I have to complain about? Nine pounds, a boy.
I didn’t see him yet, came straight home.” There was silence. “Straight home
and called you. Funny.”

The answering machine broke the awkwardness with a
click.

There were no more messages. I pressed the button again.

“Hey, it’s me. I guess you’re busy. I worked a double shift
today. One of the other guys, his wife went into labor…”

The party turned out to be a corporate affair in the
penthouse of a swanky modern hotel. A bunch of high-profile CEOs getting high
and horny amid miles of glass surfaces—what a brilliant idea.

The guys at the front desk checked me out, but discreetly.
With furtive glances instead of leers, as befitted an escort of my price range.
For all they knew, I was a spoiled girlfriend, not a prostitute. But then, what
was the difference?

Outside the suite, I sank my stilettos into the carpet. The
dull beat shook from behind the door, already matching the throb in my head. I
had the sudden urge to call him as I brushed my fingers against the little
black clutch.

What could I say?
I
know I promised I wouldn’t do it anymore, but I’m about to go bang assholes for
money. I tried to join the regular world, but they didn’t want me. I’m sorry.
Don’t hate me. Help me.

The door swung open, revealing a man with a shiny forehead
and a bulbous belly hanging from between his open dress shirt. “I call dibs,”
he shouted, spittle flying in my face.

Fabulous.

“Sure, lover.” I tried to squeeze by him, but he caught me
in the doorway. His hands were everywhere, his foul liquor-breath suffocated
me, and the doorjamb cut into my back. “No need to rush, handsome. We’ve got
all night.”

He grunted and stuck his tongue into my cleavage. His
sweat-sheened head filled my vision, and I swallowed bile.

Shit, I wasn’t ready to go back. I never would be.

I had to. It was a miracle Henri had let me off so easily.
The least I could do was bear my punishment gracefully.

But my new boyfriend’s face felt slimy.
I
felt slimy.

I’d only been out of the game for a few months. Maybe more,
if I didn’t count Philip, which was debatable. Still, there was no reason to
freak out over a simple groping. I’d made it through much worse.

Just let him. Let him.

Let him touch and grab and pinch. Let him slobber. Let him
treat me like I was a piece of meat, no thoughts, no feelings. Let him treat me
like this was all I was good for. Do it for long enough, and I might start to
believe it. Lord knew I already did.

Think of something
else.

Not him, the man on my speed dial I never called, not while
I did this. I didn’t understand why it hurt him to see what I was when he met a
dozen other hookers in his daily work, each worse off than me, but it did. I
couldn’t think of my best friend Allie or her daughter either, because to
imagine them in this position was a weight too heavy to carry.

His fingers were inside me, pumping away. Thank goodness I’d
lubed up, or this would really hurt.

It still hurt. God.

Philip, now he understood me. He wouldn’t mourn for me or
feel guilty. We did what we had to and didn’t waste time on remorse. But I’d
told him I was done with the life. I’d promised I’d let him know if I needed
help. I needed help, needed…

“Stop,” I gasped.

He froze and then gently rocked his fingers back and forth,
like a child testing his boundaries.

I lowered my voice. “Wait, lover. I just need to freshen
up.”

He raised his head and blinked, confused. “You look pretty
to me.”

My stomach twisted at the compliment. He looked so earnest,
his eyes slack with lust and his mouth covered in his own spit. This wasn’t a
guy who got off on hurting or humiliating. He just didn’t know how to deal with
people, wouldn’t know how to please a woman if he tried. Hell, maybe he was
trying.

“Thank you.” I choked on the words. “I want to look good for
you. Make it good for you. Give me five minutes. Please.” Because if he didn’t,
I would freak. If he didn’t get his thick fingers out of me and off my skin
this very second, I was liable to do something really stupid. Like leave and to
hell with Henri and his hired fists.

The guy backed up, though. His face contorted into an
uncertain composition of wounded lover and dissatisfied customer, but he released
me, stepped back. I attempted a smile, ignored the pounding in my ears. I
wanted to tell him that I would be right back, that everything would be
fabulous, but how could I when I didn’t believe it myself?

I’d forgotten how to lie. In this business, I was as good as
dead.

I pushed off the wall and stumbled my way down the hall. I
passed the sitting area, catching flashes of rumpled suits and one lace-clad
female body straddling a guy probably twice her age. What was her name? Jenny,
Janey, what the fuck ever because it was all a lie. All fake.

The bathroom was empty—thank God for small favors. The sound
of the door slamming cracked loud in my head, even though surely it wouldn’t be
heard above the music. I locked it anyway, turning the little knob. So flimsy,
an illusion of safety.