Selling Scarlett (19 page)

The driveway rolls on forever. After five or ten minutes, the trees thin some and the iron lamp posts glow a little brighter. I'm reminded of my Hugo readings as I notice the stone wall rising ten or fifteen feet above the drive, on my right side; a fountain featuring mermaids, lit with spotlights; bird baths; benches; gardens.

Then I crest a small hill and see an expanse of soft, gold light, and my eyes focus on the largest English manor house I've seen in all my travels.

Holy crap, it's bigger than a frickin' castle. My gaze clings to the balconies, doors, windows, and ivy crawling the stone mansion, visible behind the flickering light of torches. My mouth drops ever further when I realize there are two smaller manors situated in a horse-shoe around the driveway.

I gape at the brutally trimmed shrubs and the fruit-bearing trees that blot my view of the open sky. I feel like I am in the South. Of England.

"Gorgeous..."

A plump white rabbit flits in front of my car, and I laugh. So that's the fluffy bunny thing! I roll another hundred yards or so, and come to a stop right in front of the manor. A valet in a red and black uniform comes down the stairs, trailed by two bellmen pulling a cart. My luggage is unloaded while a woman in a beautiful royal blue gown appears on the stairs. She steps out to greet me.

"Scarlett. I'm Juniper Francis. Come inside. Your luggage will follow you." She’s British—or a prostitute that specializes in voice fetishes (if that’s a thing). She's got coal black hair with stylish bangs; her hair is pulled into some kind of up-do that compliments her flawless, porcelain doll face.

I glance at my brown slacks and soft blue blouse, feeling dowdy. My heart beats hard as I step up the stairs, and the woman—Juniper—holds out both hands to me. I take them, with only a little hesitation, and she squeezes my hands.

“You're the one on the billboard,” I realize.

She laughs. “So are you.”

We pass through two huge, thick wooden doors held open by women wearing black and red skirt uniforms, and I try not to gape as we step inside a vast foyer. It has to be at least 30 feet high, with ornate, white-washed wood walls and three-pronged iron candelabras that flicker as we move. Directly above my head is a sparkling crystal chandelier, and a few steps in front of me, an ornate double staircase that seems to fall out of the sky. I'm blinking up at it when I hear a good-natured chuckle. I look down, into the laughing brown eyes of a striking African-American woman. She's tall and curvy, dressed in a cream gown that's part party-wear, part nightgown.

"Hi.” Her red lips curve. “I'm Geneese Loveless. You must be Scarlett." Her smile widens. "You're so pretty!"

Geneese holds out her hand, and Juniper clasps my other one, and together we walk around the stairs, through another set of smaller, but just as ornate double-doors, and into a room so huge I can only describe it as cavernous.

I'm struck first by the size of it—it's as big as a football field, for sure—and next by how
much
there is. There are so many little nooks, each with its own couch, love seat, and recliner; right offhand, I count at least twenty of them. The room is further divided by huge bookshelves, made cozier by coat racks and partial walls and house plants. The three dark wood walls framing the room are punctured by huge, two-story windows. The rug running under everything—a soft, camel-colored fabric—spans the entire room.

“Holy heck—” I say, embarrassed by my language.

“The rug?” Loveless asks. “Yeah, it's really, really big.”

“It’s a custom job, of course,” Juniper says, and all I can think is blow job.

We stop beside a big desk that looks like it belongs in the oval office. The woman sitting behind it, looking at several rows of security monitors, smiles at me and says, “Hello. I'm Rachelle.”

“Nice to meet you,” I murmur. I'm hardly even looking at her, although she's very pretty with blonde Curly Temple hair and doll-sized blue eyes. There's so much going on behind her shoulder, I feel A.D.D. trying to take it all in. There are several mini bars, two elevator banks, a hallway cutting into each wall, and so many decorative details: moldings, glasswork, antique-looking fixtures, you name it.

“This is the heart of the main house,” Rachelle says kindly. “It can be a little overwhelming at first, but it's really very cozy.”

As if on cue, a beautiful blonde in a ruby red gown leads a young man in an obviously bespoke suit to one of the elevators. I can hear him telling her about his day as they pass.

“All that’s left is the signatures.”

She applauds. “Your first merger!”

This is real
, I want to say out loud, because it seems like—okay, I guess it is a (former) frat boy’s idea of paradise.
This place is really freakin' real. This is where people come to sell their bodies
.

The notion makes me feel frozen, so it's a good thing Geneese tugs on my hand. “Want to work out with us? Our shift just ended, and it's boxing night.”

Chapter Seventeen
~ELIZABETH~

I'm tired, and I don't really want to work out, but if this is what they do at Love Inc., I will do it. I can already tell this place is its own little universe, and the last thing I want is to stick out any more than I already do.

Juniper and Geneese have let go of my hands, so I feel a less like a five-year-old.

“There are stairs,” Geneese says, as we pass a brunette sitting on one of the couches, reading a magazine, “but it's hard to look elegant going up the stairs. Anyway, that's what boxing is for. You ever boxed?”

“I have before.” I spot another couple—both with black hair—sitting together on a love seat, and Juniper explains, “This is where we meet our clients. They have to pass Rachelle and the cameras and then they wait for us in a pre-set spot. It's a security measure. Marchant Radcliffe—that's the guy who built this place—based it on the dormitory system. At uni, you know, or rather college.”

I nod as we pass a beautiful bookcase and a little nook filled with bean bag chairs. The rug under my feet is spotless and looks soft enough to lie on. About twenty yards ahead, rising from the floor and up into the ceiling, is the nearest elevator bank. The elevator is old-fashioned and iron—pretty, if an elevator can be pretty.

“It's beautiful here.”

“Some of us have rooms here,” Juniper says. “The others bunk in the whorehouse.”

I must look surprised, because she blinks. “You do know there's an actual whorehouse where we're made to fuck for our dinner, yes?”

I'm totally confused, and totally at a loss for what to say, when Geneese elbows Juniper. “Girl, that's so wrong.”

“So I hear, so I hear.” Juniper smiles wickedly, and Geneese presses the “4” button on the elevator.

“Your room will be here in the main house, with some of the girls who can't get on with the others, or have a wooden leg, or need to be watched closely,” Juniper says as the doors glide open.

I smile weakly, hoping she’s joking.

Geneese pulls me inside and then releases my hand. “I'm kind of a touchy feely person,” she says smiling. “You have to bat me off.”

I smile back at her, and she laughs. “You look nervous. Don't be nervous. This is a good place. You'll like it here.”

I nod. “This is a first for me.”

“Well of course,” Juniper says. “You're a virgin.”

The doors ding open, and we file into a hardwood hall with a deep crimson runner. The walls are done in creamy velvet wallpaper, and the ceilings are high, dark wood, punched in little hexagons where the chandeliers are mounted. On this floor, they're spindly and brass.

“It smells delicious,” I say, and Geneese smiles. “This place is supposed to be appetizing.”

The hall ends in a rounded nook where a portrait of a half-nude woman hangs, spotlighted and framed by gold tassels.

We walk a few more steps and Juniper pulls out a key, tries it in the antique-looking brass lock on one of the wide, wood doors, and pushes the door open. It creaks, and as soon as it swings open I can smell flowers.

Geneese waves her hand for me to go first, and as I step inside the lights come on automatically. A few steps on lush hardwood topped by a thin oriental rug, and I'm out of the small foyer and into a large living area. I've been in enough million-dollar homes to know the furniture and fixings are all nice, none of that mass-produced hotel crap. The claw-footed Victorian couch is really a Victorian couch, and the dainty chairs on either side, covered in lush lime green fabric, are probably also from England. A glance beyond my immediate surroundings reveals mirrors, original artwork and framed photos adoring the walls, and a full kitchen over to my left. There's a dark hall out in front of me, and at the mouth of it is all my bags.

“That was fast,” I say.

“We aim to please. Why don't you come and see your room?”

Geneese waves me down the hall; she and Juniper follow. I almost gasp when I see the bedroom. At the center is the biggest canopy bed I've ever seen in my life, with lush crimson bedding, yellow and cream pillows, and a canopy so thick it actually creates walls around the bed.

At the foot of the bed is an old-fashioned soaking tub, and all along the outermost wall are windows—no, doors. Doors that lead onto a candle-lit balcony.

“This is really nice,” I say, feeling almost intimidated.

“We want you to feel like a princess when you are here,” Juniper says.

“Oh, I do.” I turn a slow circle, and Geneese says, “I've always liked this room. You got a good one.”

“I believe it.”

They go into the living area while I change, and as soon as the bedroom door shuts behind them, I drop into the nearest chair and put my head into my hands. My cheeks feel warm, my heart is racing, and my stomach is about to fly out of my chest. Damned belly bats.

I stand up, dig some work-out clothes out of my bag, and pace as I wriggle into them. It's not just nerves, I realize. Some of what I feel right now is real anxiety. That I don't belong here. That I can't handle the task ahead of me. That I'll fail.

A virgin at a brothel...

I'm in way over my head.

I try to talk myself up as I pull my hair into a pony-tail. I think about Cross and Suri and Crestwood Place, with its familiar fields and my familiar bedroom, smelling like my favorite vanilla bean lotion and coffee from the Keurig I keep right beside my bed. I picture myself reading one of my text books, and I remind myself that I can use this experience as school research. That makes me feel a little more level, so I'm gathered as I make my way into the living area.

Juniper grins as I step out of the hallway. “Looking sharp,” she says, and Geneese points. “Your legs are so long and tight.”

“I bet yours aren't much different,” I say.

“You sure you're game for working out? You had a long trip if you drove. I wasn't thinking about that earlier.”

“No, I'm okay. I want to see more of the place, and I missed my work-out today, so this is good.”

Juniper gives me the story of how Love Inc. came to be as we walk back to the elevators, and it’s pretty much what I read on Wiki. Back on the first floor, we exit out a side door and follow a shaded stone walkway around a small garden. The path leads us to the smaller manor house, and as we approach it, I can see the curtains hanging in the windows don't match—some are red, some blue, some pink.

“This is where the escorts and the trainers and the tutors live,” Loveless tells me. “Behind the big house—” she points between the main house and the manor where the staff lives— “is another wing where Marchant and his buddies have their private suites. The other building across the way,” she says, pointing across the courtyard at the third manor house, “is where we do official things, like see a doctor or go to the media lab or study if we want. If someone comes out here, like to fix the roof or a plumber or something, that's where Rach meets them. Can't have strangers in and out of the big house.”