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Shit. That’s not going to work.
I rummage through the dresser, trying to find something that will work, and come up with a nightgown that looks passable. I don’t even remember buying it, which means it might be one of my mom’s that got accidentally mixed in with my stuff when I moved out.
That makes me feel even worse about this, but I pull it on anyway.
It’s a soft peach color, silky against my skin, and short enough to show off the tops of my thighs, with a slit up one side. The spaghetti straps irritate my shoulder, and I try to adjust them so they don’t rub as much, lowering the neckline until my cleavage shows through the lace.
I take my time fixing my hair, blow drying it into soft waves that tumble around my shoulders. I put on some make up next, lining my eyes with dark liner and painting my lips red.
I don’t even feel like myself.
My stomach is still in knots, and bile rises in my throat as I grab my coat and leave my apartment.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. “It’s just one night, and then it’ll be over.”
Maybe if I just keep saying that, it’ll be okay.
Carl gave me the address of the brothel, and I take the bus to the closest stop and then walk the rest of the way. Despite the coat that covers my nightie, I feel like people can tell what I’m wearing as I walk past.
My cheeks flame red, and I practically jog the last couple of blocks to the brothel.
Compared to the strip club I work in, the brothel is pretty plain on the outside. It’s nondescript, and it could be anything from an office or some kind of place to get medical procedures done, with the plain brick and covered windows.
But I guess it’s one of those ‘if you know, you know’ kind of places, and I pull the door open and step inside.
The scent of candles and incense washes over me, and a tall man with beefy arms and tattoos everywhere steps up, looking me over.
“You lost?” he asks.
I shake my head, trying to find my voice. “N-no. I have… I’m supposed to meet Giselle?”
He looks at me for a second longer and then turns on his heel, walking through a door that leads into the back.
I stand where he left me, nervously twisting my fingers together and glancing around at the bare walls of the entry room. Just like the outside, this room is so nondescript that it gives away none of what goes on in the back of the establishment.
The tall man comes back a minute later with a stern faced woman on his heels. She’s tall and blonde, and she carries herself with an air of someone who takes no shit. When she looks me over, I have to fight the urge to sink down into my coat even more.
“You’re the one Carl sent over?” she asks. When I nod, she crooks a finger at me in a sharp motion. “Come with me, then.”
Giselle leads the way through the door and into a side room at the back. She closes the door behind me and then looks me over more in depth, dragging her gaze from my head all the way down to the scuffed shoes I put on.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” She sniffs. “I thought I told Carl about the shitty girls he sends me. The Rose Garden is about quality, and I’m not seeing it.”
Embarrassment and anger flash through me when she says that, and I can’t help but bite back, “I didn’t know there were such high standards just to lay on your back.”
Giselle narrows her eyes at me, not looking amused at all. Then she steps forward and grabs my wrists, yanking them down from where I had crossed my arms. She pulls the coat open and takes in the outfit I put together, and her opinion of it is clear on her face.
“Unbelievable,” she mutters.
I feel like my face is going to be permanently red from how fucked up and embarrassing this is, and it gets worse when Giselle’s hands start roaming over me.
She gropes me, cupping my breasts in her hands, then reaches behind me to touch my ass. When she touches the patch of scars on my right thigh, she makes a face, and I stare down at the floor, wishing I could disappear.
“What on earth did Carl see in you?” she asks, and I don’t know if she wants an answer or if she’s just complaining out loud.
“He said you needed virgins,” I whisper, shame keeping my voice soft.
Giselle arches a brow at me. “Looking at you, I’m sure you are, but I have to check. If you’re trying to run some scam for money, it would ruin my business.”
