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“Yes,” Marcel says, looking uncomfortable. “But sir…it’s such a risk. Again, I don’t think it’s wise. After the events of last night, wouldn’t it make sense just to…avoid entanglements?”
Rashad says, “It’s not up to you, or to me. But it is up to God.”
Marcel nods. “As you wish.”
“Very well,” he says. “And all is ready for tonight’s festivities?”
“It is.”
“Good.”
In a three-room suite upstairs, Heather Morrissey is patiently sitting with her coworkerNancy Pullmanas they both wait for their client. Like her, Nancy is dressed like a typical American tourist: mom jeans, loose plain blue sweatshirt, minimal makeup and jewelry. But even with the sweatshirt, Heather can tell her redheaded companion is curvy and bosomy.
Nancy says, “He should be here in a few minutes.”
“He should,” she says, flipping through the fashion magazineGrazia.“But you know the drill…the client is never, ever wrong.”
Aside from the few years in Los Angeles when she tried and failed to get an acting career going, Heather has spent her entire life in Montana, except for work travel like this. She has a horse ranch with a detached house that allows her elderly parents to live safely and comfortably, and this job—and its high pay—has allowed a good life for the three of them.
Nancy says, “My gig is cheerleader. What’s yours?”
“Soccer mom.”
“You got kids? You know he’s gonna check.”
“No,” Heather says. “But I’ve got photos of me with my two nephews. So relax already.”
Nancy looks at the large bed nearby, and the black rubber mats placed around it.
“I am relaxed,” she says. “But that rubber…and the rubber sheet under the covers. Makes you wonder how weird he is.”
Heather was going to say, Girlfriend, if you’re still concerned about weird clients, you sure are in the wrong business,but the room door opens and a handsome man strides in, with a relaxed, open, and inviting smile.
“Good day, ladies,” he says, nodding. “I trust you’re both doing well.”
Heather quickly scopes him out. He stands a good six feet tall, trim and well-built, in his mid- to late thirties. Fine tailored gray suit with white shirt, no necktie. Gold cufflinks and Italian shoes. The suit-jacket pocket on his right sags just a bit, like he’s got an iPhone secured there. Trimmed beard, closely cropped black hair.
Middle Eastern type, which is fine by Heather. She isn’t prejudiced in the least, but she wants to give those brown eyes a steady gaze.
He returns her stare, still smiling.
Heather relaxes. Some clients, they have cold lizard eyes. That’s when you know there is going to be trouble, and that’s when you walk, no matter the penalty fee.
She says, “Doing fine, thank you, sir.”
“Same here.” Nancy chimes in, arching her back just the slightest, which Heather thinks is a tad crass. Too soon, she thinks, let’s wait awhile.
“Very nice, my ladies,” he says, and he walks over, still smiling. “I trust…well, I had requested two very specific American women. I hope you’re not offended.”
“Nope, not at all,” Heather says, although a deep part of her that remains a stubborn teen girl from Montana wants to say,Screw you, what are you looking for, a couple of breed sows?
“Same here,” Nancy says. “I don’t mind reliving my cheerleading days.”
From a small black leather clasp purse, Nancy removes three photos and the man examines them, pursing his lips, nodding. From her vantage point, Heather can make out a teenage Nancy in a skimpy high-school cheerleader’s uniform, the kind that exposes a flat and tanned stomach.
“How sweet,” the man says, handing the photos back. “I bet you got a lot of attention from the school boys back then.”
Nancy accepts the photos, smiling. “And some of the teachers, too.”
