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I quirk a brow. “Seriously?”
“Yes. Can you imagine sleeping with nasty men for money?” She scoffs.
No, but I can imagine sleeping with a nasty man to keep Mom safe and a roof over my head, which is way worse.
Fucking strangers for cash would be easy for me, and it’s got to pay much more than being a waitress. It would get Mom and me that much closer to getting the hell out of Reno.
I try to stay focused while Olivia and I chat over breakfast, but I’m only partially paying attention, my mind racing from all the possibilities.
Would they even hire someone who looks like me? I mean, I’m no Olivia, but when I put effort into my appearance, I get my fair share of looks from men. Surely, someone would pay me to do what I’m already doing with Ray, and, as a bonus, I wouldn’t get the shit kicked out of me for doing it.
I don’t see a downside. I pray they’re still hiring.
“I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to work in an hour, and I have a couple errands to run before then,” I say, placing eight dollars on the table to cover my portion.
Olivia pushes the cash back my way. “I got it this time.”
“No. Absolutely not.” I stand, throwing my purse over my shoulder.
She stands, too, thrusting the money at me. “Yes. You need every dollar to get out of this place.”
It’s a kind gesture, but I can’t accept it. When people do nice things, you start to believe they care and would never wrong you. Olivia’s a great friend, the best I could hope for, but I’d never be stupid enough to rely on her.
That lesson was taught to me by my stepbrother, Colin. He was kind, protected me from Ray, and promised to always be there for me. Then one day, I woke up, and he was gone. No note. No explanation. Just gone.
He left me alone, knowing full well what a piece of shit Ray is. The sting of that betrayal grows worse each time Ray sneaks into my room and each time I get backhanded or punched in the gut.
“Thank you, but it’s not necessary. Besides, eight bucks is nothing in the grand scheme of things.”
She sighs. “Fine. Give me a hug.”
“I’ll text you later,” I say, releasing her.
“I hope you make lots of tips tonight.”
“Thanks.” I leave her to settle the bill since she was paying with a card and hop in my car.
I don’t actually need to be anywhere before my shift starts, but after hearing about the brothel, I decide to use the hour to do some research.
It’s quiet when I walk into the library. The air smells distinctly of dust and that delicious scent of old books. I sit at the computer tucked in the corner so no one can see what I’m doing. Starting with a basic search, I learn the new brothel is called the Honey Pot Ranch. Clicking through their website, I take notes as I find out everything I can about the place.
They tout a spa-like atmosphere, with kink-themed rooms to fulfill any desire, and in case you need inspiration, there’s an actual menu for you to choose from. My cheeks heat as I read a list that includes everything from a personal vibrator show to a dream experience where the man can be pleasured by multiple women at once.
Taking a calming breath, I scroll through pictures of the property. I’m impressed at how every detail seems to be well thought out, with no expense spared. My confidence grows as I imagine myself in each of these rooms and don’t feel an ounce of panic. Unease? Yes. But not panic.
To me, sex is the same as a chore, a job. One I’m already doing but not getting paid for. Sometimes Olivia talks about guys she’s with and how they make her feel, and I’ve never related to anything less. That feels like an advantage when it comes to this job.
Browsing through the employment application, I note the information they need. Most of it is what I’d expect: name, address, hair and eye color, height, weight, and a full body picture in my underwear. I debate asking Olivia to take the photo since she has the latest iPhone, but if she found out what I was doing, she’d flip, and I don’t have the energy to deal with that. I’ll have to take it with my own piece of shit phone and hope it’s good enough.
The final page of the application is a questionnaire. My lips part as my breaths speed up. They want to know—in detail—what I will and won’t do with clients.
Will I perform oral? Will I allow my clients to perform oral on me? Will I allow ass play? What about bondage? Age play? Spanking? Cuddling? Foot fetish?
My eyes widen, and my heart pounds in my chest. All of those things aremychoice? It specifically says that declining any of these things won’t determine employment. Is that true? Because damn, it would feel good to be the one with all the power for a change.
I close out of the computer, more determined than ever to make this work.
CHAPTERTHREE
