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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.”
“There are privacy issues,” Juniper says.
“That makes sense. Is Marchant Radcliffe here often?” I ask. I feel slightly nauseated, but Juniper shakes her head. “He's in and out. He trusts Richard and Rachelle to keep us straight.”
The door opens for us from the inside, and we step into a smaller, more relaxed version of the 'big house'. It's decorated in vibrant lavender, deep purple, and silver, with silver fixtures, a ping-pong table, a pool table, and a cheery fireplace.
"This is our building," Geneese says. "You can call me Loveless, by the way. Everybody else does.”
I follow them to the second floor, past identical faux wood doors decorated by welcome mats and the occasional potted plant. While we walk, Loveless and Juniper tell me about the gym below the building. As I wait for them to change, sitting in a plush chair outside Juniper's room, I feel awkward again, like the new girl, and I wonder how much they like me, or if they feel obligated to entertain me. I decide eventually that they both seem real enough, and even if they're being phony, there's no point in worrying about it.
A few minutes later, Juniper emerges from her flower-adorned doorway in nothing but a black leotard and hot pink sneakers. She smiles and hands me a bottle of Evian. “I'm glad you're working out with us. I was wondering about you.” Before she says exactly what she was wondering, she asks, “Do you have your own bag?”
“Gym bag?”
She shakes her head. “Punching bag.”
“Not my own, but I've used them at gyms.”
“It's therapeutic,” she smiles, but I get the feeling she doesn't have too many demons.
She slants an eyebrow at me and gives me a look that's caught somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “I know what you're thinking,” she says coyly. “I'm British, and I don't seem like a whore.”
I gape, although that isn't really what I was thinking—I'm too shell-shocked to have gotten that far—and Juniper bursts out laughing. I make a mental note that she doesn't think she seems like a whore. I’ll enjoy dissecting that later.
“I am an escort,” she says, “but I'm also a cliché.”
“Huh?”
