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And I know Priscilla did that. And I hate her for it.
And I wonder for the hundred-thousandth time, why? Why is he with her? Assuming for a second that her personality and her job don’t matter at all (and I’m aware the job gripe is kind of hypocritical considering the company I’m presently keeping), she’s not even that striking. She’s attractive in a prefabricated kind of way, but there are lots of other fish in the sea—other pretty women with Crest-white smiles, fake tits, and mile-long legs.
I swallow, feeling weird. I'm one of them, aren't I? Okay, my boobs are real, but now that I've gotten into shape, I'm leggy, and I've always had a nice, white smile. It's strange to think of myself as pretty when I'm so accustomed to ignoring my appearance—but I am pretty. I'm striking. A week or two under Brenda's care and I'll be just as cut as the next working girl. I'm the whole package, so why is he with her?
I’m going to figure that out.
As far as the other major thing I have to think about—I feel comfortable with this, comfortable in general as the girls take turns describing features of their best-ever client, leaving the others to guess names. And then we turn onto the little asphalt road that's lined with billboards, and Loveless leans in close and whispers, "I didn't talk to Juan tonight. I saw him, but he went downstairs before I could get to him."
Her eyes widen purposefully, and I know what she's saying. She saw me disappear with Hunter. I expect her to ask me for details, but instead she pats my knee. "It's your story, Cinderella. Just tell me, did you lose a shoe?"
She has a habit of saying things that I don’t understand, but I have a miserable sense that the answer is yes. Tears fill my eyes, and she whispers, "Oh, honey."
I nod, and I feel a little better.
When Rod lets us off in front of the girls' rooms, Loveless slips off with me, toward the big house.
*
"I'm okay if you're busy tonight," I tell her as we make it to the side entrance. "I don't want you to feel like you have to babysit my sad self."
"Pshh. I don't do anything I don't want to do. Not usually. When I break that rule," Loveless says as we walk toward the elevator, "I break it for my Daddy when he calls wanting to talk about baseball.”
“Baseball?”
She shrugs. “He loves the Cubs. I can’t stand baseball.”
I think about my own Dad and feel a sharp pang. "Does your Dad know you do this?"
We step into the elevator, and Loveless smiles. "He knows I've got a good job in the entertainment industry, and he knows where I live." She shrugs. "I bet he thinks that I'm a stripper—but he doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell.” She laughs. “Thank God."
I nod. "Sounds perfect."
"It is. When it comes to some things, Mom and Dad don't want to know."
"Are your parents married?"
She shakes her head. "Divorced. My mom's married to a woman up in New York. It was an amicable split."
"Are you an only child?"
She laughs as the elevator dings and we step out. "You sound like Marchant giving me a job interview. He likes to psychoanalyze us."
"Really?" That doesn't seem like the party-going bachelor I hear so much about.
She nods. "Really. Once you get three or more women in one place, it gets crazy enough without adding an extra dose of cray cray."
I smile. "Don't I know."
I lead the way to my room and unlock the door. When we step inside, Loveless inhales deeply. "I love that smell."
"Which one?"
"That flowery smell they put into the rooms here," She looks over at a side table and smiles knowingly. "Those are tiger lilies—they aren’t what smells."
"So they spray in here to make it smell good? Like that 'new car smell' that dealers use?"
"Yep." She winks and walks over to the refrigerator, opening the door and smirking at the contents. "You've got the sex 'fridge, too."
