A Bitch In Time (Marina: Part One: Naughty Nookie Series) (3 page)

Wish you were
here, Nate.  I’ve got an itch only you can scratch.  M x

I leave it semi
PG-rated.  I’ve never been one for dirty talk, even if I wish that weren’t
the case.  Writing dirty is even harder, so I keep it clean and send the
text. 

It’s an understatement saying
that I wish he were here.  I’ve really missed him these last few
months. 

Usually, I get on with my life
and he with his.  We do our thing and then, meet up every so often. 
We’re both happy to do that.  But it’s been tough recently.  I’ve
wanted to talk, wanted to connect.  I can’t help but question what’s
changed. 

What’s different about these
last three months to the other times in our five-year-long, long distance
relationship…?

I wish I had the answer.

I dislike change.

Grumbling, I head down to the
next peephole and look through.  After spotting Eloise sitting on her
lonesome, I close the peephole and open the door.

“What’s up, Lou?”

Most of the rooms are styled
in the minimalistic way.  All harsh, linear edges, but some, like this
one, are uniquely decorated.  I wanted this to be all soft femininity and
it’s very popular with our female guests.

Think creamy pastels with
floral-patterned wallpapers and soft furnishings.  Lou is laying on the
comforter, fully dressed, legs crossed at the ankle, back propped against the
cushioned headrest and she’s filing her nails.

Her eyes dart up to meet mine
and she smiles in greeting.  “Client had to dash off.  Emergency
meeting.”

“Not bad.  You get the
fee without having to do a damned thing.”

Her smile widens into a
grin.  “Yep.  I’d have a nap, but it would mean having to change
afterwards and re-do my make-up.  I can’t be bothered.”

Wandering over to the bed, I
perch on the side but lean back on my hands to stare out into Manhattan’s
midnight skyline.  A view perfectly framed by thick, swathes of fabric
surrounding a picture window.  “Don’t blame you.  Who’s your next
client?”

I don’t need to look at her to
see her smug grin.  “David Asprey.”

I blow out a low
whistle.  “Someone’s in for a huge tip.”

“Ha, that isn’t the only
thing.  He likes his girls to get off.”

“Too much information, Lou,” I
tease and turn to wink at her. 

She pulls out her
tongue.  “The day we can shock you, Marina, is a day the world will end!”

“Well, that’s some
statement.  I’m sure there’s some shit that could shock me.”

“I can’t imagine what that
might be.”  She leans forward and grabs my shoulder.  “I meant to ask
you earlier, but I forgot.  I need to get to class next Wednesday and I
have two appointments booked.”

“Okay, I’ll rearrange the
schedule.  Were they special requests?” Sometimes clients requested a
certain girl.  Rescheduling could be a bitch.

“No.  But it’s my day and
Anna told me two had booked in.”  Most clients visited on an appointment
only basis, because they wanted a specific girl.  Sometimes, they booked,
wanting potluck on whichever woman they’d get.  Every shift, a different
woman would accommodate the non-specified bookings.

“No worries, I’ll sort
it.  Exam?” I ask, cautiously.  Eloise is one of the girls currently
taking a Masters in Botany, but this year, things haven’t been so good on the
education-front.  Lou is having an affair with her professor and Anna says
it’s getting serious.

Either she’ll have to end the
relationship, or admit what she does for a living.

These last few weeks, Eloise
hasn’t been happy so Anna and I aren’t sure which route she selected.
 Neither path has a tendency to end happily.

She snorts.  “During the
summer break?”

“How the hell do I know,
Lou?”  I shrug.  “Why do you need time off for class, if class has
broken up until September?”

“I failed my last set of
exams.  I need extra tuition.”

“Okay.”  My reply is
non-judgmental, unquestioning.

“Just like that?”  She
shakes her head.  “Even after all these years, you surprise the hell out
of me, Marina.”

I turn to her with a
smile.  “It’s why you all love me.”

She squeezes my
shoulder.  “We do.  We probably don’t thank you enough for letting us
get away with blue murder.”

“No, I have a hard life, don’t
I?  Shepherding you all about.”  Her squeeze turns into a light punch
and with a laugh, I stand.  For a second I stare down at her then murmur
softly, “If this thing with the professor doesn’t work out, Lou, you know I’m
here, right?”

Her smile disappears and for a
minute, the twenty-five year old woman looks fifteen.  She’s a
beauty.  All blond hair, big blue eyes and a figure that could be too
thin, but she wafts around like a fairy.  Her delicacy is one of the
reasons she’s popular with clients. 

She shouldn’t have to sell her
body for a living.  She shouldn’t have to consider breaking off a
relationship with a decent guy, because of her past and what she's had to do to
survive.  But that’s life.  And those are the hands it deals us.

Doesn’t make it fair, though.

“Thanks, Marina.”  Her
eyes drop down to look at her lap for a second, her teeth start nibbling her
bottom lip.  “I told him what I do.”

Despite myself, I’m
shocked.  It’s a rare occurrence to share the truth of the profession with
a man.  It means the relationship was a hell of a lot more serious than
Lou had let on.

From her face, I gather it
didn’t go well.  I take another seat and turn to her.  “If you need
to talk…” I break off, not wanting to pry into a difficult situation.  I
know what it feels like to put hopes, dreams, and aspirations into a guy, then
for life to come and blow them away as though they were autumn leaves in a
faint breeze.

“He wouldn’t talk to me for a
few weeks and now, he’s on the reformation deal.”  She sucks in a quivery
breath, an inhalation so deep her whole body rattles with it.  I’ve never
seen Eloise so cut up by a guy.  More often than not, she gets excited
over a new trinket she has bought.  Not a boyfriend.  He, whoever he
is, the Professor, is special.

That in itself is a miracle.

My girls have seen and done
too much to trust men easily.  The Professor is a lucky bastard.  He
just needs to realize it.

I pull a face at her comment
and sigh. “They always want to reform.  It’s instinct, honey.”

“I know.”  She studies
her nails, this time.  Choosing to look at anything but me.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Rolling my eyes at her, I
mock, “I know, I don’t know… that’s not my Eloise.  If you want out, don’t
worry about Papillon or letting me down.  It’s your life, honey.  You
have to grab the happiness it offers you.  The opportunities are few and
far between.”

Her eyes finally bridge mine
and there’s a soft understanding there.  A few girls know about my past
and Eloise is one of them.  She knows about Jimmy.  About his
cancer.  About the rushed marriage, our parents agreed to, knowing that it
would end badly, but still supporting our decision to be man and wife, when the
end came.

Lou lifts a hand towards me
for me to catch.  “It was the anniversary a few weeks ago, wasn’t
it?  Twelve years, right?  We all knew, but we didn’t want to say
anything.  Didn’t want to upset you.”

And like that, the
difference
all makes sense.

For the last twelve years,
I’ve mourned Jimmy’s passing.  As though it were yesterday and not more
than a decade.

But not this year.

This year, I just got on with
it.  Like it was any other day.

The realization has a sharp
pain splicing through my stomach.

“Thanks, Lou.  And
yeah.  Twelve years.”  I nod; my head won’t stop the rocking motion
for a few seconds.  Almost as though it’s soothing to my muddled senses.

How have twelve years passed
since I last saw Jimmy and yet, I didn’t even mourn him on the day of his
death?  I try to think, try to remember if I even thought of him that
day.  If he crossed my mind at all.

That I can’t say a definite
yes or no has me feeling sick.

“If he’s worthy of you, honey,
then do what you have to do.  Tell me if you need some time off, whatever,
I’ll rearrange it.”

Before she can reply, I stalk
out of the room, ignoring her concerned shout.  My ears aren’t working, my
mind
isn’t fully functioning.  As soon as I’m outside, I press my
back to the wall and let it support me.

Before I have a chance to get
my head around the revelation that my memories of Jimmy, his importance in my
life, are taking a back seat to my desire of being with Nate, my cellphone
buzzes.  The slight
vibration
makes my hand tingle
and jolts me from my thoughts.

“Peeping, Anna.”

That’s code for, ‘I can’t
talk.  I’m peering into the in-use rooms to make sure all is safe and
well.’

“The Russians have sent
another message.”

Just what I needed.

Shit.

There’s always something
else
to dampen your day.  Or in this case, year.  A serpent in my paradise,
the local Russian mob have made it their business to try and buy me out of this
lucrative little set up I’m running.  No is not an answer they appreciate.

In fact, appreciate is the
wrong word.  They’re deaf to any response they don’t want to hear.

My teeth grind down to the
point of pain, but I hiss out, “There in two secs.”

These guys have always been a
nuisance, but they’re getting worse.  As much as I hate to admit it, I’m
starting to get scared.

Fear isn’t an emotion I’m used
to experiencing.  It isn’t in my nature to be frightened of
anything.  I was bred to be strong, independent, and fearless.  My
genes wouldn’t allow me to be anything other than bull-headed and take-charge.

So, to be on the other end of
the scale, to feel as though I’m being herded in a particular direction,
doesn’t make me a happy chappy.  In fact, it pisses me off.  But
there’s nothing I can do, just wait and see what goes down.

Accustomed to controlling my
world, waiting around feels like a death knell.  Something that can only
be deemed as appropriate, considering I received my first threat two days ago.

The situation is rapidly
spinning out of control and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

My footsteps are heavy thumps,
not the quiet whispers they should be as I retreat from the peep-hall toward
the outer offices.  I’m hard-pressed not to slam the door, but training
stops me.  We sell fantasies here at Papillon and bouts of adolescent
door-slamming and foot-stamping are
not
part of that package.  

More’s the pity.

My office is large; more of a
sitting room than anything else with all the comforts of home, because this is
where I live. 

It’s split into two
parts.  One part is the work area.  A large oval walnut desk occupies
half of the space, ridged at the back and raised so that there are five
compartments running along the outer rim of the table.  Behind it is a
custom-made ergonomic chair that looks like it belongs back in Regency England
without the spine trauma.  It cost a fortune, but it’s comfortable thanks
to modern technology, and fits in with my décor.  An old-fashioned filing
cabinet, one that took me an age to track down in an antique store, is to the
left of the desk.

The only thing that spoils the
‘old world’ air about my office is the computer perched atop the desk. 
It’s a necessary evil; otherwise, I’d do without it.

The remainder of the room is
more relaxed.  One wall is just a huge bookcase.  Loaded down with
old and new titles, some of the spines have yet to be broken in. 

Most of the newer additions
were written by Mona’s
gay
one-night stand.  Ever since she told us
about him, I’ve been dying of curiosity.  Who was it that said writers
imbue themselves into their work?  I don’t know, but I believe it to be
true. 

Two days ago, I had Anna, my
assistant, go out and buy his backlist.  I don’t
do
electronic
books.  I prefer the solid weight of a tome in my hands, the smell of the
paper as it bristles under my touch.  In many ways, I’m a
traditionalist.  Don’t let the fact I’m a madam convince you otherwise!

A large cream daybed, queen
size, packed with huge down-pillows and soft, cashmere throws to snuggle under
sits in another corner.  Opposite, there’s a sixty-inch plasma
screen.  And
that
is where my attention is grasped as though the
screen’s contents are magnetic and my eyes can do nothing else but answer that
magnetized pull.

Had I not been issued a threat
the other day, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.

The burning building on the
screen shouldn’t have grabbed my attention.  Sad as it is, these things
happen and in a cramped city like this one, the statistics aren’t pretty.

So what is it that makes this
building special?

Because it
is.

I stare at the crumbling
walls, half of the entire building caught in the flames and made
derelict.  And then, it clicks.

I’ve been there. 

Two hours
ago.
 

It’s Mona’s place.

A hard fist grapples my
stomach and my guts feel as though a grenade has just detonated inside of me.

I don’t know how long it took
to reach this state, but the knowledge that a call from work was the only thing
to save Mona, Eddie and myself from the conflagration has sweat beading my
brow.

My eyes burn with the ferocity
of the flames; something that my television duplicates to a nauseating
clarity.  The more I stare, the sicker I feel.  It’s definitely
Mona’s place.  I’m not wrong.  No amount of wishful thinking will let
me lie to myself.  I recognize the crappy façade, the even crappier
neighborhood.  Had Mona not been such a pain in the ass stickler, so proud
and self-reliant, I’d have forced her out of that area.  Helped her to
move in somewhere decent.  But stubborn doesn’t describe my friend.

I can only thank God for that
call.  Whoever the inconsiderate bastard was, contacting a cleaner for a
commission at nine-ten PM in the evening, they have my gratitude.

This is a message.  The
thought whispers through my brain and I mutter, “This is the message from the
Russians, isn’t it?”

My fingers curl in on
themselves, the sharp points of my nails dig down into soft flesh.  But
the slight pain is good.  It eases my internal agony. 

I turn towards Anna, every
part of me beseeching her to tell me I’m wrong, that this is just a horrific
accident.  But the grim twist to her mouth speaks louder than words.

“What did they say?”

Anna’s voice is a
whisper.  “Burn, baby, burn.”

A cry escapes me and I shove
my fist against my lips to stem it.  It’s inconceivable that such
annihilation could be captioned in such a blasé way.

And there you have the reason
why I will
not
sell to the fucking mafia.  Lives,
people
,
they’re expendable.  Nothing more than a business commodity that can be
used and abused and when the entity is no longer a viable product, then it can
be easily discarded.

They don’t care that I’ve
built up relationships with these women, my staff.  They don’t give a shit
about my girls.

Me? 
I care.
 
I know these women’s children.  I know Jessie has a grandmother dying of
cancer in a hospice.  I know Parvati has family back in India, who have no
idea what she does for a living and if they did, they’d disown her in an
instant.  But they rely upon every cent she sends back to them.

Do the Russians know all that?

No and they don’t care either
way.

It’s hard to breathe.  I
feel light-headed, glassy-eyed.  Guilt passes through my blood with the
velocity of white water rapids.

It’s amazing to think
twenty-five minutes ago, arousal was swirling through me.  Followed
swiftly by the sense of loss, of
being
lost.  Now, I just feel
frightened.  I hate admitting to such a weakness, but it’s there too.

Mona and Edwina are more than
friends to me.  They’re more than sisters!  If Mona has been
targeted, then Eddie will be next.

But I
can’t
sell to the
mob. 
I can’t.

Neither can I disband this
operation, because if I do, the girls will have lost their income.  I’d
hope they have the foresight to create nest eggs, but it’s a futile wish. 

Eloise has her college tuition
to pay for and Britney can’t let two months pass without changing her
cellphone.

The weight of the world
settles on my shoulders as I stagger over to the daybed.  As I sit, the
feathers part to cushion my weight in a welcoming embrace.  However,
through it all, after Anna’s confirmation, my attention has returned to the
fire.

Footsteps alert me to my PA’s
presence.  As she sits down, her weight atop the cushion jostles me a
little and she brings an arm around my shoulders to comfort me further. 
She squeezes and the scent of her flowery perfume, subtle yet strangely
powerful—an oxymoron, I know— fills my nostrils.  I lift a hand and clasp
my fingers in hers, holding tightly like a child holding a teddy bear after
awakening from a nightmare.

Anna has been with me since
the beginning.  A friend, a colleague and an advisor.  Too old to be
on the game, but one who has the experience that I didn’t have at the start,
she’s been a fountain of wisdom.  Without her, this operation wouldn’t
have been so successful.

She’s more than just a
PA.  She’s my right hand woman.

“What do I do, Anna?”  I
hate that my lips are quivering; emotion making them tremble.  Making
me
shiver and shake in her hold.

Nausea returns at the
ceaseless burning of Mona and her neighbors’ homes.  The flames lick the
sky.  Arching upwards to caress the stars.  Wind has them flickering
in fury and the furious flow of water from the firefighters’ hoses can’t seem
to keep up with the inner rage of the conflagration.  And it’s all because
of me.  This destruction rests on my soul, because I will
not
sell
to the mob.  I won’t give them what they want and like spoilt brats,
they’ve decided to play mean.

It’s a ridiculous time to feel
this way, but I’m so tired.  I feel as though it’s a million years since I
last slept.  A part of me wishes this were just a bad dream.  That I
could wake up after eight hours on this daybed, stretch and feel relief that it
was all just a nightmare.  That Mona’s building was as crappy as ever,
falling to pieces but not because of a fire, simply because it was never
maintained and that the mob weren’t scratching at my door, wanting a piece of
the tasty pie that is my business.

But this is reality.

Hard reality.

“Tell me, Anna?  What do
I do?”

Her sigh is heartfelt. 
She shares my pain and horror at the destruction these men are willing to
commit in order to get their hands on Papillon.  She feels for me.

“You can’t sell to them. 
You’ve been too good to the girls, Mona.  They’re used to you and the way
you work.  As soon as they come in, they’ll change the structure of the
business and the girls will become expendable.”

“But if I close the doors,
they’ll just go elsewhere.  Maybe somewhere that won’t look after them the
way I do.”

“Yeah, but that’s their
choice.  They decide where they’ll be going and a few of them will
probably give it up anyway.  If you close the doors, they have a choice
about their future.  As soon as the mob gets involved, their lives are
endangered.”

She tightens her hand about
mine.  “This place you’ve created, Marina, it’s a haven for women like
us.  It’s unbeatable.  What you charge, the rates and the clientele
you’ve enabled the girls to have, they can go private.  It’s only because
you’re so fair, and they love you, that they haven’t already.  This place
is glued together by you.  You’re what keeps us all here.  Without
you, they’ll go their own way. 

“It’s sad, but sadness is
preferable to being shepherded off to the Russian mob.”

“But won’t they just come
after us if we close down?”

“Undoubtedly.  But we can
hide.  They can’t tout the clients, because they don’t know who they
are.  They might have an idea, but I think that’s why the mob wants in
anyway.  You have some A-class clients, Marina.  State secrets, with
the right woman… pillow talk has caused many a downfall for a lot of
businessmen and politicians.  And why not make it treason?”  She
sighs.  “I don’t think you have a choice, honey.”

“And the girls won’t mind?”

“Of course, they will! 
They’ll miss you.  Just like I will.  But safety is always the
priority.”

The idea of giving up four
years of my life is an abomination.  So is conceding defeat.  But
with the evidence before me, of what these guys are capable of, I know Anna is
right.

“When do I close the doors?”

“Tonight.  When the last
customer goes, that has to be it.  The last time.  We’ll have to
leave.”

“I can’t leave.  I have a
mortgage on this place.”

“Yeah, but you can’t
stay.  What if they decide to torch this place too?  Then
you’ll
die.  At least if you’re out of here and they do set fire to this place,
you have insurance.  You can afford for that to happen.  You can’t
afford to put your life in danger.  You’ve got to get out of town. 
We all do.  We need to expect retaliation, Marina.”

I want to refuse and
completely reject Anna’s words, but I know I can’t.  It seems incredible
that this is the end.  I look around the place I’ve called home for nearly
half a decade and my heart shrivels a little at the idea of having to leave.

I’ve been happy here. 
It’s an unorthodox situation, an even weirder business to have established, but
it has suited me.  And I’ve enjoyed it.  It’s been surprisingly
fruitful and I’ve been useful, too.