Selling Out (2 page)

Understanding lit his eyes—and gratitude. “I’m afraid
weekends are required for this position. Lots of them.”

I snorted. “Good luck if you expect me to show up.”

Dawn’s mouth hung open. Maybe I was laying it on too thick.

“Look,” I said. “I thought this might work out, but…I see
now that it won’t. Sorry to waste your time.” I snatched the application from
the hands of a very relieved Jason.

On my way to the door, I heard Dawn’s scandalized whisper.
“What’s wrong with her?”

Dark curiosity slowed my step.

“No wonder she doesn’t have a job,” I heard Jason say.
“She’s probably on drugs.”

Outside I threw the crumpled application into a trash can.
Hell, if sweetly rebellious Dawn thought I was a stoner, so what? Better that
than the truth. Those years hadn’t been empty. They’d been full of things not
to discuss in polite company. Nothing to qualify me for participating in the
real world. He was right not to hire me. Why did I even care?

Back in the car, I looked at my phone and flipped to the
number I never called. My thumb hovered over the Call button. If I told him I
had tried to get a real job, would he laugh? No, but he’d pity me when he
learned why I failed.

I put the phone down and drove home.

In the lobby of my apartment building, the doorman Evan sat
behind the security desk, looking spiffy in his uniform. He always broke my
heart just to look at him, perpetually deflated. He needed a sweet-faced woman
to dote on him, to do dirty things to his skinny body and fill him up with
pride. He brightened when he saw me.

“Hi there, Shelly.”

“Hey, Ev. How’s the view?” I nodded toward the large bay
windows, but really, it was a cheap shot. I knew he would check me out then,
and he did.

“It’s great.” He blushed. “I mean good. How are you?”

I’ve been bad, Mr.
Thomas. You should punish me
. Today, the script hovered on the tip of my
tongue. “A rough day,” I said.

Concern lit his face. “Can I do something to help?”

I could imagine it. I would ask for a hug and then wriggle
closer, put my breath against his neck and my breasts against his chest. Then
he’d be in the back office with his pants around his ankles, having an
afternoon he would never forget.

I really was bad to imagine it, but my skin was still raw
and his admiration was a balm. What would it feel like to be that girl even for
an afternoon? “I’ll be fine. I’ve got to run.”

“Okay.”

He drew the word out, stalling. Maybe he sensed how close he
had come to rapture. It wasn’t worth the price. I wished I could tell him. Even
for free.

“But if you need anything…”

“I’ll call you,” I lied.

I leaned against the satin-covered wall as the elevator took
me up. The glass bubbles that held the security cameras reflected my progress down
the hallway. I keyed the combination into the keypad and pushed open the heavy
door, pretending not to mind that this felt more like a gilded prison than a
home—at least it was safe.

Once inside, I breathed out a sigh of relief and threw my
keys on the kitchen bar.

A flash of black caught my eye. I turned, but a large body
already held me in its bruising grip. The second asshole flanked me from the
other side, though it would only have taken one to subdue me. None, really,
considering who else would be in the room.

“How have you been, sweetheart?” came the voice from my
nightmares.

I had mastered this. For years, I had trained for this
moment, to respond coolly, act casually. But not now, not so soon after the
humiliation at the bookstore. Henri’s gravelly voice rubbed salt into my
wounds. At one time he’d been my savior. Now he was just a pimp.

He strolled out of the shadows, his pale, strong face
impassive. High cheekbones and white-blond hair spoke of a Nordic ancestry,
though his accent was slight. As usual, he wore a three-piece suit, all in
black except the vest and tie in matching teal.

How did he get in? How did he know where I lived? He
shouldn’t even have been searching for me. I had quit the life, and he had
agreed at the time, but that had been a lie. The question of how was
superfluous, because here he was. The question of why was too obvious to bear;
I made him an awful lot of money. Now I saw. His return was inevitable, like
trying to keep the ocean off the beach. Maybe for a time it would leave, but it
would always come back.

Thick fingers cut into my arms, but I flipped my hair out of
my face in a charade of unconcern. “I went shopping.”

Henri gave me a detached perusal, inspecting his wares. “You
look like a secretary.”

“I’m a professional,” I managed drily. And it was true, just
not of the business variety. A hundred men in Chicago’s upper echelon could
attest to what a pro I was. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that how you greet me?” His voice was too mild. “And
here I’ve missed you.”

My blood began to pound. He wouldn’t beat me in my fancy
apartment in the middle of the day. It would make too much noise, and someone
would call the cops. Unless he had them on his payroll. Unless the fancy
security I paid for, that had served me so well until now, also included
soundproofed walls. No one would hear. No one ever cared.

He set the glass he was holding down on a side table with a
quiet thud. “I blame myself. I should have known better than to let you go with
him.”

He never should have let me stay with Philip, he meant, even
though he had gotten a placement fee and a monthly stipend the entire time I’d
been Philip’s mistress. Hardly anything to complain about, but he was right.
Philip had given me the financial means to leave. He’d also given me the
confidence. Though now it seemed more like hubris. Leave it to Philip to
confuse the two.

Henri gripped my chin with his fingers and grunted. “Such a
pretty face.”

I slid my gaze away from his flat eyes to stare straight
ahead. My pretty face, my beautiful, hated face and matching body that made me
want to puke just to think of them. Let him look. Didn’t he know he burned us
both? Like trapping a butterfly, the only way to catch one was to kill it.

“You’re wondering if I’m going to hurt you. Probably.” He
ran his thumb over my lips, his fingernail catching on the tender skin. “Can’t
dirty you up now, though. Tomorrow you have a party.”

My gaze met his. I hated parties. All the girls did. Decent
money, but not enough to compensate for too many men getting drunk and nasty.
An escort was never more than an object to get off in, but a hooker at a party
was a piñata.

But I would do it because I had no choice. I would do it
because I needed more money to afford this fancy apartment with all the
security that clearly did not work. And most of all, I would do it because I
could do nothing else. I’d known it all along, from when I was young, too
damned young, and this afternoon underscored that.

“A party,” I repeated dully.

“Good girl.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my lips.
“I’ll send you the details.”

Then they were gone, and I crumpled to the floor. Belated,
terror swept over me, drenching me and then leaving me chilled in its absence.

Stupid, thinking I could work at a bookstore as a clerk.
Stupid that I’d want to. I would make more money in fifteen minutes at this
party than Dawn would make all day. And she, confined to her feet. I would earn
mine on my back, on my hands and knees, any which way they pleased.

Hooking had been the only thing I could do, once upon a
time. Seemed it still was.

In the interim since I’d quit, I had counted down the days
until I wouldn’t stink of dirty money. Until I would be worthy of him. But
yearning wasn’t enough to buy a new life. Pity was worth nothing, and self-pity
even less. I, however, was worth a whole awful lot. My daddy had taught me
early and taught me often. I may have been born a whore, but I’d always been
high priced.

My fancy, high-rise condo was suddenly unbearable, the
pictures of Allie and Bailey tainted, the extravagant knickknacks lining the
mantel muddied. This had never been a home, but now it wasn’t even safe. My
skin crawled, and with nothing on me but my keys and a crumpled gray suit, I
left my apartment and hit the stairs.

* * * *

Parties were dangerous, but they were nothing compared to
streetwalking. I didn’t look like a working girl tonight, just a poor sap whose
car had broken down in the wrong part of town. Because even though I paid a
ridiculous sum to live in my condo off the books, the streets were a different
stratosphere.

Glossy buildings jutted from the concrete like shards of
glass, untouchable from the smog-drenched alleyways. Bums gathered behind
Dumpsters, burning pinches of weed in a bonfire to keep warm. Urgent sounds of cars
squealing, slamming, speeding ricocheted off the concrete walls.

I saw a girl hovering against a building. Her clothes were
tight and revealing, ordinary. As a whore, she looked downright virtuous, but I
recognized that stillness.

Her too-young body and timid posture would attract only the
worst kind of client—if she even found anyone. The sallow light of the
streetlamps only lit cracks in the sidewalk tonight. If she was counting on a
john to buy her dinner, her stomach would probably go empty.

Cautious, I approached her. No sudden movements. She froze
when she noticed me but didn’t meet my eyes. Smart girl.

I stopped a few feet away and leaned back against the wall,
looking out. “Hey.”

“Am I in your spot?” Her voice trembled.

Was she too scared to notice how I was dressed? Or maybe
just too damned perceptive. “I don’t work the street.”

“Oh.”

I cast her a sideways glance. She stared at the ground,
clutching the dirty concrete wall behind her.

“You don’t want to be out here,” I said.

“No?” she said on an exhale.

“The men here—they’re rough. You know what I mean?”

Her mouth tightened. She could only be all of fifteen or so,
but she knew what I meant.

She licked her lips. “Wh-where should I go?”

“I know a place.” She wouldn’t like it, not at first, but it
was where she needed to go. “I can show you.”

She examined me, trying to see beneath the surface, but I
could have told her it was a futile occupation. There wasn’t anything there.

“Maybe we’ll pick up a burger on the way,” I said.

A low-pitched grumble emanated from her stomach. She clasped
her arms around her waist.

“I’m not going with you.”

A hint of scorn entered her voice. Where she’d gotten that
lick of spirit from, I didn’t know—not when she looked about to keel over from
hunger and fear.

“Sweetheart, do you think I’m going to hurt you worse than a
guy you find out here?”

She shook her head, more in denial at what I was suggesting.
Better she hear it from me than suffer it at their hands. “They won’t just fuck
you, honey. They’ll make it hurt. In your cunt, in your mouth. You ever take it
in the ass?”

Her eyes widened. Her upper body canted forward, bent over
at her arms. I might have worried she would throw up if I thought she’d had
anything to eat today.

If I told her I wasn’t going to do anything to her, she
wouldn’t believe me. Hell, I wouldn’t have. “Some of them don’t even care about
the fuck. They just want someone to wail on. Beat you up, leave you for dead.
Whatever I’m going to do to you, it’s gotta be better than that, right?”

“P-p-please,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

She looked so pitiful, so desperate for comfort as she stood
there hugging herself. I wouldn’t touch her, but I could take her to someone
who could. They would take care of her, and I would be absolved once again.

“Come on,” I said, then turned and walked back toward my
place.

The pitter-patter of her feet on the pavement followed me.

I’d parked in a secure garage, and I waved at the guard as
we passed. When we reached my car, I opened the door and gestured inside. She
stared at the passenger seat like it was a torture chamber.

I sighed. “What’s your name?”

“Laura,” came out on a whoosh.

Breathing was good. I didn’t want her passing out on me. The
last thing I needed was to deliver a limp body.

“All right, Laura. I see you’re stressing, but there’s no
need to worry. I’m not going to hurt you. We’re going to grab a bite to eat,
you and me, okay? Maybe get some rest. No one’s going to hurt you.” Ah, empty
promises. I’d do my best to make sure they came true, but she was still a
broken girl in an indifferent world. That rarely worked out well.

I steeled myself and touched her back, her arm, to steer her
into the car. She didn’t resist, at least, and sat in the passenger’s seat.

“You’re okay, Laura. My name’s Shelly, and you’re going to
be okay, got it?”

Without waiting for an answer, I shut the door and hurried
around to the other side. I drove her to a drive-through and ordered enough to
feed a football team before driving to the brick building on Wicklow Street.

I stopped the car and looked over at her. Laura stared
blankly at the unmarked building, though I didn’t know if she was still in her
stupor or just confused about where we were. This place could never have a
sign, though. It was removed from the maps. It didn’t exist.

With some coaxing and a bit more nudging, she got out of the
car. I fished an envelope from the glove box, thick and unmarked on the
outside. There weren’t many of these envelopes left. But if I was really going
to work a party, they would soon be replenished.

The glass of the door was bulletproof and tinted dark
against peeping eyes. I pressed the cracked button tucked into a brick. A few
minutes later, Marguerite opened the door.

Her hair was such a pale, glossy blonde it was almost white,
curled into a neat coif. Dressed in a slimming black suit, she looked more like
a high-powered executive than the hands-on manager for a small shelter. She had
run this place since its inception at, oh, the beginning of time. This place or
one like it had always existed, always been needed, and always would be so long
as men took what they wanted and women let them.