Juniper and Geneese have let go of my hands, so I feel a less like a five-year-old.
“There are stairs that we could take,” Geneese says, as we pass a brunette in a pale green gown, sitting on one of the couches, reading a magazine, “but it’s hard to look elegant going up the stairs. Anyway, you ever boxed?”
“I have before.” I spot another couple—both with black hair—sitting together on a love seat, and Juniper explains, “This is where we meet our clients. They have to pass Rachelle and the cameras and then they wait for us in a pre-set spot. It’s a security measure. Marchant Radcliffe—that’s the guy who built this place—based it on the dormitory system at his uni.”
I nod as we pass a beautiful bookcase and a little nook filled with suede bean bag chairs. The rug under my feet is spotless and looks soft enough to roll around on. About twenty yards ahead, rising from the floor and up into the ceiling, is the nearest elevator bank. The elevator is old-fashioned and iron—pretty, if an elevator can be pretty.
“It’s beautiful here.”
“Some of us have rooms here,” Juniper says. “The others bunk in the whorehouse.”
I must look surprised, because she blinks. “You do know there’s an actual whorehouse where we’re made to fuck for our dinner, yes?”
I’m totally confused, and totally at a loss for what to say, when Geneese elbows Juniper. “Girl, that’s so wrong.”
“So I hear, so I hear.” Juniper smiles wickedly, and Geneese presses the “4” button on the elevator.
“Your room will be here in the main house, with some of the girls who can’t get on with the others, or have a wooden leg, or need to be watched closely,” Juniper says as the doors glide open.
I smile weakly, hoping she’s joking.
Geneese pulls me inside and then releases my hand. “I’m kind of a touchy feely person,” she says smiling. “You have to bat me off.”
I smile back at her, and she laughs. “You look nervous. Don’t be nervous. This is a good place. You’ll like it here.”
I nod. “This is a first for me.”
“Well of course,” Juniper says. “You’re a virgin.”
The doors ding open, and we file into a hardwood hall with a deep crimson runner. The walls are done in creamy velvet wallpaper, and the ceilings are high, dark wood, punched in little hexagons where the chandeliers are mounted. On this floor, they’re spindly and brass.
“It smells delicious,” I say, and Geneese smiles. “This place is supposed to be appetizing.”
The hall ends in a rounded nook where a portrait of a half-nude woman hangs.
We walk a few more steps and Juniper pulls out a key, sticks it in the antique-looking brass lock on one of the wide, wood doors, and pushes the door open. It creaks, and as soon as it swings open I can smell flowers.
Geneese waves her hand for me to go first. As I step inside, the lights come on automatically. A few steps on lush hardwood topped by a thin oriental rug, and I’m out of the small foyer and into a large living area.
I’ve been in enough million-plus-dollar homes to know the furniture and fixings are all nice, none of that mass-produced hotel crap. The claw-footed Victorian couch is really a Victorian couch, and the dainty chairs on either side, covered in lush lime green fabric, are probably also from England.
A glance beyond my immediate surroundings reveals mirrors, high-quality artwork, and framed photos adorning the walls, and a full kitchen to my left. There’s a dark hall out in front of me, and at the mouth of it, I spot my bags.
“That was fast,” I say.
“We aim to please. Why don’t you come and see your room?”
Geneese waves me down the hall. Juniper follows. I almost gasp when I see the bedroom. At the center is the biggest canopy bed I’ve ever seen in my life, with lush crimson bedding, yellow and cream pillows, and a canopy so thick it actually creates walls around the bed.
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.