She winks. "Anything you want."
"Does that mean I'm supposed to...give the winner a blow job?”
"No, not at all. But Richard felt you might appreciate some bonus lessons, for whoever might be Mr. Scarlett one day, or boyfriend of Scarlett." She smiles. "If it weren't for this, you'd be with Brenda all day, and that's not good, I'm afraid."
"Who's Brenda?"
"Your trainer. She'll be responsible for all your beauty matters. And though they're few, she's sure to make them count. She might order you a waxing, or many miles of running, or perhaps a new hairstyle." Juniper yawns, and mutters, "Sleepless night. I've got a boyfriend in London."
"You do?" I gape, and she nods. "He wants me to quit my job, but he's a poor man and he can't support me. A soldier, in fact. Coming here in several weeks. I'll have to take the time off, but truth is I'm rather excited for it."
We slip into easy chatter, but behind it I’m thinking about Hunter. Sarabelle disappeared from his room. What happened? The girls have all been careful not to say, so I know there must be something there.
*
By the end of the day, I still haven’t learned anything else about what happened. I have, however, been waxed, tanned, toned, and pampered with an hour-long massage, and Brenda's personal shopper has brought me several outfits.
"We like our girls and guys to look a certain way. One that speaks to a certain kind of luxury,” she explained. “You might have wonderful clothes, but we'd like you to wear ours while you're doing business here."
The outfits are beautiful—rich, soft fabrics and complimenting cuts—and the truth is, I love them. I feel sexy. I call Suri after dinner and get an update on Cross, who squeezed her hand today, and then call Mom, who's spending an evening away from rehab. I wonder who authorized that.
After an hour alone, most of which is spent wondering about Hunter and Sarabelle, and Googling my butt off but finding nothing, I grab my bag and head downstairs, wearing gray leggings, a royal blue sweater, and tall brown leather boots, to meet the escorts who worked day shift. Those of us who have tonight off are going somewhere fun.
As soon as I arrive in the nook nearest to the staff side door, Juniper pulls me into a hug and begins to brag about my prowess today. It makes me blush, but it also makes me a little happy.
"I want to know how your next guy likes it," Juniper tells me.
Everyone laughs, and Hannah, an escort all the way from India (they get a lot of international girls, I’m noticing) asks if we want to see Thomas Bourne.
“Who?”
“He’s a poker player,” Loveless explains. “And one of Marie V.'s, but Hannah wants to recruit him.”
"He's a beautiful man,” Hannah says.
"Too skinny," says a girl named Cat.
"That's not why he's beautiful. It's more than just his body. It's his...everything." Hannah holds up her hands, miming a swoon, and Loveless bumps into her. "You sure it’s not that dick you want?"
"Is it big?" Hannah asks innocently.
Five minutes later, Hannah has been outvoted. We won't be going to watch anyone play poker, which leaves me feeling defeated; I'd hoped, against all good sense, that I might see Hunter there.
"We'll go to the fight," Juniper says.
As we spill out the side door, Loveless winks at me. "All the men who come to Love Inc. will have their eyes on you, wondering who you are. You'll have cocks across the stadium standing on end.”
"I'm not sure how much I like that," I say as we walk across the parking lot.
“You should like it, honey. It means more money for you.”
“Do you guys feel safe, out and about? I mean...after what happened here?” I've taken her light moment and turned it deadly serious, but Loveless doesn't take the bait. She tosses her hair, which tonight she's wearing straight down her back, and gives me a funny look out of the corner of her eye—one I think says 'I'm not talking about that'. In a normal, cheery voice, she says, "I feel real safe." She opens her handbag and holds up a Taser, and I gape. For the remainder of our brief walk to a stretch limo, she shows me how to work it.
We pile into the limo, driven by Rod, a Peruvian man who's also an escort, who declares, once everyone is in, "I'm tired of my female clients. I need a man tonight."
So we set off, to find Rod a man and watch a fight. I lean my forehead against the window and I hope more than I should that I will find one too. I'm tired of Hunter's memory—and the mystery of what happened to the missing escort—following me all around here like a ghost.
Chapter Twenty
~HUNTER~
By the time I get to the Joseph Club at ten on Monday night, I'm going on forty-eight hours without sleep, and I know I don't need to be here.
The last two days have been...intense. In addition to my adventures with Priscilla, Marchant and I are going after Lockwood with everything we have. We’ve expanded the team—Julie, Roberto, and Dave have been joined by a retired CIA guy named Ted Burts, as well as Julie's friend Lay1a, a forensic IT specialist who once worked for the Las Vegas mayor’s office—and our surveillance is 24/7.
If wishes were fishes I'd have a f**king sea, because I've spent the last two days wishing I'd had the sense to use my phone's video recorder. When I'm not wishing that, I’m making absolutely sure I heard what I think I heard. Can I trust myself?
I know I can, because there is one thing I remember clearly. It's that gut-shot feeling I got when I heard Priscilla say "He doesn’t want to hurt a lady." Before that, I'd let myself believe that Priscilla really didn’t have anything to do with Sarabelle, or if she did, she was as much a pawn as myself.
But I know now she’s not, and it feels like someone stuck their steel-toed boot through my abdomen. I've only felt that way one time before. It was when I was nine and Rita turned on me for the first time.
I'd had the chicken pox, and I was itchy and whiny. I overheard Dad worrying about my fever, which was high enough that I'd been delirious—although I was lucid at that moment, wrapped up in my Power Rangers sheet and spying on them from behind the couch. Rita sighed and said, "Maybe he'll sleep for a few days." She did this funny laugh that was deeper and said, in hushed voice, "Or more than a few."
Dad just laughed, and he told her to drink another glass of wine, but I had known by the tone of her voice that there was more. And there was.
I don't like thinking about that, so I try to stop. I'm in the basement underneath the arena, in a small, tiled locker room that reminds me of another basement. I need my mind clear tonight, so I try hard to think of something else as I shower and wrap my back.