Alan ogled the house. "
This
is the place?"
Alan, Russ, and Malcolm had driven to the hills where the rich people lived on winding streets named after Ivy League schools. The driveway to the house was longer than a football field. The house itself was like something from a reality television show—more mansion than house, really. The porch lights were warm and golden and welcoming.
Russ, the driver, nodded. "Yup."
"It doesn't look like a whorehouse," said Alan.
From the back, Malcolm clapped Alan's shoulder a little too firmly. "You been to a lot of whorehouses?"
Alan bristled. "It doesn't look how I thought it would."
They left the car and started up the brick patio. "Special kind of whorehouse," said Russ. "Special kinds of whores."
The doorbell rang fully, richly. A young man ushered them in to a warm and well-lit entryway. Alan took it in. Oak floor, lavender-painted walls on which hung paintings of shapes and lines and colors. Modern art? The crap the studio kids in high school liked. Whatever. Pictures of landscapes and fruit and naked women—that was art.
Alan sized up the man who let them in. Middling height; slender but muscled; short black hair; dark, large eyes. Expensive jeans and a blue polo and good-looking leather shoes. Rich kid, through and through. He was a few years younger than the three of them—eighteen, maybe. He didn't look at all like he should work in a whorehouse. What kind of place was this?
"Okay," said the young man. He sounded older than he looked. "Two hours, three of you. Two-forty."
Russ handed over their cash. Alan winced inside. His share was a full day's pay from his telemarketing job. This had better be the insane fuckfest Russ and Malcolm promised.
The young man counted and then pocketed the cash. From a granite-topped table he took a large ceramic bowl. "Phones."
Russ and Malcolm set their phones in the bowl. Alan hesitated. "It's fine," said Russ. "We'll get them back."
The young man gestured to a pair of glass-grilled doors. "Usual place. You'll have privacy." He paused, then added: "No bruises."
"Course not," said Russ. "The RAM team wants to keep coming back."
The RAM team: Russ, Alan, Malcolm. Russ had come up with that when they played high-school football. Alan thought it was funny when he was 15, but six years later it sounded douchy. Kind of like Russ.
The corners of the young man's lips curled down. "Two hours." And he walked off.
They passed through the doors into a large room. Tall ceilings. Three chandeliers. Purple wallpaper with white flowers and green tendrils. An enormous television mounted in the wall. Speakers everywhere, soft jazz flowing from them. A plush green carpet. A subtle, sweet scent in the air. Sliding glass doors leading to a garden out back.
Alan felt impoverished. Except for a church, he'd never been in a place that took so much money to make.
At the far end of the room was an enormous dark-green sofa. On it sat a girl and a woman. The girl wore a dark T-shirt and gray sweatpants and pink footies. She was curled up, knees pulled into her chest. The woman sat straight in a form-fitting red top and short black skirt and glossy-red high-heeled shoes. The girl regarded the men sullenly. The woman smiled brightly.
"Hi, boys," said the woman. "You brought a friend this time."
"Howdy," said Russ. Malcolm nodded at her.
Alan began taking off his shoes. Malcolm hissed. "What're you doing?"
"It's a nice house. It's only polite."
Malcolm snorted. "It's a whorehouse. Leave 'em on."
"You're sweet," said the woman. She stood and started walking to them. "For thinking of—"
"Sit the fuck back down, cunt," said Malcolm. The woman blanched and backed herself to the couch. The girl looked away at the wall.
Alan whispered, "What the fuck, man. She was being nice."
"You have to show them who's in charge."
"We don't have to be dicks."
"Sure we do," said Malcolm. "It turns them on. Trust me. Right, whore? Rough turns you on?"
The girl breathed sharply and planted her cheek on her knees. The woman smiled brittlely. "You know it, baby. Rougher the better."
Alan thought she was not at all convincing.
Russ nudged Alan forward. "Go on. See what we're paying for."
Alan walked up. The woman gave him a broad smile, and he tried to give a reassuring smile back. He was going to be polite no matter what Malcolm said.
The woman was pretty, but older—maybe in her early 40s. Black hair, high cheekbones, large, green eyes made larger and greener by mascara and eyeliner. And also crow's feet and the slightest sag around the jawline.
She took Alan's hands in hers. Her fingernails seemed covered in several layers of deep, deep red. A jolt ran through him, and she sensed it. "First time?"
She smelled of subtle roses and lovely whiskey. "Yeah. Uh, at least, with—um. Well, like this. You know?"
She nodded, understanding. "That's fine. It'll be fun. You'll be great. You'll want to come back. Trust me."
He glanced at the girl. "Go check her out," the woman said. "She's sweet. You'll like her. You'll see."
The girl was curled up and looking away at the wall. Rocking, just a bit. All Alan could see was her hair, which was the same black as the woman's, and her fingernails, which were pink but just as lovely.
"Hey," Alan said.
The girl gripped herself tighter and rocked more. Alan looked at the woman for help. She put her arms around the girl. "Hey, baby. It'll be fun. You know it."
The girl just kept rocking.
"Clock is ticking," said Russ. "Let's get rolling."
"I don't think they're into it," said Alan. "The girl—"
The woman's hand gripped Alan's wrist. "She's all right. You boys are so cute, she's shy."
Alan didn't think the girl looked shy. She looked miserable.
Russ said, "Let's prime the pump a little." From his pocket he pulled out something long and dangly—a used condom, the open end tied off and the tip full of semen.
The woman's gaze shot to what Russ was holding. She grabbed the girl's head and aimed it at the condom. Alan finally got a good look at the girl. Maybe nineteen? Brilliant green eyes—large, beautiful, slightly bulgy, but not distractingly so. Full lips. Pale skin. No makeup. The girl didn't need any. She was lovely, naturally.
But her eyes were red and watery, and her lips were pressed tight, and Alan's heart fell. Maybe the woman was into it, but not the girl. Maybe they could make the girl leave and just have the woman.
But then the girl changed. Her gaze hardened, like the woman's. Alan followed her line of sight. It led back to the condom in Russ's hand.
"See?" said Russ. He held the condom out and swung it like bait. "Like pointer dogs. Right, ladies? Come get what you need."
Girl and woman rose as one and started to walk over. "Not like that. On your knees."
