“Most turnouts are apprehensive, even scared, about meeting Colt for the first time. There’s no reason to be. Be yourself, honey, and don’t worry.” Pamela placed two fingertips on the back of Lindsay’s neck and applied gentle pressure. “Oooooh, you’re so tense. You need to loosen up.”
Was Lindsay nervous due to the fact she was about to be introduced to her potential new boss? Or was it because she imagined Pamela having her way with her too? She linked her hands tight together to keep them from continuing their worried wringing.
“Don’t try to impress him or you may come across as insincere. He won’t like that.” Sunshine abounded in Pamela’s eyes and her pleasant voice overran Lindsay’s senses. “Be straightforward and honest with everything he asks, and you’ll be fine. Colt may be by the book, but he’s really an oversized teddy bear.”
Lindsay plastered on yet another smile. “Okay.” She sensed Pamela was trying to ease her nerves but ended up having the opposite effect. Lindsay blinked slowly and summoned a deep breath, held it in for a spell, and glanced heavenward for strength. Don’t worry. You got this.
“Jim, please go back and check on Kenzie. She needs you.”
“Oh?” He diverted his attention away from the newspaper. “Why? Is anything wrong?”
“She had a five-hour party with an older gentleman last night and they both had way too much to drink. They were at it like crazed jackrabbits ’til three in the morning. Kenzie woke up a few minutes ago and has a massive hangover.”
“Oh, boy. Not again.” Jim winced and shoved the Las Vegas Review-Journal aside. “I’ll see what I can do. That girl cannot control her alcohol intake.”
“I love your denim shorts.” Pamela was still gabbing nonstop as she soon strolled down the hallway arm-in-arm with Lindsay. “You have a nice little booty. So firm, so tight. I bet you get plenty of exercise, don’t you?”
“Th-Thank you. Yes. Yes, I do. I mean, I try to, at least.” Nice little booty? Lindsay tossed her backpack over her opposite shoulder and fanned herself with an open palm. She had never been spoken to like this before but figured it may be the norm here. No inhibitions. No boundaries.
“Your tank top is super cute too. You picked the perfect outfit for today. Colt loves his girls in tank tops and cutoff shorts.” Pamela slid her hand to the small of Lindsay’s back and guided her through the corridor while also allowing her to go first. “The country girl theme is a fetish of his. He’s kind of weird about certain things.” Pamela lowered her voice to the tiniest of whispers. “But that’s one reason everyone here loves him so much. He’s unique.”
Lindsay leaned in closer. “Unique? How so?”
“The first time we had sex back in 2006, Colt made me keep my clothes on for the first forty-five minutes.” Pamela’s visage sparkled. “Wouldn’t let me take ’em off.”
An alarm bell rang in Lindsay’s mind. “That’s different.” But her thoughts were elsewhere. Colt’s kinks aside, this was a house where management fooled around with their employees after all. I’m okay with that. Lindsay again fantasized about meeting up with Jim later and giving him a sloppy cocksucking. Or, better yet, having Pamela ravage her like a lesbian plaything. I want her to go ham on me.
Pamela’s hand was still at the base of Lindsay’s spine. Part of her wished Pamela would lead her to the nearest bedroom instead of Colt’s office. Forget just going ham. Make me your bitch slave, why don’t you?
“Colt is different, that’s for sure.”
That voice; I knew something about you was familiar. After Lindsay applied on the website three weeks ago and attached photographs, Pamela telephoned a few hours later for a follow-up. I remember now. Lindsay bunkered down in her room with the door locked. Mom was creepjackin’ out in the hallway, tryin’ to get all up in my bizness.
“Management doesn’t want model-type or prom pictures where you’re dolled-up and glamorous. We want the pictures you have on your cell phone. We want the real you, but it has nothing to do with age or beauty or body. We aim to give our customers a varied mix. Men relish all types, you know. If you want any further consideration for a job, send a couple more pics to me. Real ones. Here, I’ll give you my text number. It’s a burner phone.”
Who is Pamela anyway? Lindsay tucked her tongue into her cheek and stared off into the distance. Was she the house madam? No, not a chance. House madams didn’t stroll around in tiny yellow dresses with fishnet stockings and blingy rhinestone, three-inch platforms and sky-high stripper heels. Lindsay’s understanding was they were older ladies who dressed in everyday attire and policed the goings-on with an iron fist. Someone like Mom, minus the working in a brothel part. She couldn’t envision a working girl – a courtesan they called them in the business – handling interviews like this.
“Were you a cheerleader in high school? A gymnast?”
“I did a bit of everything in high school,” Lindsay said with blushing cheeks. “As much as a small school in a backward town could offer, at least.”
“I can tell.” Pamela’s thumb stroked the exact spot on Lindsay’s lower back that invariably made her lose all sense of time and place. “And your smile. I love the way it lights up the entire house. So pretty, so photogenic.”
“Uhh, yeah. Thank you.” Arousal swarmed as Pamela’s fingertips skimmed away. “I inherited it from my mom.” What’s going on here? Shouldn’t Jim be the one to introduce me to the owner? Not that she had any complaints, but why was it Pamela instead of Jim? He was the manager. She was just a regular employee.
Right?
Pamela knocked, then opened the door without waiting for an invitation or even an acknowledgment. Wow. Sure is ballsy of her, isn’t it? Knowing her potential employer awaited inside, Lindsay tried to suppress the bright glow of fear that washed over her like a seismic sea wave.
“Colt, hi. How are you? This is your eleven-fifty appointment, Lindsay …” Pamela eyed the paper she was grasping, “… Anastacio. A sweet little thing fresh from the pumpkin patch in California.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Come on in, baby. Don’t be shy. I promise we won’t bite.” Pamela’s body swayed to an unheard rhythm. “Not unless you want us to, that is.”
Head still down, goosebumps chased the hairs on the back of her neck outward. Dammit. Lindsay hated letting fear seize the advantage.
She had done exhaustive research on Colton David McCarron, a forty-four-year-old who inherited Happy Ending Ranch after his father lost a prolonged battle with cancer ten years ago. Mr. McCarron worked here under his dad’s tutelage beginning in 1992 and held degrees in both Business Administration and Finance.
Online news clippings detailed the philanthropy Colt did in Flagstone and the surrounding areas. He donated thousands of dollars every year to Cancer Care Center Las Vegas, the American Red Cross, the local animal rescue, and various battered women’s shelters up and down the west coast. Though the media portrayed him as an upstanding citizen, he had to fend off city lawmakers and activist groups round the clock who preferred his business have its doors forcibly closed forever.
Lindsay read several quotes where Colt defended his brothel and its place in the community. “Our customers stay at the Twin Tops Motel, go to local restaurants, and purchase admission to the museum. They buy gasoline at Great Basin Travel Stop, shop at Flagstone Foods, and purchase gifts at various shops for our employees. For many people from all over the country, if not the world itself, Flagstone is their once-a-year vacation. Our business alone makes it a destination. I doubt they’d ever come here again if city council approved this measure and forced us to close our doors forever.”
Lindsay’s laundry list of worries came crashing back in. What if she wasn’t attractive enough? What if Colt didn’t like her? I spent my last dime to book it here and have no way back home. Gooseflesh rose stiff and fast on her arms. What happens if all my plans backfire? This man held her future in his hands. I must impress him.
The absolute last thing Lindsay wanted was to call her parents and ask for money to return to Citronelle a mere twenty-four hours after leaving. Talk about humiliation; she’d be terrified to leave that tiny hick town ever again. RIP my life. It’d be officially over.
Lindsay didn’t want to settle for the sake of settling, and in no way, shape, or form did she want to marry Zack Cameron and pop out a couple of kids for him. Zack may boast some serious bedroom skills, but he was a conceited, arrogant jerk, and far more in love with himself than her. He’s a heartless, disgusting pig; a pretty boy jock who’s convinced the universe revolves around him. Unfortunately, the pickings were slim back home. Who else could she date? Zack treated me like shit. I hate him.
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