Colt shivered. I’ve done everything I can to protect and shield you from the atrocities of this job over the years. But he hadn’t done enough. I’ve still failed.
You’re never spending that much time with a client again without proper rest and break times.
“Hey, look at this.” Wanting to erase any thoughts of Charlie from his mind, Colt ventured elsewhere in the international produce section and picked up a tray of mushrooms. “We gotta get these. It’s a tradition. Can’t leave the grocery store without ’em.”
“Hmm, yummy. Love my portobello mushrooms.”
“I love my sweet Pamela.” Colt pecked the side of her forehead with a kiss, and she giggled. “Sweet Pamela is so delicious. I’d like to eat her … especially that spicy, red-hot chalupa she’s got.” He doubled over in mirth as if he’d made the most hilarious joke in recorded history. “Let’s make a run for the border this afternoon, shall we?”
“So silly.” Pamela stifled a grin, rolled her eyes, and wandered over to the display of organic bananas.
“What are you doing? Pamela! Hey, stop it.” Moments later in the beer and wine section, Pamela popped three cotton candy grapes from the once-sealed bag and let them dissolve in her mouth.
“I can’t help myself!”
He shook his head again. “Rebel.”
“Want to get me drunk tonight?” Grinning, she waved a bottle of hard tequila before his eyes.
“Not really. But put it in the cart if you want.” Colt was an odd sort because he’d spent twenty-six years working at the brothel, a place fueled by testosterone and booze, and had never once tasted a sip of alcohol. The idea, for whatever reason, didn’t appeal to him.
He’d never smoked cigarettes or done any illegal drugs either.
Pamela put the bottle back. She wasn’t a heavy drinker but did like to indulge herself from time to time. Three weeks ago, things got out of hand, and she had a wild night of booze and sex in the recreation room (the “chick cave”) with Sahara and Riley. Those ladies, on the other hand, were notorious for their alcohol consumption.
“Thanks for taking me to Sirens,” Pamela said as she and Colt toured the section of imported foods from Peru. “I love it there. Excluding Honey Birdette in Vegas, it’s my favorite lingerie and bling shop.”
“I know it is. And you’re welcome.”
Pamela dropped $350 on new outfits at Sirens across town earlier this morning. The thirty-year-old kept a detailed spreadsheet of every outfit and lingerie set she owned, how many times she’d worn them on a lineup-to-lineup basis, and how much money was earned by booking parties in them.
The red minidress she styled when Charlie picked her two days ago gave Pamela, according to the spreadsheet, the highest probability for success. At twenty-seven percent (forty-one out of one hundred and fifty-three chances), Pamela would get selected from a lineup wearing the red dress. The next most successful was a schoolgirl outfit Colt purchased for her last year at twenty-one percent.
Looks could be deceiving, but Pamela was a shrewd businesswoman and learned many of these advanced, forward-thinking tactics from Colt. He’d taught her everything he knew about how to maximize her income. She wasn’t the highest earner at the ranch anymore – that distinction belonged to Scarlett – but Pamela was constantly nipping at her heels. She was serious about her job and approached it like no one else.
Colt had no issue with Pamela spending $350 on lingerie, either, although her dresser drawers resembled a warehouse. He loved showering her with new gifts and she was always grateful. Besides, they grossed $12,300 from the fourteen-plus hours she spent with Charlie. There was no harm in wanting to go on a binge.
Pamela opened her eyes, almost to where they were bulging out, and fluttered her eyelids in rapid-fire succession. “Know what someone told me one time when I was still in high school?”
“What?”
“After I met ’em, for a couple months, they were like, `I didn’t like you at first because you batted your eyelashes so much. It’s really annoying.'”
Colt arched his lips. “It was probably some guy you were trying to flirt with.”
“It was a girl! Remember Stacie Anderson? She was at our wedding and got so drunk at the reception her boyfriend had to carry her out.”
“Okay, it was Stacie you were trying to flirt with,” came his teasing rebuttal.
Pamela tried to stifle a laugh but failed. She fluttered her eyelids about dramatically again. “It would’ve been sweet if Stacie swung that way back in the day. But nooooo. No flirting for me with her.” She tilted her head and inspected a canned item on the shelf. “Wow, this brings back memories.”
“What is it?”
“Peruvian-style pomodoro sauce. It’s used to make tallarines rojos, which is what we’d eat as a family every time we made the trek to Uncle Bob and Aunt Fiorella’s house when I was growing up. That stuff was delicious. Aunt Fiorella was always whipping up some sort of exotic dish.” Pamela grinned at the little memory from her childhood and moved on. “This grocery store is the best. It has everything.”
It did have everything, including a sprawling seafood department with hundreds of lobsters and tanks full of live catfish, barramundi, tilapia, and countless other species. Pamela couldn’t fathom the idea of these poor creatures waiting to be slaughtered and had to step away when a customer chose a catfish and the butcher began chopping it into steaks behind the counter.
In the adjacent meat department, Colt teased her when he held up a whole cut-up chicken in its packaging and asked if she would like to gnaw on it for dinner tonight.
“Where are the vegan cheeses?” Pamela later asked a random employee, a Middle Easterner, but it soon became apparent he didn’t speak one lick of English. She tried communicating with him for thirty seconds but gave up and laughed it off. “We’ll ask someone else.”
“I’d like to hire a BBW sex worker. You know I’m always looking for variety.”
“A BBW would be kickass for our business. Guys love all types of women.” Pamela’s mind shifted into overdrive as they made their way toward the checkout lanes. “Hmm, yeah; a BBW applied on the website a couple weeks ago. Her name is April and she’s from New Jersey, I think. You want me to call her and do a phone interview? If I remember, she’s twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and coming off a broken marriage. Beautiful face, full, luscious body, and her application was typed out and well-worded. I know applicants using Internet shorthand is a red flag for you.”
“Yeah, go ahead and call her.”
“Let’s order takeout from Viva la Vegan, if you don’t mind, but we need to rush back to the house as quick as possible. I’m hoping to make money today and tonight.”
“Why don’t we enjoy ourselves for a few more hours?” Colt winced at Pamela’s words and ran his fingertips along her lower back, particularly the area he’d spent two hours massaging last night. She’d finally come clean and admitted her back was hurting. “How about we hit up the casino here in town?” I have no desire to go back to the house yet because it’ll be right back to square one for you. “Or maybe the heritage museum? Been a while since we were there. I know how much you love going there.”
“No.” Pamela smiled and pulled Colt’s hand to her lips for a kiss. “I want to go back to work. And you know I never gamble. I hate losing money. I want to make it!”
He gave her a strained look as she loaded up the conveyor belt at checkout with groceries. We need to go on another extended vacation.
Moments later, they were making their way toward the so-called Pamelamobile (another phrase coined by Colt) in the parking lot. A 2006 Ford Ranger XLT, its color was a candy apple red. Inside, the truck was decked out with a vast collection of girly bling and was the first and only vehicle Pamela had ever owned. She purchased it with straight cash as an eighteen-year-old while working as an exotic dancer in Maryland.
“I can’t believe those grapes cost fifteen bucks.” Colt nudged Pamela with an elbow. “What are you trying to do? Bankrupt us?” He chuckled. “Who buys grapes for fifteen bucks?”
“I swear, I thought the sign said five-ninety-nine a bag, not per pound.” Pamela gave an innocent shrug and said, “But, hey, think of it this way – they would’ve been more expensive if I didn’t munch on some inside.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Unfortunately, the Pamelamobile’s best days were long gone. With all the trips she’d taken from Flagstone to Vegas and back again, as well as San Francisco, Los Angeles, Portland, Memphis, and Baltimore to visit friends and family, it had over 240,000 miles on it. The Pamelamobile needed constant repairs and although Colt wanted to buy her a brand-new Audi convertible, Pamela wasn’t ready to give up on her Ranger yet.
Colt was a lifelong fan of the Jeep Wrangler. He owned two of them, a gray 2011 model at the house in Flagstone, and a red 2018 decked out with all the bells and whistles of its own parked inside their garage in Fairfax, Maryland. In two-and-a-half weeks, he and Pamela would fly home for six days to relax and spend time with family.
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