Chapter 7
The Selling Price
M onique sighed as her client left, dissatisfaction filling her. She was getting too old for this game. She could have been vastly enjoying herself watching Cleo circling Ottilie, but instead she’d been enduring this.
The client, who was new, had treated Monique as if she was doing Monique a favor by allowing her to fuck her. She had a cruel tongue too. And that wasn’t the only cruel thing about her.
As Monique stood under the wide nozzle of her shower, sinking into the water’s cathartic spray, she tried to pinpoint what it was that had made the angry woman so dreadful to deal with and, say, Mrs. Menzies so delightful.
Both were indomitable women with strong views and a lot of pent-up tension—not just the sexual kind. Both liked it rougher than most. They loved the physicality of being with a woman of Monique’s height and strength. But that was where the similarities ended.
On the surface, her client today was stunning. She had a lithe body for a woman in her early sixties and blonde hair that somehow went perfectly with her cold blue eyes. Her jaw was sharp and came to a strong, proud chin. Her breasts were a lovely handful. She kept herself in shape, and she knew it.
She’d loved being in the dominant position and holding Monique down, keeping her in place and talking dirty. That didn’t bother Monique under certain circumstances. But several times she had taken without asking, ordered instead of asked, and treated her like the hired help. Which…Monique was, even if she didn’t need the money.
It all came down to respect. Most clients, like Mrs. Menzies, treated her as a respected businesswoman; this woman had not.
Why am I putting up with women like her?
At first, when the woman had swept into the room and run her haughty gaze all over Monique, it had been arousing. But when her anger had revealed itself after her all-too-quick orgasm, when she’d decided she wanted a power trip, she’d turned on Monique. Tone vicious and dangerous, she’d said, “Now you will do exactly as I say.”
Monique, of course, had not done exactly as the woman had said, and the client had retaliated: pinching Monique’s nipples without permission and frequently threatening to shove her fingers where they weren’t welcome until Monique had slapped them away.
The dark look in the woman’s eyes told Monique none of these transgressions had been an accident. She hadn’t forgotten the rules; she’d just wanted to punish Monique. Hurt her.
Why? Most likely because she resented having to pay for sex. That was sadly common. Women like her client—who had husbands and high-profile careers and were deeply closeted—had few options. They tended to resent their circumstances a great deal. So they lashed out at the women they paid to take it.
She was being paid to take it.
As she stepped out of the shower and toweled down, the earlier events bothered her more and more. All the woman had seen her as was a cheap streetwalker. Just a shell who sold her body.
Monique had enormous sympathy for sex workers who didn’t have a choice, including the streetwalkers, who especially lived a dangerous life. The ones with pimps who couldn’t say no to any client.
That was the sinister side of the job. Monique’s unorthodox lifestyle was all very entertaining and evolved when she had all the choices in the world. She was wealthy, could pick and choose her clients, and charged high fees.
Did that make her inherently better than those without her advantages?
Oh, she was certainly a better choice for the clients , who could sleep well knowing they weren’t exploiting someone vulnerable. But she was still a sex worker. And today, the client had treated her like them . She’d felt dirty.
Such slurs usually bounced off her. Monique knew her own worth, and it was certainly not tied to a stranger’s opinion. But this client had been clever and had known exactly how to slide the knife in between her ribs to make the insults destructive.
How…unsettling.
She’d told the woman to lose her number at the end of the session. That had only sharpened the woman’s rage. She’d dressed furiously, shot Monique a filthy look, warned her she wasn’t done with her, and then had attempted to slam the door behind her.
The air pressure in the room, with no open balcony door or windows, had prevented it and that had just seemed to infuriate her more.
* * *
The sick feeling in Monique’s stomach hadn’t left her an hour later. Was it the woman’s implied threat? Or being treated like the “cheap streetwalker” her client had called her?
She phoned Mrs. Menzies, quietly telling her to add another name to the list.
It was a code they’d developed should a client prove problematic. A way to ensure issues weren’t repeated, that Security would be ready if said client returned with attitude. Mrs. Menzies always appreciated the heads-up.
“I’m sorry your visitor was difficult,” the manager said. “Are you…well?”
“Yes. Fine.” Monique inhaled. “Well, I will be. A bit of decompressing is necessary. It’s unfortunate one cannot always know with absolute certainty who will misbehave. While I’m exceptionally accurate, I know there’s always the possibility of an unpredictable outlier—the chance of ugly behavior, no matter how fancy the suit or expensive the designer watch.”
“Very true.”
“I’m sure you didn’t expect Frank to cause a problem either. People aren’t always their best selves.”
Monique had learned all about Mrs. Menzies’ ranting husband from the hotel employees’ gossip network.
“You heard about that?” Mrs. Menzies sounded long-suffering when she added, “Of course you did. Well, it might have been worse. Fortunately, a guest stepped in and prevented him from escalating before he could move on to anything worse than straining his throat.”
Monique hadn’t heard this part of the story. “Which guest? Do I know them?”
“No. Although you almost met her. I was going to send her up to you last night, but your phone was off the hook.” She lowered her voice. “The woman asked if I knew someone who could give a cervical massage.”
Monique laughed. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. Ottilie found me anyway. She had a neck complaint. Nothing…further south.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Menzies made a choking noise. “I thought…”
“Oh, I know what you thought,” Monique said lightly.
“I’m almost afraid to ask how that played out.”
“It played out with me giving her an entirely professional neck massage. Ottilie was grateful and then went on her way.”
“Thank goodness.” Mrs. Menzies sounded close to hyperventilating. “I mean, she might have sued the hotel or something! Of course, I wouldn’t normally send a guest to you without specific instruction, but I thought I knew what she was asking. I wanted to be helpful, given she’d just assisted me with Frank.”
“I find it odd she stepped in for that. I’ve found Ottilie to be more of an observer. Someone watchful on the sidelines.”
“I think she was enraged by some cracks Frank made about older women.”
Monique clucked at that. “He’s an idiot. You’re about to hit your prime now that you’re free of that odious man. You know that, don’t you, darling? You’re free to be fabulous.”
“Now, don’t you start with your nonsense.”
Monique chuckled.
“All right, then,” Mrs. Menzies said, all business. “I’ve made a note about your…problem person…and I’ll see you at our scheduled time.”
“Can’t wait, June!” Monique ended the call.
Her smile, which always rose unbidden when dealing with the eternally prickly Mrs. Menzies, fell away. She remembered her problem person and felt annoyed all over again. How had she let her get under her skin?
She glanced at the time and dialed another number. Cleo would be done with rehearsals by now.
“Ah, here she is,” Cleo said with a laugh. “Woman of the hour!”
“What did I do?”
“You sent me your friend . Was this for my benefit or yours?”
“How was it to either of our benefit?” Monique asked. “It was purely for Ottilie’s benefit.”
“Don’t,” Cleo said. “I know you. You’re a very intentional woman in everything you do. So I’m guessing you knew about her superpower?”
“Her”—Monique frowned—“superpower?”
“Yes. Same as yours.”
“She’s fabulous in bed? Or analyzing a company’s annual report to work out what they’re not saying?”
“She reads people as brilliantly as you do,” Cleo said.
“Ah.” Yes, that was certainly part of Ottilie’s appeal. Monique loved working out who people were too. A shame she hadn’t been able to get a good read on today’s client before the woman had treated her with such contempt.
Silence briefly fell. “You okay, hon? You sound a little…off?”
“Nothing a chat with my oldest friend can’t fix. Client stuff.”
“Client stuff? Did one turn on you?” Cleo’s concern was evident in her voice.
“She tried a few vicious games and had various unsavory thoughts about me and my vocation.”
“Shit,” Cleo muttered. “I hate people sometimes. Sorry, hon.”
“It’s fine. Occupational hazard.” She sank into an armchair. “Now, take my mind off The Entitled One. What did Ottilie do that has you worked up?”
“She noticed Roman’s injury’s still bothering him.”
“I thought he was over that.”
“So did I. He’s not. He’s been keeping it from me.” She huffed. “I’ll have to make allowances now so he’s not doing so many lifts.” Cleo paused. “And Ottilie spotted a pretty little sociopath in the midst of my auditioning dancers.”
“Really?”
“This one newbie was testing the girls for all their weaknesses, cataloging them. Ottilie warned me she’d be sowing dissent if I hired her.”
“ Did you hire her?”
“God no. Group cohesion is everything in the dance world. You know that. We’re not a bunch of catfighting models, hon.”
Monique rolled her eyes. “Hey, we weren’t catfighting . We were too busy screwing each other for that.”
“Until the breakups.”
“Until then…” Monique thought fondly back to her modeling days. There had been a lot of delicious hookups. The memories cheered her a little.
“Thanks for sending her to me,” Cleo was saying. “She’s a clever, clever woman. No wonder you’re taken with her.”
“Taken with her? I don’t know where you get these ideas from.”
“I get them from being your oldest and most agile friend.”
“Well, I’m not about to argue which of us can do a high kick.”
“You sent her to me because you wanted to see what I thought of her.”
Maybe she had done exactly that. A pointless exercise, most likely, because Ottilie was unknowable…and would be gone soon.
“I think she’s cool and distant, but there’s a lot going on underneath. She’s impressive, I think, but prefers to hide it.”
“Yes,” Monique agreed. “All of the above.”
“You and those older women, hmm? Still at it.”
“Still at it.” Monique couldn’t disagree. After all, every woman who’d ever turned her head had been older.
“I blame Stacy, of course,” Cleo said adamantly. “That mentor-bitch did a number on you.”
“Some women are harder to forget than others,” she conceded.
Cleo snorted. “Are you going to ask her out?”
“Who? Stacy?” The words came out strangled. “I’d sooner chew off an arm. You remember what she did!”
“Not Stacy!” Cleo sounded appalled. “I haven’t forgotten her evil ways. Ottilie . The clever watchful woman you had me vet today.”
“I didn’t have her vetted.” Liar.
“You did. And I cautiously approve. She’s an interesting, astute woman and a complete mystery, and I know how much you love those. Now, on that note, I’ve gotten you a treat. Check your phone.”
Monique’s cell phone beeped a moment later. And there was a photo of Ottilie, looking startled, her face framed by two pairs of sparkly boobs courtesy of Cleo’s much taller dancers.
She burst out laughing. “How on earth did you get her to agree to that?”
“By not telling her it was happening. Don’t worry, she knows I’ve sent you the photo. You can laugh over it together. Or tell her not to scowl too much over it together.”
Monique stared at the photo, loving the way the elegance and austereness of Ottilie shone through despite the ridiculous image.
“One of a kind,” Monique murmured.
“What, hon?” Cleo asked.
“Nothing. But thanks. For the photo and for cheering me up.”
“Sure, sweetie. Let’s grab dinner soon. I need all the goss on your life like air. You know Rochelle is wonderful, but, my God, domestic bliss is boring.” Her huff was purely for effect and made Monique laugh—as intended, no doubt.
Who was Cleo kidding? She adored her wife and never found married life boring. Clearly she was just trying to lighten the mood. Monique said her goodbyes, her gaze returning to Ottilie’s photo.
Even bookended by two incredibly gorgeous, statuesque showgirls, Ottilie stood out. There was just something about her. Indefinable. Interesting. Assured.
Beautiful .