Chapter 3
WILLOW
It takes me two tries to get my front door unlocked when I come back to my apartment after my classes for the day. My hand shakes so badly that I have to force myself to take a deep breath so I can get inside.
All day, I’ve been having trouble focusing, too aware of what’s coming.
I finally get in and close the door behind me, throwing the deadbolt into place as if a locked door will keep the anxious thoughts from catching up to me.
I put my messenger bag down on the floor, leaning against the door with a sigh. I close my eyes and try to let the silence of my tiny apartment wash over me, but then my phone rings, shattering the little bit of peace I was trying to snatch.
“Goddammit,” I mutter under my breath, pulling my phone out of my pocket. When I see who’s calling, I let out a groan. “Goddammit.”
It’s my mom.
My finger hovers over her name on the screen for a second, but I don’t answer it. I just let it ring and ring until it goes to voicemail. My adoptive mother is the last person I want to talk to right now.
Once the screen goes dark again, I breathe a sigh of relief and drop the phone on the couch.
I usually have something to eat when I get home, but I know that’s not going to happen today, so I don’t even bother trying. My stomach is tied up in too many knots for me to keep anything down, and throwing up right now will just make everything worse.
Instead, I get into the shower and try to focus on getting cleaned up, even if it does feel like I’m never actually going to be clean again.
Last night, Carl told me when and where to meet with the whorehouse madame so I can sell my virginity to some unknown buyer.
Every time I think too hard about what I’m about to do, it’s like there’s a low-pitched hum of anxiety in my brain, shutting out everything else.
Part of me can’t believe I’m actually considering doing this, but it’s not like I have another option.
I need the money more than I need my fucking hymen.
God, I hate this.
I let out a shaky breath and then another, reaching for the shampoo so I can wash my hair. I wish I had something more expensive and luxurious to use, but I’m stuck with the cheap two-in-one I get from the drug store, and that’s going to have to be good enough.
The suds run down my body, sliding over my scars and drawing my eyes to them.
They’re ugly. They’ve always been ugly.
They cover so much of me that I can’t hide them all without wearing long-sleeved shirts and pants, and I won’t be able to do that tonight.
I know I’m nothing special, even outside the scars. I don’t have generous curves or big boobs. I’m not leggy or graceful. Someone told me once that when I burrow into a hoodie, I look like I’m trying to disappear, and sometimes I feel so small that I wish I could.
I’m just slight and slender, blonde and pale, and no one really ever looks at me twice—unless I’m at work and they want a drink, or they’re talking behind my back about the scars that are on display beneath my little skirt.
Frowning, I scrub harder at the patch of scars on my right arm, barely even feeling it. The scars are the worst on that side, and the nerves are messed up there, making everything feel muted in some places and hypersensitive in others.
“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter to myself, finishing up my shower and getting out to dry myself off. “Whoever this john is, he’s not looking for some stunning beauty. Just like Carl said, all he wants is a virgin.”
Although that doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better, it’s all the reassurance I’ve got.
But as I hang up my towel and shake out my damp hair, I realize I have another problem. Presumably, they want me to wear something sexy for this thing, but most of my wardrobe is long pants or leggings and oversized sweaters and hoodies.
Shit. That’s not going to work.
I rummage through the dresser, trying to find something that will work, and come up with a nightgown that looks passable. I don’t even remember buying it, which means it might be one of my mom’s that got accidentally mixed in with my stuff when I moved out.
That makes me feel even worse about this, but I pull it on anyway.
It’s a soft peach color, silky against my skin, and short enough to show off the tops of my thighs, with a slit up one side. The spaghetti straps irritate my shoulder, and I try to adjust them so they don’t rub as much, lowering the neckline until my cleavage shows through the lace.
I take my time fixing my hair, blow drying it into soft waves that tumble around my shoulders. I put on some make up next, lining my eyes with dark liner and painting my lips red.
I don’t even feel like myself.
My stomach is still in knots, and bile rises in my throat as I grab my coat and leave my apartment.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. “It’s just one night, and then it’ll be over.”
Maybe if I just keep saying that, it’ll be okay.
Carl gave me the address of the brothel, and I take the bus to the closest stop and then walk the rest of the way. Despite the coat that covers my nightie, I feel like people can tell what I’m wearing as I walk past.
My cheeks flame red, and I practically jog the last couple of blocks to the brothel.
Compared to the strip club I work in, the brothel is pretty plain on the outside. It’s nondescript, and it could be anything from an office or some kind of place to get medical procedures done, with the plain brick and covered windows.
But I guess it’s one of those ‘if you know, you know’ kind of places, and I pull the door open and step inside.
The scent of candles and incense washes over me, and a tall man with beefy arms and tattoos everywhere steps up, looking me over.
“You lost?” he asks.
I shake my head, trying to find my voice. “N-no. I have… I’m supposed to meet Giselle?”
He looks at me for a second longer and then turns on his heel, walking through a door that leads into the back.
I stand where he left me, nervously twisting my fingers together and glancing around at the bare walls of the entry room. Just like the outside, this room is so nondescript that it gives away none of what goes on in the back of the establishment.
The tall man comes back a minute later with a stern faced woman on his heels. She’s tall and blonde, and she carries herself with an air of someone who takes no shit. When she looks me over, I have to fight the urge to sink down into my coat even more.
“You’re the one Carl sent over?” she asks. When I nod, she crooks a finger at me in a sharp motion. “Come with me, then.”
Giselle leads the way through the door and into a side room at the back. She closes the door behind me and then looks me over more in depth, dragging her gaze from my head all the way down to the scuffed shoes I put on.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” She sniffs. “I thought I told Carl about the shitty girls he sends me. The Rose Garden is about quality, and I’m not seeing it.”
Embarrassment and anger flash through me when she says that, and I can’t help but bite back, “I didn’t know there were such high standards just to lay on your back.”
Giselle narrows her eyes at me, not looking amused at all. Then she steps forward and grabs my wrists, yanking them down from where I had crossed my arms. She pulls the coat open and takes in the outfit I put together, and her opinion of it is clear on her face.
“Unbelievable,” she mutters.
I feel like my face is going to be permanently red from how fucked up and embarrassing this is, and it gets worse when Giselle’s hands start roaming over me.
She gropes me, cupping my breasts in her hands, then reaches behind me to touch my ass. When she touches the patch of scars on my right thigh, she makes a face, and I stare down at the floor, wishing I could disappear.
“What on earth did Carl see in you?” she asks, and I don’t know if she wants an answer or if she’s just complaining out loud.
“He said you needed virgins,” I whisper, shame keeping my voice soft.
Giselle arches a brow at me. “Looking at you, I’m sure you are, but I have to check. If you’re trying to run some scam for money, it would ruin my business.”
“I’m not!” I insist, horrified that I’m having to defend my virginity to someone like this. Her insults hurt, but she’s right. It’s not like anyone has been interested before.
She acts like she didn’t even hear me, tapping my thighs to get me to spread my legs.
Horror creeps in as I realize what she’s about to do, and I feel sick to my stomach as she snaps on a glove, then pushes aside the cheap black panties I put on and presses first one finger and then another a few inches inside me.
It feels clinical, like getting a pelvic exam, but so much worse because of the judgment and what I know is coming.
“You’ll do,” Giselle finally announces. She pulls her fingers free and peels off her glove, then sets into a flurry of movement.
She yanks the coat off me and flings it over onto the side, leaving me standing in the middle of the room in the nightie. Her hands move to my hair, fluffing it and pushing sections behind my ears.
“Here are the ground rules,” Giselle says curtly as she works. “Whatever your john for the night wants, you’ll do. No matter what it is. Nothing is off the table if you want to get paid. At the end of the night, if there are no complaints, you’ll get your money. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper, nodding.
She steps back, giving me one final look over. She doesn’t seem pleased, and she shakes her head. “It’s just going to have to be good enough. Come with me.”
I snatch my coat up before Giselle takes me to a room at the back of the building, and I swear my legs get shakier with every step. Finally, she stops outside a door, opens it, and practically pushes me inside the room. She doesn’t say anything else, just leaves, closing the door behind her.
My gaze darts around, my pulse spiking, but then I realize I’m alone. My john isn’t here yet.
Thank fuck.