Chapter 3
June
June looked over the list once more, making sure she could successfully check everything off – minus Chelsea’s favorite line of Sephora mascara, which was sold out. Get it online, girl.
The car lurched around another sharp curve. June leaned against the window, struggling to see her own handwriting in the glaring sunlight of the late afternoon.
When Sette called the day before to reschedule their modeling appointment for the evening instead of the usual afternoon timing, June found herself with a lot of time to kill.
The night before, she volunteered to borrow a car and go into town to pick up some much-needed supplies – and to get the hell out of Dodge for the first time in a month.
The other girls who didn’t get out much were envious.
Not just for her sudden freedom, but because they all had dreams of going shopping for this and that.
Hence, June was not surprised when they each came up at different intervals to hand her lists along with wads of cash.
So now June had multiple shopping bags from Sephora, Lush, Victoria’s Secret, Bath and Body Works, DeMonte’s Department Store, generic drugstores for one’s menstrual and prophylactic needs, and whatever other stores she could pick up the same old things at.
The only strange request she had came from Chelsea.
“I need a tote bag. I don’t care what kind you get, but it needs to be sturdy and preferably on the red end of the spectrum.
” The best June could do was a beige bag with a hot pink bottom.
“We’re almost there, Miss,” the driver said, slowing down as they approached the road to the Manoir.
“Got it.” June held up her phone. Spotty reception out here on the highway, but she was still able to get a text from Grace.
“Did I tell you to get black or blue ink for those pens? Because I need black. You got black, right?”
The fuck she need pens for? June didn’t ask questions, but she still wondered. How could she not? Some of the idiosyncrasies around that place were too much.
The car eventually pulled up in front of the Manoir.
Two maids descended from the front door and went to the trunk without a word.
After the driver popped it open for them, the two young ladies began unloading shopping bags, sorting out what belonged to whom because June was a pro at color-coding with ribbons.
Chelsea was red. Grace was blue. Holly was green, and Yvette was black.
Anything not color-coded was left for June to collect on her own.
Strange, though, that no one was rushing out to greet her.
Sunday nights were busy, and the mornings often saw Saturday night’s clients groggily making their way out, but the afternoons were a dead zone.
If someone went into town and came back before the evening rush, bored girls were bound to come out and see what the word was.
So far, the only people June saw were staff. A Rolls-Royce was parked in the visitor parking area, and at first she thought it was Helen Warner’s, come to pick up her wife a day early. Except the coloring was all wrong. Must be another guest.
June shrugged this off and headed inside, hands laden with her own bags. The Manoir was its usual Sunday quiet. It should have been reassuring, but June couldn’t help but feel that something was amiss in the perfumed air.
Once she stepped upstairs and turned toward her room, she noticed a salon door open – and voices drifting out from within.
Everyone was in there. “Everyone,” meaning the other four girls and Monique, who was the only one sitting, her flats scattered on the floor in front of her.
She was deep in discussion with the others, one hand absentmindedly rubbing her stomach while the other waved back and forth in front of Chelsea’s face.
“I had to do it last time,” the only blonde aside from June said. “It’s someone else’s turn to deal with that kind of client.”
“Make Holly do it,” Yvette grumbled. “She’s new, and the youngest. It’s not as creepy.”
“Excuse you!” Red curls bounced with fervor as Holly whipped around and gaped at Yvette’s face. “I may be the youngest, but that doesn’t mean you get to foist difficult clients on me. I get some say in it, right?” She turned back to Monique. “Right?”
“Of course, you all get a say in it.” Sighing, Monique pushed herself up in the chair, that business demeanor sullying the salon. “Nobody has to do anything that makes them feel uncomfortable. You all know that’s the first rule of my house.”
“It’s too uncomfortable to bear!” Yvette declared. “I absolutely refuse. Gross!”
Holly caught sight of June in the doorway. “June’s back! We’re saved.”
The named woman put her bags down and approached the group with trepidation. “What have I been volunteered for?”
Before anyone else could blurt out what was going on, Monique explained, “We have a Code White client downstairs.”
Certain situations that required absolute discretion were described in “Code Colors.” Code Black meant a demanding BDSM dominant. Code Blue meant someone with severe emotional hangups and trauma looking for sexual therapy. Code Green meant someone was sick.
Code White screamed virgin.
It was not unusual for wealthy virgins to come up to the Manoir to take care of their perceived problem.
Some expressed surprise when they found this out, for the rich should’ve been able to take care of it with no problem, regardless of how repugnant or otherwise shy they were.
There were clients, however, who came from repressed backgrounds looking to start a new life or get experience before their arranged marriages.
I once had a religious princess come all the way here for my tips after her betrothal was arranged.
“Tips,” of course, meant thorough instruction on cunnilingus and G-spot search and rescue.
In the end, Her Majesty was still hopeless.
I tried. The fact that a religious woman had come to her had not gone over June’s head, but she had long stopped attempting to discern why some people did what they did.
“What’s wrong with a virgin? Charge them extra like we always do.”
“It’s not any virgin, hon,” Grace said. “It’s Lenny Gretzky.”
“That name sounds familiar.”
“Because his father is Kyle Gretzky, the shipping magnate.”
“That guy! He’s been here before.”
“Yes. Now he’s brought his son. His freshly minted eighteen-year-old virginal son.”
“Oh… oh.” June paled. “Wait, you mean some guy brought his son here to lose his virginity? That’s really old school.”
Monique nodded. “Mr. Gretzky has asked for one of you fair ladies to help his son on his road to manhood. The boy is over eighteen, so it’s legal as long as we don’t serve him alcohol.”
“You said so yourself. He’s a boy.”
“You’ll do it, right, June?” Holly crossed her arms. “You always say you’ll take on anyone if the price is right.”
She groaned. “Don’t forget I have rules.
Rule #3 is no teenagers.” She adopted that the day she turned thirty, and she would only break it for the biggest sum in the universe.
Once clients became young enough to be her own kids, she was done with them.
She’d deal with a forty-year-old, but eighteen was adult only in legalities.
Even early twenties pushed it. Give me women like Sette and Miquela any day.
They were both older than her. “So, no thank you. Besides, I have an appointment that I need to get ready for.”
“Be that as it may,” Monique said, “I still need someone to deal with this.”
“What definition of virginity are we talking here, anyway?” Grace asked. They say I’m a ho for money. Grace was the next most adventurous woman after June. Even she had her ethical limits, though. “Are we playing loose with third base counting as a score? Or a full homerun?”
“The way Mr. Gretzky described it, he didn’t come up here so his son could be teased.”
“What about senior Gretzky?” Grace asked. “I’m betting he wants something, too.”
“Not unless his son is getting some.”
“Someone take one for the team, and the rest of us will deal with Mr. Gretzky.”
“Shut the fuck up, Grace.” Chelsea looked so exasperated that she almost passed out.
“Ladies,” Monique interrupted with finality, “I will go downstairs and tell them that no one is available today if it pleases the lot of you, but keep in mind that this may happen again, and we should establish an age policy beyond not going to jail.”
“Twenty would be good,” Yvette mumbled. “Virgins are delicate enough as it is. One that’s still in high school? Fuck that. I’m grossed out.”
“Just think, if it were a girl the same age, there would be no question if it’s wrong.”
“There is no right or wrong in this situation,” June interjected.
“He’s eighteen. It’s legal. For fuck’s sake, one of your lot’s brains isn’t even fully developed yet.
” She shot that comment to Holly. “We are professionals, and this is a part of our job. Is it archaic? Yes, but so is a lot of other paternalistic shit we deal with every day. It’s our job.
That said,” she could see the reddening cheeks and furrowed brows all around her, “there may be no right or wrong, but there are comfort levels and our own hard boundaries. We all have the right to turn down a client if we think it pertinent, for whatever reason. I understand, but watch the language. There will be no judgment if someone decides to take on this kind of client. Because, regardless of his circumstances and who is paying for his fun, he is still a client who deserves professionalism on our part. As long as that young man consents, he has the privilege to ask for our services. We also have the right to say no.”
“No,” Chelsea said. “Hell, no.”
“That young man is young enough to be my brother back home. I don’t think so.”
“I may be the youngest one here, but that’s pushing it for me. I was done with teenagers when I graduated high school.”