The Girlfriend Experience Ch. 07

Scarlett and Sahara exchanged concerned glances.

"I don't think Kayleigh is that bad," Riley said. "You're blowing this way out of proportion."

"She's a kid, Aaliyah," Scarlett tried to remind her. "Only eighteen. Everything here is all new to her, so foreign to anything she's ever known, and I doubt Kayleigh realizes she's giving that impression. None of us enjoy being passed over in lineups, you included. Give her time. Pamela said she was going to talk to her about handling her emotions better and the way she presents herself."

"Kayleigh is exhibit A of why I fucking hate turnouts! Clueless bitches; they come here with the idea that all they gotta do is lie on their backs and count the money as it keeps pouring in. They think all the tricks they'll fuck are polite, older versions of the guys they fucked back home, they smell of breath mints and cologne, and everything is wonderful, it's all peachy. But soon enough, reality sets in and these fucking turnouts get put to the ultimate test.

"Look at the way Kayleigh stutters and blushes and stares at the carpet during lineups. And she runs off and cries when she isn't chosen. Y'all know what I'm talkin' about! Kayleigh won't make it here. She needs to go back to wherever the hell it is she came from - Palm Springs, I guess - ask her mommy and daddy for a diaper change and be put back into her crib. Permanently!"

"Wow. That's a little rough, isn't it?"

"No, it's not!" she fired back at Scarlett.

"I don't think Kayleigh is going anywhere," Sahara said. "Pamela is sweet on her. You know she controls Colt and his thoughts. He'd never send her packing unless Pamela agreed to it first."

Nicolette nodded. "Pamela is in love with Kayleigh."

"Then fuck Pamela too! You think I give a damn what she thinks? That I'm scared of her because she's the boss's wife? If you do, you straight trippin'." Aaliyah possessed a hair-trigger temper and often thundered into expletive-laden tirades over the simplest things.

She led a difficult life in recent years, double dipping as a street hooker in New York City and had a history of cocaine, rehab, chlamydia and trichomoniasis infections, prison sentences, and failed relationships. Those hardships had taken a massive toll and she wasn't always the most pleasant person to deal with.

Still, Aaliyah treated her customers like gold. Despite the volatile pot of wrath always brewing within, Aaliyah's job was secure because she made the brothel top dollar.

"I refuse to work at a house where some little eighteen-year-old newbie thinks she's better and more deserving than everyone else. Fucking Kayleigh. That little cunt couldn't walk a mile in my shoes." Aaliyah's brown eyes flashed, and her chest rose under her next inhale. "I've been doing this for close to a decade and never once have I thought I was entitled to anything. Shiiiiit!" She made wild, sweeping gestures with her arms. "I've worked for everything in life and always treated all the other working girls, especially the older ones when I was young myself, with respect. That's how I've survived this long."

With Aaliyah's rant in mind, Kenzie said to Lindsay in the current time, "I'd leave Aaliyah alone for a couple of days. Don't talk to her, don't look at her. She cycles through various moods and you gotta let them pass. Who knows? Aaliyah might've had a bad party herself last night. My suggestion is to be kind, be respectful, and things will work themselves out in the end. Trust me, okay? Remember, we're all in this together. Us working girls need to support one another as best we can."

Lindsay glowered. "Because no one else will."

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"Oh, you are such a rebel." Colt inclined his head and shot Pamela a glare. "What are you doing? Don't open that! You're gonna get yourself caught and we'll both wind up in trouble."

"Haven't been caught yet, have I?" In the health and beauty care section of Naturetyme Market, an upscale, high-end grocery megastore in Oakfall, Nevada, Pamela made sure the coast was clear one final time and popped the cap from a bottle of body mist perfume. "Gotta see if I like it or not." She spritzed a dose on her wrist and took a hearty, drawn-out sniff. "Hmm, sweet. What do you think?" After extending her hand to Colt's nose for a few seconds, Pamela put the cap back on and dropped the bottle into their shopping cart.

"You know you're not supposed to open products and put them back on the shelf if you don't like them." Colt was displeased but couldn't suppress his smile either. "I'm sure a grocery store this large has cameras everywhere. One of these days, you're going to wind up on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted List. I can see it now - Wanted: Pamela McCarron, The Queen Heaux of Flagstone." He shivered. "You'll be on your own after that. Count. Me. Out."

"You're so silly." Pamela's face was bright, rosy. "Not going to stand by your wife in her time of need, huh?" Her grin became wider. "Besides, I didn't put it back on the shelf. It's in the cart. I'm buying it."

Colt huffed. "You've put many things you've sampled back on the shelf over the years. You're a bad, bad girl, Pammy. A rebel. A criminal." He made a motorcycle-like noise with his mouth. "So hot."

"Stop being silly!"

Several items were scattered throughout their cart already, though they entered the store a short time ago. Since the selection at this grocer was much larger and more diverse than anything Flagstone Foods offered, Pamela thought it was time to stock up.

"You're right, though. Others may think of me as a dumb hoe, but I'm not. I'm Queen Heaux."

He shot her another sidelong glare. "I don't think anyone has ever questioned your intelligence. At least, not anyone who matters."

Pamela hardened her brow. "You'd be surprised."

"Buy whatever you want, babe. I don't mind." Colt browsed the aisles as he allowed her to guide him. "Although, I still think we should stop at Taco Bell before we go back to the house." He gave her a flirty once-over. Looking fit and fabulous, Pamela showed off her amazing physique in a black crop top and leggings and wore her long blonde hair in a ponytail with a baseball cap over top of it. Colt's eyes drifted south and settled on her pelvis. "I don't know about you, but I have a hardcore craving for a spicy, red-hot chalupa right about now."

"You're crazy. Crazy and silly." Pamela laughed again as Colt waggled his eyebrows. "Absolutely not! No Taco Bell." She pursed her lips, hopeful. "How about we get takeout from Viva la Vegan instead?"

His eyes darted back up to hers. "Sure, we can do that. It won't be much of a wait if we call and order ahead of time once we're out in the Pamelamobile." He moved closer, his breath soft and hot on her neck. "I've enjoyed being out and about with you these past twenty-four hours. Thank you, sweetheart. We both needed this."

She flashed her teeth. "I've enjoyed it, too, baby. It's been fun."

Their time away from the brothel started yesterday morning with Colt's offer to take Pamela and Scarlett to the hotel in Ambridge so they could sleep following their overnight party with Charlie. After getting a bite to eat in the afternoon, Colt talked Pamela into going back to the hotel and lying down while he returned Scarlett to Flagstone. He drove right back to Ambridge but made a stop at the local market first.

Colt bought Pamela some leafy greens, a whole pineapple, fresh strawberries, three bottled waters of her favorite brand, and a Glambox (a twelve-compartment tray) for her many tubes of lipstick at the ranch. She needed one because the last holder she had recently broke. At the moment, all her lipsticks were spread in a drawer.

He bought her an ice cream too. He'd gone overboard, yes, but no expense was too high for his Pamela.

Once they return to work later today, she would find four dozen long-stem roses waiting in a vase on top of the bar. Colt ordered them last evening from Flagstone Florist Direct and they were delivered this morning.

But last night? Last night was all about Pamela. She was delighted at the items her husband purchased and melted into the bed when he gave her a deep, full-body massage and finger-fed her strawberries at the same time. The heat pad on her back worked wonders. They cuddled for hours like newlyweds and spoke about several topics.

Colt ran off to a Basque-style restaurant and brought her back a delicious mushroom soup and a tray of vegan chips for dinner. As the night progressed, they transitioned to the spacious, old-world bathtub, and he gave her another rubdown.

But here's the kicker: nothing that happened was sexual. Colt didn't lay a finger on her in an erotic, forward manner all night. He didn't even want his wife to think about sex.

Being able to hold and cherish Pamela and remind her of how precious she was with constant angel kisses across her face and forehead was far better than sex. It was superior in every way because Colt was gravely concerned for her.

I wish Charlie picked someone other than you for his coming out party. You're still exhausted. How much longer can you go at this pace before something horrible happens?

Colt's issue wasn't that Charlie was a rotten guy. He'd been a model client and spent tons of money. Though he got carried away at times, Charlie respected Pamela's limits. She said so herself and Colt believed her.

Plus, the nine e-mails he'd sent since yesterday made him endearing. Pamela loved considerate clients and those messages brought a smile to her face. Charlie had a huge heart and wanted to share his life with someone. That someone would never be Pamela, but she still felt sympathy and wished he'd meet someone special.

Colt was no doctor, but realized Pamela was speeding down a road she shouldn't be. She was playing with fire and one day might get scorched. Several former employees of Happy Ending Ranch suffered from PTSD and a disassociation from their bodies. Unfortunately, he was already witnessing glimpses of the latter from Pamela.

You need to retire before you suffer a catastrophic burnout that you may never recover from.

Sex work was arduous. It was degrading and had robbed a handful of those ex-employees of the most basic and fragile parts of their humanity. This profession destroyed lives. Critics argued that establishments like Happy Ending Ranch programmed men to believe they were entitled to sexual gratification and women were commodities to be bought and sold. They also claimed that for the vast majority, prostitution was an endless loop of being hunted, dominated, harassed, assaulted, and battered.

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.