Her senior class voted Pamela Prescott ‘Most Likely to Succeed.’ Safe to say, this wasn’t what they envisioned.
I’ve got this. I’ve sooooo got this. Pamela stood before the cracked vanity in her room at the Twin Tops Motel, applying a fresh coat of bubblegum pink lip gloss. I look good. Like, really good. She brought her face closer, inspecting her reflection with an arched brow. Mom would literally die if she saw me right now. Dad would kill me. Then ground me. Then kill me again. Pamela’s expression twisted as her head whipped back and forth in a swift, decisive no. Just stop. Don’t go there. Focus. Her fingers traced the white crop top she wore, nipples tightening beneath the material. She adjusted it with businesslike efficiency, channeling the confidence of someone twice her age. Perfect. Definitely hotter without a bra.
The lone vanity bulb flickered in its rusty socket, fighting the same losing battle as the rattling air conditioner unit and the faucet’s constant drip. A strip of wallpaper had peeled away in the corner, revealing three different patterns beneath – flowers, then stripes, then something that might have been geometric before the glue turned it to abstract art. Pamela shifted her weight, and the floorboards screamed bloody murder. Through walls thin as cardboard, she’d witnessed the motel’s midnight orchestra – television laugh tracks, domestic warfare next door, and shameless fucking by the older couple in Room 14. And I smelled pot – lots of pot. Here, secrets crawled through the stucco like cockroaches, multiplying in the dark.
Ain’t exactly the Bellagio, is it?
Indeed, the Twin Tops Motel was a far cry from many of its contemporaries in Las Vegas, some 175 miles south. Whereas Sin City beckoned with glamour and spectacle, this place promised nothing and delivered far less. Sand devils danced across empty parking spaces, stirring up candy wrappers and lost hopes. Windblown newspapers plastered themselves against the chain-link fence like desperate refugees seeking asylum. Even the outdoor ice machine groaned like it was harboring regrets of its own.
But none of that mattered to Pamela. This fleabag motel was just a pit stop on her journey to something greater.
A mix of emotions swirled in her chest: excitement, determination, and yes, a tendril of fear – you’re a long way from Maryland – that she ruthlessly squashed. This was her moment, her chance to grasp the future she’d been dreaming of since she was old enough to realize that her body could be a ticket to untold riches.
At age eighteen, Pamela’s golden hair plummeted over her shoulders in carefully tousled curls, framing a face that was equal parts girl-next-door and smoldering temptress. Nature had blessed her with considerable up-top assets, and the tissue-thin crop top’s sole purpose was to exaggerate them. Her cutoffs hit that sweet spot between jailbait and jackpot, frayed denim showcasing legs that held the glow of a thousand summer days. The mirror unveiled what she’d been refining for months: an investment about to pay off, a stock about to soar, a calculated risk with guaranteed returns. My body, my rules, my payday.
Fellow high school graduates believed Pamela, a straight-A student, might one day climb the corporate ladder. Instead, she’d found a profession where ascending to the top began with lying down.
On the adjacent nightstand, the alarm clock’s red digits glowed like a countdown to ignition. Forty-five minutes until her interview at Happy Ending Ranch, just a block away. Forty-five minutes until all her meticulous preparation crystallized into action – the next, most daring leap yet in her bid for a self-made future.
Outside, a car backfired with a thunderous crack that rattled the windows and sent pigeons scattering into the desert sky. Through the grimy window, Pamela observed Flagstone’s main street in full morning swing. The paper mill’s smokestacks loomed in the distance, belching plumes that hung like storm clouds over the horizon. Delivery trucks jockeyed for position outside storefronts, while locals streamed in and out of Tesoro’s Restaurant and Lounge across the street, clutching to-go cups of coffee. Kids loitered near the convenience store, probably looking for trouble. It’s not much different than Maryland, really. Just hotter and a lot less … green.
Pamela squared her shoulders, once again admiring her reflection. “You’ve got the looks, you’ve got the nerve, and in an hour, you’ll have the job.”
With a deep breath, she grabbed her purse – a knock-off designer number that looked just real enough to pass muster – and headed for the door. Her fingers played with the zipper, sliding it back and forth in a mindless rhythm. Stop it. Stop worrying. You know better. The key clinked against her acrylic nails as she locked up, the sound as crisp as the new page she was about to turn.
Pamela stepped further out into the oppressive heat, heels clicking against the cracked pavement. At the end of the cul-de-sac loomed a weathered Spanish-style villa, its flaking trim and sagging porch at odds with the stylish neon signs proclaiming Legal Brothel, Nude Girls, Jacuzzi, VIP Room, and, of course, Happy Ending Ranch.
Pamela’s steps faltered for a moment, delicate fingers clenching into balled fists. Coffee. I need my morning coffee. Yet another glimpse of her reflection, this time in a parked truck’s mirror, steeled her resolve – blonde hair gleaming, body built for pleasure, eyes hard with ambition. The guys at Bare Essentials said I was a natural. Just wait ‘til they hear where I ended up. Pamela’s lips curved, a predator’s smile in a Barbie doll package. She flipped her hair over one shoulder and strode toward the restaurant, silently vowing to turn this dusty old town into her personal gold mine.
*
Threadbare fabric swayed in the morning breeze, more holes than cloth at this point. The curtains – if they could still be called that – did little to keep out the relentless desert glare. Shards of incoming sunlight painted Colt’s bare chest in a patchwork of shadow and gold. He squinted against the assault, his brain yielding to the unwelcome transition from blissful oblivion to gritty alertness.
Fourteen years of practice had him sliding off the bed and into his chinos with the stealth of a cat burglar. No stirring from the shapely brunette cocooned in tangled sheets just a few feet away. Good. Another night, another blur. Colt had no complaints. It was just … empty, like all the others.
His gaze drifted back to those pitiful excuses for window dressings. When was the last time his father, the iron-fisted owner of Happy Ending Ranch, had bothered to replace them? Hell, when was the last time Dad had given a damn about anything in the house beyond its utility for quick fucks that translated into even quicker bucks?
Colt cinched the belt around his waist. I really need to cut back. The thought ambushed him, as startling as it was vague. Cut back? On what, exactly? The flesh-filled carousel of in-house prostitutes, desperate and willing to do anything to earn his favor? The exhausting charade of lust and morning-after indifference? Everything? Nothing? His fingers tightened on the belt, knuckles whitening. Ehh, fuck if I know. Colt released an old man’s sigh, shoulders buckling under the weight of questions he couldn’t fully form, let alone answer.
The mirror at the dresser drawer didn’t pull any punches. Bloodshot eyes, hair that defied gravity, and a five o’clock shadow creeping toward midnight. When did I start looking so … worn? Colt edged closer, tilting his chin left, then right. No fingernail scratches. No lipstick smears. Not even one of those little love bites Sherilyn was so fond of leaving. Nothing. Huh? Much tamer, I suppose, than that raucous fuck with Laterika on Thursday.
Colt’s fingers traced the edge of the vanity, muscle memory seeking a high-five with his likeness. A year ago, he’d have been grinning from ear to ear, riding the high after another night of indulgence. Damn, dude, you’re living the dream. House manager, nightly pick of any girl. You won the lottery. Those thoughts rang hollow now, echoes from a stranger.
Colt’s hand dropped, leaving a smudge on the mirror. Eyes mapped new lines around his mouth, the permanent furrow between his brows. When did that appear? The face staring back at him wasn’t the once-cocky kid who would one day inherit the keys to the kingdom. It was a man on the wrong side of thirty, chasing mindless thrills down a dead-end road.
His Henley slid over thick, dark hair, then down to hug the six-pack he worked so tirelessly to maintain. One last glance at Sherilyn’s bare ass peeking out from tangled sheets. She’s cool, a sweet girl, but – he cut the thought short, jaw clenching. Score, snore, out the door. The unofficial motto of Colt McCarron, brothel manager extraordinaire.
The Lady Slayer strikes again! The voice of his coworker and best friend, Jim, reverberated through his mind. But this morning, there was no high, no illusion of victory. Just an emptiness, vast and hungry, threatening to devour the very core of who Colt thought he was.
Forty-five minutes. That’s all the quiet he had left before Happy Ending Ranch opened its doors, before the same old song and dance kicked off. Meh. Leering men fumbling with wallets. Women with plastic smiles and vacant eyes eager to take it like a champ, to further fuel their drug addictions. Stuttered moans and creaking bedsprings behind closed doors. Oh, God. Colt’s fingers traced a path to his temple, pressing against the phantom headache already forming. Can I just go back to sleep?
*
Pamela slid into the corner booth at Tesoro’s Restaurant and Lounge, her short-shorts crinkling against the vinyl, the sparse coverage of her crop top meeting the chilly blast of the overhead AC. She saw the looks the instant she walked in – mid-morning regulars pausing long enough to size her up before returning to their hash browns and coffee. A few folks shot flat-out glares, while others flashed curious, knowing grins. And there it was: that unspoken assumption. Girl in skimpy clothes … in this desert town … must be from that place.
Since her eighteenth birthday, Pamela had learned how it felt to be watched, desired, and especially judged. She’d spent seven months on the stripper pole in Baltimore and almost as long offering back-alley blowjobs and twenty-minute fucks in motels far sleazier than The Twin Tops. Pamela never got caught, but was well aware of how easily she could have been. The memory of it still lit a spark: the thrill of stashing cash in her bra, the swift adrenaline spike whenever she sensed a potential cop or a client getting too pushy. She didn’t miss the danger, not exactly, but she couldn’t deny the endorphin rush it gave her.
A graying couple across the way observed her over the rims of their coffee cups. The wife whispered to her husband, gesturing with a sharp tilt of her chin at Pamela’s outfit. She ignored it, focusing instead on the incoming text on her cell phone. Once you’ve sidestepped bouncers and negotiated with shady clients paying for your time under the table, this kind of quiet disapproval didn’t register.
Come on, Mom. Pamela made a face and tossed her phone onto the tabletop. Stop worrying about me.
She let her eyes wander around the café. It was quaint, in a scratched-up, desert-town sort of way. Ancient coffee makers waged an ongoing war against sanitizer and grill smoke, none quite managing to overcome the others in the stale air. Above the jukebox, a mounted television droned some news segment that nobody seemed to pay attention to. Somewhere in the kitchen, a short-order cook barked orders over the sizzle and scrape of spatulas. Periodically, the dusty windows rattled with passing traffic, and Pamela wondered how many people recognized her for what she might be – or at least, what they presumed.
Yeah, everyone here knows I’m a whore. She could hear their whispers: why else would a teenage blonde wrapped in a scrap of white cotton, with legs that went on forever, be passing through this backwater stretch of Nevada? That’s fine. I don’t care. No big deal.
A waitress materialized – mid-fifties, faded name tag reading “Helen,” eyes that had seen every flavor of sin this truck stop town could serve up. She dropped a sticky menu and a handful of sugar packets on the table without ceremony.
“Coffee. Black,” Pamela said before Helen could ask. “And whatever passes for breakfast around here.” She met the woman’s gaze, refusing to shrink under the appraising look that followed. “Surprise me.”
“Got a special going on – two eggs, hash browns, choice of meat.” Helen’s pen hovered over her pad. “Unless you’re one of those LA types who just want egg whites and fruit?”
Mild amusement tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Do I look like I’m from LA?”
“Honey, you don’t look like you’re from anywhere near here.” But there was something almost maternal in Helen’s tone now, a softening around her eyes. “Tell you what – I’ll throw in some extra bacon. Looks like you could use a real breakfast.”
After Helen ventured off, Pamela retrieved her phone, thumbing through more texts and missed calls from her mother. Each one made her chest tighten a little more. What am I supposed to say, Mom? Sorry I disappeared right after graduation? Sorry your honor roll daughter decided to become a sex worker instead of going to college?
The truckers two booths over weren’t even trying to be subtle now. One elbowed his buddy, both eyeing her like sharks scenting blood. Pamela had seen that look a thousand times before – in the club, at private parties, in shadowed corners where one wrong move meant trading stilettos for prison soap. But Flagstone promised to be different. Once at Happy Ending Ranch, she wouldn’t have to worry about the police, getting stiffed on payment, or some john getting rough. There, she could do what she was good at – what she enjoyed – without constantly looking over her shoulder.
Her coffee arrived, dark and scalding. Pamela wrapped her hands around the mug, letting its warmth ground her. Moments later, the breakfast plate landed in front of her with a clatter – eggs sunny side up, hash browns crispy at the edges, and, true to Helen’s word, extra bacon. As Pamela picked up her fork, she caught the server watching her, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Whatever you’re looking for out here, sweetheart,” Helen said in a whisper, “I hope you find it.”
Their eyes met, and for the first time since walking into the diner, Pamela let her guard slip. “Me too.”
A family shuffled past the booth – parents with two daughters who looked like high schoolers themselves. The girls gaped at Pamela, all golden skin and bombshell swag. With calculated mischief, she pressed her moist, glossy lips together and blew them a kiss. Their mother yanked them along, already launching into a lecture about those kinds of girls, their faces painted with shame and fascination. Pamela stifled a laugh. Remember when you were that innocent? That’s how it started for her, too – one glimpse of something wilder, freer, more dangerous. Pamela walked that line herself, danced on it, finally crossed it with her head held high and refused to look back.
She lifted her coffee cup in a silent toast. To liberation.
Those girls probably had their lives mapped out already, just like she once did. Back in Maryland, Pamela played that role perfectly – wholesome, student athlete, the kind of daughter parents bragged about at neighborhood gatherings. But underneath it all, she’d been suffocating. Every college acceptance letter felt like another bar in her cage. I could be getting ready to go to Syracuse now. Every proud parental smile had made her skin crawl with the weight of expectations she never asked for.
The eggs were getting cold. Pamela forced herself to eat, knowing she’d need the energy later. Helen appeared periodically to top off her coffee, each time lingering a moment longer than necessary. The late morning rush swept in like a sandstorm, filling empty booths with locals pretending not to stare while they studied her over the tops of their menus. This wasn’t just breakfast – it was theater.
If anything, Pamela felt oddly comfortable in the spotlight. She knew how to be looked at. The veneer of indifference she’d cultivated through past experiences lit her from within now – insulation from their judgments.
Helen approached with the check, sliding it face-down onto the table. “On the house, honey,” she murmured, glancing around to ensure no one overheard. “Just promise me you’ll be careful … over there.”
The kindness caught Pamela off-guard. Well, shit. She could handle hate, deal with dirty looks, brush off bitchy remarks. But compassion? This isn’t in the playbook. She reached for her purse, intending to leave a generous tip, when the bell above the door chimed. Two uniformed police officers shouldered through, badges throwing sharp reflections across the worn establishment. Old instincts flared – count the exits, check for cameras, maintain composure. But this wasn’t Maryland anymore. Pamela wasn’t doing anything illegal here.
“Howdy, Sergeant Spaeth!” one patron greeted.
Still, Pamela’s heart rate doubled as that particular officer’s gaze surveyed the landscape, pausing briefly on her booth. “Mornin’, Amy. How’s the girls doin’?”
Move on, mister. I don’t want any trouble. Pamela lifted her coffee cup, calm and composed, letting the steam mask her face. You got no beef with me. The two lawmen settled at the bar, already engaged in conversation with the cook about some barbecue at city hall planned for Friday night.
The family caught Pamela’s attention again. The daughters were sharing a plate of pancakes now, giggling, while their parents looked on adoringly. A familiar ache bloomed in Pamela’s chest – not regret exactly, but awareness of what she was walking away from. All those expectations, all those carefully laid plans for her future, scattered like dust in the wind. I don’t want to be a nurse, a doctor, whatever. This is the life I want.
Her phone buzzed yet again – another text from Mom. Just checking in, sweetheart. Please let me know you’re safe. Pamela’s thumb hovered over the screen, composing and deleting responses in her mind. Fuck it. Mom won’t let up until I respond. I’m just gonna –
She dialed home, inhaling a steadying breath as she counted the rings. One, two, three. On the fourth, her mother’s voice burst through like a static-laced beam of sunshine.
“Pamela? Is that you?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Pamela? Oh, thank God. I’ve been texting you all morning – every hour since dawn here. Why didn’t you call last night after getting into Las Vegas like you promised?” Her voice thinned with barely controlled panic. “All those news stories about young girls disappearing on highways. Your father wanted to start calling hospitals, even his friend at the FBI. Please tell me you’re really at the Bellagio? I looked at their website. They have security cameras, right? And those key cards for the elevators? And what about –”
“Mom,” Pamela cut in, turning and shielding herself from a passing rubbernecker. “Everything’s fine. The Bellagio is totally safe; it’s right on the Strip. The drive took longer than expected, but I’m here now. And I’ve got plenty saved up from … from those … babysitting jobs in the spring.” Her throat tightened around the lie, each word requiring deliberate effort to emerge smooth and believable. “The room’s already paid for. You don’t need to worry. And, umm, I’m super close to everything, so it’ll be easy getting to all the gigs.”
“That’s … that’s good to hear, honey.” Her voice still carried that tremor of worry. “But you’re my daughter, and Las Vegas … it’s so far from home. Any modeling jobs lined up yet? You said agencies were calling left and right.”
“Yup, I’ve got a few prospects. Trade shows, promotional events … stuff like that. This is a good chance to build a portfolio and make decent money doing it.”
“Promise me you’ll be careful? Maybe text me the names of those agencies, so I can look them up?”
Pamela winced. “Yes, Mom, of course. I promise.”
“Just make sure it stays tasteful, okay? Nothing that’d embarrass you or the family. You know your dad – he’d blow a fuse if he caught wind of … anything risqué.”
“Mom,” Pamela said, keeping her voice measured, “it’s just promotional work. Like booth modeling for conventions, handing out flyers, posing for product shoots. Nothing weird.” With the tension mounting, she knew it was time to end the call. “I have some things to do, so I should probably head out. I’ll call you later when I’m more settled and have some gigs lined up.”
“Wait, darling. Your father wants to talk to you.” Her tone grew distant. “John! John, come quickly. It’s Pamela.”
“Mom, I really need to –”
“Just wait one second. He’s been so worried.”
Pamela checked the wall clock. Twenty minutes until her interview at Happy Ending Ranch. John Prescott’s stern voice filled the line. “Young lady, where exactly are you?”
“Dad, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’ve got a plan.”
“A plan?” His voice sliced through, the word soaked in enough sarcasm to shatter her confidence. “Dropping out of Syracuse before you even start? Disappearing across the country to become a model? That’s not a plan, that’s running away. You had a full scholarship. Do you understand what you’re throwing away?”
Pamela’s fingers tightened around her phone. Through the diner’s window, she could see the neon signs of Happy Ending Ranch flickering in the distance. “I’m not throwing anything away. I’m making my own choices.”
“By becoming a model? At your age and all alone?” Her father’s laugh was sharp, skeptical. “Do you really expect us to believe that?” Pamela flinched at the accusation, drawing another glance from the officers. She manufactured a bright smile for show, nodding into the phone as if receiving good news. “Pamela, you’re smarter than this. Come home. We can still fix this.”
“There’s nothing to fix,” she said, her voice steady despite the shakiness in her hand. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re having some kind of breakdown. First the rebellion senior year, now this –”
“I have to go.” Oh, no. Did he and Mom finally figure out that I’ve been stripping and hooking on the side since January? “I’ll … I’ll call you both later.”
She dropped the call with a jab of her forefinger, the screen going dark before either parent could get another word in. The phone vanished into the depths of her purse, but not before she flipped it to airplane mode with a swift, decisive swipe. This is my life. Leave me the fuck alone.
Helen appeared one final time, eyes narrowing as she focused on Pamela. Her expression didn’t harden – it softened, but not in a comforting way. It was a look Helen reserved for the girls she knew were headed down a hard road, one she couldn’t stop them from taking. Girls dressed to kill but destined to lose. “Everything alright, honey?” Her mouth twitched, as if she might say more but thought better of it.
“It will be.” The words fell flat, burdensome. She forced her lips into a smile that never reached her eyes. “Thanks for breakfast.”
Pamela stood, smoothing her shorts with practiced precision. She left forty dollars tucked under her coffee cup – far more than necessary, but something about Helen’s kindness demanded reciprocation.
She made her way toward the exit, five-inch stilettos kissing the linoleum with a seductive rhythm that again turned heads. Pamela kept her gaze controlled, centered, too experienced to make eye contact with the officers tracking her every move. The hypnotic click-click-click drew every eye to the sway of her rounded, sultry hips, including those impressionable teenage girls. Bet you’ll both be searching online for “Happy Ending Ranch” the second you get home. A smirk slid up one half of her face. And hey, while you’re at it, tell your dad he should stop by sometime – I’ll make it worth his while.
*
Brindle’s fingers drummed a nervous beat on William’s desk. “Mr. McCarron, I’ve gone over these numbers a dozen times.”
William’s pen scratched across the paperwork for a long moment until he drawled, “Your point?”
“They don’t add up.” Chords shifted in Brindle’s neck, her expression unsettled. “I’ve worked nine parties this week. Nine. But the books only give me credit for eight.”
William’s eyes flicked up for an instant, then returned to the ledger. He licked his thumb and turned the page. “Uh huh.”
“Mr. McCarron, please. I’m pointing out a discrepancy that I’m sure you’ll want to correct. I work hard for my money and don’t want to be shortchanged a hundred and twenty-five bucks. That’s groceries for two weeks.”
A heavy sigh escaped William’s lips. He set his pen down with exaggerated care and leaned back in the recliner, eyebrows hooded. “Brindle, Brindle, Brindle. How long have you worked here?”
“Three years, sir, and –”
“And in those three years, has our bookkeeping ever been off? Even once? Has any other girl ever complained?”
“No, but –”
“Then why,” William’s chair creaked as he tilted it back, “would it start now? With you?”
“I can prove it. Tuesday night, I had –”
“Enough!” William’s fist struck the desk, pens rolling and papers fluttering to the floor. “You’re questioning the integrity of our ledger and ultimately my business ethics? Implying that I’m cooking the books?”
“N-no, I’m just –”
“Because it sounds an awful lot like you’re calling me a thief.”
Brindle’s jaw dropped open. “I would never –”
“Eight parties. That’s what your ledger says. And that’s what you’re getting paid for. End of story. You want more money? Start hustling and make it.”
“But sir, I distinctly remember –”
“What you remember and what happened are two entirely different things.” He’d cut Brindle off yet again, meeting her gaze with a glacial stare. “Maybe lay off the Corona during your parties, eh? Doing so will aid in your ability to correctly add one plus one.”
Brindle’s cheeks blazed red. “Look, please, just listen to me. I –”
“You want to keep working here or not? Because you are really starting to get on my fucking nerves.”
Her shoulders curved inward, her voice barely audible. “Yes, yes, of course. I … I’m sorry for the confusion, sir.”
“Then we’re done here. Take your pretty little ass and get the hell out of my office. We open in fifteen minutes.”
Brindle ricocheted off Colt’s shoulder and through the doorway, eyes downcast, fingers fluttering at her mouth. Colt’s gaze ping-ponged between Brindle’s retreating form and the mountain of immovable stone seated behind the desk. No wonder all the girls say Dad’s office is the gateway to Hell. William’s fingers clenched the pen as a muscle in his cheek spasmed. The door closed with a soft click, a sound others may equate to a trap springing shut.
William’s shoulders relaxed, the iron leaving his spine. His voice lost its edge. “Go on, son. Say what’s on your mind.”
Colt propped himself against the wall, arms crossed. “Don’t you think you were a bit harsh? Brindle is one of our top earners and has never complained about anything.”
William pressed his palms flat against the desk, muscles trembling with the effort of rising. His jaw clenched against a wave of dizziness as he made the arduous journey to the corner bar, each step a silent battle between pride and pain. “Look, Colt. I know you like to play good cop with the girls.” He poured a finger of whiskey and took a shot. “But you can’t run a whorehouse with that mindset. This place and everything we’ve worked for will crumble.”
“I understand that, I do, but –”
“No buts.” William knocked back the rest of the whiskey, the glass clinking as he set it down. “You think I enjoy being the bad guy?”
“Seems to come pretty natural to you.”
“Watch it.” Yet, there was no real heat behind William’s words. The sixty-five-year-old eased back into his chair, breath hitching as the leather creaked beneath his weight. “You’ve been running the floor for what, a decade? Maybe longer? You should know by now – give these broads an inch, they’ll take a mile.”
“Brindle has never caused any trouble,” he reiterated. “She’s reliable, maybe our best employee.”
“All the more reason to nip this in the bud. Remember, I’ve owned this house since the early seventies. Since before you were even born. I’ve seen this charade countless times before. We let Brindle get away with this, next thing we know, every girl will be claiming extra parties, demanding more money. Where does it end?”
Colt shoved away from the wall and began pacing. “So we’re just assuming she’s lying? What if there really was a mistake?”
William’s laugh was biting, humorless. “Mistakes cost money, boy.” He retrieved a bottle of oral chemotherapy medication from the desk drawer and squinted at its label, temples flinching. For a moment, the mask of jaded brothel owner slipped, revealing glimmers of fear. William grunted and flung the bottle, watching it skip across the desk and bound to the floor. “Money I can’t afford to bleed.”
“But what if Brindle is right?” Colt knelt and returned the prescription bottle to the desk. “At least let me check the security tapes? It’s only fair.”
“Fine.” William waved a dismissive hand. “Knock yourself out. But she says the discrepancy is from Tuesday night, right? Mindy was running the bar then. If Brindle is right and Mindy fucked up the books, fire the wench.”
Colt froze, eyebrows raised.
“What?” William’s laugh was as dry as the desert heat. “Thought I’d give her a raise? A bartender is even more easily replaceable than a whore.”
“Right.” Colt swallowed over the lump in his throat. “Okay.”
As he reached for the door, William said, “And Colt? Remember, we’re running a business here, not a charity. These girls aren’t your friends. They’re your employees.
“That chick you banged last night? Sherilyn? Pretty thing, isn’t she? Smart too. Knows exactly which … buttons to push.
“Oh, I saw you sneaking out of her room earlier. Just remember, I know everything that happens in this house. I know everything that is happening at this very moment without even being there to witness it.
“But here’s the thing: Sherilyn doesn’t like you. She doesn’t want to be with you. She is simply trying to fuck a few favors out of you. You’re nothing but a means to an end for her. The bitch is using you, like all the others before her. The sooner you realize that, the easier this will be. This is a fucking brothel, boy, not a church social.” William hissed out a breath. “I don’t have much time left. I won’t be around forever to keep correcting your mistakes.”
Colt paused, hand on the doorknob. Without looking back, he said, “You’re right, Dad. You won’t be around forever.” The words clawed at his throat, scraping it raw with resentment and the barbed-wire edges of impending grief. “But neither will I if things don’t change.”
*
Another day, another trudge into the belly of the beast. Colt’s shoulders sagged as he pushed past the creaking saloon door, his senses too dulled by routine to flinch at the assaulting odors. Stale beer, floor cleaner, discount eau de despair – just another toxic brew in a lifetime of immorality.
Blinking against the murk, Colt felt the walls pulse around him, an ancient heartbeat. This cesspool of vice was alive, gorging itself on the fantasies of the foolish and the hunger of the hopeless. And he, Colt realized with a chill, was its zookeeper, feeding the monster day after day.
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t the prodigal son.” Behind the counter, Jim Mayer’s lean frame cut a familiar silhouette. The senior bartender, a fixture at Happy Ending Ranch for over two decades, moved with the easy grace of a man completely in his element. “Lemme guess. The old man is in rare form this morning?”
Colt scrubbed his face with both hands, fingers prickling against the stubble he still hadn’t bothered to shave. With a grumble, he slid onto a stool, wincing as the old vinyl creaked in protest. The seat wobbled, threatening to give way after years of supporting the asses and fleeting fancies of countless johns. “Yeah, you could say that.” Colt’s eyes flicked up toward the door he’d just emerged from, half-expecting William’s larger-than-life shadow to darken the threshold at any moment.
Jim’s keen gaze swept over Colt. Without a word, he abandoned his polishing rag and reached for the coffee pot. The rich aroma permeated, a promise of temporary warmth in this den of cold commerce. Jim filled a mug to its brim and guided it across the bar with practiced ease, the porcelain scraping against wood grain.
“Brindle came through here earlier.” He kept his voice low as if the walls themselves might be listening. “Looking like she’d seen a ghost. Or worse, William McCarron’s face first thing in the morning.”
Colt’s fingers tightened around the cup. “Yeah, well, Dad’s idea of employee relations leaves a lot to be desired. But Brindle should know by now that approaching him with an issue before noon is like poking a hibernating bear. With a cattle prod.”
Jim snorted, his laugh a sudden bark that echoed throughout the parlor. He snatched a rocks glass from the sink, attacking it with his rag as if it had personally offended him. “Christ, man. That’s like saying Godzilla’s got anger management problems.” He paused, venting his lungs. “What was it this time?”
Colt took a long pull of coffee, relishing the heat as it scorched its way down his throat. The pain was clarifying, a reminder that something in this godforsaken place could still make him feel. He set the mug down, liquid sloshing inside like blood from a fresh wound.
“Same old shit. Girl thinks she’s getting screwed – and not in the way that pays the bills. It’s all about the Benjamins.” Colt rubbed a piercing ache at the base of his neck. “Dad basically accused her of lying and said she was an alcoholic. Told her to suck it up or ship out.”
Jim’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Harsh, but effective. Your old man has kept this place running through hell and high water. Recessions, FBI and police raids … you name it, he’s weathered it. Say what you want, but he’s always gotten results.”
“Yeah, I know.” Oh, did he ever. The legendary William ‘Desert Fox’ McCarron, spinning sleaze into gold since 1972. A legacy Colt had been groomed for since he was still in the womb, whether he wanted it or not.
Jim’s rag paused mid-swipe. “You ever wonder how long places like this are gonna last? World’s changing, bud. Got mongers now who’d rather diddle their phones than real women.” He shook his head. “Damned Internet. Hell, half our girls are on those cam sites in their off hours. Times like these, it makes you wonder what’s next.”
A peal of laughter, bright and jarring as wind chimes in a graveyard, sliced through the doom and gloom. Sherilyn sauntered in, high heels clicking upon the floorboard. Her snakeskin miniskirt rode high on tanned thighs, legs shuffling with each step. A sequin halter top struggled to contain curves that had launched a thousand orgasms.
“Morning, boys!” she announced, whipping and tossing her mane of auburn curls with dramatic flair. Her gaze swept the parlor before landing on Colt, blue eyes sparkling with remembrance. “Well, hello there, Colty-Colt.”
She sidled up to the bar, hips swaying like a pendulum marking the passage of another day in the so-called office. A cloud of patchouli and vanilla trailed in her wake, her distinct calling card – too sweet, too strong, a desperate attempt to veil the reality of her profession and the remnants of abandoned dreams and severed family ties.
“Hmm, you’re my favorite ride at the carnival.” Sherilyn kissed Colt slow, deep, deliberate, tongue swiping inside his mouth. “And here I thought it couldn’t get any better than the mechanical bull.” Her lips grazed his cheek, leaving a faint imprint of cherry-red gloss. “What do you say we buck broncos again tonight, cowboy? This filly’s itching for another rodeo.”
Colt felt a warmth spread through his chest, at odds with the chill of his father’s words. Sherilyn doesn’t like you. She doesn’t want to be with you. She is simply trying to fuck a few favors out of you. The cynicism of William’s voice clashed with the sparkle in Sherilyn’s eyes, leaving Colt adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions. The bitch is using you.
You know what, though? Dad is right.
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Colt conjured up a smile that rather lay dormant. Was this real? Was any of it? How many other “cowboys” had Sherilyn invited to her private rodeo, each one thinking they were special, unique, irreplaceable? How long could Colt keep lassoing this tango of truth and lies before the music finally stopped?
Jim’s gaze bore into him, seeing far too much. “It’s never simple in this business, is it, bud?”
Sherilyn inclined her head. “Everything okay?”
The stool’s metal frame shuddered against the floorboards as Colt stood. “Yeah, everything is fine. Just need to sort some things out in my head.” He gestured toward the exit, where desert light slashed beneath the door in bright ribbons. “Think I’ll take a quick walk, clear my thoughts a bit. Fresh air will do me good.”
As he made his way, Sherilyn’s voice – soft at first – drifted across the parlor. “Don’t be too long, baby. I’ll be waiting.” Colt half-turned, catching a flash of that sly smile she reserved just for him and, beneath it, the exhaustion carved in her eyes that spoke of six straight weeks without a day off and too many happy endings. “Maybe we could fool around a little before any business shows up?”
Then her grin turned wicked.
“Or better yet, how about a repeat of last night? I’m talking knees on the floor, hands tied behind my back, my throat stuffed so full you’ll forget that any other girl even exists.”
A muscle flickered in Colt’s jaw as he angled his head, his lips stretching into a shape that resembled a smile but was far more toxic. “Sure thing, Carrie. Just let me scrape up whatever’s left of my dignity first.” With that, he stepped out into the harsh desert sunlight, slamming the door shut with a finality that echoed in his bones. Fuck. The scorching heat waylaid him with an uppercut and right cross, yet somehow, Colt could breathe easier out here than in the suffocating web he’d left inside.
“Oh my gosh, perfect timing!”
The unexpected voice pierced his mental hangover, and there she stood, a vision in white, some teenage beauty queen gone rogue with a smile that promised trouble and eyes that meant business. The crop top hugged breasts that made his mouth go dry, her bare midriff a strip of golden temptation. Colt’s world tilted sideways, blood rushing south as primitive instincts overrode every shred of his professional detachment.
“I was just about to knock – I’m Pamela!” Inquisitive brown eyes swept over his tall, athletic frame. “Pamela Prescott. You must be Colt? Or maybe Jim?” Her lower lip disappeared beneath white teeth, emerging flushed and tender as her tongue soothed the bite. “Do you come with the job, or are you my sign-on bonus?”
(End of Chapter One – to be continued)
