Chapter Twenty-Two
Pamela had never been so sore in her entire life.
Each step was a struggle as she headed down the supermarket aisle Thursday afternoon in search of her favorite brand of canned portobello mushroom soup. She’d partied with Sammy for several hours two days ago and had another go-around with him yesterday morning before he returned to Utah. Though Pamela had a splendid time with Sammy, as she always did, she didn’t anticipate hurting this badly afterward. Perhaps it’s true and I’m getting too old for this line of work.
She managed to avoid catastrophe, apparently, because her back was no longer the focal point of her discomfort. Nope, now it’s my entire body. On Tuesday, Pamela wrenched her spine when Sammy had her folded up in the missionary position and went to town as only he could, a scary incident considering her myriad of problems from a year ago, but it turned out to be nothing more than a muscle strain. Sammy is the only monger I’ve had any issues with since returning to work at Christmastime.
If Pamela went another eighteen months before their next party and didn’t have any physical ailments until then, she could live with that. I could never be that man’s wife, his girlfriend, whatever. With his self-entitled nickname “The Destroyer of Pussy”, Sammy was all intimidation, power, and massive dick, and Pamela couldn’t imagine how anyone could physically, let alone mentally, withstand being in a long-term relationship with him. His wife must be one tough cookie to survive as long as she has.
Speaking of cookies, Pamela spotted a package of vegan chocolate chippers on the shelf and grimaced as she leaned over to snatch them.
“Are you okay? You’re moving slower than my grandma.”
“What? No!” Pamela laughed as she looked back across her shoulder at Nicolette. “Don’t be silly.”
Nicolette thumbed her ear and glanced away. “Okie-dokie. If you say so.”
“I’m fine.” Drawing on her dogged determination, Pamela stood tall and flung the cookies into Nicolette’s shopping cart. “Perfectly fine. You’re seeing things, girl.” With that, she turned and sauntered off toward the canned soup section with a spring in her step. Bah, I’m not too old to work in a brothel; I’m only thirty-one. Scarlett and Mariko were both older.
While Pamela realized that her age wasn’t the issue, as there were prostitutes who continued working into their forties, fifties, even their sixties, the mileage she was putting on her body was. I’ve been subjecting myself to this lifestyle, its rigors, for thirteen years straight with minimal downtime. Sahara and Riley, by contrast, took four months off to rest and recharge following their wedding in December. Both of them came back much happier, more full of energy than ever. They lived off their mutual savings from four years of sex work, they claimed, and held menial, low-paying jobs as coffee baristas to pass the time.
But the important thing? They enjoyed their new jobs.
Colt and I have over nine hundred thousand dollars either in savings or invested in the bonds market. Was it necessary for Pamela to keep pushing herself like a nymphomaniac? She and Colt paid off the mortgage for their home in Maryland a few months ago. Twenty-six years early, in fact. It’s not like they were hurting for money. It’s days like this when I’d love to just say “screw it” and take four months off, too, but I can’t. As the co-owner, Pamela had an obligation to be at the brothel and do her part to keep it running smoothly.
“But as for you, as a sex worker, you’re forced to endure a host of unnatural, unhealthy positions day-in and day-out. You said you’ve been doing this for twelve years, correct?” Pamela recalled the lecture the emergency room doctor in Valley City gave her last July when she was initially diagnosed with an L3, non-displaced transverse process fracture of the spine. “Such a long time, a lot of wear-and-tear. You already suffer from fibromyalgia and spinal osteoarthritis. You have chronic pain in your feet, your neck, and occasional tingling in your fingertips. You take five prescription medications daily.” Though she didn’t care for his attitude, Dr. Middleton’s words stuck with Pamela regardless. “The fact you’re only thirty concerns me because I wonder what shape your back, even your whole body itself, will be in some twenty, thirty years from now if you continue to do … what it is you’re doing. The human body can only withstand so much, Mrs. McCarron, and in my professional opinion, yours has had enough.”
Later in the consultation, Dr. Middleton gave her a dire warning.
“As for your future in the sex industry, Mrs. McCarron, if you continue to subject your body to such intense, unnatural rigors – day after day, week after week, month after month – there’s an increased probability for more extensive damage to your spine, the type that may require complex surgery, one that will compromise your quality of life in future years. I’m talking a permanent, debilitating, life-altering injury where you could conceivably be bound to a wheelchair … or worse.” By this time, Pamela recalled, Colt was freaking out. “I strongly suggest you step away from sex work and find another career.”
Hate to admit it, but I was scared to death after my Tuesday party with Sammy until my back felt better that evening. Pamela shivered as she browsed the canned soup section at Naturetyme Market in Oakfall, Nevada. The last thing I need is to be in a wheelchair by age forty.
On the other hand, maybe this whole thing had been blown out of proportion. Last year’s injury was a fluke and Dr. Pietz in Baltimore said in December my back was fully healed and I was safe to return to work. Perhaps Colt’s insistence that Pamela retire from the industry, his ongoing paranoia about her health, was giving her irrational, unfounded concerns too. I’m sore from my parties with Sammy, yes, but here I am with thoughts of wheelchairs in my head. In a day or two, Pamela trusted that she’d be her normal self. Colt needs to back off and stop worrying about me. I’m an adult and can take care of myself.
When she entered the international produce section, Pamela found Kenzie talking with Jim. “Oh my gosh, Jimbo, look how yummy this zucchini squash looks. Okay, so for pretty much all my pasta meals, I will mix in pasta with zucchini noodles, but I love to make zucchini noodles and substitute that for a pasta dish just because I’m trying to eat a little bit lower carbs, so this is a really good alternative for spaghetti or noodles.”
Jim tilted his head and stared at Kenzie with slanted eyes. “Why not just eat a cheeseburger like me instead?”
“Shut up!” She laughed and smacked his shoulder. “You know that I find red meat disgusting.”
It’s a hoe parade at the grocery store! When she learned this morning that Jim was taking Kenzie and Nicolette out for a day of shopping in Oakfall, Pamela asked if she could tag along. I had to get away from Colt for a while because he’s convinced I hurt my back again. One of the largest farmer’s markets in the world, covering more than four acres, virtually any type of food was available at Naturetyme Market. I love it that they have tree tomatoes and jarred lupini beans here. Following a trip to Ecuador three years ago, there were times that Pamela found an intense craving for those Latin American delicacies.
Naturetyme Market, with 200,000 square-feet of space, boasted both dry and fresh goods from over seventy countries.
“Will we ever get out of this place?” Jim said to Pamela. “Okay, okay, this is how it basically goes down whenever I come here with Kenzie. She and I, we split up, and I do my shopping really fast and get what I need really quickly. Kenzie is really indecisive. She wanders around and I end up getting everything I need before she’s gotten one thing.” Kenzie made a face and smirked as Jim continued, “So then, I go find her and say, like, Kenzie, I’m done, and she gives me those sad puppy dog eyes and goes but Jimbo, I’m not done shopping yet.”
“But sweets!” She held up a hand and regarded Jim, then focused on Pamela. “He never wants to wait on me.”
“Kenzie.” He glared at her. “Come on now. Don’t lie.”
“As soon as he’s finished something, he wants to move right along.”
Pamela’s lips kicked up. Why don’t the two of you hook up, start dating, and get married already? She switched her focus to Kenzie. Jim is in love with you – always has been – and you have such a great time whenever the two of you are together. But Pamela knew the sad reason why Kenzie kept him in the friend zone. Your ex-husband abused you and scared you off from ever being in a relationship again. Thus, she refused to chastise Kenzie and ever tell her she should get together with Jim. But I’m allowed to think it.
Still, Pamela tried to see things from her point of view. But I can’t. I have no idea the unspeakable horrors she went through. How can a man, or even a woman, abuse – physically assault – their own spouse? To Pamela, it made no sense. Monsters.
Kenzie patted Jim’s hand. “He’s just not patient.”
“I’m patient! Just not with shopping. Or work.”
“Or life.”
“Or life!” he agreed, chuckling.
“How is your son doing, Ashley?” Pamela asked Nicolette once the busty brunette meandered over and joined them. “You haven’t mentioned him lately.”
Nicolette drew in a stuttered gasp. “Good, good. As good as can be expected, at least.” Her lips twitched. “He’s a little fighter.”
Nicolette had a seven-year-old son, Logan, who suffered from Rett syndrome, a rare but serious neurodevelopmental disorder that affected his brain and cognitive ability. With no known cure, the poor boy was relegated to a wheelchair himself, unable to speak, fed through a feeding tube, battled seizures, anxiety, orthopedic issues, joint contractures, spasticity, and had little to no hand function. Mentally, Logan was fully aware and intact but unable to express himself or his emotions. He made weekly visits to the pediatrician and a host of specialists at the hospital.
Nicolette (real name: Ashley Jaymes) had custody of Logan for one week a month. Though her marriage with Xander ended several years ago on horrible terms, they still collaborated together and saw to it their son got the best medical treatment possible. Xander had since remarried, had a new child, and lived south of Vegas in Boulder City.
Eleven years ago, Nicolette planned on working at the brothels and on the independent circuit until she and Xander decided to start a family, but everything changed once Logan was diagnosed with Rett Syndrome at sixteen months old. The out-of-pocket expenses for his care were astronomical and Nicolette felt there was no choice but to continue doing sex work because the pay was so good. That decision destroyed her marriage, but there was no other way to afford Logan’s medical treatments. Today, any leftover income she had went directly to his bills.
Logan was the most important thing in the world to Nicolette and the lone reason why she still found herself in this terrible, wretched occupation. Sure, she should’ve stayed in school and earned her degree, something her mother constantly admonishes her about, but what’s done is done, and all Nicolette could do now was push forward. Besides, there was no way she could afford to return to school anyway.
“I’ll be a prostitute until the day I die,” she once told Elisabeth, her best friend, current love interest, and fellow coworker at Happy Ending Ranch, “trying to provide for my son and help the doctors work toward a cure for his disease. I make too much money doing this to ever stop. No job will ever pay me more than what I make now.”
Pamela reached out and grasped Nicolette’s wrist with a sympathetic expression but didn’t say a word. Really, what could she say? Poor Logan; I think I have it bad sometimes. Pamela always tried to keep things in perspective.
“I’d love to come over to your apartment next week, Nikki, and hang out with you and Logan for a day,” Kenzie said. “You’re on break next week like I am, right? I’ll bring my guitar and play it for him like last time. We’ll read books together, do some coloring, whatever he wants. Logan is a cool kid, a sweet, sweet boy.”
“That’d be awesome.” Nicolette flashed a smile at Kenzie. “I could always bring him to your place as well since we only live three miles apart on The Strip. I will say, though, Samantha will be in town, too, staying with us.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I love Elisabeth.” While Pamela and Nicolette were prone to toss around the real names of girls from the house, Kenzie wasn’t. She almost always called the others by their working names and insisted that no one, except for Jim, ever refer to her as “Cierra” – but only outside the brothel when they were alone together.
“Hey Kenzie.” Moments later in the bottled water area, she turned and glanced back at Jim. “I just wanted to, uh, know if you wanted to get naked.”
It took a split-second, but she fought back a grin, rolled her eyes, and hurdled off.
“What?” Jim acted stunned as he held up a bottle of Naked green machine fruit and juice smoothie. “I thought this was your favorite drink.”
I wish Cierra would just give him a chance. Pamela winced internally as she followed Kenzie to the banana stand. Jim would love her to the moon and back again and have nothing but her best interests at heart. He’d never harm her.
Damn, my whole body hurts. When they returned to the brothel this afternoon, Pamela would pop four more Naproxen and pray the medication would get her through any parties she may have later tonight in one piece.
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“I ca –” At wit’s end, Pamela rubbed her eyes and grimaced. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“What am I doing?”
“What do you mean, what are you doing? You’re patronizing me! You’re treating me like a child, like I’m your daughter, even, and you know what’s best for me.”
“But your back –”
“Is fine!” Oooooh, Pamela just wanted to reach out, grab Colt’s collar, and shake his liver loose. Slap him as hard as she could. Instead, something bitter dripped from her tone. “I am sick and tired of being patronized by you. You’re not a doctor, Colt. You think you are, but you’re not. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your concern, but I neither want nor need a knight in shining armor to protect and watch over me.”
“I’m not trying to be your knight in shining armor. Jesus, Pamela. I’m worried about you. Is that a crime?” Colt extended his hand, flexed his fingers, and grunted. “Why can’t you stop for a second and look at what you’re doing to yourself?” He pointed at the bottle of Naproxen she clutched at her side. “You’re basically living on those damn things. You need them to make it through the day.”
“I do not! They’re simple pain pills and help take the edge off. I tweaked my back earlier this week with Sammy, I admit it, I fess up to it, but it’s better now, and feels as good as new.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Yes, it is. It is true.”
“You’re taking eight or ten of those pills every day. Don’t you know how pain medication can rip up your stomach lining and cause serious issues down the line if you take too much of it?”
Pamela didn’t want to argue after having such a fabulous day out shopping alongside Jim, Kenzie, and Nicolette. Naturetyme Market was her favorite store and being there always put her in a great mood. Rather, Pamela was hoping to have a productive evening in the brothel with whichever Tom, Dick, or Harry (or Sue) showed up. Making money was the name of the game around these parts.
But when Colt and his temper got going like this? Look out.
“Do you ever think about me and what I want? My worries, my concerns? All you think about is yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re saying I’m selfish?”
“I try to talk to you about your health, your welfare, your future, and all you do is flip out. You know the doctor warned you last year, yet all you do is push, push, push. You keep pushing yourself and –”
“That redneck doctor was terrible and you know it! He didn’t have a damn clue what he was talking about.”
“You flip out whenever we have a conversation about your well-being.”
“It’s not a conversation!” she fired back.
“You flip out.”
“It’s a lecture. That’s all it ever is. I’ve asked for space, and for you to respect me, to trust that I know my body, and that I can take care of myself. Yet you don’t give me that space, that respect, not in the slightest, and it’s like you need to watch over me, to guard my every move. It’s like you think if I take one wrong step, make one bad move, I’m gonna fall apart.” She scraped a hand through her hair. “Do you know how exhausting it is being with someone who is so fucking clingy and possessive? My God, Colt, you didn’t use to be this way.”
“What do you have to prove? Seriously, what? You act like an eighteen-year-old turnout during your parties, wanting to impress your johns, going a million miles an hour, letting them do whatever they want no matter the damage or pain it causes you, almost like your job, your very existence depends on it.” Colt flung both hands skyward. “I got news for you, Pamela: you own the place! You and I, we own it. There is no boss, no supposed higher power for you to impress. There’s no need for you to –”
“Yes, there is!” she interjected. “It’s called a satisfied customer. It’s how we make our living. It’s how I have the highest approval rating of any girl in the house’s history.” Pamela lunged forward and got right in his grill. “I. Am. Your. Breadwinner!”
“I just wish you’d safeguard yourself, be a little more careful.”
“I am careful!” She retreated and swung her arm.
“Need I remind you that partying with Sammy put you in the emergency room three years ago – you hurt your back then, too – and were out of work for the rest of the week? Goddammit, woman. I know you think you’re invincible, that you’re immune, but you broke your back eleven months ago – with a monger, let’s remember – yet you’re not protecting yourself, laying the ground rules that you and I agreed on for mongers to abide by.”
“I am protecting myself. I’m one hundred percent fine.”
Colt grabbed the bottle of pills and shook them violently. “Then what are these for?”
“Those are mine!” Pamela hissed like a cornered serpent and snatched the medication back.
“Why would you allow Sammy, of all people, to be rough with you? Why didn’t you tell him to hold back, take it –”
“Because being rough is what he likes!” Hands on her hips, she twirled away from Colt. “And he’s a paying customer! A good, loyal, recurring customer.” She spun back to face him. “It was my job to make Sammy happy.”
“Jesus.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Anger warred with the dampness in Colt’s eyes. “I don’t want you to be taken out of here one day on a stretcher, put in an ambulance, and wind up permanently disabled because you overexerted yourself trying to satisfy some random ass, faceless customer. Tell me, where is the logic in that?”
“Oh, so now I’m going out on a stretcher? That’s how this is going to end, huh?” Pamela’s fingers curled in on themselves. “You’re such a drama queen, Colt, a big baby. Everything is all doom and gloom with you.”
“You know what the doctor said.”
“Fuck that doctor!” Sledgehammer fists swatted at the air. “And you know what Dr. Pietz and Dr. Moore said back in Maryland too. They said my back was good.”
“I say fuck them.”
Pamela’s fist begged to be let loose so it could teach this pigheaded man a lesson. “No, fuck you, Colt.” Ice crusted over her backbone. “I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”
“You’re gaslighting me like you always do.” He glowered, his brows dropping. “Somehow, I’m always the villain, the culprit, yet all I want is for you to be safe, to be healthy, and to watch over yourself. I care about you, Pamela. Dammit, I love you! Yet all I hear from –”
“No, you don’t want me to watch over myself. You want me to retire, to step away, and become little Mrs. Mommy Homemaker. That’s what you want.”
“There’s no need for you keep working the way –”
“Yes, there is!”
“No, there isn’t!”
She skewered him with an unflinching look. “You know, Colt, you might be the only pimp in the world who’d rather have his bottom bitch stop working – for her to quit. How are you supposed to make any money with me barefoot and pregnant, and knitting quilts?”
“I am not a pimp, and you are not a … a …” Darkness crossed his face. “Stop it. You know I don’t like you talking that way.”
“Why?” She ground her teeth. “It’s the truth.”
“You’re so merged with your own stubbornness,” Colt’s hands trembled as he held them up, “that you don’t even realize it’s stubbornness anymore!”
“Uhh, Colt? Pamela? Sorry for, umm, interrupting.” A timid knock, accompanied by Jim’s familiar voice, emanated from the closed door to their private office and converted bedroom in the brothel. Both turned and shot daggers with their eyes at the thick mahogany.
“Not now, Jim!” Colt called out. “It’s not a good time.” He refocused on Pamela, intent to continue bickering.
“Umm, this is kind of important,” Jim said after a brief pause. “I really think you need to see what’s out here.”
“Later, Jim!” Colt insisted. “Goddammit!” Yet when there was a jiggle from the doorknob, and the brown door itself slowly opened with a groan, Colt turned again, this time ready to throw down and fight.
Until he saw what Jim was referencing.
“OhmiGod!” Her eyes wide and mouth gaping, Pamela dropped the medicine bottle. “Lindsay? Is that … ohmiGod! What happened? You need to go to the hospital right now!” She inclined her head and looked closer. “What happened?” Pamela stumbled backward, bumping into the desk. “Oh, Lindsay. Oh, my.”
Alarm registering on his face as well, Colt stood there motionless. “We have to call the sheriff.”
“Who did this to you?” Pamela demanded.
Lindsay’s blonde hair was wild, as if she’d run a dead sprint from wherever she’d come from, and her eyes were red, clearly from crying, but most concerning to Pamela, as well as Colt, was the huge, nasty bruise on her cheek, and a busted, bloodied lip.
And the bruises on her right forearm and left wrist.
And the purple marks on her neck.
“Who did this to you?” Pamela again insisted.
With Jim at her side, and a concerned Kenzie and Scarlett in the background, Lindsay, dealing with a myriad of emotions and trauma, dropped her car keys as a huge sigh shuddered through her body. “Pamela.” One tear slid down Lindsay’s face, and then another, and her headache was a hostile squatter occupying every inch of her skull. “Pamela, I need help. I need … a place … a place to stay.”
“Who did this to you?” Pamela stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and reached out with both hands to grasp Lindsay’s shoulders, but stopped at the last possible instant in fear a simple touch may hurt her.
Lindsay took the initiative, pulling Pamela into a bear hug, and let out all the feelings she refused to allow herself to express over the past year. Sadness. Fear. Regret. Anger. Heartbreak. Tragedy. Pamela held Lindsay, gently, and let her cry it out. It wasn’t just the unthinkable turn of events from last night and the fact that, apparently, Sammy had robbed her blind by pulling back all her money, it was everything. Lindsay’s life doing a one-eighty. Evie’s suicide. Her family shutting her out. Everything Lindsay worked so hard to suppress was frothing over.
Pamela offered all the support and apologies she could. “I’m so sorry. It’s going to be okay. Oh, honey. Whoever hurt you like this, we’ll take care of it. I’m so sorry. Everything is gonna be okay.”
“You let another man put his dick in your ass.” Last evening and 330 miles away in Salt Lake City, those were the words from Sammy as he verbally decimated poor Lindsay, who was on her knees and sobbing in front of him, full of remorse, having never seen him so angry.
“Oh, please,” she whispered. “Please don’t hurt me. I love you, Daddy, and I’m so sorry. I just wanted to do something special for Tony and thought it would be okay.”
“You dumb, stupid cunt!” Sammy had stressed to her time and time again that her anus belonged exclusively to him and no one else was allowed near it. “Trust me, you’re going to be a lot sorrier very, very soon.”
In the early stages of their relationship, or arrangement, as some may call it, Sammy was big on discipline and order, and despite his harsh, sometimes grueling tactics, Lindsay had no doubt he was in love with her.
When Sammy asked her to marry him this past Valentine’s Day, the idea that their unconditional relationship would continue indefinitely thrilled Lindsay. He was a control freak, no doubt, and others may accuse him of being incapable of falling in love, but Lindsay was sure he’d done it with her.
But since then, his affection seemed to have waned into a much colder, darker obsession. “I send you off to Arizona to do a job, to turn a simple, fucking trick that millions of girls have done before you without issue, and not only do you let the john come in your mouth, but you allow him to fuck you in the ass too. Well, tell you what, bitch. I’m going to take the ten thousand dollars you earned – every single one-hundred-dollar bill that loser gave you – and run them through the shredder right before your very eyes. No payout for you.”
“Oh, please. Daddy, no. Please, no, don’t do that.” Why was Sammy raising his right hand in a threatening manner? Lindsay’s eyes swelled as he offered a dramatic show of flexing his fingers and then turning it into a fist.
Oh, no. No way!
He wouldn’t, would he …?
“I’ve given you twenty thousand dollars every week for close to a year, yet you continually fail to follow the simplest of rules. That money, you do realize, can be pulled back just as easily too. I have the ability to withdraw those deposits whenever I want.” It certainly didn’t help matters that Sammy had been drinking, too, and was pissed that Lindsay kept blowing up his phone with text messages when they were apart. “I’m about to teach you a lesson.”
Back in the current time, after a minute or two, Lindsay pulled herself together. She sniffed as she retreated from Pamela’s embrace and wiped her tear-stained cheeks. Truth be told, there were bruises all over Lindsay’s body, especially her breasts, and the right side of her ribcage was in agony. “Do you … do you think … I could stay here for a while, Pamela, until I get my life on track?”
Lindsay liked this. Something was seriously wrong with her, but she liked this. She felt vulnerable, in desperate need of help, a victim of a horrible, heinous crime, but she also felt safe, because this was Pamela. She’d never mistreat her like Sammy did last evening (and this morning, too, for matter) and never once stopped loving her either. Lindsay saw that on her face, in her gaze. So why, oh why, did she walk away from Pamela eleven months ago?
In a life riddled with mistakes, that was the biggest one. Evie would still be alive if I were here to help her cope with the rough patches. Without a doubt, Pamela was the greatest thing that ever happened to Lindsay. Yet she chose Sammy – and money which was now gone – over her. I chose that bastard over helping Evie too.
“Who did this to you?” Pamela’s eyes searched Lindsay’s, her voice much calmer. “Tell me.”
Instead of answering, Lindsay shook her head and again found solace in Pamela’s arms. “I should’ve never left the brothel a year ago.” New tears welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Pamela. I’m so, so sorry.”
Colt covered Lindsay’s hand with his own and squeezed, enveloping her with a sudden mass of warmth and security. Crimson shot up her cheeks. Pamela’s brows rose at the unexpected gesture, a small thrill racing through her. Colt’s focus, his attention, all his energy was centered on Lindsay as he slid his thumb in reassuring circles over her knuckles. “You can stay with us as long as you like.”
(End of Chapter Twenty-Two – to be continued)
