Mercy practically jogs down the hallway so that I can't retaliate.
She shouldn't worry. Last night, after I attacked Mercy, I stayed up most of the night pushing Wilson away. Because even though Mercy may have deserved a good butt kicking, she doesn't deserve the things Wilson wanted to do to her.
There's a big difference between letting Wilson into my head and letting him take control. Last night, I came way too close to letting that second thing happen. And so I vowed, as the other girls slept and my hand ached from smashing into Mercy's face, that I would never, ever let Wilson out again.
But I'm still here, he whispers. Just in case.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Cowboy
That night, Madam Karina writes a black number 8 on my left hand. Poppet gets marked with a 9. These numbers won't last long.
My sketchpad and pencils are set up in the corner of the room, and music beats through my veins. The songs are faster tonight, more tumultuous. Maybe because it's a Thursday night, and we have to remind guests to relax even though the weekend is one workday away.
Mercy says a few words, staring at me the entire time she talks. Then the curtain is pulled back and seven guests file in.
It's showtime.
I lock eyes with Poppet, and she nods. Pulling her skirts a touch higher than necessary, she bounds in front of the other girls and reaches a guest first. The boy is no older than fifteen, and has angry red acne rolling across his skin. His white sneakers are scuffed and his jeans are torn, and not in a fashionable way. This boy spent what little money he had to come here tonight. He's the exact person I would have approached, which means Poppet and I are on the same page.
Don't approach the guests who have money, I had told her.
Why? she'd asked. They're the ones who can return over and over again.
We don't need repeats. We need the most coins, every night. To do that, we need to make a scene. Start with the easy ones, then slowly draw the others in.
Working in this house for only four nights has taught me that the town of Pox isn't a wealthy one. But they say there's a larger city an hour and a half away where townspeople commute. Close enough to earn a payday, too far to face a long drive home after having a beer.
Poppet touches the boy on his arms, his shoulders, comments on his striking smile. The other girls watch Poppet from the corner of their eye, surprised by her aggressiveness, but unconcerned because the boy isn't worth bothering with.
We can't compete with Mercy and Raquel and the others who have built up a clientele. And though they want new guests, they want them only if they're easy, or if they have potential to be added to their repertoire.
But the boy with the red hair and fiery skin?
He's up for grabs.
A part of me feels guilty, like I'm using him. But then I remember he came here to be entertained, to feel special for a little while, and I know the other girls will laugh behind his back and tell stories about his acne after he's gone. I won't do that. Neither will Poppet.
She brings him over to the bar, and I inspect the other six guests. Not many tonight, but that doesn't matter. We only need to secure the most coins. My eyes fall on a young guy and my breath catches. He's stunning. Mid-twenties, blond hair, blue eyes. He has a deep dimple in his chin, and a lean body. I could imagine a cowboy hat on his head and a stallion between his legs.
He sees me looking and smiles. It's warm, but guarded, as if he knows he shouldn't be here. I glance at his ring finger. Sure enough, there's an outline of a wedding band that the sun hasn't touched in years. He probably got married young, and the love has died out. Now he's here, looking to feel wanted again.
I detest him.
I turn away. It's not like we have a chance at him, anyway. I've seen one other young, attractive man come in here, and the girls practically drew blood trying to garner his attention. They'll want to make a repeat out of this guy if only to see that dimpled chin.
Our redheaded boy now has a drink in his hand, and I've taken a seat in front of my sketchpad. Poppet motions toward me, and he nods enthusiastically. He'll go wherever she goes, but it's my job to keep him occupied.
"This is Domino," Poppet says when the two get close. "She's an artist. She can draw you anything you want."
"That's not entirely true." I offer the boy my hand, and he brings it to his lips. It takes everything I have not to recoil. Nothing personal. It's just another level of touching, and I'm not even comfortable with the preliminaries. I jerk my hand back to my side. "I take requests, or I can draw you a surprise."
"Ooh, let her draw a surprise," Poppet squeals.