Wild Dirty Secret(6)

She ushered us both inside. “What happened?”

Any number of things could have happened to this girl. Drugs or violence or rape, that sort of thing. Likely some of them had already happened, but not tonight. “Nothing. I think I got her before she… Well, she’s just been like this since she got in the car.” I shrugged. “Shock, maybe.”

“Wait for me,” Marguerite ordered as she pressed the intercom.

I nodded and leaned against the wall, relieved to release my charge. These little field trips were a glass of cold water in a parched expanse of desert, but there was a cost. There was always a cost, and in this case, it was the removal of my blinders—but only temporarily. The ones that said this was all my choice, it was all okay. Because if the life was something for her to escape from, then what the hell was I still doing in it? Oh God, why couldn’t I get out?

But we weren’t the same, Laura and I. I didn’t have that lost look in my eyes. No confusion, no pain. When blue-gray eyes stared back at me from the mirror, I saw nothing there at all.





Chapter Four





Whoever ran the desk buzzed the door open, and Marguerite ushered them both inside. There was another inside-locked door between the administrative areas and the dormitories, every level another chance to stall a rampaging ex-husband or ex-pimp before they could do harm.

I wondered if Henri could make it inside the inner sanctum. Probably. My boss had oodles of money, much of which I’d made for him, and he hired military dropouts like they were going out of style. Good thing this place only housed girls from fifty-dollar pimps—small-timers lucky to find their own tiny dicks, much less track down a missing girl and break their way in here.

This place wasn’t a haven for me. I had always known that, but it seemed to matter more now, when I needed one, when my own safe place had been violated.

Maybe it had been foolish to send my resources here. I could have flown to Tahiti, never to have been heard from again. Never would have seen Allie again either, or her daughter.

Never seen him again. No, it hadn’t been an option. Still wasn’t.

The girl would probably go through medical first, get checked out. Lucky for me, I wouldn’t be around for that. Wouldn’t find out the dirty little details, and that was the only reason I continued to do this.

Make it right. It had become a mantra, a compulsion. I was too far gone, but I could bring them to safety. The contained little community was a refuge, but not for me. The dingy walls and speckled floor tiles of the entryway were already closing in on me. I didn’t suffer poverty gladly. There were only so many compensations for being a prostitute. One, really—money, and I intended to use it to the fullest. Initially, I had given Allie financial support. Now I resorted to luxury fabrics and label clothing, and when they didn’t fill the void, I came here.

Marguerite came back into the foyer. “Thank you.”

Her businesslike demeanor was the only reason I could handle her gratitude. “At your service, of course.”

“She said she’s thirteen.”

Unexpectedly, my stomach lurched. She wasn’t the youngest I’d seen on the streets, but suddenly she seemed like a baby. I was getting too old for this. How long had it been since I was her age? At least a decade—more. Back then, I’d lived in a fancy house with a princess bed and frilly clothes. I’d earned them.

“So,” I managed to say. “Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”

“Shelly.”

Her voice was too soft, too kind. Too damned understanding when she didn’t know a single thing.

“You look tired. Have you been sleeping okay?”

I went to sleep just fine, to my regret. The nightmares were like quicksand—the more I struggled, the faster they pulled me under. “I’m fine.”

“We have therapists here. They can—”

“What can they do?” I scoffed. What could they do except make things worse?

“PTSD is not uncommon in women who—”

“Enough.” I took a deep breath, looked away.

Was it true? Did I have PTSD? Maybe. Probably. What did it matter?

When I was in the tenth grade, I tried to seduce my World History teacher into a higher test score. He’d looked at me with shock, which had morphed into that damned understanding I’d learned to despise. Then came the therapists.

At the end, the teacher had been fired, courtesy of good old dad, and my home life got a hell of a lot tougher in retaliation for making trouble. I’d figured out then I was better off alone, and nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed.

“You’re breaking the rules,” I told Marguerite.