Chapter 13

I wake, disoriented, stiff.

And then I remember last night, and my fingertips touch my lips. I smile. I stretch, legs straightening away from the chair, spine stiffening and curling backward, arms tensed and trembling, a full-body stretch, feline and luxuriant.

Ding.

I blink in confusion; have I overslept? I am still in my dress from the previous day, hair messed and tangled and partially knotted, makeup smeared. I can feel makeup caked and flaking at my eyes.

The space of time between the arrival of the elevator and my front door smashing open is infinitesimal. A breath of a moment, less even.

A gargantuan black frame fills the doorway of my library. Thomas. "He sees the video from yesterday." His voice is like the deepest bass note being electronically distorted lower. Impossibly deep, syrupy and yet somehow smooth as silk.

I am slow, sleepy. "What? Who saw what video?"

Thomas takes three long angry strides toward me, towers over me, and the expression in his eyes is so terrifying I am shocked fully awake. "He see you and that man from the auction. With the yellow hair."

"Caleb. He saw the tapes?" I'm starting to fathom the problem.

Thomas grips my arms, twists me, propels me toward the front door. "He is a madman. You must go."

"Go?"

"Or I think you die. He is mad ." Thomas, with his thick African accent, does not mean mad as in angry, I realize. The implication is more frightening than mere anger.

I am barefoot. My shoes from yesterday sit forgotten, between the front door and the library. One, on its side. The other, upside down. I right them with my toes, stuff my feet into them. Shuffle to the door, untangling my hair.

Thomas growls in his chest. "No time for shoes, no time for fixing your pretty hair. GO! "

I let go my hair, take a step toward the door, and stumble out into the hallway, into the elevator, which stands open. The key is still in, twisted to the 13 . Thomas, in his tailored Western suit, looks fierce and wild, the whites of his eyes flashing bright, teeth bared. Even in the Western suit, he looks like an ancient Nubian warrior. I can see him with a lion skin, a round shield, and a long spear, dancing in the dust and the baking heat of the African sun.

I blink, and it's just Thomas again, in a black suit with a white shirt, thin black tie, a curly cord trailing down behind his ear and beneath his collar. His eyes go unfocused for a moment, and he touches a finger to the device in his ear, and then looks at me. He reaches in past me, twists the key up to the PH —penthouse—and then pulls me out of the elevator.

"Down the stairs." He pushes open what I thought was a fire escape. Locked, equipped with a siren or something.

Just a crash bar and the markings of an emergency exit. No siren wails when I push the door open. A stairwell beyond, grayish-white walls, metal handrails, blue rubber-treaded stairs in a descending square spiral. Shoes in hand now, I run down the stairs. I trip and miss a step, hear Thomas's voice, can't make out the words. Lurch and stumble down the steps so fast my breasts jounce painfully. I miss another step as I reach a landing, trip, crash into the wall opposite. Pause to catch my breath, arm, elbow, and hip aching where I smashed into the drywall. Below, I hear a voice.

"She's coming down the steps." A male voice, nasal and unfamiliar. "Thomas alerted her, I think. Yes, sir... I'm on the way up from floor seven. Alan is on the ground floor. We'll find her, sir, I promise. Yeah. I'll update you when we have her. Unharmed, got it. Crystal, sir. Not a scratch."

The voice is echoing from a few levels down and getting closer. Panic chokes me. I push through the door at the landing, marked with a black-painted 10 . A clean, modern corridor, pale gray walls, cream carpeting, abstract paintings on the walls. An alcove, men's room, women's room. I duck into the women's restroom, grip the counter and lean, gasping for air, fighting sobs. What is happening? Why did Thomas warn me, help me escape? Does he pity me, worry for me? Where did he think I would escape to? Nothing makes any sense. And the fire escape stairwell not being alarmed puzzles me as well. Perhaps he meant only to give Caleb's anger time to cool off. I don't know. I just know I have to seize the opportunity that is presented. I cannot stay here any longer. Not after what I've experienced with Logan.

What do I do now? I glance up at myself in the mirror. I look awful. I take a deep breath, push down my panic.

Clear thought, rational decisions. Do not act out of panic or fear.

I use my fingers to free my hair from its knot, losing a few long black strands in the process. The black stretchy hair tie has my hair tangled around it, and my hair is a matted disaster. I comb it out with my fingers as best I can and then twist it up into a bun, gathering all the loose strands, wetting it with the sink a little to smooth it all out. Tie it back. Hand soap and water, scrub my face clean. Dab dry with rough brown paper towel from an automatic dispenser—which took me a moment to figure out.

Face clean, hair neat. I straighten my dress, smooth out the worst of the wrinkles as best as possible. Adjust my cleavage. Tug the hem down. Slip on my shoes. Deep breath.

Exit, find the stairwell, glance back, debate trying the elevator. They're looking for me on the stairs now, I assume.

As I'm internally debating, I hear static crackle echoing in the stairwell, a male voice. I move away, follow the corridor around a left turn, slip through a glass doorway into an office. There's a desk, ornate, polished wood. Tall potted plants in the corners, pointillist art on a wall.

A young woman with a headset sits behind the desk, facing a computer screen. "Can I help you?"

"I think I got off on the wrong floor," I say. "Can you point me back to the elevators?"

Her eyes narrow, flick over me. She's looking for something. "May I see your security badge, miss?"

"I—"

She touches a button in front of her. "If you could just wait a moment, I'll have security come up and we'll get you a temporary ID badge."

I turn and duck out.

"Miss? You have to come back!" Her voice is loud, then quieted as the heavy glass door swings closed behind me.

Back to the elevators, touch the call button. Wait, panic rising in my gut. The elevator doors hiss open, and I step into the empty car. This is not the same elevator as stops at my door. There are buttons, dozens of them: G , a numeral one with a star beside it, and then numbers ascending all the way up to fifty-eight. My floor, thirteen, is missing. I look twice: ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen, fifteen...

I push the G . Garage? I don't know.

Sensation of descent. Some instinct has me press the two, and the car stops. I get out on the second floor, suppressing panic. I assume there are security cameras everywhere, that the guards are only moments behind me. I have a thousand problems ahead of me, but all I want right now is to get out of this building.

As I step out, peer side to side, a security guard in a black suit, walkie-talkie in hand, strides around a corner, sees me, shouts. "Stop!"

I duck back in, press the door close icon, jab the first number my finger finds. The uppermost one, fifty-eight. I hear a fist pound on the door outside, but the elevator is in motion. Up, up, up.

I abruptly punch the button for the sixth floor; the elevator stops, the door slides open, and I step out. Peer side to side, see no one. Lean into the elevator, touch fifty-eight again and let the elevator resume its ascent.

I look around: flat white walls, no decorations, bare concrete floor, industrial, raw, unfinished-looking. Exposed beams above, painted black, exposed pipes painted the same. The hallway extends some twenty feet without door or marking of any kind, then turns right. I follow it, and now there are doors on either side of the hallway, staggered so no door is directly across from the another. Door after door. Plain entry doors, no peephole, the door painted the same flat white with large black numerals in industrial stencils. I count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5... even numbers on the right, odds on the left. I count twelve doors.

I hear the elevator ding and the doors open. "Yeah, I'm in pursuit on the sixth floor. Copy that. One second." The same nasally voice from the stairwell.

My heart thunders, my throat closes. I grab the nearest doorknob, twist, push. Oddly, it opens; I was expecting it to be locked.

I have a sense of disorientation, déjà vu. This could be my condo, down to the flooring and the dimensions and the paint. The only difference is the artwork on the walls, and there is no Louis XIV chair here, but the couch is the same, built-in bookshelves are the same, a kitchen connected to the living room via open floor plan, a short hallway leading to the single bedroom with the en suite bathroom, a smaller office opposite the bedroom. Instead of a library, I see exercise equipment: a huge purple exercise ball, free weights, weight machines.

Out of habit, I close the front door behind me. It clicks loudly as it closes. Footsteps, bare feet on hardwood.

"Caleb?" A soft female voice, thin, high, a twang to it.

I have no hope of hiding or ducking back out; I can only hope this girl will be sympathetic to my plight.

Short, petite, with reddish-blond hair, freckles, pale brown eyes. Very beautiful. Heart-shaped face, delicate chin. Expressive, expectant eyes.

"You ain't— aren't , I mean—you aren't Caleb."

"No, I am most certainly not."

"Who are you?"

I hesitate, infinitesimally. "I am Madame X."

"That's your name?"

"Yes. And yours?" I endeavor to seem confident.

Shrug, as if it doesn't matter. "I'm Six-nine-seven-one-three. For now. But I'm gonna be Rachel."

My heart twists. "Six-nine . . . what?"

A gesture, pointing at the door opposite. "Across the way, she's Six-nine-seven-one-four." A finger pointing next door. "She's Five. Down the way are Seven and Nine, and across from us are Two, Six, and Eight. That's all of us, for now."

"I'm confused." I have to lean back against the door. Something niggles at me. An idea, a horrible idea.

The girl is dressed in a shift; that's the only word for it. It's not a dress, not a nightgown. It's plain white thin cotton, hangs at midshin. She is very clearly nude beneath it. Barefoot. Hair in a simple low ponytail, no makeup, no paint on fingers or toes.

"It's my apprentice number. Who are you, and why are you here?"

"I work for Caleb." It's the truth and hopefully sounds authoritative.

"But why are you here?" The girl steps toward me, suspicion in her eyes. "Ain't nobody ever—" She winces, starts over. "I mean... No one ever visits except Caleb. No one, not ever. So who are you, and what do you want?"

I examine the ceiling, the corners where the molding joins. "Are you watched?"

"Watched?" Six-nine-seven-one-three follows my gaze. "You mean cameras?" A snort of derision. "You got to be kidding me. This whole floor is off-monitor. This one, nine, fifty-eight, and obviously Caleb's penthouse up top. Thirteen don't exist, or there's no way to get to it. Rumor is Caleb has a secret lair on the thirteenth floor, like a red room or something. But this floor, nine, and fifty-eight, there's no security cameras or audio. Too much risk, I guess. Can't have people knowing what's going on, right?"

I shake my head. "What happens on these three floors... Rachel?"

The girl doesn't answer right away. "I ain't—I'm not Rachel yet. Haven't earned my name yet. I'm just Three... for now." Side-eyed glance of speculation; a decision reached. "And if you don't know, I probably shouldn't tell you."

I push past the girl, walk to the window, my favorite window, the same one, same place. Slightly lower view, but nearly as comforting. Watch the cars pass, pedestrians. Familiar, soothing. I can almost breathe.

Silence. Padding feet on the wood, I smell shampoo and soap. "You said your name is Madame X?"

"I'm his secret on the thirteenth floor," I whisper.

"What do you do?" She leans against the window frame opposite me, assuming a familiar pose that suggests she spends as much time standing here as I do my own window.

"If you don't know, I probably shouldn't tell you," I said.

"That ain't fair. I didn't even know you existed. How am I supposed to know?"

"Exactly. I didn't know you existed either, Three." I turn, rest my shoulder against the window. "You said it was your apprentice number. Apprentice what?"

"Apprentice bride." This is whispered. "That's my goal, at least. First I have to make Escort, and then Companion. Then Bride."

"I don't understand."

"Me and all the other girls on this floor, we're the property of Indigo Services. We're part of the apprenticeship program."

"Property?" I can barely get the word out.

A steady, even look. "I signed up for it. So did all the others, so don't you get no look of fuckin' pity in your eyes for me. It's better than being on the streets, and that's where I'd still be if it wasn't for Caleb. I'm drug free. No pimp. No debt. None of that bullshit. It's a way out. I ain't a slave. I know you're thinking that word. You don't know me, so don't you fuckin' judge me, bitch ."

"I'm not judging you, Three. I just don't understand."

"How can you not? Was you born on fuckin' Mars or something?"

My instincts kick in. "‘Were you,' you mean."

Three snarls at me, upper lip curled in a sneer. "I don't get what's so wrong with the way I talk. Caleb's always raggin' on me about it, too."

"Perception is vital. Proper speech creates the impression of class, Three. Proper grammar, lucid, concise syntax. No vulgarity. You wish to be taken seriously? Then you must act like a—" I was going to say gentleman , but I have to change tactics. "Like a lady. A woman of class."

"Who the hell are you, Madame X?"

"Someone much like you, I fear, only much less self-aware, I'm realizing." I glance at the door. "Can you leave? If you wanted to?"

Three makes a face. "Course I can. I mean, I wouldn't, but I could . Door ain't locked, elevator works. Once a week I get to go on a practice date with Caleb up to Rhapsody. I get a new dress, new shoes, get to put on makeup. If I do well, he might take me outside, out there, for the monthly final."

I have to formulate my question carefully. "Three, could you—could you explain for me how the program works?"

A shrug. "Sure. Easy. I was homeless. Workin' the street, right? Got no way to feed myself, so I ended up selling the only thing of any value I had, get it? Myself. Then I met Caleb. He hired me for a whole day. Guess he saw something, I don't know. Potential? Told me he had a program that would give me skills, and eventually a life off the streets. Kind of a training program followed by a matchmaking program, all in one. Right now, I'm in the training program."

"What kind of training?"

Another lazy, indolent shrug. I itch to correct her comportment, but it isn't my job to do so. "Everything. There's a tutor, Mr. Powers. He does the usual school kind of stuff. Helps us get a GED, if we need one, or furthers our education if we have a diploma already. Or he can do guided studies in specific areas. You're interested in science or some shit, he can help you find resources and whatever. Anyway, Mr. Powers is always on me to speak proper too, but I grew up talkin' like this, everyone I knew talked like this, and some habits are hard to break, you know? And then there's Miss Lisa. She's head of the program. Keeps track of our progress, tells us what we need to do improve, to get up the next level. She's the head boss, lead supervisor basically. And then... there's Caleb."

"And what does he do?" I ask. I'm not sure I want to know the answer, though.

Three doesn't answer me, won't look at me. Her pale cheeks redden. "I shouldn't be prudish about this, considerin' where he found me. What I was doing." Another pause. For courage, I think. "He teaches us how to please. How to act attractive. How to seduce. How to look, how to dress, how to—how to fuck."

"And he teaches you all of this personally, does he?"

Widening of the eyes. "Oh yes. Of course. He delivers the final exam. Makes sure we're ready for each stage. An Escort has fewer requirements than a Companion, and a Bride has the most of all."

"Requirements?" My voice sounds faint.

Three shrugs. "It's complicated. Learnin' those differences is part of the training, so it ain't like I can just sum it up in one or two sentences, you know?" A glance away, out the window. "I shouldn't be telling you this stuff anyway. Ain't supposed to be talking about it to anyone not in the program. We signed an agreement. But you're the big secret on floor thirteen, so I'm guessing you probably got secrets of your own. You ain't gonna rat me out to Caleb, are you?"

I shake my head. "No, Three. I won't. I promise."

I have a million, million questions, but I don't even know where to start. But Three suddenly bolts upright, away from the window, glances at the plain wall clock.

"Shit! You gotta get out of here. I've got an assessment, like right now!"

"An assessment?"

"Yeah, with Caleb."

"Caleb is coming here , now?"

We both hear a voice. One we both recognize. But rather than the usual calm, there is anger, hot and loud. "No, Douglas, it's not going to be fucking fine . If she didn't leave the building, then she's hiding out somewhere. Fucking find her, or there will be hell to pay." Right outside the door.

Three hisses in my ear. "Under the bed. Go! Don't even breathe, okay? He won't stay too long. 'Specially not in this mood."

I hustle toward the bedroom, slide under the bed, make myself as small as possible. Arms under my chest, cheek to the dusty hardwood. Barely breathing.

I hear the door open. Hear that deep, gravelly voice. "Three. Good morning."

"Caleb." Three sounds... breathy. "I'm fine. How are you?"

"Not well. There's been... a problem. It's got me distracted, I'm afraid." Footsteps on the hardwood, and I see shiny expensive tan leather shoes, khaki slacks. "Perhaps we should reschedule your assessment for tomorrow. I'm not sure I can focus at the moment."

"But... Miss Lisa told me I've finally got my first Escort gig tomorrow, but only if I pass this assessment." Three sounds genuinely disappointed. "Unless you think there's a chance I might fail..."

"I think there's very little risk of that, Three. Your progress has been remarkable."

"You don't think I could... help you with your mood?" Three's voice goes low, sultry, rife with suggestion. "I know I can't fix nothin'—"

"Three." It's a warning.

"Sorry, Caleb. I meant, fix anything ." I see feminine bare feet framed between larger shod ones. Three lifts up on her toes. A silence that speaks of something happening I can't see. A kiss perhaps. Sounds, too quiet to interpret. "I could distract you from your... distractions, you know?"

I clench my teeth and breathe shallowly, slowly. They are moving closer, Three walking forward toward the bed, the Italian leather dress shoes walking backward.

It seems Three shall be assessed.

The bed above me dips under weight. Springs squeak. The shoes are inches from my face. Three's feet shuffle, and then one knee touches the floor, the other. A belt buckle jingles, zipper sounds. The khaki slacks droop around ankles, and I get a glimpse of familiar hairy calves. Wet sounds. A male groan. Quiet, faint gagging.

"Very good, Three." This, delivered through clenched teeth. "Mmmm. More tongue, more movement of your whole head. Don't just suck. Alternate using your hands, your lips, and your tongue. Yes, like that." A growl, as Three obviously demonstrates a particular... technique, I suppose.

My gut twists. Feelings I don't dare examine rage within me.

Sucking, gagging, male grunts and groans, sighs. It goes on for longer than I would think possible. The sounds taper off for a moment or two, and then resume, silence, a female gag accompanied by a male groan.

"Are you ready, Three?" Low, thickly voiced, teeth clenched, breathless. "I'm going to come. I'll let you decide where you want me to come."

Gagging. Gulping. A long, guttural male groan. Sigh. Three's weight shifts backward as she sits on her heels, one hand planted on the floor. There's come on her hand, white smears across her knuckles. Apparently she didn't elect to swallow it all.

A moment of silence.

"Very, very good, Three." An extended sigh, and the weight on the bed shifts backward. "Next time, I would like you to take it all on your face. I don't personally find pleasure in that, but others do, and you need to be prepared for how it will feel."

"Yes, Caleb." Why does she sound so eager?

"Now... I want you to tell me the truth, all right? Penalty free for this answer, regardless of what you say. Our last session together, did you fake your orgasm?"

A hesitation. And then Three's voice, pitched low, embarrassed. "Yes—no. Well, sort of. I mean... I exaggerated it, some. I did come, but not as—as hard as I might have made it seem."

"Why?"

"Because I—I wanted you to think... I don't know. I don't know."

"The truth, Three. Now. "

"I wanted to come. But it's just... I can't, very often." Her voice is tiny. So delicate. Mortified. "I've tried. On my own, and with you, and before I became an apprentice. My whole life, it's just... it's hard for me to come. And when I do, it's just not very—hard, I guess. I still enjoy things, when you do them to me, I mean. I enjoy them a lot. But I just can't come every time, or not as... as intensely as I feel like you expect me to."

"First, a warning. Do not fake it, or exaggerate. Never again, no matter what, do you understand?"

"Yes, Caleb."

"Now stand up and put your hands on the bed."

"But you said penalty free!" A panicked protest.

"I'm not punishing you for your answer, Three, I'm punishing you for faking. I told you at the very start not to ever lie, fake, or pretend. Not about anything. I require absolute truth in all situations." A softening of the voice. "And this punishment won't be going on your program record. This is between us. So you understand that I'm serious."

"But... Caleb, I—I understand. Okay? I won't fake again, I swear!"

"Three. Stand up, now . Put your hands on the bed, now ." Slow, deliberate, precise, calm.

Three stands up, twists in place; I can see her knees shaking. The Italian leather shoes slide forward, and I see the pants rise, hear the buckle of the belt. The bed dips very slightly, and Three's feet are spread shoulder width apart. I watch as the hem of Three's shift rises up out of view.

Smack! Hand on flesh.

Smack! Again.

Three cries out. There is pain in that cry, very real pain. But there is also... arousal.

Smack!

Smack!

The sounds of spanking increase, punctuated by Three's cries of pain and increasing sexual arousal. My gut is churning. Some part of me is... not as horrified by this as I should be. Three is enjoying this. Doing this voluntarily . Three could leave at will. As the spanking continues, cries of pain gradually become entirely erotic cries of need. Bare feet shuffle on the floor, knees dip, bent body pushing back into the blows, into the touch.

I wonder if there is only the spanking, or if something else is happening. Fingers as well, perhaps, moving inside her privates? From the way Three is moaning and whimpering, I assume so.

I can see how this might be intensely arousing. I feel dirty for eavesdropping on this, and dirtier still for feeling curious, and jealous. But some part of me is finding a dark voyeuristic pleasure in it. I am sick, this is sick.

But I cannot get away from it.

I hear Three orgasm. The wail of release is shrill, and loud, and to my ear, genuine.

The white shift is tossed aside, to the floor. Pants drape around ankles. Three cries out. The bed shifts, dips, and is rocked sideways by a forceful thrust. Three is bent over the bed, male feet lined up behind. The sounds of sex are loud, and fast. Three whimpers with each fleshy slap of skin against skin, and then as the tempo increases, the whimpers become cries, and then grunts, and I can tell from the movement of Three's bare feet when accepting the thrusts turns to active participation, pushing back into them.

Male grunt of release, slapping of body on body slows and stops, and Three is breathless, moaning, emitting high-pitched whimpers.

I'm damp between my thighs, aroused, and sick with guilt and shame and confusion.

A moment of silence, then, neither person moving or speaking. And then I see trousers slide up, hear a belt buckle, fabric rustling. I can picture strong hands tucking a pristine white shirt into the slacks, tugging it to blouse just so, stuffing fingers into hip pockets so they don't bulge or fold. A familiar ritual of re-dressing, adjusting; Three will be still naked, of course. Artfully posed, probably, to look sated, glutted, content, drowsy.

I know the pose all too well, having assumed it myself a million times.

"Was that exaggerated, Three?" Arrogant, and assured.

"N-no. No, Caleb." A gasp. "It was real. I came so hard, Caleb."

"What do you think made the difference?"

"You... spanking me. I—I liked that. It hurt, but I liked it." Three sounds embarrassed. "I liked it a lot ."

"Don't be upset, Three. You shouldn't feel shame. Know your body, know your sexuality. In time, you will learn to control your sexual encounters. Even when you're being fucked like I just fucked you, from behind, where you have no physical control over what might be happening to you, you will still able to exert influence over how enjoyable it is for your partner. You will be able to control how fast you both get off, how intensely. I can tell the difference when you fake it, Three. Some men may not be able to, but I can. When you genuinely enjoy and participate rather than just being a passive receptacle, you become a much more exquisitely erotic creature. When you were a whore, it didn't matter. Your johns paid you to let them fuck you, and they didn't give one single shit how you felt about it. But you are not a whore anymore, Three. You will not be paid for sex, implicitly or explicitly. Indigo Services does not provide sex workers; we provide companionship, partnership, and romance. If you have sex with a client, it will be your choice, a mutual decision between you and the client, after your service contract has expired. Keep this in mind, for tomorrow. The basic Indigo Services contract expressly forbids any kind of sexual act during the time frame of the services provided. If you choose to engage in sex with the client after the contract expires, that is your choice, and you should never feel pressured by the client. If you do experience pressure of any kind, report it to Lisa immediately and that client will be blacklisted. You should not ever be pressured into sex by a client. And you should always enjoy sex. Do you understand?"

"I understand." Three's voice is small, unsure.

"You enjoy a little pain with sex. I suspected as much, but now we know. Perhaps in the coming weeks, as you begin working as an Escort, we will explore the limits of your enjoyment of pain."

"But you won't... hurt me, hurt me?" Three sounds breathy, eager, and a little afraid.

"No. Never. You are valuable. To me, and to Indigo Services, and ultimately, you should be valuable to the man who eventually chooses you as his Bride."

"You think someone will choose me, Caleb?" Oh, the doubt, the fear, the vulnerability I hear cuts me to the bone.

"Three, dear Three." I'm not the only one, judging by the tone of voice. "Yes. I do think someone will. How could they not? Your personality shines through in every situation. I realize this program is not the easiest thing to go through. Letting go of your name, your past... it's never easy. But through it all, your beauty remains undeniable, and I refer to the beauty of your soul as well as the beauty of your body."

I have never received such kind, genuine, uplifting words. Am I unworthy?

"Th-thank you, Caleb."

"Congratulations, Apprentice Six-nine-seven-one-three, you are now an Escort." This is said with great formality. "Have you chosen a name?"

"Rachel." Three—Rachel, now, I suppose—sounds excited, gleeful.

"Why have you chosen this name?"

A pause. "You'll laugh."

I can almost— almost —imagine a subtle quirk of the lips. "I think not."

"I used to watch Friends a lot. You know, Ross, Rachel, Joey, Chandler, Phoebe, and Monica?"

"I am familiar. I don't watch television, but it is a common enough part of pop culture that I've heard of it."

"When I was a kid, I'd watch it with my older sister. She'd do her homework and I'd sit with her and—well, and then... when I ended up working for Slade, I'd watch it late at night. It was... a way to escape, I guess. And I always just loved Rachel the most."

"Do you miss it?"

"What? Watching Friends ?"

"Yes."

Three is quiet for a moment before answering. "Yeah, sometimes. I don't miss none of—I don't miss any of the rest of my past, obviously, but Friends ? Yeah. They were like my friends. Their lives were better than mine. They had easy problems, so I could forget mine for a while. I miss that."

"Perhaps something can be arranged. I do not believe in my girls being distracted by such triviality as television, as you know, but perhaps as a reward for achieving Escort certification I could arrange a viewing for you."

"And the other girls?"

"It is a reward for you, Rachel."

"Which means I can share it, right?"

"Very well, then. Lisa will be in to review and brief you for tomorrow. Once again, congratulations."

Loafers tread quietly away, and I see a hint of white door as it opens, the thud-click as it closes. I wait several more long moments.

"Come on out, he's gone." Rachel's hand appears in front of my face, waving me out from under the bed.

I scoot out, sore and stiff, and stand up on wobbly legs. Brush dust away, straighten my clothes. Rachel lounges on her bed, naked. Her breasts are slight, areolae pale pink around her nipples. She is shaved totally bare between her thighs, whereas I am not. I smell sex in the air, musk, seed, pheromones, sweat.

I don't know what to say, what to do. Congratulate her? I don't know. It's hard to look at her. I keep hearing her moans, the sound of her being spanked, how thoroughly she enjoyed it. I can almost see her, bent over the bed, hair in her face, pale skin of her buttocks reddening with each slap. I push away the images.

"Never had an audience before," Rachel says. "Felt a little weird at first, knowing you were listening. But then..." A shrug, dismissive.

"What?" I can't help asking. "But then what?"

"But then I forgot. Well, sort of. I was sort of distantly aware that you were there, but that only made it even better." She giggles. "God, I had no idea I'd like being spanked so much. When I was a hooker, things was straightforward. They wanted me on my back, or doggy style. Caleb... he's kinda weird about positions, though. Only likes it doggy style or from behind. Bent over, standing up facing a wall, you know? Like that. Never face to face. Talked to the other girls about it, and he's the same with them."

The same is true for my own experience. I don't offer this, though. "Hmmm. I wonder what Caleb has against face-to-face sex?"

Another shrug, which is a signature expression, I'm realizing. "Oh, probably commitment issues, you know? Guys like him, it ain't just control, right? Or not control over us , the girl he's fucking, but control over himself. Face-to-face, you see the other person's eyes. You see their expression. Makes it more... personal, I guess. And with us, for Caleb... it ain't personal."

"It's sex, Rachel. How is it not personal?"

An expression of utter befuddlement. "We're just apprentices, you know? Nothin' but girls to be trained. The clients, when they get their match, they expect the girls to be... perfect, basically. Educated, well-mannered, and good in bed. Everyone is always like, ‘Oh, I wanna bang me a virgin,' but virgins ain't any good in bed. They're clumsy, too quick, no fun in 'em. Boys and girls both. Girls is worst, I hear, because a girl virgin, she's got the pain to deal with. You gotta specially train them, I'd think. A gentleman is coming to Indigo Services for a trophy wife, he wants a woman who knows how to please, who knows what to do with his dick, you know? Who knows how to work it all night long. A virgin cain't do that. Those guys who're shopping the Bride pool, they don't want to have to train their wife to fuck 'em like they want to be fucked. They want to be fucked by an expert. And you don't get to be an expert at fucking except by fucking."

"So Caleb... fucks you until you're an expert." The vulgarity both feels and sounds foreign and awkward on my tongue.

"Right."

"Eight of you at a time?"

"Well, not all at once. Not like, ménage à ... whatever eight is in French."

"But you're aware he's having sex with each one of you apprentices?"

"Well, yeah. He's Caleb ." Like it's something obvious, like, duh .

But I understand it. There is something hypnotic about those dark eyes, that commanding presence, utter confidence of primal male sexuality, something entrancing in total dominance.

"Does it bother you?" I ask.

"Not really. I hear it, when it's him and Five, next door. She's a screamer. He's always trying to get her to shut up, but as soon as he's got her going, she starts howling like a damn cat in heat. Annoying as hell, you ask me." Rachel stands up, walks with an air of confidence in her nudity.

I follow her. Some carnal curiosity has me looking at her backside; her buttocks are still pink, and I see a glistening smear on the insides of her thighs, low, a trickle of seed seeping out of her.

I am equally repulsed and aroused. Not at the sight of postcoital drip, but at the memory of my own walk from bed to bathroom, the memory of delicious ache, a sense of... satisfaction, almost, at the feel of the wet warm stickiness on my skin.

And then, as fast as the sensations roll through me, they are replaced by disgust, and hatred.

Revulsion.

All of it aimed primarily at myself. At my blindness, my gullibility.

At my twisted thoughts. At the fact that any part of me found pleasure in what I overheard.

I hear the shower running, splashing, quickly shut off. Rachel emerges with a towel around her torso.

"You're the problem, ain'tcha?" Her voice is sharp.

Her poor grammar and twanging accent and propensity for cursing lends a false sense that she is somehow unintelligent; she is not.

"The problem?" I pretend to not understand her meaning.

"Don't play coy with me, Madame X . ‘Find her,' he said. You're running away from Caleb." The last is an accusation, blatant.

I sigh. "Yes. You're correct."

"He'll find you."

"I know that."

"Ain't nobody else like him, you know. I'm only twenty-two, but I been on the streets since I was thirteen. Met all kinds of men, turnin' tricks. Some of 'em weren't bad, just... lonely. Or too busy to bother with even trying to set up casual sex, I guess. Some were curious. A few virgins, here and there. But in all of 'em I ever met, there's never been nobody like him. You must not understand what you're running away from."

"My situation is . . ." I have to hunt for an appropriate word. " . . . unique."

"Ain't everybody's?" Rachel eyes me.

"Well, I guess that's true, but I'm different. I don't mean to sound—"

"You're different. You're special. I get it. You're Caleb's big secret on the thirteenth floor. What you don't get is what he's done for me. For all of us here. I know what you think of us. I can feel you judging us."

"I'm not judging—"

"The hell you ain't!" She closes in, her eyes intelligent, proud, and piercing. "I was a meth head. Okay? You don't—you can't understand that if you ain't lived it. Alls I cared about was the next fix. I was gonna die , and Caleb Indigo saved me. He got me off the street, gave me a place to live, fed me. He's gotten me off drugs. Before, I was turnin' tricks to afford the next high. No one gave a single shit about me, myself least of all. Now, here? I got a reason to live. I got a reason to stay off drugs. I've got value , here. Yeah, I know I ain't the only one, but Caleb spends time with me. Me , the whore, the drug addict. When he's with me, I'm the only one that matters." This last in a quiet voice that quavers with conviction. "He makes me feel like I could amount to something besides what I used to be. I can get put in the Bride pool, and who knows, maybe I'll even get matched with someone who—who could love me." Such hope, clung to with tenacity. "You run away from all that if you want."

A long silence. I do not know what to say. I have too much in my head, in my heart.

"Garage is your only real shot, I'd say," Rachel says. "Take the elevator down, make a run for it. Good luck to you. I won't say nothing, but if Caleb asks, I'm telling the truth."

"I wouldn't ask you to lie for me." I try a friendly smile. "Thank you, Rachel. And... congratulations on your—promotion, I suppose it is?"

She does a part nod, part shrug. "Thanks."

I give her one last smile, one last glance. Then pull open her door, peek, step out. Close the door behind me, a sense of finality in the soft click . Stride away from the door marked 3 . Focus on the now, focus on reaching free air, reaching sunlight, reaching the outside.

Step onto the elevator, and my finger hovers over the G . But I hesitate. Why am I hesitating?

I need answers. That's why. Who am I? Who am I to Caleb? What does anything mean?

The conviction in Rachel's voice. Feeling like she was the only one that mattered when she was with Caleb... that sounds all too familiar.

Instead of G , my thumb stabs the L , for the lobby.

Descent, my stomach twisting. The doors whoosh open. I step out.

Surprised faces. "Madame X!" Hands reach for me.

I stop them with a glare. "Keep your hands to yourself. Bring me to Caleb." I feign authority.

Pretend I'm not a mess of nerves, shaking, furious, disoriented. Pretend as if everything I thought I knew hasn't just been upended.

Len parts the crowd of onlookers and security guards. A familiar face, at least. "Madame X. Gave us quite a scare. Thought maybe you'd gotten lost." Len's face is impassive, giving away nothing.

"Take me to him, Len."

"Why don't we get you back to your room? Been quite a morning; I'm sure you'd like to rest." A politely phrased command, that is.

"I don't think so, Len. Take me to the penthouse. Now. " My eyes are narrowed, my voice hard and cold.

Len blinks twice, lets out a short breath. Lifts his wrist to his mouth. "I've got her, sir. She wants to see you... no, she wants me to take her up to the penthouse.... Yes, sir. Got it, sir."

Len takes my upper arm, gestures to the elevator on the far right of the bank of doors. This elevator for authorized personnel only. A key opens the doors, the same key twisted to the PH . Ascent, my nerves ratcheting with each foot the elevator climbs. Len is stoic, silent.

I try to formulate thoughts, try to decipher my feelings.

Everything I thought I was going to say flees when the doors slide open at the penthouse level.

"Madame X. Please, come in." Oh, that voice. Deep as canyons, rough as sandpaper.