The Playhouse Series: Liam and Jess

By Fanny Lee Savage

Readers Agree...

Seven Days is an action packed erotic thriller that leaves you wanting more.

"Well written and undeniably sexy." - Gem Edwards, Author

"Written well, very steamy, this is a book that will be devoured by those who are fans of erotica." - Kindle Review

"Simply couldn't put it down." - Kindle Review

"This is a truly original and seductive read!" - Kindle Review

She is desperate...

Only he can save her...

Jessica Caughlin has landed her dream job at F.E.A.R. Enterprises, the largest architectural firm in Miami. She has worked her entire life to bring herself out of the underbelly of Miami's unseen drug pushers and pimps. At F.E.A.R. Enterprises, she meets the wealthy and handsome Liam Firth, the architectural powerhouse behind F.E.A.R. Jessica's plans come undone when she discovers she is expected to pay a debt to protect her family and save her life. She has exactly seven days to come up with thousands of dollars before the drug lords of Miami come to collect. Desperate and scared she finds herself, in a twist of fate, on the doorstep of Madam Jolie's, a private BDSM club...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fanny Lee Savage
• Release date: Oct 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223010500

Book preview

2023

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2015-2023 © Fanny Lee Savage

2nd Edition Published by Fanny Lee Savage

2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

COVER DESIGN

By

Savage by Design

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Contents

CONTENT WARNING

NOTE TO READERS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Chapter One

PART 1

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

PART 2

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

PART 3

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

PART 4

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

About the Author

OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

CONTENT WARNING

This book covers many subject matters that some may find distressing. Subjects discussed/depicted in this book include physical violence, abuse, ch*ld abuse/neglect, and prostitution. SA is mentioned and discussed, not portrayed. Su*cide is discussed not portrayed. Drug addiction and alcohol abuse are topics that are discussed and portrayed.

BDSM Elements Portrayed:

Mild degradation

Sp*nking

Rope Play/Shibari

Ravishing/NonCon

Bondage

Discipline

Lingerie kink

––––––––

Explicit sexual content.

This story involves trafficking. 

18+

Please read with caution.

NOTE TO READERS

This series is a work of fiction. These books do not represent an actual Dom/sub relationship or any clubs pertaining to the lifestyle, nor are they meant to. This story exists in a pretend world with pretend drama. While research was done to represent the lifestyle in a respectful way, many liberties were taken to propel the story forward.

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One

DAY SEVEN

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My mother once told me, Never trust a man who can dance. As I read over the catalog I found on the wooden coffee table in the waiting room outside the office of F.E.A.R. Enterprises, I wonder, does this rule apply to all men? Or just men who are already too good-looking, wealthy, and accomplished in this otherwise shitty world?

This little lesson my mother told me comes to mind as I thumb through the bio of the founder of F.E.A.R. Printed in black ink on shiny gray paper, the brochure states: Mr. Firth likes to tango, fish, and conquer the entire world of architectural design with his partners, Ellis, Adams, and Rockwell. Hence the F.E.A.R. logo.

Actually, that’s not what it says, but it might as well.

What it reads is this: Liam Firth is a master sportsman (insert picture of him fishing) and went to Julliard (which made me think of dance) before he transferred out to California to attend the Academy of Art University, where he received his degree, and then started F.E.A.R. Enterprises.

The man comes from money. He was bred in it, bathed in it, and used his trust fund to start his business after moving back to Florida.

If I wasn’t so nervous about why I was here, I’d probably be less biased, but I tend to get cynical and bitter when I’m anxious. My ever-wise mother says it’s because if I’m negative about something, I won’t be disappointed with the outcome. Sometimes the woman is spot on. It’s a shame she never went into psychology and that her brilliant flashes into the human mind only come about when she’s high. Her favorite past-time consists of sipping from her box of convenience store wine and barely holding on to her long cigarette as she spits out weirdly deep insights. Usually, these profound thoughts come after she’s gotten home from her night at Benny’s Bunny House.

My bottle-blonde, forty-two-year-old mother is a washed-out stripper with a drug problem. It’s no wonder I’m a Negative Nelly, and I’m so jumpy all the time. And I’ve never been as nervous as I am right now. Well, that’s not true. I’ve been gut-twisting, butterflies in my stomach, making me want to puke, nervous before, just never about anything as important as this. I’ve worked my ass off to get here, sitting in this sterile waiting room, with the blonde Barbie receptionist eyeing me under her black lashes.

I paid my way through school with a scholarship, working hard and getting good grades, and altogether avoiding the men who came to our house after hours. The slimy ones who take my mother to her bedroom for a nightcap and a few extra bucks, or another line, or whatever she can get her hands on. I finished school at the community college three months ago, and I’ll be damned if the background check they ran will make me lose this opportunity. The woman who birthed me has already taken enough, including my childhood, and what I’m sure would have developed into a great personality had I been given half the chance.

It’s not just a desire to raise myself up to higher society, I want to dig myself out of becoming another statistic. All odds are against me. I’m poor. Birthed by a single mother. Now throw in some daddy issues and other problems that plague my relationships with men. Issues that stem from slimy hands attached to perv-y men. I learned early on to lock my door and keep a bat just in case another man comes looking for my mom and finds my room instead. It was bad enough to put me off men for my all of twenty-two years on this earth.

Despite my nerves and the odds stacked against me, I’m here because I don’t want to be my mother, and I need the money. Bad. As in, I now have a debt that isn’t my own, but is now mine because I’m related, kind of bad. My mommy dearest got herself into some mess and now owes the biggest drug dealer in Florida a huge load of cash. Thirty-thousand large, to be exact.

Mr. Firth is ready to see you, Ms... Barbie lets her voice trail off and looks down at her receptionist notepad. Caughlin. Jessica Caughlin.

Here we go.

Standing, I run my hands down the gray pencil skirt and black blazer I bought yesterday morning at the thrift store near the trailer park. Then, I adjust the satin, cost-me-too-much-money, blue blouse I found as well. Fluffing my dirty blonde hair around my shoulders to add body, I finally give up and turn my head side to side, trying to ease the knots in my back.

I wanted to appear professional. Put together like I know what I’m doing. Because I know what I’m doing. I may not have an Ivy League education, but I’ve got an eye for architecture, and anyone who looks at my designs knows it. Mr. F.E.A.R. saw it, I’m sure, and that’s why he and his partners overlooked my address, the small misdemeanor on my record, and gave me a shot.

This is what I tell myself as I pick up my portfolio and walk with a straight as an arrow back to the office door. It’s frosted glass set in polished wood, like everything else in this building. Ms. Barbie comes around and knocks, then swings the door open.

First impressions are the most important.

I walk, making sure I look like I’m gliding into the office, but stop when I see no one is here to watch my grand show. The office is air-conditioned to the point a penguin would be happy in here, and completely and utterly white. The only color is gray, and gray is not even a color. It is a muted tone, refusing to be light or dark, black or white. The shady gray in this room is either in the form of a carpet, like the one under Firth’s metal desk. It’s on the metal legs of chairs, and a lighter shiny gray in the weird industrial sculptures that sit off to the side. It says a lot about a man whose favorite color is gray. The man might as well be wearing a sign on his head announcing he’s got commitment issues. And, secrets.

Have a seat and Mr. Firth will be in to see you shortly. Barbie points to a white chair in front of the desk and disappears back into the waiting room.

I sit as commanded and cross my legs, then uncross them. Don’t want to appear too sexual and make him think about where I’m coming from. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my upbringing, it’s more I wish I weren’t such a cliché. Like if only my mom were just a stripper. A hot, well-rounded one. Or she was a druggie. Pick one, not both; don’t be so trailer trash typical.

I cross my ankles, tuck my feet under the chair, placing my hands on my lap and grip my leather-bound portfolio. It looks like it’s back to waiting, so I take the time to inspect Mr. Firth’s office. You can tell a lot from a man’s office. I learned this from strung-out-psychology-one-oh-one.

Firth’s desk is completely metal, but it looks like it used to be some kind of long carrying cart. There are large wheels attached to the crossed legs. His desk chair is a plush leather, which means he spends a lot of time in it and goes for comfort rather than a sleek and stylish look. The tall standing lamp hanging over his desk consists of a metal tripod holding up a long shabby pole, and from that, a modern cone light. It looks like someone grabbed the legs off an old-time camera stand, snatched a piece of pipe, and attached a light to it.

Actually, that’s exactly what it is.

I’ve never seen anything so cleverly designed and get up to inspect it closer. My eyes catch the metal art placed on white stands around the room, and I walk towards the sculptures. They are made of rebar and bent metal pipes, with brass rivets holding the pieces together. The artist took pieces of metal building materials and welded them together.

Do you like them?

A smooth, masculine voice comes from behind me, like taking a gulp of expensive whisky, right from the bottle, it burns through me. My skin prickles as if an electric current is jolting through the room. The sensation makes me heady and I take a deep breath before turning.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. Liam Firth is incredibly handsome. I’ve seen his pictures online from when I was putting in my application for the job, but they don’t do him justice. Mr. Firth is not just good-looking, he’s staring-into-the-sun, burn-you-alive, hot. His tousled brown hair shines gold in the halogen lights of the office, and he keeps it a bit too long. A strong jaw and model cheekbones are put together with a sultry mouth. He’s much taller than my barely five foot, five inches. His white button-up shirt looks cotton—not what I was expecting—and he’s poured himself into a pair of jeans. Nice jeans. They hug all his male parts to perfection. He’s got his hands shoved into the pockets, giving an air of authoritative arrogance. I glance at his feet. Loafers. His entire outfit looks like he stepped off his yacht, where he was doing a magazine shoot, and hopped on his helicopter to fly here when he remembered we had this interview.

The sculpture style is called Industrial Chic, he says.

I realize I haven’t spoken, and I’m doing it again—being negative. I offer my hand, looking back up to his face, my cheeks heating since I was obviously checking him out. Jessica Caughlin.

Firth holds my eyes, the light color scorching through me, making it feel like I’m not getting enough air.

My eyes are blue. Not sparkling, ocean blue. Just blue. His are sepia. Not light brown, but a vintage bronze, sparkling with mysteries.

My lashes flutter, and I realize I’m staring. I squeeze my eyes shut and reopen them, forcing a smile.

The pictures online don’t do him justice at all.

He pulls a tanned hand from his pocket and grips mine. I glance down at his strong fingers wrapping around my hand with a solid grasp. Sadly, there are no sparks. Music doesn’t fade in from offscreen, and I don’t swoon. Well, yeah, I swoon, but not to where he notices. I hope.

It’s lovely to meet you, Ms. Caughlin. Please sit. Firth gestures to the white chair in front of his desk and takes the one next to me.

Some people think this tactic gives a more personal feel for an interview. Like we’re just two people who are going to talk. Have a conversation as if I’m not trying to convince this bazillionaire I’m the very best person to assist his assistant for the only paid internship the company offers in this division. Like my good grades are enough to overshadow my community college degree. Never mind I barely have any CAD experience. If he finds me suitable, then and only then, I have to convince his assistant I’m the right woman for the job.

Firth nods to the leather portfolio in my lap. I was impressed by your building designs, Ms. Caughlin. You have an eye for detail.

I smile because I do and start to thank him, but he holds his hand up, stopping me.

Let us cut to the chase, he says. F.E.A.R. Enterprises is my life. I’ve built this company from the ground up, and I, along with the three other C.E.O.s, oversee all major decisions, all finances, and aspects of this business. I choose who will be placed and where they will be put in my division.

Jesus. Control freak. Yet, oddly, he doesn’t give the air of one. He’s a bit arrogant, and he’s definitely the boss, but he’s soothing too. He doesn’t make me uncomfortable—exactly the opposite. I could be talking to anyone: a schoolteacher, a principal, a father, a brother, a sexy C.E.O.

While your portfolio has some fascinating ideas, you have little qualifications.

I open my mouth, but he holds up his hand again.

Qualifications which include things such as extensive knowledge of CAD. The latest 3D rendering and design. In this area, I’m afraid you are weak.

I blink. Wow. He really doesn’t mess around.

I need someone who wants to learn and will do whatever it takes to ensure they are learning my way. Not what they were taught in school, but what I will teach you.

I smile, knowing he’s not through, but wanting him to understand that I get it and agree with whatever the hell he says. He can have my firstborn if it gives me this job.

Ms. Caughlin, I like your work. I suspect you will be able to follow my lead, learn quickly, and ask questions, yet only when you truly need assistance, and not try to wash over the fact you weren’t paying attention.

I nod again.

You will work directly with my assistant, but at the beginning, with me. His eyes slide from my face, over my suit, and stop at my modest pumps. I try not to squirm, never having a potential boss openly check me out before. This way, I know you can hold responsibility.

It seems all I’m going to do is nod, since the way his eyes roamed over me has stolen my voice.

Firth rises from the chair and moves behind his desk, then shoves a folder in my direction. He shoves his hands in those tight jeans, and my eyes fall, of course—because I’m a complete degenerate—right to his zipper. This is the latest design for the hospital wing at Regional. Find the error.

I don’t nod. Instead, I blink and glance back at his face. His brows quirk up, waiting for me to move. This is the weirdest interview I’ve ever had. Not that I’ve had many. Pulling myself up from the chair, I stand over the open file, my skin prickling as he watches and waits.

Get a grip, Jess, I tell myself and focus on the file in front of me. The blueprints are small, legal-sized, and not very detailed. It looks like the new wing won’t be big or hold patient rooms, only offices and a large conference room. Clean lines, simplistic, no fluff. Right away, I see the problem. I see two, but he said only one.

The most obvious design flaw for a wing of offices is the entrance leads in from the E.R. That’s poor planning. I point to the sheet. Your entry needs to be moved to the other side, to the front of the addition, and a second entrance for conference room attendees should be added here.

Yes. Firth pulls the folder away, but I smack my hand down on top of the file, stopping him. Firth pauses, and his dark brown brows knit together, those intensely light eyes sliding from my hand up my arm to my face.

Fuck. The man is gorgeous.

I bite my lip, steeling myself against his penetrating gaze. His eyes dart to my mouth and I swear he breathes out a little too heavily.

You have a problem here. I point to the routing of the inner rooms and drop my gaze back to the blueprints. You should move the location of the conference room to the last on the wing. Its current location could pose a safety hazard. That and the view will suck. It says here the windows, which will be twelve feet high, will face the E.R. main entrance.

I glance up and see he’s not looking at the paper, but at me. Actually, he’s looking at my chest. Technically, the small opening in the top of my shirt where my modest cleavage peeks out. It’s cold as a witch’s tit in here, and my nipples are hard from the blast of the A.C. coming from behind me. At first, I’m not sure if I should be insulted or flattered that this hot man is checking me out, but he doesn’t look away, and I slide towards mildly uncomfortable mixed with excitement.

I like what I see, Ms. Caughlin. Firth moves his eyes up to my face, and he walks around the desk to stand next to me. My cheeks flush. You have two weeks to get your personal life in order, putting in notices at your current place of employment. I expect your full attention after that.

Wait, I got the job?

We work late hours, often well into the night and the next day. Weekends are for your personal life, but I expect a certain level of decorum since you represent my company.

You mean I got the internship? I ask, half leaning on his metal desk for support.

Yes, Ms. Caughlin, you got the job.

I got the fucking job! I grin, all tension and nerves falling off me in chunks.

Do you have questions? Firth asks, and his lips turn up into a little comma.

He says no questions unless it directly helps my learning process. I glance down at his desk. I do have one.

He cocks an eyebrow. And what would that be?

Your desk. I tap the metal with my nail. What was it used for before you turned it into the utilitarian centerpiece of your office?

Firth, for whatever reason, seems to like this question. I can tell because his lips quirk up into a large grin. It is a gurney. It was used in the county morgue in the fifties.

Two

––––––––

My new boss likes creepy medical equipment, and old building materials turned into welded pieces of art. I tell my soon-to-be former boss, who’s surprisingly happy to be losing her best employee at the diner, that I’m leaving. She knows how hard I’ve worked and has given me a lot of slack the last few years when I’ve come in with bags under my eyes and spilling food on customers’ laps. My co-workers do the same, but they are suffering from hangovers, and not the I-crammed-too-much-schoolwork-into-one-night kind.

Two weeks’ notice is plenty of time to find a new waitress, she assures me, and I go back home to the shitty single wide, in an even crappier trailer park, just west of town. As I arrive at home, the sun is setting over downtown Miami, bathing the busy city in pale gold and salmon pink. I dread coming here, but since I’m saving every bit of money to pay my mother’s debt, I can’t afford to get my own place. If I did, I worry by the time I felt guilty enough to return to my mother’s for a visit, I’d be finding her corpse. Not that she is far off now.

In the dingy, smoke-filled living room, I find my mother sleeping on the tattered floral couch. A cigarette has slipped from her thin fingers and is melting another black spot into the brown carpeting. I don’t think the carpeting was always brown, or maybe it was. Maybe the trailer owners expected the stains and sorrow that bleed from the lost souls around this drug-riddled hell-park and brown carpet might hide the spots of despair.

I stub out the cigarette and cover her up with the knitted afghan that fell to the floor. As I lay the blanket up to her chin, mom’s bloodshot eyes pop open, and she gasps.

What are you doing? she slurs.

You fell asleep. I was covering you up.

Fat tears fill her red eyes, and a loud sob escapes, bathing me in cheap whiskey and stale smoke. God, she’s drunk. Barely seven in the evening, and she’s passed out. I don’t know why I keep expecting more from her. She’s never been a mom. More like my big, fucked-up sister, who I had to put to bed or hold her hair back when she was puking into the toilet.

Carrie is not the mom who waited for me at the bus stop, made breakfast, or asked how school was. That’s not fair of me. She tried a few times. She went to rehab. Granted it was court-ordered, but she did go to those nightly meetings a few times. Yet, she always fell right back down and picked up her old habits. They do die hard, most of the time killing the person before they can remove the cruel claws of addiction.

Anger scorches through me. I flick on the table lamp, and the gray, hazy room comes to focus. Mom puts her hands up, shielding her face, wincing in the dim light.

I got the job, I tell her. Not that she cares. Not about the internship itself, just the money I’ll bring in.

You did! Her hands fall, and she sits upright, suddenly alert.

Now, I’m the one gasping in horror. My irritation, falls to the floor, replaced with dread. Half her face is one giant blob of bruised blue, and a deep cut runs over her cheekbone.

Jesus Christ! I scream. What the fuck happened?

Mom winces, touching her cheek. I got paid a visit.

Chuck? I ask, though I know it was him. Bastard said we had four weeks to get the first half of the money, and then he’d take the rest in payments.

While on my shopping excursion yesterday, I secured a small personal loan at one of those shady banks for five thousand. I’ve got twenty-five hundred in savings that I was going to use for a car, so I’m up to seven and a half thousand, which leaves the two of us four weeks to get the rest. An additional seven thousand. I’d been hoping, in case I don’t have every dime, Chuck would be feeling generous when he came back. That hope fades as I look at my mom’s face.

Chuck is the collector for the biggest drug lord this side of the state, who my mother apparently owes money. I had the distinct feeling when Chuck first showed up to collect, he isn’t usually the generous type, but he has a soft spot for my mother. I’ve seen him come over a few times for a night cap.

Chuck hit you? I ask, fear and anger creating a storm of chaos inside me.

Mom shakes her head, and a big tear slides down her cheek. He had his friend do it. Said he doesn’t like hurting women.

This is escalating to well past scary. We’re falling into shark-infested waters. Why did he come by?

Chuck said his boss wants the money by next week. All of it. Tears slide down her bruised cheek as she begins to weep, but I can’t muster a single ounce of pity for her. Her addiction got us into this mess. Chuck said if we don’t have it, he’ll be forced to follow through with his previous threat.

Shit. His previous threat involved cutting, and I think he said disappearing, but I was so scared the last time he was here, I blanked out. Chuck showed up last week with his pit-bull friend and informed us of our options. They weren’t great options. Actually no options were presented. We either did as asked, or we didn’t, and he was going to sic his dead-eyed friend on us.

Rage bubbles up, making me want to scream. Here I’m trying to build myself up and out of this life, and she keeps dragging me down. I should leave her to her mess, but according to the drug mob ruling Miami, this is a family affair. We could take our seven thousand and run, but we’d just be tracked down. I see news reports about people who have been affiliated with Big Boss and his family. Bodies found in dumpsters. Husbands going missing. Everyone knows who is behind it, but even the police are so corrupt, they just turn a blind eye. Big Boss Jones runs this city.

He’s the well-built guy on the news with the over-the-top beautiful wife you can’t help but pity, and three kids, all daughters by some sick twist of fate because everyone knows Boss Jones hires whores and beats the shit outta them. There are rumors of sex trafficking that follow him as well, but the authorities turn another blind eye. Jones has the chiseled chin and dark eyes of movies stars of old, with a smile to match. He makes his appearances at city official dinners and galas with other shady types. Lawyers, bodyguards, and the press constantly surround him. The news people love Boss Jones because he’s dangerous and handsome. The city hates him but fears his power.

What are we supposed to do now? There is no way we can come up with that much cash with such short notice. Thirty thousand in the grand scheme isn’t an enormous amount, but it is when you grew up on bologna and plastic-wrapped cheese.

I can’t stand mom’s sobs anymore, every burst of her selfish anguish souring my stomach, so I grab my purse and head out the door. Outside, the urban decay of a big city in the throes of an economic depression creep down on me. A baby howls from some dilapidated trailer nearby, and I try to block it out. The poor soul has no chance. None of us do. Every family trapped in this place, is just another statistic, and mom and I will end up being one of those bodies found on the news if we don’t pay up.

I catch the bus and head to my usual haunt. Gypsy’s is a hole-in-the-wall cafe with wicked baklava. It’s not just the great food I’m looking for; it’s my partner in crime’s workplace.

The flickering neon sign outside Gypsy’s tells me they are still open and will be until midnight. It’s the only place that dares to stay open this late on this side of town. Inside, the black walls absorb the fluorescent light and wash out the few patrons eating dessert and drinking coffee. The owner had the locals come in and graffiti the one stone wall at the back, so vivid bursts of color are the only respite in the otherwise monochromatic space.

I pass by the woman who comes to this place every Thursday night and give her a smile. She has sat in the front window for the last six months, eating a piece of pie and drinking sparkling water until exactly nine p.m. when a huge black sedan comes to collect her. Then she leaves, transforming what one thought was a mere mousy woman, into a smoking hot vixen, complete with a hip sway and stiletto heels, tossing the regular woman sitting in a coffeehouse aside.

My friend, Ginny, my rock and only solid mass in this otherwise ever-changing and overbearing world, stands at the counter watching Ms. Pie. We’ve decided this past Wednesday, the sparkling water drinker is a prostitute and a high-class one at that. She has to be. We can’t come up with another explanation.

Who do you think comes to get her? Ginny whispers as I sit at the counter. No hellos, no how’d the interview go? Straight back to what we were discussing last night.

Ginny loves a mystery. She’s a regular private eye and knows everything about the people who come to this place. If they don’t tell her themselves, falling into the warmth of Ginny’s hazel eyes and wavy black hair, she takes to the internet to get more information.

All it takes is a name, which she memorizes when she slides their credit card through the machine. I have always told Gin she should have gone into the police force or to school to become a PI, or whatever it takes, but she says she’s content people watching. It’s a lie I let her get away with.

I glance back at Ms. Pie and shrug, Her pimp?

Just because she gets picked up doesn’t mean she’s a prostitute. That’s just plain rude to jump to conclusions, Ginny scolds like I was the one solely responsible for our gossiping.

Because sitting here whispering about her isn’t?

Ginny makes a face and rolls her eyes. We should just ask her.

Now that’d be rude, I huff. Going up and asking, ‘Hey lady, are you a woman of the night?’ Yeah, Gin, that’s not rude at all.

I don’t mean like that. Ginny rolls her eyes again. I mean starting a conversation. She always pays cash, never talks to anyone, and I can’t get a thing out of—

Ginny’s eyes grow wide, and she clamps her mouth shut. I turn in my seat and see Ms. Pie headed for us. It’s not the seductive walk she uses when her ride comes; it’s just a regular run-of-the-mill woman walk.

Shit.

She must be sick of hearing us whisper about her. The woman stops just a few inches from me and holds her hand out. Up close, I see she’s extremely well put together. Manicured nails on smooth hands, hinting no real hard work. Flawless skin over a well-toned body. No big boobs or bleached hair, and very little makeup covers her feminine features. She’s all-natural and stunning.

I think it’s time I introduced myself formally, she says. I’m Lena.

Ginny and I are both so stunned we stare at her blankly. Then, shaking myself out of my shock, I grip her hand. Jessica, friends call me Jess.

Lena smiles, Hello, Jess. It’s nice to meet you. Let’s stay in touch. She walks out, and the door jingles behind her. A second later, the black sedan pulls up, and Lena’s gone.

I look down and see she’s slipped a small black card in my hand. Gin leans in to inspect it with me as I flip it over. There is no website, no numbers, only a name, Madam Jolie, in fancy script next to a pair of high heels.

I knew it! Gin exclaims.

That doesn’t mean anything, I tell her, but Ginny is already digging her smartphone from her pocket and punching in the name on the card.

After a few minutes, she holds it up for me to see. A black webpage, with the same name and heels, looks back at me, along with a button to confirm you are, in fact, eighteen and up. I hit the screen, dying to know what the page is though I have a feeling it’s a porno site.

The screen changes, telling me if I want full access and all services available, I’ll have to become a club member. This page fades after a minute, and the home page comes up.

Madam Jolie’s Escort Service. Not what I was expecting.

Everyone on the face of the earth knows what an escort service is. They slide through the legal formalities by stating their dating service is strictly for dates. Men and women with too much money and not enough personal time, who want a night of passion with a skilled stranger.

I grab the phone and continue further into the site. From what I gather, it is a made-to-order service. You can pick and choose exactly what you want for your date. Which region of the country they stem from, if they have an accent, pretend an accent, or speak another language. Education level, hair color, eye color, name it, and you can have it for the night.

Your very own dream date, I say, pointing to the slogan. Custom ordered.

There is no pricing on the website, but it states you can have a lovely night out with a trained date-professional for as little as five thousand for a four-hour date. I choke and reread. Five thousand for four hours? That’s a third of what mom owes in two dates.

I check the time again; just past nine. I send the link to myself and hand Gin her phone back. Two thousand for a special date. It does state just a date, but again, everyone knows what an escort service is a cover for—high-class sex. I can’t sell sex. I’m a damned virgin.

But, today, landing that job with barely opening my mouth, I can impress. Maybe they actually don’t require sex—only one way to find out. I pocket the card and push up from the counter.

Where are you going? Gin asks as I grab my purse.

Have some research to do, I tell her and lean over the counter to hug her.

About that place? she asks with wide eyes.

Um, yeah, I need money and fast. I lean in and look around, making sure the guy in the back of the place isn’t paying attention. Chuck paid mom a visit while I was at work. All of it by Friday.

Gin’s eyes grow. That’s impossible.

I tap my pocket where I shoved the card. Maybe not.

Three

––––––––

I call the number I found on the site and tell the lady who answers that Lena gave me their card. After a moment, I’m transferred to another woman with a thick southern drawl who asks what Lena said when she gave me the card. I tell the southern voice, and I am transferred yet again.

Madam Jolie’s House, a sweet female says.

I was given your card, I say, not sure what else I’m supposed to include. All I really want to know is: Where do I put in my application?

Yes, the voice says and then gives me an address. Do you have it written down, Ms. Caughlin?

I stutter because I never gave my name. Yes.

Please make sure you arrive by ten-thirty sharp. The line is disconnected.

Madam Jolie’s is located just outside of downtown Miami. Tucked neatly between a modern high-rise and a concrete bank, the old brownstone building looks nothing like what you’d expect from an Escort Service. Instead, it looks more like an old lawyer’s office.

I’m still in my attire from my interview with Mr. Firth this morning. God, was it only this morning? Amazing how life can change in just a few hours. I’ve gone from landing the job of my dreams to sitting in a brothel.

Everything in the waiting room is black, except for the red lounge chairs and black acrylic shiny tables holding vintage lamps with red shades. A black velvet damask pattern overs the walls. Exactly what I’d expect.

Madam Jolie is ready.

Glancing up from the magazine in my lap, my eyes land on a pretty woman wearing a red pants suit and red heels. Her curly blonde hair frames a delicate face, and I’m noticing a trend. All-natural, no-frills beauty. Placing the magazine down, I slowly stand, my stomach fluttering uncomfortably.

I’m just here for information.

Ms. Pantsuit guides me into a long hall with dark wood floors, metal fronted doors lining the blood red walls. We walk to the very last one, where she knocks and then opens it for me. Behind the door is a black office, and by black, I mean everything is black. The silky shag area rugs, velvet sofas, vintage desk, and onyx mirror hung over a small table. Even the fancy Victorian lampshades and antique phone.

A small woman with silver hair sits behind the black desk and looks up with inquisitive, but kind, eyes as I enter. From the intense black stare, I’m taking a guess that she is Madam Jolie, whose name is splashed over the website. She stands, and I see the same pantsuit, but in sleek black. Ms. Jolie gestures to the sofa for me to sit, but not offering her hand.

Lena gave you my card. It’s not a question. The woman’s eyes glide over my outfit, and then she moves from behind her desk to stand in front of me. Her silver hair is kept long and styled in tight pin curls, and her creamy skin shows barely any wrinkles. It’s hard to guess her age—she could be anywhere from her forties to her late fifties. Ms. Jolie is a petite woman but has an intense air about her. Lena has an excellent eye. With some work, you’ll be stunning.

With some work? Lena has a good eye? What? Is she a scout for your brothel?

This makes the Madam smile. It spreads out warmly, friendly rather than condescending. Lena is my best employee. When she sees another woman that she thinks I can help, and in turn, help my business, she passes the word along.

I’m not sure what to say, so I remain quiet. Apparently, I give off some kind of scent, telling other women I’d do well working for an escort service.

Lena called and said she found a woman who may need my help, and she gave you my card, Madam Jolie clarifies.

How do you know I need help?

Lena gave you my card an hour and a half ago, Ms. Caughlin, she says, leaning back on her desk. You’re in my office with scared doe eyes and a cheap rumpled suit. I’m going to guess whatever trouble you are in requires an immediate fix.

The woman has a good eye. Even though she insulted my fresh off the thrift store rack outfit, I like her.

So, I believe I may be able to help you. Madam Jolie sits behind her desk again and steeples her fingers. My business is centered on gratification. Not sexual, but emotional.

You run an escort service.

She nods. Yes. Specializing in providing a dream date for wealthy men and women.

Everyone knows what an escort service is, I tell her.

This part of my company is in the business of fulfilling fantasies, Ms. Caughlin, Madam says. Madam Jolie’s Escort Service deals strictly with those who seek company for a few hours a night. Whether my customers need an artist who can speak Japanese, a svelte well-spoken date to make colleagues envious, or a simple southern girl who can hold a conversation and act like she genuinely cares about her date’s life problems. No sexual contact is permitted.

So, you really just hire women out for dates? I ask in disbelief.

Yes, though I’m not saying sexual acts have not occurred after their date is over, Madam says, but my girls understand this company abides by strict rules. Should they find their dates attractive, they are welcome to see them outside of the contract they have entered.

Still not sure what to say, I just give her another nod. All this is so out of my element.

I take you have come here to seek employment, Ms. Caughlin.

Yes, Madam.

Women come to me with the belief they will start immediately, go on dates, and the money will start pouring in. Unfortunately, that is not the way it works.

Shit. That is exactly what I thought.

All of my employees go through two weeks of training before I send them out.

Two weeks? The muscles in my back tighten, and I grip my skirt. I don’t have two weeks.

Madam raises a groomed eyebrow. You are a lovely young woman, Ms. Caughlin, but you require some tidying up.

What the hell does that mean?

Grooming, both in your appearance, and we would need to smooth out your rather abrasive nature. That smooth grin plays on her lips. I take care of my girls. You will be cleaned up, dressed appropriately, and during the two-week training period, we will determine your best attributes and how to apply them to appeal to men.

Train me on how to put on a show, I say dryly.

Precisely.

Sagging back on the sofa, I feel my body deflate. This will not work. I don’t have two weeks, and besides, my actual job starts in two weeks. I was hoping to get this over with, get the money mom needs, and continue with my big plans for rescuing myself from this hellish life.

I see you are dismayed at the idea of waiting for an income. Madam pulls a manila file out and scans its contents. How much money do you need, and how quickly?

This woman is very perceptive. My eyes dart away. I have one week to come up with another twenty-two thousand dollars.

Madam looks at the file again. I take it this is not your debt. There is nothing here which states you have a drug or gambling problem. On the contrary, you have a decent education. Would this debt belong to— she glances down, Carrie Caughlin, your mother, who is employed by a Mr. Benny?

What the hell are you looking at? I shoot up from the sofa. What do you have in that file?

A brief history, Ms. Caughlin. Madam points for me to sit again. I only had an hour and a half, so a complete bio I have yet to obtain.

How did you get all that? I ask.

I have friends. We exchange favors. The smile is condescending this time. Now, sit down. I can help you.

I sink back into the sofa. If I was smart, I’d take off and never come back. This woman obviously has powerful connections, but I’m here, and I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to do. How can you help?

Have you heard of Madam Jolie’s Playroom?

No.

It is an exclusive club for those who have particular tastes. As with my escort service, I do an extensive background check, including looking into personal lives to ensure no one is hiding a marriage, a drug, or alcohol problem. I don’t like cheaters. And we don’t tolerate substance abuse. All my members are high profile and grant my wishes, along with high fees, and in turn, they get my silence.

What tastes?

Sexual.

And here it is. I knew just platonic dates wasn’t the entire story.

The girls who hold shares in the club come here to learn and then partake with the men and women who join our organization. Madam digs in her desk drawer and pulls out a card. Come by the club tomorrow evening, and I’ll show you around.

What kind of club is this?

A fetish club, she says. But don’t worry. I don’t allow any violent acts. I give all my girls a private room for their partners unless they are exhibitionists.

I’m not into weird stuff, Madam Jolie, I tell her.

Have you experimented?

Uh, no.

Then how do you know?

I don’t. Isn’t paying someone to work in a fetish place in exchange for performing sexual acts similar to prostitution? I mean, the guys pay for sex.

No. Only a very select few pay for a membership to the club. The women in the club choose what acts they perform and who with. They don’t get paid for their services, Ms. Caughlin. They become shareholders.

So that’s how you get around the whole prostitution part.

Madam leans back in her chair. Prostitution is a dirty word. I don’t like it. Women throughout time have used sex to secure their future. Fathers collected dowry’s for their daughters, women have agreed to marriage, exchanging sex and providing children, so they are taken care of.

You sound like you’re justifying.

Maybe I am, Madam says. Maybe I’m merely taking advantage of an already corrupt world and giving the power back where it should be. In the hands of women who own their bodies and their sexuality. Why not give them a place to explore? Where they will be safe, and while they are at it, gain financial security? Besides, Ms. Caughlin, our members are very high profile and pay for our silence. They expect a high standard club with owners and other members who share these interests.

Pushing up from the seat, I shake my head, ready to leave. I appreciate the offer, but I’m not right for this.

Not right or unwilling to learn?

That rankles me. I’ve worked too hard for someone to judge me as lazy or unwilling. I will not have sex for money.

I’m not asking you to. Many of these acts don’t require sex, though it can be a part of the experience. You said twenty-two thousand by next Friday?

Pausing at the door, I turn to face her. Yes.

What if I said I can almost guarantee you will earn that money in my club?

In one week?

Shares are paid monthly, but I have a good feeling about you.

With a huff, I shake my head in disbelief. I’m not able to work in your club, Madam. I’m not qualified.

You have an excellent body, though it’s hidden under cheap clothes, a beautiful face, a vagina, and breasts. I’d say you are very qualified.

No. I sigh and sag into the door. I mean sexually.

You will be trained, Ms. Caughlin. That is what you do not understand. I have exclusive members who enjoy teaching new shareholders, and they pay an extra fee and provide their new subs with the equipment and toys they will need. I have a feeling the Four would like you very much.

I can’t.

Can’t or won’t?

Can’t, like physically, can’t.

Madam’s eyebrows knit. She looks at the file on her glossy desk that contains my entire life. I saw nothing indicating you cannot perform. From what I understand, you have a clean bill of health, though I’ll have to have you screened, of course.

I just can’t, I say.

Tell you what. Madam rises from her seat and walks towards me, to grip my forearms. Come by the club tomorrow evening, and I’ll show you around. You will see what we offer, and I have a feeling you will like what you see.

I nod because now I’m addicted to nodding. We’ll see.

Don’t disappoint me by not showing, Ms. Caughlin. She grins. Jess, may I call you Jess?

I take her outstretched hand and nod again. Yes, Madam.

Jess, I have a radar for detecting good people and see great strength in you, she says. Promise me you’ll come to the club tomorrow. That’s all I ask.

Warmth radiates from her, seeping into my chest, and I know I’m probably going to regret this. Alright. I’ll just look around.

Four

––––––––

In high school, it was typical for teenagers to share stories of how they snuck out and back in. I never had this problem. It would have been amazing if my mother had ever asked where I was going or where I was coming from. Now I’m an adult. She doesn’t have to anymore, but a smidgen of concern would have been nice. Hell, I think the only time she ever seemed concerned about anything other than where her next fix was coming from was in that brief and full of false hope period when my mother attempted sobriety.

Back at the dingy trailer, mom has moved into her bedroom, but I don’t hear noises. Her face must have kept her home this evening. The scum who go to Benny’s don’t care about a few bruises or track marks. But they get uncomfortable—the semi-decent ones anyway—if their strippers look like they’ve just fallen off the back of a meat truck.

In my room, I flop on my bed and flip open my laptop. The very first internet search result for What is a fetish club? is a Wiki with the answer, including links to explicit descriptions of the acts often found in these locations.

BDSM.

My gut churns.

Nope. Not for me.

I scroll through the pages, staying on the PG-13 explanation of what happens in these clubs—my mouth open and gasping the further I go. Madam Jolie has invited me to tour not just a sex fetish club but, from the looks of it, a dungeon. Why, in the name of anything sacred, would this woman think I’d like this? And why, in the name of anything else, did this Lena think I would?

My first instinct is to call Gin, but then I put my phone down. She would flip out and not just flip; she’d go nuts. An over-the-edge aerobics flip the fuck out. That and she’d try to go with me tomorrow. No, thank you. Some things I don’t want to see, even with my BFF.

Although, maybe I should bring a friend or at least tell her in case some guy sees me, follows me home, and steals me to lock in his sex cage. Then, if I tell her, she’ll know where to point at the police if I go missing.

That isn’t fair to me. Madam was well put together, unlike the stereotype in my head. She was polite and very professional. She also said the people who are members are high profile. My God. I wonder if it’s the mayor? No, she said she doesn’t allow married people unless maybe his wife is into it.

I slam the laptop closed, feeling slightly ill from the amount of strange devices and positions some of these people were in. My quick search gave me enough information to grasp what Madam does. There are Doms and Dommes who have subs who then allow their Doms to perform various acts. I stopped reading at the blindfolding and whipping. I don’t do blindfolds—too many unpleasant memories I’ve tried to keep hidden—and whipping has never made it into my little bathtub fantasies.

It’s late, past one in the morning, as I call Ginny, but I’m not sleeping soon, and I doubt she will be.

She answers on the first ring. Well? she asks, her voice shrill. I pull the phone away from my ear. What took so long?

It is a dating service, I tell her with a wince. Just like the site says, but no outright sex, and it takes two weeks before you can start making money.

Damn it.

My sentiments exactly.

Do you think that woman heard us talking about the money your mom owes?

I nod, as if she can see me. Yeah, I do. The Madam says she has girls watch for women who need help.

Are you fucking serious? Gin asks. Did you just call her the Madam?

That’s her name.

And ‘her girls?’ Madam sounds like a pimp.

My eyes roll up to the ceiling. She was very nice.

"Most psychopaths appear that