TURNED OUT, THE hardest part about getting a job at Hollywood Dreams was finding it. But once I located the nondescript glass front door and pulled it open, I knew I was in the right place, because I’d seen it before. This was the same door in the blurred photo I’d found in the suitcase at the bottom of Peyton’s closet. Whoever the man was who had been in that photo, he’d been entering here. I got goose bumps following in his steps. What if that man had been Peyton’s attacker?
The door opened onto a staircase—just as unremarkable as the door—and I climbed it slowly. I felt so uncomfortable in my hastily bought outfit—a stretch royal-blue dress a size too small, so tight and short it felt like I was wearing nothing at all. I wobbled on six-inch sequined heels. I was all legs and boobs and pissed-off awkwardness. Whatever connection Peyton and I might have had, this was not it. I would have made the worst call girl ever.
I tried to imagine what Dru would think if he saw me dressed like this. Or even better, Jones. Jones would probably have a heart attack and die.
I tried not to imagine how on earth I would defend myself in something so uncomfortable. My only solace was that one of my heels would jab out an eyeball nicely. Gunner would have been proud of that line of thinking. That knowledge made me more comfortable.
At the top of the stairs was yet another ordinary door—this one wooden with mailbox number stickers adhered to the front. I tried the knob. It was locked. I knocked, wiped my sweaty palms along the (not long enough) length of my dress. I considered turning around and leaving, thinking of another way to get the information that I needed. I had to bite my lip hard and remind myself that nothing was ever going to get anywhere near an actual transaction just to get myself to stay there. I would bolt if anything weird happened. I would punch and then I would run. And this blue dress was as naked as I was going to get, period.
After some time, there were footsteps, and then the door opened. A statuesque girl with doll eyes and perfect skin stood on the other side. She wore a simple black tunic and impossibly clingy jeans, the cuffs rolled to reveal a towering pair of cork wedges. Her long red hair swished over one eye seductively. When she moved, I could see a scar that had cut a line through her eyebrow.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a voice I recognized as the voice that had answered the phone when I’d called earlier that day.
“I think I talked to you,” I said. “I’m Nikki.”
She stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Yep, come on in. I’m Brigitte.” I followed her down a short hallway into a perfectly plain reception area—a pockmarked wooden desk, a basic computer, a printer, a coffeemaker on top of a scratched file cabinet. This was anything but Hollywood. Or dreamy. “Actually, I’m Sarah,” she said over her shoulder. She motioned toward a chair and I sat. “But the boss likes us to have special names. Something sexy or mysterious or playful, you know. Brigitte, Celestia, Cinnamon. The clients are in it for the fantasy—they don’t want to be with a plain Jane girl, even if that’s who we really are off the clock.” She flashed a smile that was anything but plain Jane. I pondered anyone accusing Peyton or Luna of being plain Janes. I couldn’t get there. “So, Nikki Kill, is that what you said your name was?” She opened a file with one sheet of notebook paper in it. I nodded, she made a note. “Almost good enough on its own, right? Maybe Killgirl or something super tough-sounding. You look the type.”
“I’m a type?” I asked, pulling the front of my dress up over my cleavage for the millionth time.
Brigitte assessed me, biting on her lower lip. One of her front teeth was slightly crooked, a flaw that somehow managed to make her even more gorgeous. “Definitely. Black fringe, thigh-high boots, bustier, the whole nine. I could see some of our clients going for the bad-girl vibe. You could really play it up. You know, when you’re alone. But I could see a lot of them wanting that innocent bad-girl thing. You know, the juxtaposition, like with a slutty librarian. That kind of thing.”
“Okay,” I said, although I had no idea what she was talking about. I could do the bad-girl vibe with no problem. But I had no intention of playing anything out while alone with a client. I still had yet to figure out how that was going to go.
Brigitte continued looking me over. She must have liked what she saw, because she finally gave a definitive nod. “Yeah, you’ll be popular. We just lost an escort whose image was sort of a punk rocker type. The guys loved her. Constantly calling for her. More requests than she could possibly take.”
I sat forward. “She quit?”
Brigitte wrote a few notes in my file. “Yeah,” she said absentmindedly. “Was too bad. She was one of our best. The boss had been grooming her for a while.”
“The boss?”
“Don’t worry, she’s not as intimidating as she sounds. Come here, I’ll show you her office. But she’s out today. She’s been out of town. And having some . . . family problems.”
She plucked a set of keys off a hook on the side of the file cabinet and I followed her down the hallway, past a modest kitchen and supply area, to a door at the other end. Brigitte opened it. It was like opening a portal to a whole other world. Thick pink carpet flowed across the floor, a shining ship of a desk taking up the back, flanked by bookcases filled with crystal figurines. A zebra-print chaise lounge took up one corner, next to a Tiffany floor lamp, which bathed the room in a comforting amber light. There was a night-and-day difference between this office and the one Brigitte occupied out front. Whoever this madam was, she definitely wanted to let the support staff know that she was in charge.
“Very nice,” I said.
“Yeah,” Brigitte said. “She doesn’t like the front office to be flashy, just in case the cops decide to be curious or something, but she likes her expensive things. And you’ll make money, too. Lots of it, so don’t worry about that.” She closed the door and locked it. “Anyway, she keeps it locked unless she’s here. She’s had some problems with . . . things . . . getting stolen lately.” She winked at me. “Pharmaceutical enhancements,” she whispered. “Some of our clients figure if they’re already tempting the law, they might as well get a good buzz off it.” We walked back to the front office and sat down. “It’s just me in here, anyway, and not very often. Only when someone like you is coming in. You probably won’t really see any of the other girls. Not usually, anyway, unless someone books a double or something, which hardly ever happens. Most clients don’t like anyone to know that they’re having to pay for it. They want all their friends to think they can get girls like us all on their own.” She laughed. I laughed along with her, but the sound wanted to get stuck in my throat. The reality of the situation—that I was now officially an escort—had started to set in. “So,” Brigitte said brightly, closing the file. “Any questions?”
I shifted in my seat. I had so many questions. My mind was swirling with them. But I reminded myself that I was there for Peyton. “The punk rock girl. What was her name?” Brigitte paused. “It might help me choose one,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “She called herself Rainbow.”
I already knew this, but it still felt like a victory to hear her say it. I didn’t know if I wanted to jump up out of my seat in triumph or if I wanted to cry.
“Do you have any, like, bodyguards?” I asked.
Brigitte smiled a knowing smile. “We have one—Rigo—but we don’t ever need him. Hollywood Dreams isn’t a place to pick up a cheap hooker, Nikki. The kind of guys who can afford us are usually a little more elevated than that.”
“Usually,” I repeated. Score one for Detective Martinez. I was guessing Rigo was short for Arrigo Basile, but that was one question I wasn’t going to ask. Guess Dru wasn’t the only one who was chummy with Arrigo. Peyton must have known him, too.
“There have been a couple of instances,” she said. She busied herself with gathering papers on her desk. “But let’s be honest. Women could be attacked anywhere.”
“That’s a pretty defeatist way of looking at it.”
Brigitte smiled at me again, but this time the smile had gone thin. “Realist,” she said. “Don’t worry. We will only set you up with regulars for a while, anyway. You won’t have any problems. In fact . . .” She thumbed through the papers she’d just gathered, pulled one out. “I have one for you tonight if you’d like to start right away. He was supposed to meet with Rainbow, but . . .” She handed me the slip of paper. “His name is Stefan. Of course, most of our clients use fake names, too. He’s been one of our regulars for years. Owns a dot-com, has a wife and three kids in the valley, but loves his Hollywood whores.” She laughed out loud. “He’s short, bald, kind of fat. You can imagine. Anyway, looks like this time he just wants some dinner and some company. Wouldn’t surprise me if dinner is room service. But don’t worry. Stefan is a real teddy bear. All our girls love him. You’ll have a good time.” She winked.
All our girls love him. “Perfect,” I said aloud. “I’m excited.”
“Great. Meet him tonight at eight in the hotel lobby. The address is right there on the paper. And what you’re wearing will be fine for tonight, but we will want to start thinking about getting you some other clothes. Unless you already own a lot of leather and stuff?”
I shook my head no.
“Well, after Stefan pays for tonight, you will definitely want to go shopping.”
Brigitte was all smiling teeth and encouragement now.
Little did she know, I had no intention of giving Stefan the opportunity to pay for anything, especially not anything I had to offer.