The Devil’s Pawn (2 page)

The moment he’s gone from the room, I right my body, close my legs, and clasp my hands in my lap in a pathetic attempt at modesty. With Mr. Grayson gone, ugly Aaron speaks to Derek first. “Don’t know why you’re pushing back so hard on this one. She’s gonna feel like a fucking vise grip when you fuck her.”

Derek returns the comment with his irritation and anger still showing. “Like I said, she doesn’t belong here. She’s a fucking virgin.”

“Well, if you do your damn job, by tomorrow, she won’t be, and not all men prefer experienced, voluptuous, loud sluts. Some of them actually like a docile whore.”

Derek bites back at that comment. “Yeah, the type of men who like to dominate women.”

Now it’s Aaron’s turn to retort. “Like you? Like every other man who walks through our doors. Is there suddenly something wrong with dominant men around here?”

In a voice just a bit too loud for the room, Derek responds, “The type of men that will be attracted to her are not the type of clients that we want. She’s too small, and she’s not the least bit feminine. She’s shy, she’s quiet … hell, she practically looks like a child. She will attract men that want to victimize and humiliate her. Our other women are bold, brazen, and slutty as hell. They are the very definition of a whore, and they can take care of themselves.” Nodding a disgruntled head in my direction, he adds in an even louder voice that borders on yelling, “She can’t!”

“Well then, I guess you’ll just have to do your job and look out for her.” This comes from the quiet man who hasn’t spoken a word yet and has been sitting benignly by watching the events unfold.

“I have better things to do with my time than babysit a child.” He gives me one more disgusted look and a shake of the head before leaving without another comment.

I’m left sitting naked in the room with ugly Aaron and quiet man. Ugly Aaron gives me one final appraising look before exiting the room. Quiet man decides now is the time to make his introduction. He is brown-haired, tall, and easy to look at. His eyes are soft and gentle, and his voice is calm and pleasant. The look in his eyes reassures me that he means me no harm. He hands me my folded clothing, asking me to dress.

As I take the clothes and start pulling them back on, so thankful for the security they bring, the man speaks. “My name is Frederick. Welcome to Trimbles, Ashton. I’d tell you Derek will warm up to you, but he doesn’t really do warm. But regardless of how he behaved today, you should breathe easy for the time being.” I watch and listen to Frederick as I hastily dress. “As you may have noticed, Derek and Grayson have a past … they don’t particularly like one another. In fact, it’s probably more than fair to say they despise one another. The reason behind that is of little consequence to you, and as you may have also gathered, Mr. Grayson absolutely used you to get at Derek. Derek wants nothing to do with you, and I’m sorry for that. He can be … difficult; but, for all of Mr. Grayson’s scheming, he failed to realize that he put you in exactly the place you need to be. You’re in good hands with Derek, even if that may be difficult to see. He’s fair, and he’ll look after you … whether he wants to or not.” He gives me one final nod before standing to exit. As he reaches the door, he turns to me once more. “You know, Derek’s right. You’ll attract attention. Whether it ends up being the right kind of attention remains to be seen. He might have been harsh in making that clear to you, but it’s a fact you need to understand.” And with that, he’s out the door.

* * * *

As I sit in the room alone waiting for whatever will happen next, I replay the events of the last week. Tumultuous and terrifying ordeals are not new to me at this point. When the men, thugs for all intents and purposes, caught up to me at the waitressing gig I had just landed a mere two weeks prior, I bolted out the back door. Don’t get me wrong, waitressing was not my forte, and within the first week alone, I’d managed to spill a drink in a man’s lap, forgot to turn in a customer’s order, and served countless people countless wrong meals. It was not my calling. So, perhaps I should have been happy to see the men, the mysterious strangers who always seem to catch me off guard when I least expect it. But I’m never happy to see them. They come with heavy fists and threats, and they are never a welcome sight.

Granted, being a lousy waitress wasn’t making me any decent money whatsoever. So, they were no doubt unhappy I couldn’t make the payments they so undeservedly expected me to pay for my father’s debt—as though it’s my fault my father gambled away every last cent he ever earned before becoming indebted to the tune of five million dollars plus. When our little meeting turned into a business proposition, I will admit I was shocked. Usually, our “meetings” turned into me being used as a punching bag for ten minutes or so, followed by me promising to try harder to make my payments, yada, yada, yada. Oddly though, this meeting was actually just that, and while it started with me kicking and screaming and them cramming me in the back of a car with overly darkened windows, it ended in a decidedly different manner—and I without a bruise on me. Well, that was a first.

The proposition was simple enough. I would become a gentlemen’s escort. I almost laughed at the idea, but fortunately managed to rein in my tongue, which does manage to get away from me at times. They were dead serious, and I was equally shocked. I’m not escort material. I’m five feet two when I’m not slouching, I’m pale, and I burn rather than tan, and while my skin is even and flawless, it looks childish and immature given my lack of cosmetic know-how. My best feature is my hair, and while other women look at it enviously, they have no idea what a nightmare natural ringlets can be. I keep my hair long, if for no other reason than it allows me to pull it back easily. My locks are auburn, and I ignore them as much as possible. We don’t get along, and when I pay too much attention to my oh-so-enviable curls, they tend to rebel, and I end up looking like a scarecrow. The rest of me is easy to miss. I have a slight build, which I think means not the least bit womanly whatsoever—at least according to my new boss. It shows in my small boobs—an A cup when I stick my chest out—my small hips, and the fact that I weigh barely over one hundred pounds after a big meal.

So, when Derek insulted me by telling me that I looked like a boy, he really was just telling me the same thing I’ve always known, and, quite frankly, have heard before in my long and depressing twenty-two years on this earth—I’m not beautiful enough for any man to desire. I get it, loud and clear, thank you, mean man with dark eyes, who hates my guts and will now be forced to have sex with me! But it doesn’t stop me from feeling a certain degree of relief anyway.

When the men approached me with the business proposition, I might have nearly laughed at them, but I have to admit, I was intrigued. The women work three to four evenings a week for five to six hours at most, and they make ridiculously good money. So good in fact, that, if I could pull it off, I could be free of the thugs in five years’ time. There was also the fact that they live in luxurious apartments at Trimbles, the gentlemen’s gaming hall on the Upper East Side of Manhattan where the women work as escorts. How this translates to me: no more sleeping in dirty old hotels or, worse, on the streets when I can’t afford a roof over my head. The past five years have been filled with nothing but my constant search for food, money, clothing, shelter, and security. And Trimbles provides all of that on top of a handsome salary. I just have to sleep with men for a living. How hard can that be? It can’t possibly be more difficult than sleeping on the streets, can it?

It’s not as if my life has always been so disastrous. Five years ago, I had parents, a home, an education, clothes, even friends, but that was all lost in an instant. While the secret of how it was all lost will die with me to protect my own well-being, I will also fight tooth and nail to free myself from the proverbial ties that bind me to my well-kept secret. I’ve been left with an exorbitant debt, not my own, payable to ruthless animals who would see me dead before they see me fail them. But it is these very thugs who have recommended Trimbles as a way out for me. They see money, but I see security, safety, a warm, dry bed, and, perhaps at long last, freedom.

I was granted an interview, to my great surprise, and arrived only an hour ago to the impressive twenty-five-story building that houses Trimbles. When I met Mr. Grayson, I hated him instantly. Mid-fifties, if I’m guessing, tall, handsome, but ruthless. There was a glint in his eyes that told me he is not to be trusted, and he is the first inkling I had that, while this life may offer a warm place to sleep and a good paycheck, it will not offer even a shred of humanity. When he told me to strip as he left me in the room I’m now waiting in, I panicked for the first time. How can I do this? I’m a virgin, and up to this point, I assumed that I’d remain one until the thugs decided beating me to a pulp had lost its appeal and fucking me might get their point across more effectively. I suppose I should be grateful I’ll lose that part of myself here, rather than in some dirty old run-down house that they seemed so intent on dragging me to for our little “meetings.”

But when dark-eyed Derek entered the room along with ugly Aaron and kind Frederick, I almost bolted naked through the door. Now, here I am, apparently hired—for some unknown reason—and given to a man that terrifies me more than any other I’ve ever met, and who, let’s face it, hates me despicably. But he’s quite beautiful, mid-thirties, tall and lean, no doubt strong and fit. His features are exceptional. His hair is as dark as his eyes, thick and perfectly disheveled. He’s beautiful, but intimidating. He looks like a model, quite frankly, just a very, very scary one. It’s the intimidation oozing from him that terrifies me most. Were I not so afraid of him, I’m sure I’d find him incredibly appealing, but he’s just so damn terrifying, and regardless of what Frederick has told me of him, I don’t sense at all I’m in good hands. Then again, the last five years of my life have been as much hell as I hope to experience in this lifetime. Surely I can handle a bit of sex for money. This must be better than starving on the streets, waiting to die at the hands of criminals. But even as I do my best to convince myself I can handle this, my resolve waivers. I’m scared, really scared.

Chapter 2

“I’m sooooooo sorry you’ve been waiting! I can’t believe Mr. Pennington didn’t tell me to come get you! Thank God I ran into Frederick in the hall, otherwise you’d have been here all night! When I mentioned it to Mr. Pennington, he just shrugged and … well, he can be a jerk. Frederick said you’ve been waiting for nearly two hours, but I’m here now!” The beautiful blonde now standing in front of me took less than a millisecond to enter the room and say all of that. What an incredible talent she has!

The woman pulls me into an instant hug. She’s the epitome of what Derek was referring to when he spoke of the “whores” who work at Trimbles. She is extremely blonde, extremely voluptuous, and extremely beautiful. She’s far taller than I, her makeup is done perfectly, and the dress she wears hugs her curves like a glove. She walks with confidence and exudes feminine charm. I am nothing like this woman, but she doesn’t seem to care in the least that I’m completely out of place here in my jeans and flat shoes. Instead, she instantly accepts me and is ready to be my very best friend. She introduces herself as Liz as she walks me from the room. She talks animatedly about how happy she is to have a new face in the house, and she starts speed talking as we walk to the elevator, overwhelming me with every last detail of information she thinks I will need to know.

Apparently, the men of the houses are addressed as sir or mister, and our particular mister is a “Pennington … Derek Pennington.” Good to know. Apparently the man of a floor has complete control of the women in his charge. He decides everything from the clothes that are appropriate for her to wear, to the men she will sleep with. The man of a given floor has every right to use his women as he sees fit. They do so regularly, and are, in fact, expected to—quality control of a sort. The only exception is when a woman is working. A house manager is not to have sex with his women twelve hours before or after she has been with a client. A house manager from another floor may choose to use a woman not under his charge, but it is ultimately up to her own house manager whether the other house manager will be allowed to use her. I shudder to think of ugly Aaron touching me again, and I pray silently I won’t ever be handed over to him.

Trimbles occupies the top five floors of the twenty-five-story building, and our particular floor is the very top level. As we exit the elevator, we enter a long corridor with very high ceilings. It looks like a five-star hotel, except there are only perhaps five doors on each side of the corridor in a space that would likely contain twice as many rooms were it a hotel. Liz walks me to the far end of the hall, and we enter a large expansive area through a set of French doors. The room beyond is open with the same tall ceilings. It is a living room of sorts. Furniture is arranged in a central area and faces an expansive entertainment center with the very latest high-tech gadgetry. There are two sectional sofas that create a sort of horseshoe design meant to accommodate a group comfortably.

Off to the side of the living area is a pool table and sound system. Behind that space is a large dining room with an oversized dining room table that can fit twelve comfortably. Beside the dining area is an expansive kitchen, open to the rest of the great room. It is, like everything else in the room, designed with the highest-end appliances and cabinetry. On the other side of the kitchen is a media space with more seating. This corner of the great room sits on the outside corner of the building, and the two expansive walls of the building meet here, but the expansive walls are actually walls of windows offering an incredibly amazing view of the city. The room in its entirety is larger than most houses I’ve been in, and is appointed far more impressively than any home I’ve ever seen. My world consists of dark, cheap hotel rooms that smell, a different room every night as I move around constantly. This home will be mine, and whatever nightmares I endure here, I will at least have a warm, clean, and dry place to sleep.