Delano’s bodyguard, the large black man with the fetish for Asian women, sits on one of the other couches. Unlike his boss, he’s wearing a suit. His eyes meet mine and he gives a slow, steady nod, like he approves.
Roland Delano approaches me, his arms still raised. It’s clear that he’s drunk by the way he stumbles, and when he takes me into an embrace, tells me how very happy he is I could join him, I can see the residue of cocaine around his hairy nostrils.
“Please, please,” he says, “let me take your coat,” and before I know it the coat is being ripped off my body, revealing me in my schoolgirl outfit. I lock eyes again with the bodyguard and see another nod of approval, this time even a slow grin, the man showing off a gold-capped tooth.
I look around the room again and notice the other girls noticing me. Their glares are full of menace. I doubt any of them are over twenty-five, but the years of work have worn them down, trampled their spirit, their dreams. And while many of them could be called attractive—I have no doubt both Nova and Scooter would think so—they also have a rough edge that I’ve managed to keep off.
Roland takes my arm and leads me to the wet bar, saying, “A drink, please, won’t you have a drink? And please indulge yourself in some of our other party favors. I insist. I have everything—weed, coke, even some X. Please, please, I want you to enjoy yourself.”
One of his men stands behind the wet bar, looking bored. I smile at him, say, “Beer?” and he produces a bottle of Bud.
When I turn around, Roland has disappeared, gone back to the couch where two of the girls are waiting. He sits down and places his arms around their shoulders, smiles at them as he continues telling a story my entrance must have interrupted.
I take a sip of the beer and look around. Music is coming from the sound system, a rap beat, and on the widescreen TV a porno shows some lesbian action. The fireplace is on, the flames dancing inside.
The bodyguard catches my eye. He motions me to come over to him. When I get there he tells one of the girls beside him to scram and then I’m sitting on his right, his large arm around my shoulders, the man telling me his name is Jerold, what’s mine?
“Cho,” I say. When he smiles—the gold-capped tooth gleaming in the light—and says that’s a beautiful name, what does it mean, I tell him, “Means butterfly.”
“Butterfly, huh? That mean you like to fly, or are you tasty like butter?”
I do my damnedest not to roll my eyes and just smile, take a sip of my beer. In my ear, Scooter says, “I think I’m g-g-g-gonna puke.”
The Hispanic girl on Jerold’s left glares at me, angry that the attention has been taken off her. What I wonder is why she cares, she’s being paid either way, but I’ll never understand hookers.
Jerold takes his arm away from my shoulders, places his warm hand on my thigh. “I really dig the outfit. Nice touch. Didn’t know I could have requested that shit or else I definitely would have. I’ll have to remember that next time.”
I smile at Jerold but say nothing, while in my ear both Scooter and Nova chuckle softly. Fucking assholes, I swear I’m going to break their pinkie fingers when I see them next.
Jerold raises his bottle of Perrier, taps it against my bottle. “Cheers,” he says and leans forward, plants his lips against mine. It’s a quick kiss, a peck, but it’s enough for me to taste absolutely nothing. No alcohol, no liquor, not even weed, which just adds another hurdle.
Five minutes pass, ten minutes, and I do my best to nurse my drink, to only take limited hits of the weed when it’s passed my way. I smile and smile and listen and listen but keep my eyes open for all possible exits, weapons, interferences. It looks like all of Delano’s men are packing, maybe even Jerold.
Finally the rest of the girls arrive, two of them. Roland Delano does his greeting act again, taking their coats, leading them to the wet bar. Jerold’s hand hasn’t left my thigh. It stays there, squeezing, rubbing, working its way toward my crotch but quickly moving back, like it’s a game.
I’ve sized him up and figure breaking his neck is out of the question. A big guy like this, he’s protected by layers of fat and muscle.
Roland silences the rap music with a remote, letting the porno run for a few seconds, two girls on screen playing with a dildo. He watches it for a moment, a wry grin on his face, and then shuts that off too. He clears his throat, pats his chest, then speaks.
“Welcome again, ladies. It’s my pleasure to have you join us tonight. The party has begun, yes, and now it is time for the main attraction. Some of you will be coming with me, some of you will be going with my associate. Some of you will have to wait your turn. But don’t you worry, ladies”—smiling even wider, winking—“you’ll all get to play.”
Then the smile slides off his face and he points at three girls, motions for them to get up and follow him toward the one bedroom.
Jerold’s hand leaves my thigh for the first time tonight. He stands up, turns, extends his hand to me and helps me up. I’m already visualizing the bedroom, the possible weapons, the different ways I can take Jerold out, and I turn and start that way.
I only stop when I hear Jerold’s deep voice behind me—“And you too, sugar”—and turn back to see him helping the Hispanic girl up him from the couch, smiling as he takes her arm and leads her toward me.
Five
This Jerold is one sick bastard.
The first thing he
