“Camilla,” Lydia calls me away from the window. She beckons me toward the bedrooms and says, “We’re in here.”
Our suite at The Marquis is as spacious as our apartment, with two bedrooms, a living area, and a full bar. The girls take over the entire place, plugging curling irons into any available socket, playing music on the television, and dipping into the liquor.
“Take it easy.” Lydia nods toward the women pouring drinks.
“Always,” a blonde girl says in a singsong voice.
I take one look at the California king bed inside the room, hold my arms out like Jesus on the cross, and fall back, sinking into the lush bedding on impact. “Lydia,” I say, moaning. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not leaving this spot for the rest of the night.”
“That’s fine,” she replies casually, kicking off her heels. “I’m sure someone out there can take Wilder off your hands.”
Pushing myself up onto my elbows, I ask, “Do you think John Michael Lucky III is the type of guy who frowns upon murder, because if anyone touches Wilder, I’ll kill them.”
“He’s a crook.” Lydia arranged to have our clothes delivered to the hotel earlier today. Our garment bags are hanging inside the closet in a tidy row. She sifts through them until she finds the one she wants, laying the outfit on the bed at my feet. “Think white-collar crime. Insider trading, embezzlement, and reports of sexual harassment that magically disappear. Murder is out of his league.”
“That’s what I thought.” I sink back into the down comforter. “Keep those girls away from Wilder.”
We file back into the elevator an hour later, but no one is chewing gum, giggling, or has time to check their phones. Our destination is one floor up to the presidential suite. I’m a live wire, a downed power line, buzzing with anticipation. My heart hammers inside of my chest, and it beats in the tips of my fingers, behind my knees, and in the curve of my arms, and even in my teeth.
“Your job tonight is to watch and observe,” Lydia whispers. The elevator comes to an abrupt stop, and everyone takes a step forward. “Wilder doesn’t want you to participate.”
“Since when do you take orders from him?” I move out as soon as the doors open. My heartbeat only intensifies, knowing Wilder is nearby.
“We want the same thing,” she answers vaguely. Lydia takes my hand, and we stand back while the rest of our party funnels into the short hallway. “Let John Michael see you work the room, flirt with him, tease him, but it ends there. These women are here for a reason, Camilla. Pass him on before it gets too far.”
The Hush escorts gather in front of the large set of double doors at the end of the hall. We’re not your run-of-the-mill prostitutes. No one is wearing glitter, blue mascara, feathers, or tassels. We’re beautiful, classy, and expensive, adorned in variations of lace, silk, and velvet. Lydia, dressed in a black corset top and a pair of skintight black jeans, gives our group a once-over, checking for uneven lipstick or ill-fitting tops.
Hush has a reputation to uphold, and it doesn’t include obscenity or smut.
We’re selling a dream.
Our job is to make our clients feel like they’re the last man on Earth, just like the one before him, and the one before him.
Happy with everyone’s appearance, we take our places at the back of the group. Lydia shoots Talent a text, and he replies,ready when you are.She slips the burner phone into her back pocket, and Lydia’s hazel eyes scan the girls until they fall on a tall woman with a bronzed complexion, long black hair, and green eyes. I know what it feels like to be watched, and soon she looks up to find us staring at her.
“Do you want me to introduce you as Megan or Camilla?” Lydia asks. It dawns on me that I haven’t been introduced in any capacity tonight. No one has asked who I am or what I’m doing here. I’m with Lydia, and it just is. That’s answer enough.
“Camilla,” I say instantly. If part of my job with Lydia is to get better acquainted with the other escorts, I want them to know the real me. Megan is for strangers.
“Camilla,” Lydia declares, putting extra emphasis on my birth name. “This is Vera Monroe. Vera, this is my sister Camilla.”
Vera. Vera. Vera.
“Tell Vera I’m sorry,”the man from the glass shop had said when Lydia took a baton to his showroom floor.
“So, you’re really sisters? I thought that was a cover story for the birthday party,” Vera says in a slick tone, meeting my eyes. She’s unflinching, watching me intently as she reaches her hand out. “Nice to meet you, Camilla. Is that your real name?”
“It is.” I take her hand when all I want to do is throw my arms around Lydia’s neck and call her sister until my voice runs out. I’ve spent the last twelve months by her side, and I know when I’m being tested. Lydia’s observing how I interact with the other girls, and Vera’s looking for vulnerability from the new boss. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
Vera’s mouth curves into a grin. She crosses her arms over her chest, and says, “You actually smile. I’ve never seen Lydia look like anything but utterly bored. Are you sure you’re related?”
This doesn’t warrant a response from Lydia, who’s as indifferent to Vera’s observation about smiles as she is to most things. But the woman with eyes the color of emeralds and I share a quiet chuckle as Lydia passes her a key card. “Open the door.”
“What about you?” I ask before she walks away.
Vera considers me, patting the key card against the palm of her hand.
“Vera Monroe. Is that your real name?”
