They always wear suits.
I regard the man sitting on the edge of the bed in this lavish room the driver escorted me to. Late fifties. Receding hairline. Impeccable gray suit. Expensive watch. Two phones on the nightstand. Banker. Always a banker.
The room matches the client: heavy red curtains, the colour of blood, blocking out the city. A four-poster bed draped in black silk, designed to hide stains. Tall lamps in each corner, a wooden mobile bar stocked with top-shelf liquor. Only the best. The bathroom is equally extravagant: a large tub, a glass shower, a first aid kit tucked under the sink. I remember that from a previous client, the last one left me with a nasty cut on my lip, and the driver used it to patch me up.
Mr. Miller gestures for me to come closer. I close the distance between us, standing between his legs, trying to detach from what's coming. The pills would have made it easier before.
"Pretty," he says, placing his palm on my thigh just below the hem of my short white dress. White, the colour every client seems to prefer.
"How old are you?"
"I'm eighteen, Mr. Miller."
"So young." His hand slides upward, pulling my dress. "Call me Jonny."
"Yes… Jonny," I mutter, voice low.
"Dolly said your name is Daisy. Small, sweet. Fitting."
A shiver passes through me. The name, Daisy, they gave me because mine was too unusual. Hearing it still makes me want to vomit.
He lifts my dress over my head and tosses it onto the floor. It lands as a small white bundle at my feet. I don't know why, but having my dress removed always hits me harder than my panties. Each time, it's like the last layer of defence is stripped away. I shudder.
"Do you find me attractive, little Daisy?" His hands circle my waist.
"Of course I do, Jonny," I reply automatically. Words drilled into my head during my first day of training.
"Hmm…" His hands squeeze my waist, then slide lower, pulling my lacy white thong down my legs. "I usually like it slow. But you're too sweet. I don't think I can wait."
Once my panties are gone, he throws me onto the bed. I lie still, watching as he removes his jacket. Tie next. My body shakes when he loosens it. A memory flashes: a previous client wrapped a tie around my neck, pulling with each thrust from behind. I close my eyes, relief flooding me when Mr. Miller tosses his tie aside. Shirt buttons undone just enough. My breathing quickens, but I can handle it.
"Open your legs wide, honeybee," he says, sliding on a condom.
The organization is strict about protection, but more for clients than for us. Safety… their version of it.
He crawls across the bed, looming above me. The vein at his neck pulses. His eyes lock on mine before dipping to my naked breast, licking it. I grit my teeth, willing myself not to flinch. Recoiling never ends well. I wish for the music to help, like that snowy night, but it doesn't come. Not now. Not here.
His hands grip the insides of my thighs, spreading me, and then he thrusts.
It hurts. Always hurts. But without the drugs, it's worse. A thousand times worse.
I tilt my head, staring at the ceiling, trying to pull my mind away. To escape, even for a moment. To drift toward something… anything else.
And then a memory surfaces.
It's the summer before my sophomore year of high school. I'm sitting in the garden, reading, while my twin sister chases her Maltese, Bonbon, across the lawn. Poor animal. She even put a yellow silk bow on his head. When Sienna said she wanted a dog, I was sure Arturo would say no. Our brother is not a fan of keeping animals inside the house. I have no idea how she managed to convince him to let her have one.
"Asya!" Sienna yells. "Come!"
I wave my hand at her and keep reading. The murder mystery is just being unravelled, and I'm eager to see who the culprit is. I'm sure it's . . .
A spray of cold water splashes my chest. I scream and jump up off the chair, glaring at my sister. She's holding a watering hose in her hand, laughing like a madwoman.
"You're dead!" I chuckle and dash toward her. She's still doubled over from laughter when I reach her. I grab the hose, pull the collar of her top, and send the water stream down her back.
Sienna shrieks and turns, then grabs the hose, trying to direct it at me, but it just ends up spraying her face. I'm still laughing when I lift my free hand to wipe the water from my eyes, but I stop mid-motion. My hand is red. I look at the hose in my grip. It's pouring red liquid onto the ground around my feet. Blood.