"Scarlett." He stretches his hand out the window.
I grab it. "Richard." I recognize his voice.
"How do you like the sign?" he rumbles.
I blush. "It looked very...professional."
The redhead laughs. "Nice save." Her voice is kind. Warm. "I'm Marie V." She stretches out her hand, and I smell a pleasant scent that reminds me of sunlight and linen. "It's my off-night," she explains, "so I'm on booth duty for a few hours. The clients like being welcomed by a familiar face."
I nod, because my brain is blown. "Why don't you drive on through?” Richard says. “I've got you all set up for tonight. The valets will take your car and you'll be met in the doorway by some very friendly women who will help you get acquainted with the place."
Marie V. leans forward. "There's food, too. Make them take you to Alan, our cook-slash-guard. Or," her eyes gleam, "if he's already on his way back out here, just go grab a sweet roll. They're amazing."
She looks so mischievous, so gleeful, that I can't help smiling. "Thank you. I feel ten percent less nervous."
"Make it one-hundred," she says, and Richard chuckles.
"There's nothing to be nervous about, Scarlett. We don't bite—unless you ask."
I can barely think straight as I drive ahead, following a curl of asphalt that rolls through unnaturally green grass, beneath enormous trees between whose branches I can see the winking stars. Lamp posts line the road, but it's the greenery that really gets me.
It doesn't belong anywhere in the Midwest. In fact, it reminds me a little of New Orleans. Then I remember that Marchant Radcliffe went to Tulane—where he met Hunter—and I shake my head. Well, duh.
The driveway rolls on forever. After five or ten minutes, the trees thin some and the iron lamp posts glow a little brighter. I'm reminded of my Hugo readings as I notice the stone wall rising ten or fifteen feet above the drive, on my right side; a fountain featuring mermaids, lit with spotlights; bird baths; benches; gardens.
Then I crest a small hill and see an expanse of soft, gold light, and my eyes focus on the largest English manor house I've seen in all my travels.
Holy crap, it's bigger than a frickin' castle. My gaze clings to the balconies, doors, windows, and ivy crawling the stone mansion, visible behind the flickering light of torches. My mouth drops ever further when I realize there are two smaller manors situated in a horse-shoe around the driveway.
I gape at the brutally trimmed shrubs and the fruit-bearing trees that blot my view of the open sky. I feel like I am in the South. Of England.
"Gorgeous..."
A plump white rabbit flits in front of my car, and I laugh. So that's the fluffy bunny thing! I roll another hundred yards or so, and come to a stop right in front of the manor. A valet in a red and black uniform comes down the stairs, trailed by two bellmen pulling a cart. My luggage is unloaded while a woman in a beautiful royal blue gown appears on the stairs. She steps out to greet me.
"Scarlett. I'm Juniper Francis. Come inside. Your luggage will follow you." She’s British—or a prostitute that specializes in voice fetishes (if that’s a thing). She's got coal black hair with stylish bangs; her hair is pulled into some kind of up-do that compliments her flawless, porcelain doll face.
I glance at my brown slacks and soft blue blouse, feeling dowdy. My heart beats hard as I step up the stairs, and the woman—Juniper—holds out both hands to me. I take them, with only a little hesitation, and she squeezes my hands.
“You're the one on the billboard,” I realize.
She laughs. “So are you.”
We pass through two huge, thick wooden doors held open by women wearing black and red skirt uniforms, and I try not to gape as we step inside a vast foyer. It has to be at least 30 feet high, with ornate, white-washed wood walls and three-pronged iron candelabras that flicker as we move. Directly above my head is a sparkling crystal chandelier, and a few steps in front of me, an ornate double staircase that seems to fall out of the sky. I'm blinking up at it when I hear a good-natured chuckle. I look down, into the laughing brown eyes of a striking African-American woman. She's tall and curvy, dressed in a cream gown that's part party-wear, part nightgown.
"Hi.” Her red lips curve. “I'm Geneese Loveless. You must be Scarlett." Her smile widens. "You're so pretty!"
Geneese holds out her hand, and Juniper clasps my other one, and together we walk around the stairs, through another set of smaller, but just as ornate double-doors, and into a room so huge I can only describe it as cavernous.
I'm struck first by the size of it—it's as big as a football field, for sure—and next by how much there is. There are so many little nooks, each with its own couch, love seat, and recliner; right offhand, I count at least twenty of them. The room is further divided by huge bookshelves, made cozier by coat racks and partial walls and house plants. The three dark wood walls framing the room are punctured by huge, two-story windows. The rug running under everything—a soft, camel-colored fabric—spans the entire room.
“Holy heck—” I say, embarrassed by my language.
“The rug?” Loveless asks. “Yeah, it's really, really big.”
“It’s a custom job, of course,” Juniper says, and all I can think is blow job.
We stop beside a big desk that looks like it belongs in the oval office. The woman sitting behind it, looking at several rows of security monitors, smiles at me and says, “Hello. I'm Rachelle.”
“Nice to meet you,” I murmur. I'm hardly even looking at her, although she's very pretty with blonde Curly Temple hair and doll-sized blue eyes. There's so much going on behind her shoulder, I feel A.D.D. trying to take it all in. There are several mini bars, two elevator banks, a hallway cutting into each wall, and so many decorative details: moldings, glasswork, antique-looking fixtures, you name it.
“This is the heart of the main house,” Rachelle says kindly. “It can be a little overwhelming at first, but it's really very cozy.”
As if on cue, a beautiful blonde in a ruby red gown leads a young man in an obviously bespoke suit to one of the elevators. I can hear him telling her about his day as they pass.
“All that’s left is the signatures.”
She applauds. “Your first merger!”
This is real, I want to say out loud, because it seems like—okay, I guess it is a (former) frat boy’s idea of paradise. This place is really freakin' real. This is where people come to sell their bodies.