Colt watched Pamela emerge from the ladies’ room and downed another swig of Powerade. I’ve had thousands of guys order hard liquor to calm their nerves. Yet, this is the first time I’ve been able to relate. That body – a roadmap of temptation that could derail a saint – demanded attention, but it was Pamela’s hair that truly bewitched him. A wild, frizzy mane that bounced with each step, and straight out of an eighties rock video. Colt couldn’t tear his gaze away as she sauntered over to the bar and again laughed with Jim. Dammit. Why does he always get first dibs on the new girls? Colt longed to touch that golden mess, to feel the softness of her scalp beneath. I’d love to help her wash it.

This visceral pull was foreign to him. Lisa? Jenny? The names surfaced and sank in his mind, leaving barely a ripple. Not even close. Why was Colt so drawn to this turnout when he already had the pick of the litter?

Gonna be balls deep in Blake soon. Chick needs a refresher in customer satisfaction. Fresh fish is all you.

“I would love to go with you sometime. To Vegas, I mean. Maybe you could teach me some gambling tricks.”

Colt turned back to Sherilyn. Yet the text he’d just received from his father knotted his stomach. Oh, poor Blake. How could Colt even respond to that? William’s “refresher courses” were notorious, a thinly veiled excuse to get his rocks off. The old man took advantage of all the girls on a routine basis, wielding the threat of termination like a guillotine blade. And if they didn’t comply … well, there was always a line of applicants eager to fill the vacancy, unaware of the true price of admission.

Applicants like Pamela.

Oh, hell no. Not her. Not this time. I’ll be damned if I let Dad sink his claws into her.

“I’m free tomorrow. I mean, if you’re going. It’s my day off. I know it’s yours too.”

Sherilyn was practically standing on top of Colt. Her glossy, straight brown locks draped over her shoulders, highlighted by a few deliberately styled curls. Colt snuck another glimpse of Pamela. What the hell was going on? When was the last time he scoffed at the idea of traveling to Vegas? With a woman like Sherilyn on his arm, Sin City always promised a temporary reprieve from the numbing reality of the brothel and his father’s overbearing specter.

He again eyed the blonde nestled across from Jim. “Ehh, I’m sorry, Sherilyn, but not tomorrow. Think I’ll relax and simply take it easy around the house.” Colt stood and walked away, leaving Sherilyn to stare after him, jaw dangling. He raised his Powerade in the direction of the new girl. “Miss Prescott?” Did Dad really refer to her as a ‘fresh fish?’ “There’s been a change of plans. Come with me. I’ll be handling your interview personally.”

*

Oh my God, those arms. And that stubble. Damn, he’s hot. Walking in these new platform heels was akin to balancing the trapeze. Oh, Pamela noticed that Colt had given Sherilyn the cold shoulder. Yeeesh, if looks could kill, I’d be dead. She angled one more glance toward Sherilyn while exiting the bar alongside Colt. Sorry, honey, but all’s fair in love and … whatever this is.

Memories of Roger Lopez, her high school sweetheart, flashed through Pamela’s mind. Rough, rugged Roger, with his letterman jacket and … nope, forget boys. I’m ready for a man. Colt’s hands were big and looked very … warm. She wondered what they’d feel like running up her leg. Mr. Sexy Scruff has to be twice my age, right? Hmm.

Yet, what was the deal with her too? You’re here for a job, to solidify your future; not a hookup. At eighteen, Pamela already felt jaded, having given hundreds of lap dances to random strangers both in and out of that Baltimore strip club, even offering the ones she felt comfortable with a much more intimate service. I’ve fucked seventeen guys since my birthday in January. Their faces blurred together, a montage of sweaty, groping hands and crumpled bills.

Pamela squared her shoulders. From now on, everything she’d do would be legal. No more sneaking into shady rooms and perhaps risking my life. No more heart-pounding walks past hotel security or lying to her mother about where she’d been all night. No more praying that the john who’d just paid her wouldn’t turn violent.

Happy Ending Ranch may not have looked glamourous, but it was sanctioned, protected. Here, she’d have people to back her up, security cameras, the leeway to do what she enjoyed most. Getting paid to have sex? Priceless. For the first time in months, Pamela could finally relax, knowing she’d made it to Nevada safe and sound.

This is it. The fresh start I needed. The irony of finding freedom in a brothel wasn’t lost on her. If only my old school counselor could see me now. “So, how does this interview thing work?”

An interview Colt could handle on his own? “First thing’s first. We’ll need to go through some paperwork.” He’d been present for and presided over thousands of interviews through the years, but his father always led them. William was too busy now, right?

Balls deep in Blake?

“Typical stuff. Medical history, emergency contacts, that sort of thing.” Colt handed Pamela a clipboard with all the necessary disclosures. “Why don’t you fill that out first? We’ll chat after.” The recliner squeaked and strained under his frame.

“Okay. Here? Or do you want me to fill this out in the bar?”

“Wherever you want. It takes just a few minutes.”

Okay, this is weird. Should I sit? Leave? For a beat, neither Pamela nor Colt moved. Her mind raced, but her body refused to cooperate. Colt, for his part, seemed just as lost. It wasn’t awkward, wasn’t electric. It was … something else. Something new. Two celestial bodies caught in each other’s orbit, the air humming with potential energy, a quiet chaos.

Pamela blinked, the spell broken. Get it together, girl. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, clipboard in hand, and cleared her throat. “Okay, then.”

Now it was Colt’s turn to gawk as Pamela leaned over the desk, pen dancing against paper. Her handwriting bloomed all across the form – looping curves and exaggerated dots, like she was signing a high school yearbook instead of official work documents. The youthful exuberance of her script seemed out of place amid the grim reality of the brothel, a splash of innocence in a world that never had any of its own.

Colt’s gaze drifted lower. The white crop top strained against the swell of her breasts, its fabric thin enough to showcase the outline of her nipples, pebbling in the air conditioning. Though he knew he should look away, he couldn’t. Pamela glanced up, catching him red-handed. A knowing smile played on her lips.

“Okay, that was easy.” She set the clipboard on the desk and Colt snapped back to reality.

He scanned the form, mentally checking off boxes: eighteen, single, no kids, clean bill of health, high school diploma, Maryland native. Nothing unusual jumped out, but experience told him these papers never shared the whole story. He put the clipboard down and studied her face. “Thanks. So, Pamela, what are you here for? What brings you to Flagstone?” His jaw ticked. “Gonna be blunt here.”

A part of him recoiled at what he was about to say, but William’s icebreaker rose to his lips, crude and crass as it was, a verbal sledgehammer designed to expose raw nerves and break lesser women. “Why’s a beautiful girl like you looking to whore herself out?”

*

Jim did not cease pleasuring himself in Sherilyn’s sight, noticing her eyes go from his lap to face. “Come over here and kneel before me, honey.” With his right hand, he stroked his cock, and with his left he cupped his scrotum. “Look, I’m sorry Colt was such an inconsiderate jerk, but I got something here for you.”

“I’m fine, and he’s not. He’s just not interested in me the way I wish he was, I guess.”

Jim watched Sherilyn plod toward him, shoulders slumping, and once again marveled at her otherworldly beauty. His hand flashed up and down on his dick faster, harder, more intense. He was in serious danger of coming, he realized, so slowed his ministrations as Sherilyn closed the distance and obeyed. “Suck now, sweetheart, with that perfect little mouth of yours, and I’ll help you forget all about Colt.” Jim shoved his pants further down, far enough not to be in his way or, more importantly, her way.

“That’s it. That’s good, Sherilyn. Oh, honey. Hell, yes.”

Carrie Johnson – Sherilyn – was a woman made for fucking. She was made for the whorehouse. Oh, how devastatingly fast Jim could fall back into the old familiar. William says to take whatever we can get from these girls, whatever they offer us. His legs tensed up and toes curled as her tongue met his balls with slow, sweeping licks.

Sherilyn lifted her face and smiled wide before spitting onto his cockhead. Such a dirty girl. The saliva streamed from her lips to his flesh.

“God, fuck. You’re incredible.” Jim’s fingers wound in her hair and coiled tight. “Fuck. So good.”

Sherilyn lowered her face upon his lap, her eyes still fixated on his. Her tongue flicked against Jim’s length as it disappeared behind her gaping lips. They sealed as she accepted him into her throat with a muffled moan.

“Fuck yes.” Jim watched her cheeks hollow inward as her tongue massaged him. “Like that. Just like that.”

Sherilyn’s efforts, especially her willingness, impressed him. This was the response of a born prostitute. Every gurgling gasp and cough and clutch of her fingers as she gripped at Jim’s hips tickled his sadistic side. Yes, just a whore. Sherilyn’s mouth was stretched wide as she’d become the sheath he thrust his dick into.

“That’s it, hold it. Hold it there.” Jim’s balls burned hot and tight against her chin, the wiry spring of his pubic hair tickling her lips as he remained deep and motionless, preventing Sherilyn’s next breath while the strain in her jaw grew into painful discomfort.

Three years ago, Sherilyn stumbled into Happy Ending Ranch like a duckling swept up in a sandstorm, all wide eyes and nervous energy. Fresh off a falling out with her family, William took a liking to her innocence, that sweet, silky-smooth voice.

Nowadays, that voice had transformed; it was smoky and hypnotic, a slow burn that could melt the resolve of even the most steadfast monger. The change was as believable as it was inevitable – after all, Sherilyn had serviced over 600 clients, each encounter adding another layer to her hardening shell.

Gone was the trembling fawn; in its place stood a seasoned professional, as comfortable in her new skin as a viper basking in the desert sun. Yet sometimes, in the quiet moments between clients, a flicker of that lost girl would surface in Sherilyn’s eyes, a ghost of innocence long buried under the weight of countless transactions.

“Why doesn’t Colt like me?” She reared up and spat several times onto Jim’s cock. She didn’t wipe her messy mouth, either, though her lips did purse for a brief moment. “All he sees when he looks at me is a piece of ass.”

Can you blame him? Jim tossed his head back and moaned as the sounds of cock fucking mouth filled the parlor. This was a common occurrence – Jim receiving fellatio (free of charge) behind the counter at random times, often daily. He and Sherilyn had an ongoing thing, where they’d talk like friends, or she’d seek advice while orally servicing him on her knees. There was no shame in it for Sherilyn. To her, the act was normal, no big deal.

“Have you tried talking to him? I mean, really talking to Colt, getting to know him? Something other than constantly throwing yourself at him, wanting to fuck?”

She looked up at Jim with her wide blue eyes and pulled her mouth off with a tongue swirling pop. “I have.” Drool ran from her lips and slid onto his balls. “I don’t understand why Colt doesn’t want to get to know me better. I mean, I have a lot to offer.” She fed herself again, opening wide, mashing her pretty face against Jim’s pelvis. Sherilyn sucked as hard as she could until the throb in his hips and legs told her that he was close.

She ripped her mouth off with a gasp. “Am I doing a good job?”

Jim admired her saliva-stained cheeks and mouth. “Of course you are, honey. You always do an incredible job. Keep going. God, don’t stop.”

She smiled again, this time freeing her breasts from the confines of her tube top and smacking Jim’s cock against them. “I mean, I really like Colt.” She took Jim’s length between her breasts, cocooning it in her cleavage. “Do you think maybe you could talk to him for me?”

“I can try. But I can’t make any promises.”

“What’s that new girl’s name? I don’t like her.”

Pamela? “Dakota.”

Sherilyn’s hair bounced on her shoulders as she fucked Jim’s dick with her breasts. She kept him buried there with her fingers splayed on either side. “I cannot tell you how eternally grateful I would be if you helped me get in Colt’s good graces. I mean, I’d make the effort worth your time, Jimbo, I promise you.” She dropped a fresh string of spit into her cleavage and bounced faster. “Do me this favor, and I’ll finally let you fuck me in the ass.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Carrie. I’ll talk to Colt for you.” Jim leaned over and trailed his knuckles over the lush curve of her backside. “Trust me, I’ll do my best.”

<> <> <> <> <>

Shit. It had been several hours since the interview with Pamela concluded, and Colt still couldn’t shake the attraction that tugged at every nerve in his body. Her smile, her hair … her everything. Colt’s legs bounced nervously as he sat at the bar, checking out the surroundings. Most customers visiting Happy Ending Ranch at five in the afternoon were shy wallflowers, hoping to bloom in the shadows. Or old men chasing rented affection – youth in soft skin – wanting to get their thrill before bedtime. Lotharios, Dad calls them, even though he’s one of them. But what about Colt? I feel like a Goddamned teenager over a girl I just met.

The selection at Happy Ending Ranch was, as always, top-notch. On the far side, Laterika had been working her magic for the past forty-five minutes. Her calculated laughter sliced through the low hum of conversation, a velvet-tipped razor targeting its mark. The customer, a silver-haired boomer with paunch straining his button-down, leaned in closer, enraptured.

Aren’t they all enraptured?

Colt recognized this dance. Laterika would seal the deal with the proverbial kill shot – a whispered proposition and a strategically placed touch. Then it would be off to her bedroom, where the negotiating would begin. Time and price, the universal language of the world’s oldest profession.

Colt’s gaze drifted toward the western corridor. Sherilyn had disappeared down it half an hour ago, another john in tow. Negotiations were over, the price paid in full, and the act was well underway. Colt’s mind conjured unwanted images: Sherilyn’s breasts bouncing with every merciless thrust, her pussy filled over and over again.

It was a vicious, never-ending cycle. Rinse and repeat. The thought of Sherilyn going through the motions with her third client of the day made something twist in Colt’s gut. No, it sure as hell ain’t jealousy. More like a growing weariness, a fatigue that set in his bones. Sherilyn was such a sweet, good-natured girl when she came to us three years ago. How many times had he witnessed this cycle? How many more times would he have to? Look at her now.

Neon signs outside blinked gaudy promises of endless pleasure, but all Colt saw was the grinding machinery of commerce, reducing human connection to a series of soulless transactions. We’re a meat market. He rubbed at his temples, trying to ward off yet another headache.

It wouldn’t be so bad if Dad treated the girls better. Colt’s mind circled back to the earlier debacle in William’s office involving Brindle and the pay dispute. Christ, I checked the security footage. Brindle was telling the truth. She did have the extra party. Then there was William’s proclamation about Blake needing “a refresher in customer satisfaction.” Colt saw Blake after the fact: eyes vacant, spirit crushed, but oh so eager to please. Compliant. The perfect employee, at least in his father’s estimation.

I’ll be running this show one day, maybe sooner than I’d like, and things will definitely be different. That thought brought a mixture of dread and determination. This past spring, surgeons found a tumor that had burst in William’s small intestine and diagnosed him with stage four metastatic melanoma. He was given eight months to live as the disease had spread to his liver and gall bladder. Dad’s a crazy old bastard, a sick pervert, but he’s still my father.

Colt swallowed hard, pushing away the image of hospital beds and beeping machines. When the time comes, things will be different here. They have to be. It wasn’t about dismantling his father’s legacy, but instead building something better, something he could actually be proud of. And most importantly, be comfortable with. A place where the employees will be respected, valued.

“Imagine meeting you here.”

Colt swiveled on his stool, only to find himself staring at Pamela’s cleavage. One side of his mouth hooked into a grin. He again swallowed over the lump in his throat, his eyes widening as he forced his gaze upward to meet hers. “You know, most people have to pay for a view like that.”

“And they will pay for it, baby, in due time. Believe me.” Pamela had not only aced the interview but had come prepared with a full battery of recent lab results and a sheriff’s card, allowing her to start working immediately. For a turnout, such preparation was unheard of.

I like this one. She’s gonna pan out, for sure. Might be our top earner within two or three weeks.

“Mind if I sit down?” Yet Pamela slid onto the stool without waiting for an answer, swinging her knees his way. The move was smooth, deliberate, polished – a far cry from the typical fumbling of girls fresh out of high school.

All those nights at that strip club and talking to oversexed men will bode her well here.

Pamela leaned toward him. A sparkle in her eyes unveiled. “So … Colt.” She twirled a strand of hair around an index finger. “Just finished my orientation with Roxanne. Got any more tips for a newcomer?”

“Tips?”

“You know. Insider secrets. Like, which nights are the busiest? When can I expect to make the most bang for my buck?”

“Saturdays. Tonight, actually –”

“Awesome! Looks like I showed up on the perfect day, huh? No time like the present to start raking in the cash.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Colt lifted his coffee mug in the direction of the female bartender.

“Another coming right up.” Mindy Wikiera was his age and been overseeing the parlor during second shift hours for the past eleven years. She was married and had a young child, but of more importance to Colt, she was damn good at her job. Mindy wouldn’t take shit from any customer.

I can’t tell Dad she messed up Brindle’s ledger. It had to be a mistake, right? I don’t want Mindy to lose her job. So, Colt gave Brindle $125 out of his own pocket earlier, but only on the condition she drop the subject and never bring it up again. The old man would murder me if he found out.

“You want anything, sweetheart?”

“Water. And thank you.” Pamela offered Mindy a polite smile before running her forefinger in circles upon Colt’s thigh. “I’m feeling thirsty tonight.” She licked her lips.

Colt’s eyes drifted to the mirror behind the bar, and the reflection that stared back was all too familiar – the same face he’d seen after waking up in Sherilyn’s bedroom. A lonely, tired player, drowning in the shallow end. Am I a player, really? Colt certainly didn’t consider William a player, yet he received the same level of attention (and action) from the ladies. Maybe I really am just like Dad, and these girls only want to be with me because they think it will give them some extra layer of job security.

Fuck, who am I kidding? I’m not a player. I’m a fraud. Indeed, he’d been subjected to nothing but sex workers since the day William brought him into the family business in 1992 when he was still a senior in high school. Did Colt even know what a ‘real girl’ was like? I’ve never even been on an actual date. Fingers flinched and curled into a fist. Not unless you count escorting various prostitutes to Vegas where they go on marijuana and cocaine benders.

He shifted his gaze to Pamela’s reflection, with her chocolate brown eyes, hanging on his every word. No. Not this time. With her gaze, both practiced and primal under the neon lights, Pamela seemed typical, but Colt knew there was something more to her. Something special. He refused to allow himself to fall down the same rabbit hole.

Colt closed his eyes for an instant, then turned to Pamela and said, “Listen, I … I’m sorry. You’re gorgeous, and talking to you, it’s great, but …” Neck straining, his voice dropped. “I’m dealing with some personal shit right now and this,” he waved his hand between them, “this won’t … I can’t …” He inhaled a deep breath, steadying himself. “It won’t help. Any of it.”

“Oh,” Pamela said softly, her flirtatious grin faltering. She leaned back, creating space between them, and bit her lower lip. “Is there … anything I can do?” Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her white minidress, a gesture at odds with her usual poise. “Sometimes talking about your problems can help, you know? If you want to talk, that is.” She squeezed his wrist. “Tell me, what’s going on?”

“I have no fricking idea.” Colt stood and turned back toward the bar, wanting to make an immediate exit. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

(End of Chapter Two - to be continued)