“Remember last year? Candice had me doing that juice detox thing, but the juice shots were so gross that I had to follow them up with Diet Mountain Dew just to get them down, so –”
“Who’d have guessed you’d ever have trouble swallowing? Not me.”
Pamela McCarron’s head snapped around, blonde hair fanning out like a golden halo. Her brown eyes widened as she glared at her husband from the passenger seat, mouth agape. “Oh my God, you did not just say that!” After peering over her shoulder, verifying that their toddler son, Kaden, was still dozing in his car seat, a snort of laughter escaped despite Pamela’s best efforts to maintain a scandalized expression. “God, Colt. You are a such a pig.” She brought a trio of fingertips to her temple and wagged her head back and forth, again chuckling at the vulgarity. “Typical man. Is that all you think about?”
“Pretty much.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “But hey, admit it. You enjoy it when I tease you. Remember when you poured hot tea on your tofu scramble that one morning a month ago, instead of soy sauce, and then ate it anyway because you were too embarrassed to ask your mom to fix you a new one?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No. I don’t remember that at all.”
“Don’t lie! I made you hot tea mixed with soy sauce every morning for a week.”
Pamela exhaled, momentarily sending wisps of golden hair dancing across her forehead. “Okay, fine.” Her nose wrinkled as she allowed the memory to resurface. “That stuff tasted awful. Vile, really. Wasn’t a good mix.”
“I’m sure it did. But each morning, you looked forward to it because it made you laugh inside. Secretly. Just like you’re doing right now because of my joke about you swallowing. Look! Your face is doing that … thing. You know, the I’m not amused but I’m actually dying inside thing. The twitch. Go on, let it out. You’ll feel better. It’s just us chickens here.”
Unable to harness it any further, Pamela caved in completely, transitioning to the smile she could no longer hold back. Still, she studied Colt for several seconds afterward with slanted eyebrows. “Sometimes I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” the fifty-year-old fired back with a chuckle, shifting the Lexus into park. Colt leaned across the divide, stealing a kiss. “You’ll always love me. No matter what.”
What better way for mother and father to spend their day with Kaden than with a trip to Rawhide Ranch? Crystal River, Maryland was home to this comfortable, cozy horse farm and overnight lodging, so Colt, Pamela, and Kaden made the sixty-mile trek from their hometown of Cedarville and were all but guaranteed a good time.
Tomorrow, they’d travel back to Las Vegas for the first time since July 2022, and ultimately to their old stomping grounds of Flagstone, Nevada. While Kaden stayed with Grandma, Colt and Pamela would reconnect with old friends and contemplate their future. A pivotal decision loomed: maintain their peaceful existence in Maryland, or uproot everything for a potential return to Nevada. Of course, the latter hinged on Lindsay’s offer – would she welcome them back to the brothel’s fold?
“Wakey, wakey, wild man.” Pamela twisted, her elbow grazing Colt as she reached into the backseat. Her fingers tap-danced across Kaden’s tummy, punctuated by nom-nom sounds. Kaden’s lips quivered, a dimple appearing as he fought a grin. Legs kicked, narrowly missing the seat back. The sippy cup rattled against its holder as Pamela lifted it. “Take a drink of water, okay? Take a drink for Mommy.”
“Oh, that’s a good stretch,” Colt said as Kaden drew it out for at least ten seconds. “Good morning, buddy. You have a good sleep? It’s time to rise and shine.”
“Ready to ride the ponies?”
Kaden’s eyes flew open, nap forgotten. “Yeah!” He bounced in his seat, its straps straining against his sudden, wild movements. Small hands shot out, grasping at Pamela’s wrist. “Yeah!” Feet again kicked.
“Yeah!” Colt mimicked him.
“Ponies!” he cried out.
Pamela brought a hand to Kaden’s face and squeezed his chin. “Oh, you’re so cute!” She leaned back and kissed his cheek several times in rapid-fire succession. “So cute!”
Once she released him and settled into her own seat, Colt reached over and grasped Pamela’s chin as well. “Oh, you’re so cute!” He parroted her with playful mockery, swishing her face from side to side with exaggerated motions. Her smile blossomed, showing a full rack of teeth. “Oh, you’re so cute, baby! So cute! I love you so much!”
“Stop that!” Pamela tipped the back of her skull against the headrest and batted at his hand with a half-whine, half-giggle.
In the aftermath, Colt cut the engine, but neither he nor Pamela made a move to exit. Around them, Rawhide Ranch teemed with activity – families laughing, horses whinnying, the sweet scent of kettle corn drifting in the breeze. It was a slice of Americana, wholesome and pure.
And yet … Colt’s mind wandered to the intoxicating cocktail of lust, vice, and liberation in Flagstone, to a life they’d left behind but never quite forgotten. He glanced at Kaden in the rearview mirror, their little boy literally hyperventilating with excitement. Three years old in a matter of weeks, his future ahead of him.
Here they were, about to enjoy a wholesome family day, while simultaneously contemplating a return to a life that was anything but. As Colt’s hand found Pamela’s, their eyes met, and an unspoken question hung between them:
Can we find a way to revisit our glory days while still providing the stable, loving home Kaden deserves?
Chapter One
Eighteen Years Earlier (FLASHBACK)
Saturday, July 8, 2006
Flagstone, Nevada
Threadbare fabric swayed in the morning breeze, more holes than cloth at this point. The curtains – if they could still be called that – did little to keep out the relentless desert glare. Shards of incoming sunlight painted Colt’s bare chest in a patchwork of shadow and gold. He squinted against the assault, his brain yielding to the unwelcome transition from blissful oblivion to gritty alertness.
Fourteen years of practice had him sliding off the bed and into his chinos with the stealth of a cat burglar. No stirring from the shapely brunette cocooned in tangled sheets just a few feet away. Good. Another night, another blur. Colt had no complaints. It was just … empty, like all the others.
His gaze drifted back to those pitiful excuses for window dressings. When was the last time his father, the iron-fisted owner of Happy Ending Ranch, had bothered to replace them? Hell, when was the last time Dad had given a damn about anything in the house beyond its utility for quick fucks that translated into even quicker bucks?
Colt cinched his belt around his waist. I really need to cut back. The thought ambushed him, as startling as it was vague. Cut back? On what, exactly? The flesh-filled carousel of in-house prostitutes, desperate and willing to do anything to earn his favor? The exhausting charade of lust and morning-after indifference? Everything? Nothing? His fingers tightened on the belt, knuckles whitening. Ehh, fuck if I know. Colt released an old man’s sigh, shoulders buckling under the weight of questions he couldn’t fully form, let alone answer.
The mirror at the dresser-drawer didn’t pull any punches. Bloodshot eyes, hair that defied gravity, and a five o’clock shadow creeping toward midnight. When did I start looking so … worn? Colt leaned in, tilting his chin left, then right. No fingernail scratches. No lipstick smears. Not even one of those little lovebites Sherilyn was so fond of leaving. Nothing. Huh? Much tamer, I suppose, than that raucous fuck with Laterika on Thursday.
Colt’s fingers traced the edge of the mirror, muscle memory seeking a high-five with his reflection. A year ago, he’d have been grinning from ear to ear, riding the high after another night of indulgence. Damn, dude, you’re living the dream. House manager, nightly pick of any girl. You hit the jackpot. Those thoughts rang hollow now, echoes from a stranger.
Colt’s hand dropped, leaving a smudge on the mirror. He leaned closer, eyes mapping new lines around his mouth, the permanent furrow between his brows. When had that appeared? The face staring back at him wasn’t the once-cocky kid who would one day inherit the keys to the kingdom. It was a man on the wrong side of thirty, chasing mindless thrills down a dead-end road.
His Henley slid over thick, dark hair, then down to hug the six-pack he worked so tirelessly to maintain. One last glance at Sherilyn’s bare ass peeking out from tangled sheets. She’s cool, a sweet girl, but – he cut the thought short, jaw clenching. Score, snore, out the door. The unofficial motto of Colt McCarron, brothel manager extraordinaire.
The Lady Slayer strikes again! The voice of his coworker and best friend, Jim, echoed through his mind. But this morning, there was no high, no illusion of victory. Just an emptiness, vast and hungry, threatening to ravage the very core of who Colt thought he was.
Forty-five minutes. That’s all the quiet he had left before Happy Ending Ranch opened its doors, before the same old song and dance kicked off. Meh. Leering men fumbling with wallets. Women with plastic smiles and hollow eyes eager to take it like a champ, to further fuel their drug addictions. Stuttered moans and creaking bedsprings behind closed doors. Oh, God. Colt’s fingers traced a path to his temple, pressing against the phantom headache already forming. Can I just go back to sleep?
*
Pamela Prescott stood before the cracked vanity in her room at the Twin Tops Motel, applying another coat of bubblegum pop lip gloss. The mirror, like everything else in this dustbowl of a town, had seen better days. Hell, it had probably seen better decades.
Ain’t exactly the Bellagio, is it?
Indeed, the Twin Tops Motel had proven to be a far cry from many of its contemporaries in Las Vegas, some 175 miles south. Where Vegas promised glamour and excess, this place reeked of stale cigarettes and shattered dreams. And pot. The carpet, once presumably a shade of beige, now bore a mishmash of stains. The bedspread, a riot of faded flowers and mysterious burns, looked as though it might sneak away in shame if given half the chance.
But none of that mattered to Pamela. This fleabag motel was just a pitstop on her journey to something greater.
The air conditioner coughed and sputtered, its plastic casing vibrating with each labored breath. Pamela offered it the evil eye, half-expecting the thing to give up the ghost right then and there. A bead of sweat trailed down her temple. The thermometer on the wall – stuck at a mocking sixty-eight degrees – might as well have been a decoration for all the good it did.
At age eighteen, Pamela’s golden hair plummeted over her shoulders in carefully tousled curls, framing a face that was equal parts girl-next-door and smoldering temptress. Her fingers readjusted her white crop top, even transforming the sweat into an asset, a dewy glow that accentuated her impressive curves. The denim shorts she wore left little to the imagination. Every curve, every inch of sun-bronzed skin was a weapon in her arsenal, and she had intentions of using them all.
A mix of emotions swirled in her chest – excitement, determination, and yes, a tendril of fear that she ruthlessly squashed. This was her moment, her chance to grasp the future she’d been dreaming of since she was old enough to realize that her body could be a ticket to untold riches.
You’ve got this, girl. Months of webcamming, stripping, and escorting back home in Maryland had prepared her for this. Pose, close, take the gross.
On the adjacent nightstand, the alarm clock’s red digits glowed like a countdown to ignition. Forty-five minutes until her interview at Happy Ending Ranch, just a block down the street. Forty-five minutes until all her meticulous preparation crystallized into action – the next, most daring leap yet in her bid for a self-made future.
A car backfired outside, the sound bouncing off the motel’s paper-thin walls. Through the grimy window, Pamela observed Flagstone’s dusty main street in full morning swing. The paper mill’s smokestacks loomed in the distance, belching plumes that hung like storm clouds over the horizon. Delivery trucks jockeyed for position outside storefronts, while locals streamed in and out of Tesoro’s Restaurant and Lounge across the street, clutching to-go cups of coffee. Kids loitered near the convenience store, probably looking for trouble. It’s not much different than Maryland, really. Just hotter and a lot less … green.
Pamela squared her shoulders, again assessing herself via the mirror. “This is your time to shine. You’re gonna walk into that ranch and knock ‘em dead.”
I’ll get a coffee and call home to Mom but can’t be late for the interview. With a deep breath, she grabbed her purse – a knock-off designer number that looked just real enough to pass muster – and headed for the door. The key clinked against her fake acrylic nails as she locked up, the sound as crisp as the new page she was about to turn.
Pamela stepped further out into the oppressive heat, heels clicking against the cracked pavement. At the end of the cul-de-sac loomed a weathered Spanish-style villa, its peeling paint and sagging porch at odds with the stylish neon signs proclaiming Legal Brothel, Nude Girls, Jacuzzi, VIP Room, and, of course, Happy Ending Ranch.
Pamela’s steps faltered for a moment, delicate fingers clenching into balled fists. Yet another glimpse of her reflection, this time in a parked truck’s mirror, steeled her resolve – blonde hair gleaming, crop top perfect, eyes hard with ambition. Pamela’s lips curved, a predator’s smile in a Barbie doll package. She flipped her hair over one shoulder and strode toward the restaurant, silently vowing to turn this dusty old town into her personal gold mine.
*
Brindle’s fingers drummed a nervous beat on William’s desk. “Mr. McCarron, I’ve gone over these numbers a dozen times.”
William’s pen scratched across the paperwork for a long moment until he drawled, “Your point?”
“They don’t add up.” Chords shifted in Brindle’s neck, her expression unsettled. “I’ve worked nine parties this week. Nine. But the books only give me credit for eight.”
William’s eyes flicked up for an instant, then returned to the ledger. He licked his thumb, turned a page. “Uh huh.”
“Mr. McCarron, please. I’m pointing out a discrepancy that I’m sure you’ll want to correct. I work hard for my money and don’t want to be shortchanged a hundred and twenty-five bucks. That’s groceries for two weeks.”
A heavy sigh escaped William’s lips. He set his pen down with exaggerated care and leaned back in the recliner, eyebrows hooded. “Brindle, Brindle, Brindle. How long have you worked here?”
“Three years, sir, and –”
“And in those three years, has our bookkeeping ever been off? Even once? Has any other girl ever complained?”
“No, but –”
“Then why,” William’s chair creaked as he tilted it back, “would it start now? With you?”
“I can prove it. Tuesday night, I had –”
“Enough!” William’s fist came down hard on the desk with deafening force, rattling its contents. “You’re questioning the integrity of our ledger and ultimately my business ethics? Implying that I’m cooking the books?”
“N-no, I’m just –”
“Because it sounds an awful lot like you’re calling me a thief.”
Brindle’s jaw dropped open. “I would never –”
“Eight parties. That’s what your ledger says. And that’s what you’re getting paid for. End of story. You want more money? Start hustling and make it.”
“But sir, I distinctly remember –”
“What you remember and what happened are two entirely different things.” He’d cut Brindle off yet again, meeting her gaze with those trademarked cold, steely eyes. “Maybe lay off the Corona during your parties, eh? Doing so will aid in your ability to correctly add one plus one.”
Brindle’s cheeks blazed red. “Look, please, just listen to me. I –”
“You want to keep working here or not? Because you are really starting to get on my fucking nerves.”
Her shoulders curved inward, her voice barely audible. “Yes, yes, of course. I … I’m sorry for the confusion, sir.”
“Then we’re done here. Take your pretty little ass and get the hell out of my office. We open in fifteen minutes.”
Brindle ricocheted off Colt’s shoulder and through the doorway, eyes downcast, fingers fluttering at her mouth. Colt’s gaze ping-ponged between Brindle’s retreating form and the mountain of immovable stone seated behind the desk. No wonder all the girls say Dad’s office is the gateway to Hell. William’s fingers clenched the pen as a muscle in his cheek spasmed. The door closed with a soft click, a sound others may equate to a trap springing shut.
William released a sigh, his stern façade softening. “Go on, son. Say what’s on your mind.”
Colt leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Don’t you think you were a bit harsh with her? Brindle is one of our top earners and has never complained about anything.”
William stood, walking to the small bar in the corner. He poured a finger of whiskey and took a shot. “Look, Colt. I know you like to play good cop with the girls. But you can’t run a whorehouse with that mindset. This place and everything we’ve worked for will crumble.”
“I understand that, I do, but –”
“No buts.” William knocked back the rest of the whiskey, the glass clinking as he set it down. “You think I enjoy being the bad guy?”
“Seems to come pretty natural to you.”
“Watch it.” Yet, there was no real heat behind William’s words. The sixty-five-year-old sank back into his chair. “You’ve been running the floor for what, a decade? Maybe longer? You should know by now – give these broads an inch, they’ll take a mile.”
“Brindle has never caused any trouble,” he reiterated. “She’s reliable, maybe our best employee.”
“All the more reason to nip this in the bud. Remember, I’ve owned this house since the early seventies. Since before you were even born. I’ve seen this charade countless times before. We let Brindle get away with this, next thing we know, every girl will be claiming extra parties, demanding more money. Where does it end?”
Colt shoved away from the wall and began pacing. “So we’re just assuming she’s lying? What if there really was a mistake?”
William’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “Mistakes cost money, boy.” He retrieved a bottle of oral chemotherapy medication from the desk drawer and squinted at its label, temples flinching. For a moment, the mask of jaded brothel owner slipped, revealing glimmers of fear. William grunted and flung the bottle, watching it skip across the desk and bound to the floor. “Money I can’t afford to bleed.”
“But what if Brindle is right?” Colt knelt and returned the prescription bottle to the desk. “At least me check the security tapes? It’s only fair.”
“Fine.” William waved a dismissive hand. “Knock yourself out. But she says the discrepancy is from Tuesday night, right? Mindy was running the bar then. If Brindle is right and Mindy fucked up the books, fire the wench.”
Colt froze, eyebrows raised.
“What?” William’s laugh was as dry as the desert heat. “Thought I’d give her a raise? A bartender is even more easily replaceable than a whore.”
“Right.” Colt swallowed over the lump in his throat. “Okay.”
As he reached for the door, William said, “And Colt? Remember, we’re running a business here, not a charity. These girls aren’t your friends. They’re your employees.
“That chick you fucked last night? Sherilyn? Pretty thing, isn’t she? Smart too. Knows exactly which … buttons to push.
“Oh, I saw you sneaking out of her room earlier. Just remember, I know everything that happens in this house. I know everything that is happening at this very moment without even being there to witness it.
“But here’s the thing: Sherilyn doesn’t like you. She doesn’t want to be with you. She is simply trying to fuck a few favors out of you. You’re nothing but a means to an end for her. The bitch is using you, like all the others before her. The sooner you realize that, the easier this will be. This is a fucking brothel, son, not a church social.” William hissed out a breath. “I don’t have much time left; I won’t be around forever to keep correcting your mistakes.”
Colt paused, hand on the doorknob. Without looking back, he said, “You’re right, Dad. You won’t be around forever.” The words clawed at his throat, scraping it raw with resentment and the barbed wire edges of impending grief. “But neither will I if things don’t change.”
*
Another day, another trudge into the belly of the beast. Colt’s shoulders sagged as he pushed past the creaking saloon door, his senses too dulled by routine to flinch at the assaulting odors. Stale beer, floor cleaner, discount eau de despair – just another toxic brew in a lifetime of immorality.
Blinking against the murk, Colt felt the walls pulse around him, an ancient heartbeat. This cesspool of vice was alive, gorging itself on the fantasies of the foolish and the hunger of the hopeless. And he, Colt realized with a chill, was its zookeeper, feeding the monster day after day.
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t the prodigal son.” Behind the counter, Jim Mayer’s lean frame cut a familiar silhouette. The senior bartender, a fixture at Happy Ending Ranch for over two decades, moved with the easy grace of a man completely in his element. “Lemme guess. The old man is in rare form this morning?”
Colt scrubbed his face with both hands, fingers prickling against the stubble he still hadn’t bothered to shave. With a grumble, he slid onto a stool, wincing as the old vinyl creaked in protest. The seat wobbled, threatening to give way after years of supporting the asses and fleeting fancies of countless johns. “Yeah, you could say that.” Colt’s eyes flicked up toward the door he’d just emerged from, half-expecting William’s larger than life shadow to darken the threshold at any moment.
Jim’s keen gaze swept over Colt. Without a word, he abandoned his polishing rag and reached for the coffee pot. The rich aroma permeated, a promise of temporary warmth in this den of cold commerce. Jim filled a mug to its brim and guided it across the bar with practiced ease, the porcelain scraping against wood grain.
“Brindle came through here earlier,” he said, voice low as if the walls themselves might be listening. “Looking like she’d seen a ghost. Or worse, William McCarron’s face first thing in the morning.”
Colt’s fingers tightened around the cup, warmth seeping into his palms. “Yeah, well, Dad’s idea of employee relations leaves a lot to be desired. But Brindle should know by now that approaching him with an issue before noon is like poking a hibernating bear. With a cattle prod.”
Jim snorted, his laugh a sudden bark that reverberated throughout the parlor. He snatched a grimy rocks glass from the sink, attacking it with his rag as if it had personally offended him. “Christ, man. That’s like saying Godzilla’s got anger management problems.” He paused, venting his lungs. “What was it this time?”
Colt took a long pull of coffee, relishing the heat as it scorched its way down his throat. The pain was clarifying, a reminder that something in this godforsaken place could still make him feel. He set the mug down, dark liquid sloshing onto the bar like blood from a fresh wound.
“Same old shit. Girl thinks she’s getting screwed – and not in the way that pays the bills. It’s all about the Benjamins.” Colt rubbed a piercing ache at the base of his neck. “Dad basically accused her of lying and said she was an alcoholic. Told her to suck it up or ship out.”
Jim’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Harsh, but effective. Your old man has kept this place running through Hell and high water. Recessions, FBI and police raids … you name it, he’s weathered it. Say what you want, but he’s always gotten results.”
“Yeah, I know.” Oh, did he ever. The legendary William ‘Desert Fox’ McCarron, spinning sleaze into gold since 1972. A legacy, Colt had been groomed for since he was still in the womb, whether he wanted it or not.
Jim’s rag paused mid-swipe. “You ever wonder how long places like this are gonna last? World’s changing, bud. Got mongers now who’d rather diddle their phones than real women.” He shook his head. “Damned Internet. Hell, half our girls are on those cam sites in their off hours. Times like these, makes you wonder what’s next.”
A peal of laughter, bright and jarring as wind chimes in a graveyard, sliced through the doom and gloom. Sherilyn sauntered in, high heels clicking upon the floorboard. Her snakeskin miniskirt rode high on tanned thighs, legs shuffling with each step. A sequin halter top struggled to contain curves that had launched a thousand fantasies.
“Morning, boys!” she announced, whipping and tossing her mane of auburn curls with dramatic flair. Her gaze swept the parlor before landing on Colt, blue eyes sparkling with remembrance. “Well, hello there, Colty-Colt.”
She sidled up to the bar, hips swaying like a pendulum marking the passage of another day in the so-called office. A cloud of patchouli and vanilla trailed in her wake, her distinct calling card – too sweet, too strong, a desperate attempt to veil the reality of her profession and the remnants of abandoned dreams and severed family ties.
“Hmm, you’re my favorite ride at the carnival.” Sherilyn kissed Colt slow, deep, deliberate, tongue swiping inside his mouth. “And here I thought it couldn’t get any better than the mechanical bull.” Her lips grazed his cheek, leaving a faint imprint of cherry-red gloss. “What do you say we buck broncos again tonight, cowboy? This filly’s itching for another rodeo.”
Colt felt a warmth spread through his chest, at odds with the chill of his father’s words. Sherilyn doesn’t like you. She doesn’t want to be with you. She is simply trying to fuck a few favors out of you. The cynicism of William’s voice clashed with the sparkle in Sherilyn’s eyes, leaving Colt adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions. The bitch is using you.
You know what, though? Dad is right.
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Colt managed, dragging up a smile that rather lay dormant. Was this real? Was any of it? How many other “cowboys” had Sherilyn invited to her private rodeo, each one thinking they were special, unique, irreplaceable? How long could Colt keep lassoing this tango of truth and lies before the music finally stopped?
Jim’s gaze bore into him, seeing far too much. “It’s never simple in this business, is it, bud?”
Sherilyn inclined her head. “Everything okay?”
Colt stood, carefully pushing the stool back. “Yeah, everything is fine. Just need to sort some things out in my head.” He gestured toward the exit. “Think I’ll take a quick walk, clear my thoughts a bit. Fresh air will do me good.”
As he approached the door, he heard Sherilyn call out, “Don’t be too long, baby. I’ll be waiting. Maybe we could make out a little before any business shows up?”
Colt paused, forcing a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of keeping you waiting, Carrie.” With that, he stepped out into the harsh desert sunlight, slamming the door shut with a finality that echoed in his bones. Fuck. The scorching heat waylaid him with an uppercut and right cross, yet somehow, Colt could breathe easier out here than in the suffocating web he’d left inside.
“Hi! My name’s Pamela Prescott. Do you … work here, by chance? I have an interview scheduled at ten o’clock.”
(End of Chapter One - to be continued)
