The poster on the sterile gray wall featured a chiropractic chart of the vertebrae column and a list of its most common ailments, such as osteoporosis, scoliosis, and disc herniation. Pamela took a moment to eyeball the central illustration and marveled at the many ligaments, muscles, tendons, and bones of the spine which was, literally, the backbone of her ability to move, sleep, and function properly.

When Pamela’s pain worsened overnight and became almost unbearable in the morning – to the point where listening and talking were difficult, let alone walking to the kitchen and brewing a pot of coffee – she had no choice but to allow Colt to rush her to the nearest emergency room some twenty-five miles south in Valley City, Nevada.

Dr. Middleton spoke at length with the couple about Pamela’s medical history and recent ailments, performed a thorough physical exam, and ordered a battery of tests for her throbbing back, including a CBC, X-rays, a CT scan, a DEXA, and a biopsy. Ever the eternal optimist, Pamela trusted the elderly doctor would cure whatever her issue – hopefully it’s just a pulled muscle – was.

Because he had to.

Her livelihood depended on it.

A few days of recuperation away from work would be fine, if he suggested it, but anything beyond that would be unacceptable. The summer months were always busy for the house, with Las Vegas tourism near its peak, and plenty of money to be made.

She had appointments scheduled for later in the week with three of her regulars too. I can’t let Mikey, Paul, and Jovi down. Pamela had to be healthy enough to party with them. I may lose them as recurring clients if I’m not.

Pamela looked away from the poster and again rested her chin on the crook of Colt’s neck. Seated together on the small, hard-as-brick bed, he offered all his love and support, one gentle arm across her back, the other holding her head in an endless embrace.

“In a brothel, what do you call an injured employee?”

“Hmm?” Colt drew his head back, concern etched across his features. “What, babe?”

“A hoe down.” Pamela laughed at the silly joke as a tear tumbled down her cheek.

The door opened and Dr. Middleton entered with a smile, but something seemed off. His smile was tense, almost forewarning. Pamela swallowed over the sudden lump in her throat and Colt sat up, alert and straight.

“What’s the news?” She was full of anxious nerves as the gentleman opened a manila folder and began sifting through its contents. “Good news, I hope?”

“I’m afraid not.” Dr. Middleton pulled a stool to bedside, took a seat, and motioned to the dark sheet in hand. “The analysis came back and it shows you have an L3, non-displaced transverse process fracture of the spine.”

Pamela turned white as a ghost. “A what?”

“Whoa, wait a minute! What does that mean?” His worst fear realized, Colt’s heart nearly ruptured. “Is she going to be okay?”

The physician pointed to a spot on the lower portion of the X-ray. “L3 refers to the specific vertebrae in the spine. L means lumbar, three means the third from the top in the lumbar section. The transverse process is part of the vertebrae, it’s bone. Think about it like a wing – you see here – there’s two of them on each vertebra that stick out. One to the right, one to the left. Here, Mrs. McCarron, you’ve suffered a fracture to one of those so-called wings and it’s non-displaced, meaning it hasn’t moved. See where I’m pointing? This is what’s causing most of your pain.”

The fear in Pamela’s eyes was palpable.

“Now, I know a fractured spine sounds bad, but not all fractured spines are created equally, especially lower ones. You are very lucky because this could’ve been a lot worse. You have a mild, stable fracture that probably happened during a moment where you were flexed and rotated because at L3, you have a muscle called the psoas major muscle which takes on stress during those movements, especially when loaded, and can chip off some of the bone. An individual in your … line of work, Mrs. McCarron, has an elevated risk for these and other similar injuries.”

For one of the few times in her life, Pamela felt ashamed because of her career. The way he said line of work. Ugh. However, she had more pressing concerns at the moment than being embarrassed or ridiculed. “What is the long-term outlook? What are you telling me?” I’m not in traction, right? I can still move … somewhat. This will get better, won’t it? “When will I be able to go back to work?”

“The good news is, the key, is you have an isolated fracture and it’s stable. It should heal over time, naturally, and neither a brace nor surgery are necessary. The question then becomes, are you at further risk with a mild stable isolated transverse process fracture? The risk is quite low by itself for someone with a routine, nine-to-five job. It’s more about being able to tolerate pain and pain control.

“But as for you, as a sex worker, you’re forced to endure a host of unnatural, unhealthy positions day-in and day-out. You said you’ve been doing this for twelve years, correct?” He shook his head slowly. “Such a long time, a lot of wear-and-tear. You already suffer from fibromyalgia and spinal osteoarthritis. You have chronic pain in your feet, your neck, and occasional tingling in your fingertips. You take five prescription medications daily.” Dr. Middleton stood. “The fact you’re only thirty concerns me because I wonder what shape your back, even your whole body itself, will be in some twenty, thirty years from now if you continue to do … what it is you’re doing. The human body can only withstand so much, Mrs. McCarron, and in my professional opinion, yours has had enough.”

“It hasn’t had enough!” She refused to accept that notion. “You said it’s mild, it’s stable, I don’t need surgery. What are the treatment options? It’ll heal on its own, right?” Her voice was rushed and panicky. “How do we fix this so I can get back to work ASAP?”

“Bed rest for five days will alleviate the inflammation and the pain itself, and I recommend an additional six to eight weeks after that of limited activity with regular visits to an orthopedist, as well as a physiotherapist.”

“Taking two months off is not an option!” she snapped. “I can’t afford to do that! There has gotta be another way, something you can do to help me.”

“I don’t think you understand how serious this is.”

“You’re doing what the man says,” Colt said firmly. “Period, Pamela. End of story.”

She folded an arm to her stomach. Her whole body trembled and shook, and her back burned with excruciating torment.

“Sweetheart, we’ll be fine. It won’t be an issue.” Colt spoke softer now and draped an arm across her shoulder. “The important thing is your health. It’s the only thing that matters.”

“As for your future in the sex industry, Mrs. McCarron, if you continue to subject your body to such intense, unnatural rigors – day after day, week after week, month after month – there’s an increased probability for more extensive damage to your spine, the type that may require complex surgery, one that will compromise your quality of life in future years.” Dr. Middleton placed a box of tissues at her side. “I’m talking a permanent, debilitating, life-altering injury where you could conceivably be bound to a wheelchair, or worse.” He paused briefly, allowing those words to register. “I strongly suggest you step away from sex work and find another career.”

Pamela gritted her teeth and fought back the onslaught of tears. “So, I’m supposed to quit the job I’ve been doing since 2006 just like that, you say?” Anguish bounced and ricocheted in her head. No. God, please no. “The only thing I know how to do? You don’t understand! It’s our family business!”

“The only thing you know how to do?” The hurt in Colt’s eyes nearly did Pamela in. “C’mon, now, honey. You know that isn’t true. You have a college degree and are working on your graduate’s. You’re way smart enough; you can do anything you set your mind to.”

Pamela knew several former working ladies who’d been in this exact predicament and had to step away when their bodies betrayed them. Some struggled in the aftermath and now led terrible, arduous lives wrought with domestic abuse and drug and alcohol addiction. How am I going to pull my weight in our marriage if I can’t make any money? Will Colt divorce me, leave me? What use would I be to him? The transition from sex work to a “regular” life was certainly not easy. How would I gain any respect when people, specifically potential employers, find out about my past? The thought of having to go through that transition horrified her to no end. I’m Pamela McCarron, dammit! She was at the height of her career, the top of the industry. One of the most sought-after courtesans in LPIN.

How could this be happening to her?

“Please tell me there’s an alternative.” Her mind was spinning. “Please, doctor! I have to work.”

He crossed his arms and bit his lip. “I wish there was, but there’s not.”

<> <> <> <> <>

Lindsay's bare feet were settled atop the coffee table as she balanced a laptop on her thighs and her fingers typed away furiously. She was putting the finishing touches on her latest e-mail to Sammy. They had gotten into a back-and-forth earlier today and exchanged several explicit messages.

“Hey!” Sahara, appearing out of nowhere almost like an apparition, took a seat beside Lindsay and offered a glittering smile.

“Hey, yourself.” Startled at the unexpected company, Lindsay composed herself, saved the latest draft, and closed the laptop. She didn't want Sahara (or anyone else) to know that she was making plans to get together with a client outside the house two weeks from now. Sammy was interested according to his responses and Lindsay was determined to make their meetup a reality.

“Whatcha doin', Kayleigh? Baby boo?” Wearing a white tank top and a knee-length green skirt, Sahara reached out and rubbed Lindsay's knee in a flirtatious manner.

“Umm, trying to answer all my e-mails on the website and add to the public discussions. Get myself and my brand out there, as Jim says.” That was a lie. Aside from the e-mail system, Lindsay hadn't touched the website at all today. Her sole focus was Sammy and hammering out the details for their secret rendezvous in Salt Lake City. It promised to be epic. “What do you want?”

“I wanna hang out with you.” Sahara's brown hair was piled loosely on top of her head and highlighted the elegant curve of her neck. “Just got back from the bar in Ambridge. I was hanging out with Riley and Jenn. We had a bitchin’ time! Jim was gonna take us, but he had to stay here instead and watch the house with Colt being preoccupied.”

“Is that where you've been? At a bar? On a Sunday?”

“Sundays are slooooow around here. Customers blow their wads on us on Saturdays. It's ten times worse during the football season. This place is a fucking graveyard. I think the sport of football is barbaric.” Sahara lifted her shoulders in an I-don't-care shrug. “Monday is a good bounce-back day, though. I don't know why. You did party for five hours yesterday, right? That's a kick-ass Saturday.” Sahara tried to pry open the laptop and sneak a peek at what Lindsay had been working on.

“What's wrong with you?” The fucking nerve! Lindsay clutched the laptop to her chest and held on tight. I can't let anyone see my messages to Sammy. If Colt finds out, I'll lose my job.

“I don't know! I missed you today. You're my favorite working girl! Other than Riley, of course.”

You're not acting right.

Sahara put her elbow on the sofa and propped her head up. She was laughing as Lindsay stared back at her with wide eyes. “I thought I'd come downstairs and hang out with you.”

“You missed me?” Lindsay's tone was incredulous before she glanced at an incoming text message on her phone from Evie. Hmm, Evie keeps asking what I'm up to here in Nevada. Should Lindsay be honest with her, like she always had been, and admit to working as a whore in a brothel? What would Evie think? Can I trust she won’t tell my mom and dad about it? My sisters? Or anyone else? I’d die if Zack ever found out.

Before fees and her loan payback, Lindsay netted $2,800 over three days of work last week. Fucking incredible! She was positive Evie would love to make that type of money too. Maybe I could get her a job here.

“Yes, I've missed you!” Sahara was chomping on some bubblegum and was in way too good of a mood.

“Okay.” Lindsay had learned this past week that Sahara's moods were tenuous and subject to change in the blink of an eye. She seems sort of scatterbrained.

“Why didn't you go out with us? I'm sure you could use some time away from the house.”

Lindsay lowered her phone and her jaw followed as realization dawned. “You're wasted.” Yes, it was true – Sahara was stone-cold drunk.

“I'm … what? No!”

“Look at you.” Sahara glared at her with narrow eyes as Lindsay added, “Yeah, go to your room. You need to lie down and rest.” I guess you have no idea what happened with Aaliyah earlier, huh? Oh, trust me, Sahara. You will.

“No, no,” Sahara said. “I wanna hang out with you! I love you, Kayleigh. You're so hot.” Lindsay tried to back away, but Sahara latched on to her wrist and reeled her closer. “Hey, you know what? You should come hang out with me and Riley next time we leave the house. We’ll even convince your buddy Jim to go with us.”

“No, I think I'll pass.” Both ladies had a wild reputation and Lindsay feared they would get her drunk too. She'd never taken a sip of alcohol, either, and at eighteen, wasn't allowed to by law yet. I don't need to get arrested by Sheriff Spaeth or any other Nevada lawman. She valued her freedom too much to take such a risk.

“Riley and I could show you a fun time. You need to loosen up, baby.” With a beaming smile, Sahara ran her index finger along Lindsay's thigh. “Didn't you tell us you wanted to break away from your mommy and daddy and live your own life?

Lindsay didn't want to be rude, but Sahara was making her feel awkward now. “All right, okay. I'm gonna try to finish my work on the computer.” Since her arrival, Lindsay had gotten along with Sahara and Riley fine. Currently, however, Sahara came across as too forceful. “Go lie down, will you? Please?”

“No! You sound like my mom when I used to drink in high school and come home after parties. I wanna hang out with you. What are you doing on the Internet?”

“Hang out? What do you mean, hang out?”

Sahara’s lips quivered. “I think you're cute! I wanna hang out with you. Lez be friends, okay?”

Why isn't Sahara taking the hint? Lindsay wasn’t interested at the moment. Does excess alcohol affect her this much? Why do people drink if all they do is wind up soused like this? Makes no sense. “Listen, you need to go to sleep.” Lindsay's tone was distant – detached – as if she was underwater. I don't need this. “Please, leave me alone.”

“I don't need to go to sleep! I don’t want to leave you alone either!” An outburst of anger accompanied Sahara's response, but soon she lightened up. “Hey, come here. Come here! Wanna go to the bar in Ambridge and hang out with me and Riley? Let's go now.” Lindsay tugged at the nearby fleece throw and wrapped both arms around her stomach. “Jenn will be glad to take us right back there, but you may have to lick her pussy. We like to repay her for everything she does for us.”

“Wow.” Lindsay's nose scrunched and her eyebrows crinkled at the thought of Jenn, normally the night bartender, offering her favors in exchange for oral sex. She'd come to know and respect Jenn this week – as a friend – and didn't think of her that way. “No. I don't want to go anywhere. I'm fine. Listen, leave me alone, okay? I want to get back to …”

Sahara leaned forward and rubbed Lindsay's crotch with an open palm.

“Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Such behavior was commonplace in a brothel, even accepted, amongst the bisexual working girls. No secrets, no inhibitions. Anywhere else it would be sexual harassment, so Lindsay had to remember where she was. Calm down. I signed up for this job. Still, that didn't mean she had to enjoy being treated this way.

Sahara pulled her hand away. “I wanna hang out with you!” She turned demure. “I think you're incredibly sexy.” Sahara's voice became energized again. “Riley thinks that way too. Maybe you should come and hang out with us in Los Angeles when we're on break in two weeks. You're on break that week, too, right? We can go to some nightclubs in West Hollywood and we would make sure you’d get all the dick you could handle.” Lindsay's mouth dropped open as Sahara added, “You'd be fucking drowning in it!”

It was time for Lindsay to put her foot down. “Sahara, you're a nice girl, and you've been good to me. I appreciate all the advice you’ve given me since I started. But I can smell every drink you've had today on your breath.” It's not appealing in the slightest. “Please, go get some rest.”

“No! I want to be by you, with you.” She grasped both of Lindsay's elbows.

“You're pulling on my shirt.”

Sahara giggled. “Who gives a shit? It's just a shirt.” She tilted her head back-and-forth several times and moved her lips close. “You smell all the alcohol, huh? Does it turn you on?”

“No. Can you go? Please?” Lindsay gave a tiny whimper and tried to squirm away. “I need to get some work done on the computer.”

Sahara laughed hysterically. “No! Why don't you want to hang out with me? Don't you like me?” She offered a sexy trout-pout. “I think you're so hot.” Sahara made chomping motions with her mouth like a hungry shark. “I wanna eat you up!”

“No, I need to …”

“What type of porn do you watch?”

“What?” Lindsay couldn't believe Sahara had asked her such a question. “What type of porn do I watch? None! I don't watch porn at all! What the … kind of question …?”

Sahara flicked her chin, sending her mahogany-brown tresses flying over her shoulder with a snicker. “The walls here are thin, honey. Real thin. I heard porn walking by your room earlier. Sounded like some hardcore BDSM and the girl in the video called the guy Daddy.”

Lindsay's cheeks flamed a crimson red.

“You into that kinky, freaky shit, baby? Daddy and daughter stuff turn you on? Would never peg you as someone into the disgusting stuff.” The twenty-three-year-old lunged forward and kissed Lindsay on the lips. “How about I be your daddy and give you a rough, dominant fucking? Bend you over my knee for a whipping?”

“Sahara!”

Her body recoiled and in a defensive position, Lindsay wheeled around and noticed Jim at the top of the staircase.

“Sahara, get up here this instant! I have some aspirin and water; you're going to take a nap with Riley. She's already passed out. You need several hours to detox alongside her.”

Sahara stomped a high heel on the floor. “Do I have to?”

Jim nodded. “Colt's orders.”

“Ughhhhh! Fuck Colt! Fuck Colt and tell him I said that too!” She circled back toward Lindsay and murmured in a seductive tone, “We'll pick this discussion up at another time.”

“Sahara, now!”

“You're not my dad!”

“Now!”

“I'm coming, Jim. I'm coming. God!” Sahara trudged up the steps like a rebellious teenager and went right past him without another word.

Jim stayed behind and shot a worrisome glance at Lindsay. Her breathing was harsh. “You okay?”

She gulped her throat and nodded. I'm sure I'll experience far worse working in a brothel. Heck, I already did with Eric the other night. And the weirdo who had me role-play as Brooklynn yesterday too.

Compared to those guys, Sahara's act was tame.

And Colt groped me during my interview as well. Not that I found what he did offensive, though. …

“Sahara is a sweet girl. Would give anyone the shirt off her back if they needed it.” Jim grimaced, full of regret. “But she loses all her senses and becomes unruly when drunk. Please, can you forgive her? Neither she nor Riley can handle their alcohol.”

Then why did you allow Jenn to take them to a bar?

Lindsay sighed. “I know. It's okay. It'll pass.” And Sahara will apologize in a couple of hours, I'm sure. She was similarly blitzed on Lindsay’s first day here, too, and apologized for her behavior once sobering up.

A small, grateful smile touched Lindsay's lips. “Thanks for saving me, Uncle Jim. Sahara was getting aggressive.” And now she knows about my Daddy Dom fetish, and I hope she doesn't tell the entire house about it.

“Anytime. Sometimes, I have to police the girls here more than I do the customers. I'll have a talk with Sahara, as well as Riley, later tonight. They need to stop teasing you. I promise you'll never hear either of them talk that way to you again. You have my word.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

Jim tilted his head. “You haven’t had the best day. Not with Pamela going to the hospital and what happened with Aaliyah, have you? Everything okay, Kayleigh?” His tone turned deeper. “Lindsay? You okay, hon?”

She sniffed her nose. Indeed, it had been a horrendous day. In more ways than one. “I guess I'll live.”

“We'll talk about it later. Just you and me.” Jim’s smile was soft, reassuring. “I gotta go deal with Sahara now.”

“Okay.” Jim is such a great guy, and along with Pamela, has been so helpful since day one. Always willing to sit down and lend a sympathetic ear.

Kenzie has been super helpful as well.

Why can't Colt be that way too? He's the big boss, and I so want to please him – make him happy, gain his approval – but all I've done thus far is dissatisfy him. I know I've made some mistakes, but I'm trying my best.

He's sooooo kind to Pamela, and it makes me jealous. …

Once Jim stepped away, and assured she had her privacy, Lindsay opened the laptop and retrieved her e-mail to Sammy. She added the final two sentences and began the proofreading process.

From: Anastacio, Lindsay

Sent: (Draft)

To: Sodomy, Sammy

Subject: 16 days and counting down!

Sammy :O –

Hi there! I'm sorry I haven't been able to e-mail you in the last couple of hours (I loved our constant back-and-forth this morning!). I should have expected life in a brothel would be different and unlike anything I've ever known.

But before getting into all the gory details, you’ll be happy to know Pamela is back home from the hospital and resting. She said it was nothing too bad – a mild back sprain – and she plans on returning to work later in the week, or next week at the latest. The doctor has her on pain meds now and she’s out of it. I was worried for a while, but she promises it is nothing to fret about. So, I feel better.

You know how much I love Pamela. She’s the perfect woman, both inside and out.

And you’re the perfect man! :O

As for the bad news, Aaliyah got into it with Colt once he and Pamela returned home. Aaliyah wasn’t happy about me still having a job and let Colt know it. No one knows for sure, but that’s the rumor floating around the house. There was a bunch of screaming (behind closed doors) and Aaliyah quit. She packed her stuff and walked out, but not before calling me a nasty cunt and saying she hates me, and hopes I die.

I do not know what Aaliyah's problem is and why she’s so against me. I tried apologizing to her last night for whatever it was I did wrong (I know: my reactions after being passed over in lineups early in the week), but she was having none of it. I am glad Aaliyah quit but worry about my job. I know Colt isn't happy about losing a four-year employee like Aaliyah over someone who's been here less than a week. Riley told me last night Colt wanted to fire me, but Pamela talked him into giving me a second chance. Riley also said Colt never gives second chances to a turnout.

I'm sure you know the term: a turnout in this line of work is a new hire.

For what it's worth, I tried talking to Colt an hour ago when he passed by in the hallway. But he was on his phone and said we will talk later tonight. I admit it: I'm frightened.

I talked to Pamela for a bit, and she assured me I have nothing to worry about job-wise. Promised she'd never allow anything bad to happen to me here and said Aaliyah quit because of a scheduling dispute. That is a lie; I know it! Everyone does. Maybe Pamela is trying to protect me? I'm not sure, but she told me to keep doing my job like I did yesterday (five hours of partying – top $$$) and everything will be fine.

All the girls left here are likable. Nicolette wants to hook up later so we can talk, get to know each other, and maybe have a make-out session. Or more? How has Nicolette been toward you? She told me she way prefers girls over guys. Kenzie, Sahara, and Riley are so sweet. But I'm uneasy because the weekly shift change is tomorrow. Scarlett is going home to Cincinnati for a week while Elisabeth and Mariko are coming back from break. I've never met them. What if they don't like me either? I guess you know both reasonably well, huh? You've been to the brothel so many times! Scarlett is a cool gal and I'll miss her until she’s back to work next week.

I desperately want to work here and love this job, but hate being the centerpiece of a firestorm. I've had more drama in the past five or six days than I've had in my entire life combined. Ever since I was little, I've tried to be courteous toward others. I'm so not used to people treating me like Aaliyah did and that evil customer (Eric) I had.

I'm sorry if it seems like I'm pushing all my problems on you. I know you're busy in Utah and have your own issues. I feel like venting my frustration is all. If it's too much, please let me know, and I'll never mention any issues again.

Sammy, did you notice I'm writing to you from my personal e-mail address like you suggested? Not the ranch's? I've had this e-mail for like four or five years and it's my primary one. You are correct in saying that me using this account to communicate lessens the chance of us ever getting caught. I'm not sure even Pamela could protect me if Colt found out I'm planning to see a client outside of work. I'd be canned in a hurry.

Though I've had a lousy day, I've been thinking about you nonstop and it's made me feel better. I'm so happy you're willing to meet me on Tuesday the 9th at the airport hotel in Salt Lake City. In addition to the friendship you're showing me, all your concern and kindness, plus your support, I must admit that I have an incurable craving for your dick. :) I want to be OWNED by it. The emptiness I feel without you is unbearable! We’ll make the most of our time together.

If you're interested, we can expand our date to two or three days too. Or do you think of it as a booty call instead? (I don’t mind if you do!). Let me know if you're interested. I’d spend the entire week with you, but I know that isn’t possible.

I don't want this to be a one-time thing either. I'd like for it to continue. I have a full week off every month and would love to visit you in Utah as often as possible. No one in your family has to know (wife, kids, grandkids, etc.) and no one I work with has to know either. It can be our sexy little secret!

I repeat: I will NEVER charge you or expect any type of money or gifts. I am not showing up as Kayleigh the prostitute. I'm showing up as Lindsay Anastacio, an oversexed, happy, giggly girl from Citronelle, California, who wants you to fuck her silly.

Perhaps I should pay YOU this time? :)

Throughout our dialogue today, I’ve neglected to ask about you. How are things in Utah? You doing okay? How is your job? You must be super busy being the CEO of Gradiph Pharmaceuticals. I have so many questions and would love to sit down and talk one day, but fully realize if we’re alone, in a hotel room, we won't be spending much time telling each other about our respective lives!

I want you to know I think about you a lot and wonder what you're doing throughout the day. I’m so interested in everything about you! Are you happy with your job? I know the pay must be sweet as a CEO. My fantasy is to give you the mental and physical stimulation you deserve.

I’m so happy you're in my life, Sammy. I don't know how or why this happened, but it's amazing, and things will only get better as time moves on. I LOVE the fact you're forty years older than me and have so much experience, so much wisdom, to share. I’ll be your naughty, buttfucked student! I've always found older men to be ridiculously sexy and cannot wait until you and I are together again. I miss you like crazy!!!

Love, Lindsay (NOT Kayleigh!)

<> <> <> <> <>

“I want to take all Pamela’s pain, all her worries and fears away. I want to switch places with her and be the one in that fucking bed myself. She doesn’t deserve this!” Elbows on the desk, Colt clutched his head with both forearms and stared up at his best friend. The emotional strain had taken its toll on him today too. “That woman is my world, my everything. What can I do to help her?”

“The same thing you’ve always done,” Jim responded in an emphatic tone. “Love her, support her, be there for her. No one does it any better than you, pal.”

Colt pushed to his feet and paced the brothel’s office. “Pamela has always had that unflappable will, nothing fazes her, and she’s the strongest person I know, yet she’s scared to death right now. I have to be there for her. I will be there, even if it means stepping away from the brothel either temporarily or even permanently.”

“Listen to me, Colt. Do what you have to do. Both you and Pamela are more than welcome to stay at my place here in town so she can rest without all the constant noise and commotion we have here. I have a duplex and I’d give one half of the house exclusively to you and her for as long as you’d like.”

“I appreciate it, Jim. I really do, but I’d like for Pamela to go home to Maryland for a while once the pain subsides so she can be closer to family.”

“Maryland is the best place for her, with you. Take all the time you need, brother. I’ll hold down the fort here in Flagstone. Don’t worry about city council and their mandate you be here a certain amount of time each month either. Explain the situation to Mayor Bradley and he’ll grant you an exemption. He’s a reasonable man.”

“I’m not worried about that.” Colt paused for a moment, shook his head, and then scoffed, “Dafuq? A broken back! My wife has a broken back! She’s never going to work in the house again.”

“You’re not alone in this, Colt, and neither is she. I’m here for both you and her, as is every employee we have. All of us love Pamela, we love you, and we’re praying for her. Don’t worry, everything will be all right in the end.”

Once Jim stepped out of the office to tend to customers, anger swirled within Colt. He’d been dealing with it ever since Pamela confessed something during the ride home from Valley City this afternoon. Fucking Charlie! Pamela believed she suffered her injury during the initial party with Charlie on Tuesday afternoon. “Charlie was trying to fuck me in the spooning position, but with him being inexperienced, it was awkward, unconventional. He was throwing his weight around and I remember something popping in my lower back. It hurt like a motherfucker, but I blocked it out and finished the party.”

It made sense, really, because Pamela had been favoring her back ever since. I knew something was wrong with the way she’s been limping around all week. But I didn’t realize it was this bad. Suffering from fibromyalgia and degenerative arthritis in her spine, Pamela had dealt with daily aches and pains for years. But nothing like this.

I should’ve never let her party yesterday with five different clients over an eight-hour span. Not with the way she was struggling. Agreeing to cowgirl sex (something Pamela had always found uncomfortable) with Gabriel in the overnight hours proved to be the death knell for her back, the final nail in the coffin. She collapsed on the way to her bedroom last night once Gabriel left. I should’ve called for the ambulance immediately. Having several hours of sex with that dumb twit Kayleigh the evening prior added to Pamela’s unfortunate predicament too.

Could Colt really place the blame on Charlie, of all people, for what happened? Would that be fair? He was an uncoordinated virgin who didn’t know what he was doing. Pamela said Charlie was all over the place in both parties and came close to smothering her on multiple occasions. She had to tell him to get off her so she could breathe.

Perhaps, Colt thought, someone else was to blame. Someone much more at fault than Charlie could ever be.

Pamela has been with well over three thousand guys in the past twelve years, easy. Colt estimated she had sex with repeat clients at least a thousand times more. And that doesn’t include all the times she’s been with me and her lady friends here in the house. That type of sex life, such strain, wasn’t healthy.

How could I let Pamela fuck three thousand guys while I tend bar fifty feet away or sit on my butt here in the office and watch sports like it’s the most normal thing in the world to do? Colt’s head trembled. You’re a fucking horrible husband, man, and you don’t deserve a woman like Pamela as your wife!

So many times, he’d witnessed girls suffer massive breakdowns from the demands of this job. Sex work ate at their soul, their body, and continued to do so long after they were gone. Yet he allowed Pamela to fuck every Tom, Dick, and Harry who came knocking for the last twelve years. There was no screening process for any of them, other than a chat at the bar, and no restrictions on who Pamela would party with. She didn’t want any restrictions. No, Pamela wanted to be the one working lady at Happy Ending Ranch who took on all comers. She prided herself on being nonjudgmental and refused to let the way a person looked, their weight, ethnicity, or physical and/or mental disabilities impact her willingness to agree to a party. And she wouldn’t turn down any bizarre fetish request, either, as long as the law permitted it.

Look where being nice and fulfilling fantasies for those three thousand guys got her – a broken freakin’ back!

Yeah, man, you’re the problem. Not Charlie, not Gabriel, not anyone else. Colt was the one who helped mold Pamela into the picture-perfect courtesan, a monger’s wet dream. You have no one to blame for what happened but yourself.

He had the chance to nudge Pamela out of the industry in 2007 once they became engaged. She’d have her graduate’s degree by now and be working in the medical field. Instead, he was a selfish sonofabitch, convincing Pamela to stay at the house so she’d be around him twenty-four/seven. Back then, Colt liked the idea of Pamela having sex with others, but always returning to him at the end of the night. It was a terrible phase and one I’m happy I grew out of.

I wish we lived a normal life with normal jobs and had a normal house in the suburbs. I wish we had kids and our nieces and nephews came over every weekend and played with them. If that were the case, there’d be no mongers like Charlie to deal with, no Sammy, no Darius and, best of all, no Lindsay. That little shit irritates the piss out of me. Hiring her was a mistake, one I’d like to take back. She has designs on Pamela and wants to steal her away from me.

What was the next step after this tragic incident? I wish we’d sell the damn brothel to my cousin and move to Maryland and start over fresh. Build new careers from the ground up. The brothel would fetch a pretty penny – a couple hundred thousand dollars, at least – but Pamela would never allow him to sell it. She always reminds me that Dad started the house in 1972, gave it to me after his passing, and it’s my duty to continue his legacy. Pamela also insisted that one day, Colt hand the business over to his own son. Heh, if we ever have one.

Three thousand guys, man. Think about that.

You let this happen. …

*

As she lay in bed and bounced in and out of sleep, the medication making her dizzy and numb, Pamela had a lot of time to process the news she’d been given earlier. She had to acknowledge it, accept it, and only then could she come up with a game plan. I don’t care what the doctor says. There’s no way in hell I’m letting this end my career.

How about a second opinion? Or a third? Even a fourth? Some physician had to out there who wouldn’t predict all doom and gloom like this guy did, right? All she had to do was find him (or her). I question if that ER-Doc knew what he was talking about. He’s no back specialist.

I’m going to be smarter with my clients from now on. Pamela would set strict ground rules like other courtesans did on how rough mongers were permitted to be with her. Sessions would be slower and less hectic. She’d keep careful tabs on her back from now on too. I can take extended breaks between parties and set a hard daily limit. It was her back, her body, and she’d manage it better. I know my limitations. I got this! No one, especially some hick doctor in Valley City, of all places, was going to tell her what to do and how to live her life. If he was any good at his job, he would be working in a bigger city like Vegas.

Colt wasn’t going to deter her from returning to work either. I won’t allow him to control me. His tendency of being overprotective could be annoying. No one worried about her more, but most of the time, it was unwarranted. Colt can be such a drama queen when it comes to my health. I’m a big girl and can take care of myself.

Most of all, jumping to a rash conclusion like retirement wasn’t the answer. I have to work. Selling sex is all I know. Pamela couldn’t admit defeat so soon. I’m fine. I can walk now … sort of. Big money paydays with Charlie in September and Corey in November were looming. They’ll spend thousands and thousands of dollars on me. How could I turn them away? They’ll listen to me if I ask them to take it easy. Injuries and discomfort were part of the job. Time heals all wounds, even a fractured spine. Life was full of challenges that needed to be faced head-on and Pamela was going to add this one to the list.

I’ll be perfectly fine and working again in no time flat. …

(End of Chapter Eleven)