Page 9 of The Client
The chain grates against its holder, the sound reverberating in my bones. The door opens and then a beefy hand reaches out for me.
“Get in here,” a deep male voice says. “Hurry up.”
He pulls me in.
The door slams behind me and I get a full breath of sour cigar smoke. Before I can get my bearings, an older woman with short, dark hair and deep red lipstick appears through the cloud, puffing on a slim brown cigar as she assesses me. She’s in a sheath dress and pearls, looking more like a professional businesswoman than a madame. Then again, I suppose the two are one and the same.
“Good. Very good,” she says, nodding to herself. “What’s in the bag?”
I tighten my grip on the duffel straps and say, “Nothing. It’s just my keys and—”
But then the guard grabs the bag off my shoulder and searches it, ripping the department store bag in the process.
“Clothes,” he tells the woman in pearls, shoving the bag back at me.
“That’s fine, you can take it in,” she says. “This way, darling.”
Sauntering off, she cuts through the dimness, and I nearly lose her. Something inside says I need to keep up. I don’t want to get lost in a place like this. Still I hesitate, looking back over my shoulder at the guard who stands there blocking the exit. His hard gaze practically dares me to try escaping this place. I don’t. I follow the woman in pearls.
“Don’t start crying,” she warns. “You’re here now and there’s no turning back, so just keep your chin up and get it over with. And do it with a smile. Smiling makes everything better.”
Her words, meant to comfort, horrify me instead. I can’t believe I was so stupid, thinking there wasn’t a dark side to this amazing opportunity with KZM. It takes all my willpower to control the panic fluttering inside my chest like an angry shrike. If I lose my tenuous grip even a little, it will overwhelm me.
But the woman in pearls is right about one thing: there is no turning back. I have to do this. For Eva. Thinking of my little sister, and how much she needs me, is the only thing that keeps me on my feet.
The woman stops at a door on the left that’s guarded by another heavyset man, this one with tattooed biceps the size of my thighs. He unlocks the door and throws it open. Bright light and the overpowering scent of perfume spill out. Soft, feminine voices sound from within.
“Get ready,” she tells me. “Girls, you have twenty minutes until showtime. Chop chop.”
I’m shoved inside and the door slams. Immediately, nine or ten pairs of eyes land on me. Without making eye contact with any of the other young women, all of them dressed in white bathrobes, I glance around the room. It’s long and narrow. Mirrors have been hung along one wall, above long counters with stools. There’s no changing area.
Trembling, I clutch my duffel to my chest.
“Jesus, another one?” A scoff. “Why not just pack us in here like rats in a trap?”
“Hurry up, honey,” a middle-aged woman says, coming forward to lead me to a free stool in front of a mirror. “I’ll help you. Then you can change. They’ll auction you naked if you’re not dressed in time.”
She’s kind, almost motherly, but I don’t let my guard down. This must be the “professional” hair and makeup artist that Zoric mentioned.
Admittedly, she’s good. Within fifteen minutes, she’s brushed my long blonde hair out and lightly tousled it with some texturizing cream. My makeup is so subtle, so minimal—just a touch of lip gloss, a little blush, and lots of mascara—that I’m a little confused, until I realize that all the girls have been given the exact same treatment. It’s meant to make us look younger.
My stomach turns.
“You have about five minutes,” the makeup artist says. “Why don’t you go ahead and get dressed? The corner offers a bit of privacy. That’s where the girls keep their personal items.”
The others chatter behind me as I unzip my duffel and pull out the outfit Zoric gave me. “Outfit” is a stretch, however. It’s nothing more than a white lace bra and matching thong with little satin bows at the hips. Once I’m changed, I shove my bag into the corner and stand there awkwardly, my hands clasped in front of my chest. I’m cold, scared, and humiliated.
“Hey. Here’s an extra,” a redheaded girl says, handing me a robe.
“Thanks.”
I slip into it, wondering what she’s wearing under hers. Are we all in lingerie?
“The first time’s the worst. Once you’ve been through it, it’s not so scary after that,” she says quietly.
She gives me a shy smile. Is she another foreigner, like me? Her voice was so soft, I couldn’t detect an accent. Did she sign with Zoric to support her family, too?
“Here. Be bold, so you stand out and rack up the bids.”
