Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23771 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23771 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Never has the no judgment clause undergone such a test.
Oh, I know Ripley’s uncle Mase very well. He’s been at every one of her raucous family gatherings since we became besties—which was right after Ripley’s father remarried. Uncle Mase a motorcycle-driving, cigar-smoking, tattooed, badass motherfucker who I’m pretty sure spent nine years in San Quentin on a murder charge.
My facial expression is frozen in place, but I’m positive I’m the color of a ripe tomato.
“How do you know that?” I ask, sounding casual. But also like I’m being strangled.
Ripley takes over my pacing duties. “He was over at my house last week for dinner and I might have snuck a peek at his iPhone contacts. I, um…might have been looking for women’s number to delete. Weirdly, there weren’t any. But anyway. I found the number to this place, but there was no name. Mysterious. So I called it and…” She stops and turns on a heel, smacking her palms together. “Bam. I find the brothel that has been operating under our small-town noses this whole time.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Please don’t tell me you’re wearing that mask because…”
“I don’t want him to know it’s me.” She shoots a glance at the clock. “It’s a long story. I’ve been in love with him for years and…look, we’ll talk about it after.”
“After you bugger your uncle!?”
Ripley’s mouth drops open. “That sounds like judgment. And he’s my step-uncle.”
I retreat into myself, employing the meditation technique I’ve been doing every morning to center myself. There is no way I am letting Ripley walk out of here without answering for the fact that she kept this longstanding crush from her best friend, but before I can start interrogating, Estelle enters the room. Jesus, she looks like she’s headed to a bake sale. No wonder this place has stayed so well hidden.
Estelle pats Ripley on the arm. “Room five, dear. He’s ready.”
With one last nervous glance in my direction, Ripley sails out of the room in a blur of blue silk and red locks. I start to go after her, but Estelle blocks my path, moving in a manner that is way too spry for seventy. I’m starting to wonder if she’s a ninja in a granny costume.
“Your gentleman is here, too, dear. And I’m glad we’re alone, because I need to speak with you first.” She taps her chin. “This man is not one of my regulars, so I was unaware until now that his tastes run…a certain way.”
A tsunami warning wails in my head. “What do you mean by ‘tastes’?”
Estelle chooses her words carefully. “The forbidden, dear. Tonight you are a forbidden virgin.” She laughs. “Frankly, it’s not untrue. This is an illegal establishment, after all.”
I laugh awkwardly to fill the silence she leaves behind. “So…I’m just being myself?”
“That depends. Are you the type to call a man Daddy?”
The sound I make lands somewhere between a cough and a bomb exploding. “Uh. No. I mean, I have a dad. I suppose I called him that when I was younger.”
“Excellent. Draw from that experience.”
Am I having one of those weird nightmares I only get after eating Taco Bell? “Seriously?”
Estelle sighs, casting a harried look at the wall clock. I’m now two minutes late for saggy balls. “Look, dear. I don’t have time for a long psychology lesson, so here is the condensed version. A father is an accountant in a sweater vest who yawns through your dance recitals. A Daddy pulls your hair, fucks you on your hands and knees, then buys you a pretty necklace. There’s a difference. You’re allowed to enjoy it.” She gives me an approving once-over. “And he certainly will.”
“Thanks?”
After a single nod, she hustles me toward the door. “Room three. It’s show time.”
2
Gavin
Christ, I can’t believe I’m doing this.
As instructed by the shockingly spry Estelle, I’ve made myself comfortable and removed my shoes and shirt. Now I’m sitting on the corner of the king-sized bed—hands clasped loosely between my thighs. My gaze is continually drawn to a stray piece of carpet that is far longer than the others, my fingers itching for my camera. Anomalies are often my subjects. Little oddities overlooked by most people. Asymmetrical windows in an old house when the foundation has been damaged by a flood, causing one side to sag. One white flower in a bouquet of red. A Dalmatian with only one spot.
Imagine what my photography students at the university would think if they knew I was at a brothel, finally indulging the fantasy I’ve been harboring in secret for years. This time next week, I’ll be standing in front of a lecture hall, preaching shadow and light to a new crop of students. How will I look a single one of them in the eye after tonight?
Last week, my childhood friend Mase drove his Harley up the coast to visit me. We draw a lot of attention when the two of us get together. Not because we’re so incredibly handsome, although I’m not half bad, but because Mase is my complete opposite. He is an ex-convict, for one, and I’m a respected professor at a prestigious art school. I wear suits, he wears leather and denim. He has a prison yard vocabulary and I was once a three-day Jeopardy champion. Yet somehow he’s the top friend in my favorites.