Page 9 of Devil's Work: Dark

We each carry a black satin clutch for our phones and the tip money we’re supposed to make tonight. My clutch has a wrist strap. I feel more like a hooker than a server, but here we go.

My sister expertly maneuvers her way through the city, which at this time of night, has come alive. There are bright lights and people everywhere. After about a half hour, she turns into a gated neighborhood. My sister drives a BMW. Her car fits here. The security guard at the gate greets her by name and pushes the button to let us through. We drive until we come upon a large home, the largest home I’ve ever seen in real life. It has a circle drive leading up to the front of the house, where we get out and my sister hands her keys off to a valet. While the valet parks her car around the side of the house, we walk up to the front.

A doorman or butler opens the door and invites us inside with a hand gesture while moving out of the way. We’re led through the house out back. The home is on the river. The giant yard is lit up with white lights. Probably sixty round tables dot the courtyard with linen tablecloths and candles twinkling. There’s a dance floor in the center.

What I see are a lot of young women. Some I might venture to callgirls. All dressed like me and Dela. There are caterers. But they’re all wearing black slacks and white button-downs. And then there are men in suits. Mostly older men. Some look maybe mid-thirties, but most appear twenty years older at least.

“Dela,” I whisper. “What kind of party is this?”

“It’s a gentlemen’s party.”

The fuck?“What did you sign me up for?”

Before she can answer me, an older, distinguished man approaches us. He has a handsome face, but he’s definitely in his sixties, if not older. “Greta,” he says, greeting my sister. Uh… Greta? “I was hoping you’d show.”

She drops her eyes demurely. “You know I can’t stay away from you, Robert.”

“Who do you have here?” He looks me over, at the same time rubbing his hand up and down my arm.

“This is my sister, Grace.”

“Grace, really? You’re quite pretty, Grace.”

“Thank you,” I reply, but in my head, I’m trying to figure out how to get the hell out of here.

“How old is she?” he asks Dela.

“Fifteen,” she answers for me. The man smiles.

“Good…good.” The man, Robert, steps way into my body space, uncomfortably so, hooking his finger into the cleavage of my dress to tug me closer. “I’ve never seen you before.”

When I don’t answer, Dela kicks my foot. “No. I’ve never done this before,” I answer honestly.

His smile turns greasy. “You wouldn’t be a virgin, would you?”

“She’s definitely a virgin,” Dela says quickly. “That’s why she’s so skittish. This is all so new for her.”

I’m going to kill my sister once we get out of here. Kill her. Dead. This guy, he doesn’t even ask if I want to go with him. He takes my hand, forcing me to walk behind him toward the house.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”

Shit.I don’t want to do this, but I’m already here and the money… The money would help me out so much. Still unsure if I’m going to go through with it or not, I let him lead me into the house, up the stairs to a room closer to the back servants’ stairwell. This man knows exactly where he’s going.

He walks me over to the bed, helping me to sit down on the mattress. The bed has this opulent, quilted, ruby, damask comforter covered in gold fleur-de-lis. I cross my legs awkwardly, unsure of how to sit or pose, or what to do with my hands. This is a mess.

And it just got messier. He unbuttons his jacket, taking it off and tossing it in a chair close to the bed. This one is gilded gold with ruby velvet cushions. He bends down to start kissing my neck, at first stroking my breast through the fabric of the dress, but he quickly abandons the fabric, opting to plunge his hand inside for skin-to-skin contact. I’m scared stiff. I don’t know what to do. This man thinks I’m a fifteen-year-old virgin. I’ve had two children via C-section. The man is going to see my scar when my dress comes off. I don’t want my dress to come off. I don’t want to have sex with him.

Robert pushes me back until I’m lying down with my legs still bent over the edge. He climbs on the bed with me slowly, gently drawing my dress up while bending my knees to press into his hips. His eyes glimmer with excitement in the dim light. He has his lips pressed to the dip of my throat and his hand on my crotch when there’s a knock on the door. It opens to a man sticking his head inside the room. He appears slightly younger than Robert. Less white in his hair and fewer wrinkles, not that Robert has too many. I think he’s had cosmetic surgery.

The man eyes me up and down, cracking a slow smile. “Robert, you’re needed downstairs.” Then to me, he says, “When Robert’s done with you, come find me.”

Gross.He wants me when Robert is finished. Are you serious?

Robert, oblivious to my internal freak-out, kisses me directly on the lips. “Don’t worry. I have the feeling you’ll be spending the entire night with me. He’s just an asshole who needs to find his own girl. Get yourself comfortable, sweetheart. There’s booze in the cabinet. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

So, does Robert own this house? Is this his party? He’s offering me booze and thinks I’m fifteen. I don’t care what a person has to do to get off. I don’t care if they’re paying for sex. It’s not my place to judge—so long as the person they’re having sex with isn’tfifteen(or presumed to be in my case).

Shit.

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