Page 19 of Spiders in the Grove

I take a deep breath, covering it up with the motion of my own drink, assuming I’ve failed at my information attempt.

She sets her glass on a side-table. “But in this particular situation,” she says, compromising, “head-first could look bad on me.”

OK, maybe not a failure, after all.

Joaquin smirks, agreeing.

He straightens his back against the sofa, places his glass on a side-table, and then turns at an angle to better face us, his shiny dress shoe propped upon his knee.

“The biggest buyers,” Joaquin begins, “usually attend on the third day—it’s quieter and less crowded. And because of our relationship with them, we pick girls for them ahead of time, based on their usual purchases, their preferences, and we set them aside.”

“Oh yes,” Cesara adds, “we always save the best girls for the biggest buyers. It costs three times as much just to get in the front door on the third day of the event, and they’re willing to pay it.”

“And even the least expensive girls,” Joaquin says, “start out at a quarter of a million dollars.”

“Wow,” I say, pretending to be amazed by this information. “Imagine someone like Miss Lockhart trying to bid against one of those buyers.”

Joaquin laughs.

A grin spreads across painted Cesara’s lips. “Yes,” she says, “that would be quite a sight to see.”

“I admit,” Joaquin adds, “I rather enjoyed the show with Miss Lockhart tonight”—he twirls his hand at the wrist, and his brown eyes roll upward momentarily—“these events can be so monotonous at times; I really get nothing out of them anymore.”

“I’d say your bank account does,” Cesara puts in.

Joaquin’s expression agrees. “True. And that’s the only reason I do it.”

“Oh?” I ask, though I didn’t mean to out loud; it just came out.

Joaquin nods. “I’d much rather be running everything—I’m practically just an event organizer, and truly, that’s a woman’s fucking job—or a fairy; the fairies do it even better.”

“You’re so homophobic, Joaquin,” Cesara says, playfully. “You know what that means, don’t you? Being homophobic?”

Joaquin’s right eyebrow hitches up curiously.

“It means,” Cesara says, “you secretly think about men a little more than you like.”

Joaquin doesn’t look as offended as I expected him to.

“You’re a nasty bitch, Cesara,” he says, grinning. “Sometimes the things you say make me want to put my hands around your throat.”

“But you do that already,” she says, suggestively. “And you know how much I like it.”

Oh, Jesus... Figuratively, I roll my eyes straight into the back of my head.

Before their sexual play goes too far, and I become the mayonesa in a Mexican sandwich, I pretend-cough, throwing my hand over my mouth and making the grossest hacking noise with my throat I can work up.

They both look at me as if I just ruined the moment.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, casually. “So, you were going to tell me how not to make you look bad?”

Cesara appears to think on it a moment.

Joaquin speaks up first.

“The three biggest buyers,” he begins, “they come on day three: Jorge Ramirez; he owns two hundred nightclubs in Mexico, United States, and Puerto Rico. The only thing you need to be aware of with Jorge is that you don’t want to be alone in a room with him. He…ruined one of our most expensive girls six months ago—of course, we made him pay for her afterwards—but he’s a serial rapist, and he doesn’t care who it is—trainer or merchandise, old or young, attractive or repulsive—he’ll fuck it.”

“Sounds like a charmer,” I say, mordantly.

---