With unsteady hands, I glide the smooth crimson lipstick across my bottom lip as warm sweat pools into my armpits. I hold my breath before releasing. In a stuffy room filled with the smells of sweat, perfume, and hairspray, fresh air is hard to come by.

You have to do this. You have no choice.

“Beautiful, as always.” My boss, Hector Cross—or my pimp as some would call him—pops his head around the door, grinning with approval. He’s a boulder of a man with a ponytail at the back of his head, who always gravitates toward black dress pants and one of his multi-colored Hawaiian shirts. Several of the top shirt buttons are open, giving me a view of his curly chest hairs, which look damp with sweat. Buried in the salt and pepper hair, is a small golden cross that hangs from a slim chain around his neck.

I don’t say a word as I replace the cap of the lipstick and pick up the tube of mascara from the dresser. Since my lashes are already long by nature, the only thing they require is a little more thickness and definition to make my amber eyes pop.

“You should look excited. You have the white room today.” Hector comes to stand behind me. His sweat and musky cologne overwhelm me as he raises his arms to place his large, warm hands on my shoulders. “Other girls would kill for the opportunities I give you. You do know that, right?” Hector switches on the small radio on one end of the dresser. Pop music spills into the room.

My chin hits my chest. “Thank you, Hector. I’m sorry. I’m just tired.” I raise my head again and push my shoulders back. “Who am I getting?”

“Some kind of investment banker. So treat him well. Make him come back for more.”

I move away from Hector, getting to my feet. His hands fall to his sides. What I really wanted to do was shake him off me, but he’s my boss and even though he’s in a business some consider to be disgusting, he treats us well. He treats me well. I started working for him a year ago. Two months ago, he informed me that I was ready to be meeting the needs of the white room clients.

The Mirage has many color-coded rooms, depending on how much money clients are willing to cough up. The white room is as good as it gets, the room where all the important people go, the ones with the fat wallets. The ones who press large tips into our hands. Hector lets us keep our tips, which I appreciate.

“What do I call him?” I push two pins into my jet black hair wig to hold it in place.

“He calls himself Dr. Stud.”

I raise an eyebrow but don’t comment. I’ve heard worse names.

Only Hector knows a client’s true identity. All we get are the names they choose to be called for the night. Of course, we sometimes have public figures walking through the door and we recognize them the moment we see their faces but we have to pretend we don’t know who they are. On the other side of the coin, Hector also keeps our legal identities anonymous. My name at The Mirage is Ruby.

I clear my throat. “Dr. Stud it is.” I glance back in the mirror and watch as Hector heads for the door.

“Do a great job again tonight, then go home to get some rest. I’ll try to get more jobs in the white room for you tomorrow.”

When I started working at The Mirage, I was a nervous wreck and Hector completely made me feel comfortable, telling me I didn’t have to be ashamed about what I was about to do because there are so many girls like me. I told him I’m only in it for the money and as soon as I pay off half my debts, I’m out.

“That’s what they always say,” he’d said. “But most never leave.”

“Trust me, I won’t be one of those girls,” I’d promised. Every day that I come to work, I remind myself of that promise.

Once Hector is gone, I sink back onto the stool. My heart refuses to settle, so I stand again and approach the wall lined with our lockers. I open mine and reach in for my purse, rummaging inside until I locate the envelope. One of the many bills that keep me awake at night. It helps me focus, reminds me why I’m doing this. I have pressing bills to pay and I want to save up to get my GED and go to college immediately after. Things happened to me in the past, but I’d be damned if they stop me from becoming the person I want to be. My dream is to become a psychologist one day, to help people with mental illnesses, people like my mother.

Mom died when I was eleven, driven to suicide by the depression she had fought for as long as I’d known her. Selling my body is the fastest way for me to make more money. The jobs I managed to land before The Mirage didn’t bring in enough money to enable me to both pay my bills as well as save up for college.

I slide the envelope back into my purse and leave the dressing room, wearing nothing but a wine red padded bra, black panties, and a fake smile. My heart slams against my chest at the same time the heels of my stilettos come into contact with the worn-out wooden floor.

I reach the end of the hallway and inhale deeply to calm my nerves. My body responds by pushing bile up my throat, repelling the concentration of sweet perfumes, body odor, and sex impregnating the air. My hand hovers over the door handle for a moment before it comes into contact with the metal. I adjust my smile and push open the door.

Staying true to its name, the white room is splashed in various shades of white. Lily white flowing curtains spilling to the thick, eggshell carpet, and a massive round bed in the middle of the room covered in ivory silk. A round mirror is planted on the ceiling above the bed. White candles flicker in various corners of the room and a fresh bouquet of white calla lilies sits at the small table by the window. The room smells of flowers, burning candles, and cologne.

Dr. Stud’s tall lanky body is positioned in the middle of the bed, his crooked smile bright as his gaze roams the length of my body. His clothes are draped on a leather armchair leaning against one wall. An expensive suit, shiny custom-made shoes and a cobalt blue shirt stand out against the white furniture.

“Hector was right. You’re one of the best looking girls here.” He runs a hand down his naked chest. The man has no hair whatsoever on his pale body. The way it’s glistening in the candlelight, I wouldn’t be surprised if he waxes himself.

“Thank you, babe.” I perch on the edge of the bed, cross my shapely legs, and twist to face him. “Which of your wishes do you want to come true tonight?” Every word I say to him sounds foreign and unnatural on my tongue but this is not about my comfort. It’s about how what I say makes him feel.

“You’re a firecracker, aren’t you? My kind of girl.” He rests himself on one elbow, runs a thick tongue across his bottom lip. “My wish is for you to suck my toes one by one, slowly.”

All kinds of men come to us with strange fetishes, but do I have a choice? Ignoring the turn of my stomach, I suck it up and position myself at his feet, my knees sinking into the carpet. The smell of sweat hides beneath several layers of his cologne.

He flops onto his back with a contented sigh as I slide his salty, big toe into my mouth. My body heaves but I swallow down my disgust. Making noises to fool him into thinking I’m enjoying myself, I make my way from one salty toe to the next until I reach the small one. I move on to the next foot and give it the same treatment.

“That’s right, baby, suck me good.” He’s obviously enjoying this as much as I’m hating it. A strong urge to bite one of his toes fills me.

“What’s your name?” he asks, cutting through my thoughts.

One of his toes pops out of my mouth when I raise my head. “I’m whatever you want to call me, babe.”

“How about little cunt? Sound good to you?”

My body jerks but not enough for him to notice. I’ve been called a lot of names in the last year. I should be used to this. “If that’s what you . . . what you want.” I lower my head again, continue my job from hell.

“Little cunt, you can finish up with the toes now. My friend is hungry.”

“As you wish.” I rise off the floor and sway my hips all the way to the white box of condoms at the windowsill. I take out one of the silver packets and return to him. A few seconds later, I glide the condom down his small penis to his large balls. “How do you want it?” I ask as I remove my underwear.

“Ride me, little cunt, ride me like your life depends on it.”

I climb onto him, insert him into my body—my head empty of thoughts, my feelings shut off. I’m relieved it’s come to the sex already. The sooner it starts, the sooner it ends. After that I’ll go home to scrub his sweat off my body.

He grunts a total of four times as I move above him. Then he stiffens, eyes scrunched shut. His long fingers slither down my breasts until they cup them so tight it hurts. He lets out what can only be described as a roar. Then it’s over.

I let out the breath I’d been holding and roll off him.

“That was fantastic, little cunt.” He mops sweat off his forehead. “You were brilliant.”

“Happy to be of service. Any more wishes?” While most clients only desire sex, there are some who ask for cuddling and kissing afterwards. I hate it as much as the sex.

“No, I got what I came here for.” He slides to the edge of the bed and lifts his pants from the chair, pulls out a one hundred dollar bill from the pocket and presses it into my hand. “Go buy yourself something nice. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Sure.” I swallow hard. “See you again sometime.”

I say goodbye and walk out of the room. The money for the actual session is always paid to Hector.

I find Hector sitting on one of the stools in the dressing room. “Sweetheart, I know you have to get home, but we have a surprise client. I thought we’d be done with the white room for the night, but he’s willing to pay triple what most white room clients pay. He's all yours if you want him.”

I collapse onto one of the stools, shoulders slumped. “Hector, I’m exhausted. I’ve had four clients today.” Not all of them had been from the white room, and one of them gave me a one dollar tip.

“We can’t let this opportunity slip by. You need the money just as much as I do. And you’re one of my favorite girls.” He taps his fingers against his lips. “You really want me to give him to someone else? Think of the tip.”

I tug a wet wipe from a box on the dresser and wipe the sweat from between my breasts, and neck. “No, it’s fine. I’ll take him. Thanks, Hector.”

“That’s my girl.” He stands up, pats me on the back. “It will be over before you know it. He said he doesn’t have much time anyway. I’ll have someone freshen up the room. Be there in fifteen minutes.”

I clean myself up and refresh my makeup before I return to the white room. All I can think about as I walk down the hallway, is my bed, my single bed in my tiny closet apartment, calling for me, waiting for me.

The client is standing by the window, his back to me.

“Hey, good-looking.” The words I use while on the job sometimes make my skin crawl. But it’s my job to tell them what they want to hear, even if it’s a lie. “You waiting for me?”

He turns to face me. My body goes cold. He approaches me. I take a few steps back.

Without my eyes leaving his, I take in his looks. Striking onyx eyes, wavy hair that brushes the tips of his shoulders, and a strong slightly square jaw. A scar runs across one side of his jaw, barely visible under the stubble.

After the guys I’d had today, sleeping with him would be easy, but he’s the one man I can’t have sex with. “I’m sorry. There’s been a mistake. I have to go.”

His brow furrows. “You just got here.” He moves toward me.

I take several steps back. I reach the door and grab the handle, a sour taste in my mouth. “I’m really sorry. I came to the wrong room. Hector . . . He’ll send you the right girl.”

I step out the door and run as fast as my stilettos would let me.

* * *

I almost collide with Hector, who is exiting the black room, the lowest ranked room at the The Mirage.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He shoots out a hand to grab my wrist. I pull it away from him.

“I couldn’t go through with it. I’m sorry, Hector. I couldn’t—” I bite my bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

“What about Mr. Black? Don’t tell me you left him hanging.”

“I’m sorry. I had to leave. I’m so sorry.” A touch of fear that I might lose my job for the decision I made chills my spine.

He pulls me into the black room and shuts the door. “How can you expect me to understand that you left a well-paying client hanging?”

“I promise I’ll make up for it. If you want, I’ll work more tomorrow.” Nervous butterflies flutter in the pit of my stomach. “Please don’t send me back to him.”

“You’re not leaving this room until you tell me what’s going on here.” His brow wrinkles. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I sort of did.” I decide to tell him the truth in the hopes he might be able to keep Derrick away from me. “Mr. Black is someone I know from . . . from my past.”

Hector folds his arms across his chest. “Did he figure out who you are?”

“I didn’t stay long enough for him to find out.” I’m not surprised he didn’t recognize me. I’m not the girl he used to know.

“Fine, if it will make you feel better, I’ll send someone else to him. Go home and get some rest. But we need to talk about this tomorrow.”