I stare at the scene in front of me with shocked, disbelieving eyes. A buck-naked woman, presumably Tamara Honeywell, is bouncing on the erect shaft of a beefy man double her size while his hands squeeze her extremely endowed breasts.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I exclaim, immediately turning away.

“Don’t go,” the man’s voice orders.

I freeze in my tracks.

“Watch us,” he says, his voice deep and persuasive.

My jaw drops. I couldn’t possibly have heard that right. That would be too weird. And gross. Sick bastard.

“Is she watching yet?” a woman’s voice pants.

“Not yet, baby,” the man says.

Oh, my God! Tamara Honeywell wants me to watch her having sex! What the hell have I gotten myself into? I feel as if I have fallen down a rabbit hole. Think of the money, Cass. Think of the money. If I leave now I’m in a worse position than I was two days ago. Not only have I said no to Chips-R-Us, I’ve even given up my Target job. So what if she wants to be a mini porn star, or have people ogle her while she’s doing the dirty. As long as I don’t have to join in, what does it matter? I’m not going to turn tail and run just because she has no shame. I take a deep breath and whirl around slowly.

“She’s watching,” he tells her.

“Do you think she’s jealous of me?” she grunts.

“Yeah, baby.”

“Her panties must be soaking wet watching us fucking.”

“Yeah, baby.”

“Do you think she wishes you were fucking her up the ass while she sucks me off?”

“Yeah, baby.”

Yuck! More nasty and vile things come from her mouth as she bobs up and down on the man, but I tune out and stop hearing them. I let my mind wander off to that day three weeks ago, when in a rare moment of lucidity, my father opened his eyes and recognized me. I stroked his thin hand and he whispered that he loved me. I leaned in and listened to his hoarse murmurs. He thought Mom was still alive, and I pretended she was. He was happy that day.

A shrill scream pierces the bittersweet memory and I return with a jolt to the sight of Tamara Honeywell pulling herself off the man. His dick is thick and red and flops onto his belly like a wet fish. While she wraps herself in a silk gown, he leans over and takes a cigarette out of a silver box on the bedside table. He flicks open a lighter, lights it, and holds it out to her. She knots a tie in front of her gown and plucks the cigarette from him. Putting it to her lips, she takes a deep pull.

“Get out,” she tells him rudely, exhaling smoke from her mouth.

Without a word, he jackknifes off the bed and walks naked to the door. As he passes me, our glances touch briefly and he winks at me. I look away quickly. The door closes behind him with a soft click.

“So, who the fuck are you?” she slurs.

She’s drunk and I’m not good with drunk people. “I’m, uh, Cass. Cass Harper.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything. The question was why the fuck are you in my house?”

Jesus! Where the hell is Mrs. Moore? “I’m your body double. I’m supposed to go to Montana in your place,” I say slowly.

“Montana?” She scowls.

“One month on the ranch,” I remind.

She grimaces. “Oh, fuck, that.”

She starts walking in my direction, swaying drunkenly, and I feel like I’m staring at one of those appearance-warping mirrors. She is the version of me without errors. The Barbie version. Her hair is platinum blonde, her lips are two times plumper, her nose is perfect, her boobs are bigger, her waist is about a mile smaller, and her skin is a lovely Californian golden brown.

Standing in front of me with her head tilted to one side, she lets her glazed eyes rove my face then down my body. I’m wearing my best button-down white blouse and black skirt, but by the look in her eyes, I don’t come up to scratch.

“You’re too fat,” she spits spitefully. “And you look nothing like me.” She takes a long drag from her cigarette, her critical eyes locked on mine. “I can’t have people looking at you and thinking that you’re me.” She shakes her head decisively. “No. The agency must send someone else.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand. I can’t have come all the way here for her to send me back with nothing. “I’ll look more like you once they get the hair and the make-up going,” I say desperately.

She walks around me. “Great hair and make-up are not going to cover that enormous ass of yours.” She comes back to stand in front of me and peers into my face. She is so close I can smell the alcohol on her breath. “Is your nose deformed or something?”

I’m usually quite good at defending myself, but I need this job, so I resist the instinctive urge to say something equally nasty. “It’s just a nose.”

She looks scandalized. “Have you looked in a mirror? Fuck, if I had a nose like that, I’d fucking throw myself under a bus.” Her lips curve upwards maliciously. It is clear that she is thoroughly enjoying herself.

It’s a good thing I’ve never been self-conscious about my nose, or given it a second thought, because this woman is so wealthy, so beautiful, and so confident that she can totally rob someone of their self-esteem and make them question their own self-worth. I remember Maria asking me to appease her.

“You’re right. I’ll consider getting a nose job,” I say monotonously. If I agree with everything she says…

“Are you like a robot or something?” she screeches suddenly, her eyes flashing.

Whoa, she just flipped into fury mode without any warning whatsoever.

“Why are you agreeing with everything I say?”

I realize that I’ve tackled the situation the wrong way. Maria said make her feel superior. She cares about being better than me. To her, I’m a bit of gum at the bottom of her shoe and she wants me to act like that. “Because you’re right. I am very unhappy with my appearance.”

“You should be disgusted by your appearance.”

I put on a sad expression. “I know I have many flaws.”

“How dare you patronize me? You’re intolerable,” she shouts, shoving me backward.

I usually have good balance but I was not expecting the push, so I fall straight into the door and crash to the floor. My elbow and hip hurt. Her spitefulness toward a total stranger who has never done her any harm is shocking, and I clench my fists in anger but quickly release the tension. I must try my hardest to ignore it and concentrate on not saying anything else to piss her off. I can’t lose this opportunity, and that’s exactly what will happen if I get into a fight with Tamara Honeywell. I’m too poor to walk away, and I’m not too proud to beg. This round can go to Miss Honeywell.

I only have to survive until Ms. Moore comes.

“Miss Honeywell, I know that you are far more beautiful than me, but it won’t matter because I’m just going to be on a ranch. The only eyes looking at me will be workers and the animals,” I say from my position on the floor. I keep my voice low in the hope it will ease the tension swirling around the room.

It works. The fury drains out of her. She slouches, turns, and walks to a table where there is a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. Idly, she picks up a glass and fills it. Bubbles overflow down her fingers.

Without bringing too much attention to myself, I pull myself to my feet and stand awkwardly. What exactly am I supposed to do? Stay? Go?

“Well,” Tamara says, sucking her fingers, “do you know what you’ll be doing in my place?”

“I’ll be working hard on a ranch.”

She whirls around and almost loses her balance. Righting herself clumsily, she raises her glass in a toast. “That’s right. You will be,” she makes air quotes with her fourth and fifth fingers, ‘learning responsibility’ as Daddy Dearest puts it. Cleaning up after dumb animals and working alongside a bunch of illiterate, filthy workers.”

I rack my brain to say something neutral that will not make her fly off into another rage. “I’m not a stranger to hard work.”

“And while you’re learning responsibility, I’ll be topping up my tan on a friend’s private island,” she announces gleefully.

“You deserve it,” I say quickly.

She frowns. “I know I do. The last few months have been so difficult. With all the stress of my new movie being released next month, I can’t believe Daddy would try to do this to me.”

She sounds like a caterwauling cat, and I cannot understand how this whining, self-pitying woman came to be so famous. She’s horrible. “I know. It must be so hard,” I commiserate.

She nods her head solemnly.

Thank God I am spared from spouting more insincere remarks about how difficult her situation is by a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” Tamara shouts, and a beautifully preserved woman walks in. She has iron-gray hair swept away from a stern face, and she is dressed in a sophisticated, two-piece, black and white box suit. Her bright red shoes accent her outfit in an out-of-context, throw-on, totally glamorous way that all the money in the world cannot buy.