Kristanna Grimsmo had memorized a thousand Hollywood scripts in her young life, yet none had ever featured a plot twist quite like this.
Just think of it as immersive theater. Very immersive. Kristanna raised the lip gloss to her mouth, then stopped. The wand hovered midair, a smear of crimson suspended, hesitating – just like her. God, who am I kidding? I’m about to bang my way out of debt. Cobalt eyes went rogue as she traced the curve of her lips, the same mouth that had delivered Shakespeare at Pepperdine and pitched television commercial taglines for products she couldn’t afford. This isn’t cinema … it’s the freaking red-light district. Her belly churned with an acidic brew, boiling more volatile by the second. Dad still introduces me as his “little star.” Mom thinks I’m one audition away from breaking through. Kristanna smacked her lips together – cherry red, wickedly bright, impossible to ignore. They can never know.
The bathroom light flickered, casting shadows that hollowed her cheekbones and deepened the resignation lurking in her eyes. Turning to the side, Kristanna confronted her reflection and felt her breath hitch at how perfectly her body had been transformed by the silver minidress. I look like one of those social media sluts begging for attention. The sparkle of each rhinestone seemed to mock the gravity of her situation, glimmering like the mounting bills and final notices that had driven her beyond Hollywood’s reach to Nevada’s desert, where state law permitted what morality condemned, and where men would travel across continents to purchase what she had never dared imagine selling.
The fabric didn’t simply adorn Kristanna; it showcased her as merchandise, the blingy patterns drawing attention to breasts that would soon be manhandled, hips that would be gripped, thighs that would be pried apart.
Her face contracted into tight lines as if the atrocities that awaited collided headlong with her thoughts. Get it together, Kris. Time to suck it up. This is the gig now. Not exactly SAG approved, but it pays better than any typical casting couch audition ever will.
A few months of this, and those loan sharks won’t be blowing up your phone anymore. She ducked her chin, eyelids lowering as if listening to the voice only she could hear. Think of it: Financial. Freedom. No more dodging your landlord. No more selling plasma for gas money. No more waking up to find your electricity cut off – again.
Her lids snapped open, resolve rushing in like a struck match. And then, Norway. Family. Mom, Dad. The fjords. Where no one needs to know what paid for the ticket home.
Beyond the lone glass window, the neon sign of the Twin Tops Motel buzzed and flickered, casting intermittent pulses of blue light across the carpet. The bedspread, stiff with age and cheap detergent, scratched against her fingertips as she sat to fasten the straps of heels she’d bought specifically for this “interview.” Every few minutes, the in-room smoke detector chirped, begging for a battery change no one would bother with until it stopped altogether.
Four years in Los Angeles (and the United States itself) had taught Kristanna many things, none of which had prepared her for this moment. I’ve never felt more ashamed of myself than I do now. The twenty-three-year-old learned how to smile through rejection, how to live on ramen for weeks between jobs, and how to feign enthusiasm for terrible scripts just to stay on an unscrupulous casting agent’s radar. Kristanna now understood talent meant nothing without connections, and connections meant nothing without the right look. A thousand scripts, a thousand potential masks later, and here she was, ready to sell the only thing that had ever truly belonged to her.
My soul.
The bulb again flickered in its rusty socket, fighting the same losing battle as the rattling air conditioner unit and the faucet’s constant drip. A strip of wallpaper had peeled away in the corner, revealing three different patterns beneath – flowers, then stripes, then something that might have been geometric before the glue turned it into abstract art. Kristanna shifted her weight, and the floorboards screamed bloody murder. Through walls thin as cardboard, she’d witnessed the motel’s midnight orchestra – television laugh tracks, domestic warfare next door, and shameless fucking by the older couple in Room 14. And I smelled pot – lots of pot. Here, secrets crawled through the stucco like cockroaches, multiplying in the dark.
Ain’t exactly the Waldorf Astoria in Beverly Hills, is it?
Indeed, the Twin Tops Motel was a far cry from many of its contemporaries in Los Angeles, some 450 miles west. Whereas La La Land beckoned with visions of stardom and red carpets, this place promised nothing and delivered far less. Dust devils twisted through the lot, collecting discarded wrappers in their dance. Against the perimeter fence, yesterday’s newspapers flattened themselves like desperate stowaways. Even the sunlight entering through the blinds appeared reluctant, flaying striped shadows that resembled prison bars across the dilapidated room.
Kristanna stood, adjusting her minidress one more time, mentally reciting her lines for today’s performance. Not Shakespeare. Not Tennessee Williams. Just carefully crafted answers about why a classically trained actress was applying for work at a place like … that.
On the adjacent nightstand, the alarm clock’s blue digits glowed like a countdown to ignition. Forty-five minutes until her interview at Happy Ending Ranch, just a block away. Forty-five minutes until Dad’s “little star” falls from the Hollywood sky and lands flat on her back in this … Godforsaken town.
Outside, a car backfired with a thunderous crack that rattled the windows and sent pigeons scattering into the desert sky. Kristanna observed Flagstone’s main street in full morning swing. The paper mill’s smokestacks loomed in the distance, belching plumes that hung like storm clouds over the horizon. Delivery trucks jockeyed for position outside storefronts, while locals streamed in and out of Tesoro’s Restaurant and Lounge across the street, clutching to-go cups of coffee. Kids loitered near the convenience store, likely searching for trouble. It’s nothing like Oslo, really. Nothing … at all. Just brown, and a lot less home.
Kristanna realigned her posture, once again dissecting her reflection. “Starving artist to prostitute.” One eyebrow inched upward. “At least I’ll be eating, right?”
With a steadying breath, she grabbed her purse – a knock-off designer piece that looked just real enough to pass muster – and crossed the room in silence. Her fingers played with the zipper, sliding it back and forth in a mindless rhythm. Stop it. Stop worrying. It’s your body. Your choice. Your ticket home. The key clinked against her acrylic nails as she locked up, the sound echoing like a funeral bell for her old life.
Platform high heels released sultry taps into the morning air. At the end of the cul-de-sac stood a modern Spanish-style villa that defied her expectations. Gone was the seedy establishment she’d imagined; instead, a sophisticated property with white stucco walls and terracotta roof tiles that gleamed under the Nevada sun. Professional landscaping framed the entrance – desert palms and carefully arranged cacti gardens that would have looked at home in any upscale Palm Springs neighborhood. Sleek LED displays mounted on the exterior proclaimed Legal Brothel, Nude Girls, Jacuzzi, VIP Room, and, of course, Happy Ending Ranch. The house stood there unashamed, a legitimate business in the only U.S. state where the buying or selling of human flesh was perfectly legal.
Kristanna’s disciplined stride faltered, delicate fingers clenching into balled fists. Coffee. I need my morning coffee. Yet another glimpse of her reflection, this time in a parked truck’s mirror, threatened to rupture her nerves. Look at you now. Her lips scrunched to one side. Not commercially appealing, just commercially available.
She straightened her spine as if she were walking onto a Paris runway and sashayed toward Tesoro’s Restaurant and Lounge, mentally tallying how many strangers’ hands – and dicks – it would take to erase $130,000 in credit card and student loan debt.
*
A chime pierced the oblivion of deep, blissful sleep. Three notes, rising and falling, then repeating.
Mia’s eyelids shuttered against the intrusion. Her fingers fumbled across the nightstand, brushing past a half-empty water bottle before finding the vibrating phone. She silenced it with a practiced tap, then winced while stretching. Oh, fuck. Cotton sheets scuffled against her bare legs as she eased onto her side. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The repositioning stirred a burst of vanilla from her skin, though tainted by notes of some stranger’s drugstore cologne. Fucking mongers. Oxygen rushed into Mia’s chest, wrinkles creasing her forehead as her lips peeled back, followed by a measured release that hissed between her teeth. Dull fire radiated from her jaw, her breasts, her pussy, to the small of her back, a reminder of yesterday’s bookings. Not quite the stabbing pain of long-term, legitimate injury, just the physical toll of seventeen hours on her feet, on her back, on her knees.
Mia anchored her palms on the mattress and pushed herself upright. A new pain bloomed across her shoulder, drawing another sharp intake between her lips. Her mind flashed to Client #3, the balding supermarket manager with halitosis and dry hands, who’d pinned her in positions that defied anatomy for two grueling hours of fantasy last evening. Bargain Basement Dom.
The cash had been good. Her violated depths kept the receipts.
Morning light illuminated the neutral walls, the minimalist furniture, the absence of personality – all evidence of last spring’s renovation that had purged the stereotypical cathouse décor such as tacky leopard print wallpaper, tasseled lampshades, and round beds with satin canopies. Now the space mirrored any mid-range chain hotel: inoffensive, forgettable, practical.
A purple-black stain mapped Victor’s possession across Mia’s hip bone, the precise imprint of his thumb that had pinned her to the mattress while he’d rutted inside her last evening, his final thrusts brutal enough that she’d bitten the pillow to keep from crying out. Her fingertips eased across its outline, assessing the damage. I’ve had worse. Makeup would cover it for today’s workload.
“You’re getting too thin,” Mia’s grandmother would say if she could see her now. If she were still alive. The thought came unbidden, along with the phantom scent of saffron and garlic from Sunday dinners in their old Santo Domingo apartment. Mia pushed the memory away.
The woman in the mirror cranked her neck about, a movement Mia recognized as her own yet somehow belonging to someone else. Filtered sunlight caught the golden undertones in her complexion, the Dominican heritage that had descended through generations to surface in her features. Thick obsidian waves framed her face and shoulders in disarray, yesterday’s styling products still holding the loose curls that attracted better business. Residue clung to the corners of her eyes, evidence of exhaustion winning over proper mascara removal when she’d collapsed into bed at four this morning.
Time to move, chicka. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes with one hand and covered a yawn with the other. More limp dicks await.
Bare feet padded across the commercial-grade carpet to the adjacent bathroom. The door swung open with a familiar squeak, revealing a stark contrast to the common public areas elsewhere in the ranch.
No gilt-framed mirrors hung overhead like in the foyer. No polished hardwood greeted her feet like in the main bar area. Just clean white tiles, chilled in the morning, arranged in perfect, utilitarian rows. The shower stall stood in the corner, a simple glass door with a chrome fixture that delivered consistent pressure and temperature, one daily reliability in a career ruled by booking cancellations, overaggressive mongers, and grueling physical labor.
The vanity reflected fluorescent truth rather than the soft, flattering lighting installed throughout the customer lounge. Three neat rows of plastic organization bins lined the countertop, arranged by function: foundations sorted by shade, concealers, lipsticks organized in color families. My daily warpaint.
Mia twisted the shower dial leftward. The pipes awoke and groaned themselves behind the wall before releasing a rush of water against the glass enclosure. She stepped back, watching the first tendrils of steam curl upward, gradually fogging the small space.
Waiting for the temperature to climb, a ping emanated from her smartphone. She squinted through the thickening mist at the screen, now lighting up with the latest text from management.
REMINDER! New interview today at 10. Keep reception area professional. Client satisfaction scores for the week posted by EOD Saturday.
Another turnout, huh? An actress, Jenn told me. My … favorite type. Turnouts arrived with regularity – women running from something, chasing after nothing, or selling themselves to survive, each convinced their situation was temporary, unique, justifiable. Yada, yada, yada. Five years ago, that had been Mia, her engagement ring pawned and restraining order in hand after her engagement dissolved into physical violence, Happy Ending Ranch the endpoint of a journey with no other destinations.
The shower reached ideal temperature. Glass walls now fully obscured by steam, Mia slipped out of her G-string and stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind her. The water hit her shoulders first, hot enough to redden her skin on contact. She tilted her face upward, letting ribbons cascade across closed eyelids, parted lips, the length of her throat. Lush nipples hardened under the spray.
Her movements were purposeful yet unhurried – this ritual marked the transformation between her sleeping self and her working self. Every morning, she scrubbed away Mia Flores, whose expired student visa and traumatic breakup had left her stranded in a country she believed only valued her for one thing, and became “Amelia,” the exotic seductress who commanded top dollar for her services.
Forty-five minutes until the doors open. Mia worked shampoo through her thick hair, considering the actress scheduled for today’s interview. Probably another California casualty. Pretty enough for bit parts and commercials but not striking enough for leading roles, right? They often arrived overcompensating, name-dropping famous actors they’d brushed paths with and boasting about screen tests that went nowhere, desperate to establish they weren’t “that kind of girl” while literally applying to become exactly that. Will she stammer about her “serious acting career” and use words such as “just temporary,” “exploring options,” and “between projects”?
Today’s rejection, tomorrow’s employee orientation.
Welcome to the real casting couch, honey. Mia shook her head in a swift arc. Tonight, you’ll cry. Next month, you’ll be showing the latest turnout around.
Mia rinsed her hair and reached for the conditioner. Whatever else could be said about Happy Ending Ranch, the infrastructure worked flawlessly. Lindsay’s doing, no doubt. Twenty-five years old and running this place like she’d graduated with an MBA instead of taking over Colt and Pamela’s family business through sheer force of will. Mia still couldn’t wrap her mind around it – someone barely older than herself commanding such authority, transforming what had been an antiquated operation into a bristling enterprise.
The brothel ran like a well-oiled machine, clean and legal under Nevada state law, every health certificate and business license on full display.
It was all so … normal. That was perhaps the most disorienting part for newcomers. The expectation of sordid conditions and exploitation splintered against the reality of staff meetings, time-off requests, and HR policies. Mia couldn’t help but admire Lindsay’s iron grip on every aspect of the operation, from facility maintenance to the weekly performance reviews that tracked client satisfaction metrics. Where most women their age were still figuring out how to pay rent on time, Lindsay was building an empire in six-inch heels and Honey Birdette lingerie, never once apologizing for the nature of her business. Happy Ending Ranch wasn’t a dive bar with disco rooms upstairs; it was managed with the same professional standards as a five-star spa or posh Vegas resort.
Still, it’s a shithole. It is a whorehouse, after all.
Mia emerged from the shower and found a towel, wiping condensation from the mirror with her palm. Her reflection stared back, droplets tracing paths down her neck and collarbones. Time to armor up. Moisturizer, foundation, concealer for the shadows under her eyes, the carefully crafted illusion of beauty.
She wondered what the actress would make of all this. Would she last a week? A month? Would she still be here a year from now, going through the motions with the same practiced efficiency Mia had mastered?
Only time would tell.
Her smartphone read nine-thirty-five. She retrieved her makeup essentials from the counter, a routine so ingrained she could do it blindfolded. Saturdays at Happy Ending Ranch meant a parade of weekend warriors with fistfuls of cash and pent-up demands. Can’t wait until Little Miss Former Soap Opera Extra meets the foot fetishist with the fungal infection. By midnight, they’d be three-deep at the bar, eyeing merchandise like kids in a candy store. By morning, Mia will have earned enough cash to otherwise silence her body’s urgent pleas for mercy.
Hopefully.
Amelia, reporting for duty. Humanity, checking out.
*
Kristanna pushed open the door to Tesoro’s Restaurant and Lounge, wincing as the bell announced her arrival. The silver minidress that had seemed so empowering in the motel earlier now felt like an obnoxious sign flashing “LOOK AT ME” in this small-town diner. Rhinestones threw prismatic reflections across the coffee-stained linoleum as she hesitated in the entryway.
Her ankles wobbled on unfamiliar heels as conversations ceased mid-sentence. A waitress paused with a coffeepot suspended. The truckers at the counter turned their heads like synchronized puppets. Nearby, a father shifted to place himself between his children and the unwelcome stranger.
Kristanna’s fingers fidgeted with her purse strap, the synthetic fiber growing damp beneath her touch. The smell of pancakes and coffee collided with the gaudy perfume she’d sprayed on too heavily. I knew I overdid it. She’d spent years learning to blend into backgrounds on film sets, to disappear until her three lines were needed. Now, when she desperately wished to be invisible, she stood against the cavalcade of dozens of harsh eyes.
“Table for one?” The hostess – gray-haired with reading glasses dangling from a beaded chain – peered over half-moon spectacles, her expression oscillating between pity and contempt. Her gaze traced the plunging neckline where rhinestones clung to edges that surrendered more skin than they concealed. Silver fabric stretched taut across Kristanna’s hips, the material so thin it captured her silhouette in explicit detail. The dress surrendered six inches above the knee, exposing thighs that tensed under the collective scrutiny. When Kristanna shifted, the hem rode up, forcing her to hook a finger beneath the fabric in an embarrassed tug downward.
A strategically placed cutout revealed a slice of midriff, complete with the glint of a navel piercing. Her back was bare save for two thin straps crisscrossing shoulder blades that flexed up and down. The heels – clear plastic platforms with silver accents – added half a foot to her height and subtlety to none of her movements, forcing an awkward arch to her spine that transformed every step into something between invitation and distress signal.
“Corner, please,” Kristanna said, voice cracking on the second syllable. She swallowed with a click. “Away from the bar.”
The hostess wadded her mouth. “Follow me.”
The forty or so steps to the booth might as well have been a catwalk of shame. She moved through the continued silence broken only by the occasional whisper and scrape of utensils gone still. Past a horseshoe-shaped counter where men in industrial work clothes froze mid-bite at her approach. Past a booth where a mother pulled her teenage son closer, as if Kristanna might contaminate him with whatever she carried. Past a table where three gray-haired matrons surveyed her from head to toe, their verdict delivered through tight-lipped frowns.
Kristanna channeled her Norwegian heritage, generations of ancestors who’d faced mid-day darkness and ice-locked winters with composure rather than complaint. Head high, back straight. Keep walking. Don’t give them the satisfaction.
The vinyl seat grabbed at her thighs, again forcing the hemline to retreat dangerously upward. Her fingers darted to restore minimal coverage, heat blooming across her face. Pretend you’re on camera. Stay in character. Outside, she could see the architecture of Happy Ending Ranch rising against the desert backdrop, its adobe facade and ornate signage somehow both mundane and menacing.
“Coffee?” A waitress in her fifties appeared, name tag reading “Martha,” weathered features that had witnessed so many girls like Kristanna arrive in Flagstone with hope, only to leave with their dignity stripped away.
“Yes. Please.”
Martha set down a mug and filled it. “Food?”
Kristanna’s stomach knotted. “Just toast, maybe.”
A pencil hovered above her pad. “Got eggs coming off the grill. Protein might do you good.” Something softened in her expression. “Long night ahead.”
Not a question. Not even an accusation. Just fact, delivered without judgment but with complete certainty about Kristanna’s destination.
“I’m not –” The denial died on her lips as Martha cocked her head. “Thank you. Eggs would be good.”
Once alone, Kristanna became aware of a hushed conversation two booths over.
“– what a Jezebel –”
“– those places need to be shut down –”
“– what kind of parents raise a girl to –”
She stared into her coffee, noticing ripples form as her hands trembled. A decade of acting lessons had taught her to embody emotions on command such as joy, grief, rage, desire. None had prepared her for this surrender of self, what pure survival instincts had forced her to become.
Her phone vibrated. Dad calling again. The screen displayed his smiling face – windburned from a day on his fishing boat, eyes crinkling with pride for his youngest daughter. She sent it to voicemail, throat tight.
In the parking lot, a patrol car’s door emblazoned with the Sulaco County sheriff’s emblem opened before the engine had fully quieted. Two officers emerged, adjusting utility belts as they approached the entrance. Kristanna’s pulse quickened. What she was about to do wasn’t illegal here, but old instincts surged: the same hyperawareness she’d felt when collection agencies started calling, when final notices appeared in her mailbox, when the bank threatened to repossess her car.
The bell above the door jangled as they entered. The shorter officer surveyed the landscape – standard procedure, she assumed, until his gaze locked onto her. He nudged his partner, whispering something that made the taller man glance her way. One’s jaw burned, a muscle also pulsing at his temple as he exchanged a glance with his partner.
“Mornin’, Martha,” he said as they claimed seats at the counter. “My usual.”
“Coming right up, Tony.” Martha poured coffee for them, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Kristanna’s eggs arrived – two sunny-side up glaring at her like accusing eyes alongside toast she couldn’t imagine swallowing. Martha eased the plate onto the table, the absence of her typical no-nonsense demeanor surprising.
“On the house.” Her voice was calm, sympathetic. “You look like you could use a break.”
The unexpected kindness threatened to break Kristanna completely. She dipped her chin in thanks, focusing on the table edge as tears threatened to spill.
A little girl leaned out from her booth, wide-eyed with innocent curiosity. “Mommy, why is that lady dressed like a princess in the morning?”
“Hush,” the mother hissed, yanking the child closer. “Don’t look.”
But everyone was looking. The officers at the counter. The truckers on the other side. The elderly couple whose breakfast had gone cold while they observed this sinner in their midst. Even Martha, who kept drifting past Kristanna’s booth without reason.
Kristanna forced herself to cut a piece of toast, to lift it to her lips, to chew and swallow past the knot in her throat. The clock on the wall ticked toward her appointment. Each second carried her inexorably toward the unthinkable.
One hundred and thirty thousand dollars in debt. Three final notices. One eviction warning. Two failed auditions last week.
And one legal brothel down the block.
The eggs congealed on her plate as she pushed them around, creating patterns that led nowhere. A children’s maze with no exit. Just like her life, a series of dead ends and wrong turns.
“Is it … always like this?” she asked when Martha made another round. “The way people react?”
Martha scanned the establishment, taking in the side-eyes and whispers directed toward their corner. “I can tell … this must be your first day.” She hesitated. “The girls from there don’t come here much. They have their own kitchen at the ranch. Better that way.”
The implication was clear: once Kristanna crossed that threshold, this side of town would be effectively closed to her forever. No more casual breakfasts in diners. No more anonymous mornings. She would be defined solely by her new profession.
A freckle-faced boy twisted in his seat, mouth agape. “Is she a movie star?”
The father glanced over, face contorting as he took in Kristanna’s appearance. “No,” he said, turning the boy away. “She works at that place we don’t talk about.”
Crimson rushed up Kristanna’s neck, spreading across her cheeks in a flush she couldn’t control. All those years of training. Bit parts in a handful of B-movie flops. A trio of auditions for a national yogurt commercial. And now, her identity relegated to: that girl who works at that place.
Hands trembled as she again reached for her coffee. The ceramic mug clattered against the saucer, drawing attention. Liquid sloshed over the rim, staining the tabletop. Kristanna stilled, mortified by this small loss of control that felt emblematic of her entire life.
Martha materialized with a cloth, wiping up the spill wordlessly. But her eyes held something Kristanna hadn’t expected – compassion. “First week’s the hardest,” she soon said. “After that, you’ll adjust.”
Before Kristanna could respond, the door opened again. A man in his mid-sixties entered wearing an expensive watch and clothes that spoke of money and position. He surveyed the landscape before finding the officers at the counter. He ambled toward them with the confidence of someone accustomed to respect.
“Sheriff Spaeth. Deputy Samples.” He nodded to each. “Busy night?”
“Nothing major, Mayor Bradley,” the younger deputy replied. “Just the usual Friday night disturbances.”
The mayor. Kristanna sunk deeper into her booth as the men conversed, aware that this person – this public figure – would soon know exactly what she did for a living too. In a town this small, everyone would know. The mayor, police, waitress, the paper mill workers, even the children.
Her phone buzzed again. Mom this time. Your father is buying you a special gift for when you book that yogurt commercial! When will you know?
Kristanna choked back a sob. The distance between her parents’ expectations and reality stretched like the desert itself: vast, unforgiving, impossible to cross.
The mayor finished his conversation with the officers and pivoted on a heel. But before he got to the door, he put on the brakes and favored Kristanna with a look. Their eyes met briefly – his curious, hers terrified. Understanding flickered in his expression, not of her specifically, but of what her presence in that minidress, in this town, signified.
He smirked, a gesture so small it might have been imagined, before exiting with his to-go cup.
That simple expression contained multitudes. Acknowledgment. Acceptance. Perhaps a hint of future patronage. The realization made Kristanna’s stomach lurch. You know you’re gonna have to be with fat, unattractive older men like that. It’ll be part of the job.
She checked her phone. Fifteen minutes until her interview. Fifteen minutes before financial salvation became eternal damnation. Fifteen minutes before Kristanna walked into Happy Ending Ranch and sacrificed herself on the altar, reduced to nothing but orifices for rent, with each new stranger – and each colonization from the inside out – a reminder of how life had beaten her down and all the countless mistakes she made along the way.
Someone shoot me.
The eggs remained untouched as Kristanna placed three dollars under her coffee cup. Something about Martha’s quiet understanding demanded reciprocation. Rising, she tugged the rebellious minidress into place with one quick motion, then lifted her chin in defiance. I have to do this.
The path to the door felt endless. Each table she passed fell silent, conversations suspended as she moved through their orbit. Both officers swiveled on their stools as she passed, their eyes following her all the way to the exit. The whispers reignited once the parking lot gravel crunched beneath her heels.
“Shame her parents didn’t raise her better.”
The Nevada sun beat down with indifferent brightness.
“Bet she won’t last two weeks before the drugs start.”
Happy Ending Ranch beckoned – clean, legal, inevitable. It wasn’t the bordello of film noir, no red velvet or beaded curtains visible from the outside, just a business with proper signage and manicured desert landscaping. Such corporate normalcy made it all the more terrifying.
“Heard they take what most of the girls make anyway.”
Kristanna stood motionless on the sidewalk, caught between worlds. Behind her, the diner with its judgment and whispers. Before her, the brothel with its allure of financial freedom and dead-set promise of moral compromise.
She forced herself forward, creating distance from the verbal jabs. Glancing back at Tesoro’s one final time, her fingers found the hem of her minidress, hovering there before giving a single, exaggerated tug. The silver fabric slipped through Kristanna’s grasp almost immediately, riding back up her thighs like the damn thing had forgotten its purpose was to cover rather than reveal. Color splashed across her cheeks as she whipped her face away, finally abandoning the futile effort for good.
If it dresses like a whore, then it is a whore. Ahead lies an endless parade of strangers, devouring her piece by piece until even her reflection becomes a stranger itself. This is happening. Now. On the brothel’s online message board, clients will reduce her to star ratings and crude reviews, measuring everything from the tightness of her vagina to how completely she’ll abandon her dignity. Can I do this? Through it all, she’ll wear forced smiles while they use her body like a rental car – something to be driven hard and returned with the tank empty.
I have no choice, do I?
Married men will sob their guilt into her shoulder before zipping up and rushing home to kiss their wives. Sadists will treat her like their personal experiment, methodically testing limits, their satisfaction growing with each boundary they obliterate. Every client will demand a different fantasy – the choir girl on her knees, the lost college freshman, the shy barista closing up shop – until Kristanna has played so many roles she forgets which version of herself is real.
Should’ve just stayed home and helped Dad on the farm.
Her body swerved, feet carrying her not toward the brothel’s entrance but veering right, to the small park nestled between buildings. I need air. Space. One final moment of being Kristanna Grimsmo before she’d fracture into countless versions of herself, each customized to fulfill a stranger’s fantasy, while the real Kristanna disappeared like smoke into the Hollywood hills.
(This chapter will continue in the next post ...)
