Hot Chick for Hire Page 2

  Wasn't that special? Lucky me. I was blonde. Maybe I could be the date for the asshole who'd grabbed my ass. I clenched my jaw, getting angry all over again.

  "She says she's gotten paid as much as a thousand dollars for a weekend. And they put her up in her own room at the Four Seasons. And, of course, paid for all food and drink and transportation costs. Oh, and she needed a formal gown so they paid for that too."

  "A thousand dollars plus expenses?" I was suddenly less angry. "Are you sure she didn't have to have sex with the guy for that?"

  It all sounded way too good to be true.

  "She swears. No sex. She said she just had to smile and nod and act like the perfect date. She really didn't even have to talk to him. He was speaking in some foreign language to other people most of the time. He just wanted a hot girl on his arm."

  Wow. It really did seem unbelievable. "Why aren't you applying there?"

  "I think I'm going to. Especially after what happened to you last night. I figure I can juggle both jobs by switching shifts with some of the other girls here. And if this Angel place is really that great, I'll just quit here. She only told me about it a couple of days ago. I haven't had a chance to look into it yet. So if you go over, let me know what you think. Okay?"

  That made me feel better. If Morgan was willing to give this place a try, I could too. "Okay."

  "So what do you think? Are you going to check it out?" she asked.

  "Yeah, I think I will." I couldn't see how I could not.

  THREE

  "Angel Escort Services." I spoke loud directly into the face of my cell, as if Siri were hard of hearing rather than just inept at getting me the answer for most of the searches I asked of her.

  "Okay, here's what I found." As her too pleasant to be human artificial intelligence voice answered me, I glanced down at the screen and watched it populate with search results.

  There were quite a few. Too many and none that exactly matched the name Morgan had given me.

  Maybe I needed to narrow it down.

  I didn't know if this escort service, that might or might not be a front for prostitution, was in Virginia or the District of Columbia, or even Maryland for all I knew, so I said, "Angel Escort Services near Washington D.C.." This time I spoke extra slowly, hoping that would spur Siri into returning search results with some semblance of accuracy.

  "Okay, here's what I found."

  Sighing and feeling not all that much hope of success, I saw a bunch of results again, but fewer than the search before so I was making progress. I couldn't narrow the search much more with the sparse information I had. I was going to have to suck it up, read through them all and hope I'd find the right one.

  "Angel Escort Services." I repeated it to myself as I ran my gaze down the screen.

  Then there it was. Right under my finger.

  I poked at the screen, hitting the link that promised me directions to this place I probably shouldn't be so excited to get to.

  Even if they weren't going to pimp me out for sex, which was still up for debate, they would be renting me out to be arm-candy to probably the same type of guys I'd encountered at the strip club. And we'd all seen how well I got along with them. I still had the bruise to prove it.

  Speaking of bruises—I ran to the bathroom and swiped on some more concealer. I should probably change clothes too.

  As I slapped on more makeup than I usually wore on an everyday basis, I tried to put myself in the frame of mind I'd be in if I were going to any audition or to a photo shoot. That made it feel less like I was bordering on prostitution by interviewing for this job.

  God, was I crazy even considering doing this? What should I do? Done applying the makeup, I stared at my reflection, looking for guidance.

  I barely recognized the woman staring back at me. Perfect skin. Thick long lashes. Pouty lips colored a deep plum. All thanks to the load of professional cosmetics I'd swiped from one of the makeup chicks on the last shoot I'd been on. She had like five of everything anyway and her shit was way better quality than I could buy in a store, even if I could afford what they'd charge for it.

  "Do I go to this place or not?" I asked the stranger in the mirror.

  I knew the answer. I needed to go. I had to get this job and get back on my feet. I could regroup later. Get on with my life after I paid my bills.

  What had Morgan said her friend had earned for one weekend? A thousand dollars?

  Whatever it was, it was more than I made during a weekend of shifts at the club. More than I made in a day on my last acting gig too as an extra on the set of the Walking Dead, and I'd had to drive all the way to Georgia for that.

  That was it. It was settled. I spun for the bathroom door, hitting the light on my way out.

  In my bedroom, I headed to the portable clothing rack to find something to wear. There was no real closet in my room since I was pretty sure my tiny bedroom had literally been a closet once upon a time.

  One black dress, a pair of heels and, for better or worse, I was ready.

  I grabbed my cell and glanced at the directions. It wasn't too far from the club actually, and in a decent area. Although maybe I needed to reconsider that neighborhood. Strip clubs. Escort services . . .

  Washington might be shiny and bright at first glance—with all those monuments and cherry blossoms the tourists love—but look a little past that and it was a cesspool.

  There was a meaningful metaphor in there somewhere. I try hard not to think or talk about politics so I ignored it, grabbed my keys and bag and headed out.

  With the traffic around this town, public transportation was a girl's best friend. That and pepper spray—which was a requirement for a female walking alone and when riding public transportation. I had more than one with me at all times.

  It was a quick trip. All too soon I was standing in front of an innocuous looking office building steeling myself to knock on the unmarked door. No name. No sign. No identification at all.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised by that. Of course it had nothing written on it. Angel Escort Services in big bold letters might have raised eyebrows. Whatever catchy tagline this escort agency used would too.

  What could their slogan be anyway? Blondes are us. Over one million sleaze bags served.

  I snorted out a silent laugh at my own cleverness, hoped I didn't end up in some sheik's harem somewhere, raised my fist and knocked.

  There was no answer.

  I knocked again and then checked the time on my phone.

  It was just before noon. Did escort services only operate in the evenings? I would have thought there'd be at least a receptionist here taking reservations for whoever called for the girl du jour or the mid-week party girl special.

  I'd really be cracking myself up if I wasn't scared witless and now mad on top of that. I'd gotten all dressed up, hauled my ass down here and there was no one—

  "Can I help you?"

  I jumped and spun, my hand already reaching for the pepper spray I had hanging on the strap of my bag. Although a man who was going to attack me probably wouldn't be so polite. Or so freaking cute.

  Wow.

  In a town full of cookie cutter men in drab business suits, it was a nice change to see a guy in khakis and a black knit shirt.

  A breeze ruffled the light brown hair above his green eyes, which I realized were trained on me. No doubt he was waiting for an answer to his question and wondering if I were deaf or mute.

  Was this guy an escort service employee or a client? I could get on board with escorting him anywhere he wanted to lead me.

  I cleared the lusty frog from my throat and said, "Um, I'm not sure. Maybe. I was looking for Angel—um—Services." I couldn't bring myself to say the word escort and felt like a wimp for it. I rushed to cover by adding, "I heard they're hiring."

  "You found us. And you can call it GAPS for short." He tapped the logo embroidered in gold on his shirt just over his heart. "I know the company name's a little long. I'm one of the ow
ners. Zane Alexander." He flashed white teeth and extended his hand. Surprised, I shook it as he continued, "And you're right, we are hiring. Though I'm surprised you heard about it already. My partner must have put out the word."

  Another gust of wind had me pulling my hand back from his as I wrapped my arms around myself. I hadn't grabbed a jacket and now I was sorry.

  Mr. Zane Alexander, my future pimp since he owned the place, pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. He tipped his head toward the door. "Let's get inside. It's not much yet but at least it's out of the wind."

  I nodded and followed him in.

  He wasn't exaggerating. It wasn't much. There was a single filing cabinet and a couple of cardboard boxes stacked along one wall. And leaning against the other wall was the biggest flat screen television I'd ever seen, if the picture on the front of the box was accurate.

  I turned my attention back to the man who would decide if I had a job in the near future. He had one butt cheek propped on the filing cabinet and his arms crossed as he watched me looking around the empty office.

  His silence made me want to say something. Anything. "Nice space."

  That was a lie. The empty office made this company feel a little too fly by night for my taste. Like they relocated often and didn't put down deep roots because it was easier to flee the law if they kept moving. And easier to hide the bodies of starry eyed girls with dreams of thousand-dollar nights.

  The corner of his mouth tipped up in an amused smile. "No it's not. It looks like a front for a shell company in here."

  I lifted my brows that he'd read my thoughts so easily. Not to mention accurately.

  "Um, well." I tipped my head to the side, searching for words until I finally gave up. Fuck it. I wasn't sure I wanted this job anymore anyway so I figured I might as well tell the truth. "Yeah, it really does."

  He nodded. "Honesty. Quality number one I look for in a potential employee."

  So I was still in contention to be hired in this most surreal of interviews. I returned his nod. "As do I for potential employers."

  "Do you have a resume, Miss . . ."

  Shit. A resume? For an escort service? No, I didn't. I should have thought to bring a head shot. I had plenty of those printed for all the auditions I went on for the jobs I never got.

  "Chelsea Bridges. And I didn't bring a resume. I'm sorry."

  "That's fine. I'd rather read people than paper anyway. So tell me about yourself, Chelsea."

  "Well, I graduated from George Washington University with a degree in acting—and the student loan to go with it."

  He laughed. "I can imagine."

  He'd said he wanted the truth, so I decided to give it to him. "I've done some modeling and some acting but none of that provides a steady paycheck."

  "A steady paycheck is a plus. I agree." Zane smiled. “I didn’t realize there were modeling and acting opportunities in this area.”

  “They film a lot of TV shows here.” The reality was I’d come to attend George Washington and never moved on.

  Landing a speaking role, though short lived, on a cable crime drama right after graduation was enough of a lure to keep me here when I probably should have taken the plunge and moved to California. And the fact my parents were less than a five-hour drive away was a safety net that was hard to give up.

  "So let me tell you a little about us and what the job would entail. I signed the lease on this place weeks ago but for a number of reasons I haven't managed much else, as you can see. That would be one thing I'd want you to do. Find and purchase the furnishings. Schedule and wait for the deliveries. We need high speed internet and a landline as well, so you'd need to arrange for that installation. My partner's the organized one and he handles the main office in Virginia Beach. This will be a satellite office since I spend most of my time here in D.C. and we're picking up a lot of business in the area. Government contracts. Private jobs for politicians."

  Government contracts. Jesus. Was this what my tax dollars went to? Hiring escorts?

  I stood in shocked silence and listened as he outlined a job that sounded more like a personal assistant or secretary than it did an escort servicing the horny diplomats and government employees of D.C..

  "Question?" he asked. Again, he had picked up on my thoughts.

  "Uh, a few."

  "Understandable." He nodded. "Shoot."

  How to put this delicately? "What exactly would be my job title?"

  His brows rose. "I'm not really sure. I've thought more about how I need a damn chair to sit in rather than what I'd call the person who ordered it. Office manager, maybe." He lifted a shoulder. "After the initial set up, you'd handle everything at this location."

  I pressed my lips together. There was no way an office manager of an escort service made what the escorts did. But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing because it seemed as if this would be a real job with a steady paycheck and, unless this Zane guy was some kind of scumbag, no sex required.

  "What's it pay?" I asked.

  "Fifty-two thousand a year to start."

  A thousand dollars a week. I wouldn't be rich but I'd be able to pay my bills and stash a few dollars away into savings. At this point, that was the goal.

  "Benefits?" I asked.

  "Yes." He nodded.

  I put another check in the pro column. I was getting into the idea of this job. So far none of his answers had changed my mind about taking it.

  If I could still squeeze in a few auditions and acting or modeling jobs, this gig might work for me.

  "Hours?" I asked.

  "Flexible, however I'd need to be able to call on you off hours if I needed."

  That caught me off guard. "Oh."

  Okay, that sounded less good. My mind spun through what he might need me for off hours.

  "I travel a lot. Often out of the country. I'll try to be respectful but some things can't wait. I can't be worrying about time zones and interrupting your beauty sleep. Would that be a problem?"

  Relieved, I said, "No problem at all."

  My beauty sleep had suffered plenty while I'd been working nights at the club and trying to sleep days while normal people were up and about. For a decent job, I could handle a middle of the night phone call from overseas occasionally. No problem.

  "Anything else?" he asked.

  "Nope. That about covers it. Anything else for me?" I asked.

  "Nope." He pushed off the cabinet he'd been leaning against and took a step toward me. "We'll have to clear through all the formalities but I think you've got yourself a job, if you want it."

  I smiled. "I want it."

  "Good. Your first assignment is to get us a couple of desks and a few chairs. And a coffee maker." He pulled his wallet out of his pants and slid out two things. A credit card and a business card. He handed both to me.

  "What do you want me to spend?" I asked.

  If it were up to me, I'd be dumpster diving. It's sinful some of the things people throw away. I was getting quite adept at rejuvenating old stuff I found on the curb. A little paint went a long way. But somehow I didn't think that was this guy's style.

  "A few thousand, I guess. Whatever it takes. Don't be cheap. This office is going to be the public face of GAPS in D.C.. We charge clients a lot for our services because we're worth it, but we also have to look like we're worth it."

  "Gotcha."

  "I'll get the paperwork we'll need you to fill out. We'll need to run some checks and clear you before you start interacting with clients and handling business. There's a non-disclosure agreement too. It might seem like a lot but given the kind of jobs we do and who our clients are, it's all necessary."

  "I understand."

  The guys hiring these escorts were probably some of the big names in politics, not only in D.C., but also around the world. They couldn't risk me selling their secrets.

  "Good." His smile turned to a frown. "I almost forgot. I need you to arrange for new locks for the front door. And find a contractor who can install
a steel door with a secure lock on that closet."

  I followed the direction he pointed. "For the coat closet?" I asked.

  He grinned. "Not for long. It's going to be the weapons room when we're done."

  Weapons room? My eyes widened.

  I glanced down at the business card and at the logo embossed above the letters GAPS. The same insignia was on Zane's shirt. I studied it closer on the card in my hand. It featured angel wings and a ship's anchor . . . and a really, really big gun.

  I drew in a breath and raised my eyes. "One more question."

  "Of course." He nodded.

  "What does GAPS stand for again?"

  "Guardian Angel Protection Services." He sniffed out a short laugh. "That's what you get when you give a team of Navy SEALs some beer and ask them to come up with a name for your new PMC."

  "PMC?" I asked, a bit afraid of the answer.

  "Private military contractor."

  My eyes widened further.

  "Don't worry. We'll try to keep you out of the gunfire. Promise." He laughed like it was a joke, which I guess to him it was.

  To me, not so much. I forced a laugh as my mind whizzed through a review of the events of the day, trying to figure out how the hell I’d ended up here.

  My new boss pulled out his cell. "Let me call Jon and see if he can email all the paperwork you'll need."

  "Okay. Sure."

  He turned and I noticed the bulge under his shirt at the back of his pants. A gun, I guessed.

  As he was busy on the phone getting the papers I'd need to be cleared by the NSA or FBI or whatever, I whipped out my own cell.

  I closed the map and got back to the search results page and there it was. I saw exactly where I’d gone wrong. Listed right below Angel Escort Services was Guardian Angel Protection Services.

  I'd hit the wrong name and gotten the wrong directions. I’d gone to the wrong office.

  Holy shit, I'd gotten the wrong job.

  A job working for a Navy SEAL. A job that required a security check. A job in an office that had a weapons room.

  What the hell had I gotten myself into?