Page 2 of Nine

She turned to me and started laughing, and that’s all it took.

After talking for hours, we immediately bonded due to our similar backgrounds of having abusive druggie parents who kicked us out. We chuckled at the irony. We shed tears in pain. We rolled our eyes in disgust. Jenny and me understood each other. It’s as if fate stepped in and paired us together so we wouldn’t have to weather this storm all alone, and for that, I was thankful, but things would be challenging. Where would we stay? How would we eat? It would be a fight to survive, and that’s exactly what it was.

Days, months, and years passed as we struggled. Two years to be exact. We were legal adults now, barely eighteen and already burnt out. Our life consisted of panhandling for money and sofa hopping at stranger’s houses to rest. Some nights we would stay at hotels if we were lucky and other nights we would just bundle up together and sleep in abandoned homes. We begged and pleaded for employment, but we couldn’t get jobs because we had no permanent address or phone. Hell, we barely knew how to act in an interview anyway. Try walking into a place with wrinkled clothes and a street mouth and see how far that gets you.

Through it all we still kept hope in our hearts that things would get better. It was important to keep the faith alive. We actually made a promise to one another that one day we would be rich and we would do whatever it took to get out of this nightmare. I took that pact to heart and the next day after we said it, I sat down and gave serious thought to how I could get us out of here. I started coming up with ridiculous ideas. Most which were illegal and if caught would have gotten us serious prison time. It wasn’t worth it to get wrapped up in the system like some of the other kids we met out here. It had to be legal. It had to be easy. It had to be profitable and it had to be fast. The clock was back on, ticking at an uncontrollable speed as Jenny became ill that night, so I thought harder.

We were smack dab in the middle of pure chaos and just rotting away out here. Dealers, prostitutes, crackheads, and gangsters were suffocating us. If we made it through the day without seeing an overdose, it was a good day. We were just two young girls trying to stay alive with not a clue on how to leave this jungle, until it occurred to me that I could learn a trade out here amongst these animals. Who the hell would have thought it? And so it began, the very first initial thought of becoming something that was so distasteful to society, but I couldn’t do it. No way. Or could I?

After two whole years out here, I finally opened my eyes, took advantage of the moment, and learned what I could. I took mental notes of what to do and what not to do. I watched the girls out here working the streets. They were controlled like puppets. They were someone’s property. I told myself that I would never place my future in someone else’s hands like those poor girls, and I never did. I was going to be my own boss one day. That was the plan, so I watched the street hustlers work their magic from sun up to sun down. I watched them hard. They were fast talkers and street charmers. They could sell a heater to the devil in the dead of summer. They were that damn good. I learned the art of manipulation from them pretty quickly. I also took in the secrecy and quickness of many drug deals, and noticed how loyal their customers were. The dealers would stay out all night on the corner slinging dope. They taught me that with patience and time came opportunity, because every so often they would have a big buyer roll through, and if that buyer liked their product they would always return for more.

What it all came down to was, if you had charm, a fast mouth, and a great product, that’s really all you needed to sell anything. You just needed to make sure you were offering up all three of those things better than anyone else could to be at the top of your game, and that is where I wanted to be. It was my motivation. It would be our freedom from this hellhole. I wanted a better life for us. We fucking deserved it, but how could I apply everything I had learned? How would Jenny fit in to all this? How could I pull both of us out of this street barrel?

It would be a hard task. Jenny has always been sweet; maybe a little naïve at times. I just knew she didn’t have the strength it would take to do what I could. I was a little tougher, a bit bolder and wouldn’t stand for less than we both deserved. So, I decided to sacrifice myself. I made a bold proposition with a detailed plan one night to Jenny. I volunteered to do all of the dirty work, if she would handle everything else, which included setting up appointments and accounting. The girl was fantastic with numbers and as loyal as they came. She was hesitant about saying yes, but I asked her to trust me and so we made another pact, to never tell a soul.

In this plan, we quietly set off to build a client base of one hundred men who make over six figures. Not just any successful man, but the handsome type you see in magazines. The type you don’t mind banging away at your body. We successfully did so within just nine days. That’s how I earned my nickname, Nine. Jenny is actually the one who gave it to me and it stuck as most nicknames do. It sounds sexy and mysterious, and most of my customers just think my mother is a gun fanatic who happened to like that type of firearm so much that she named me after one. I let them believe what they want, but it’s far from the truth.

The truth is, Jenny gave me a name based on a timeline; the time it took her and me to achieve a goal that would change both our lives forever. From eating out of garbage cans to dining at five star restaurants type of change. I’m talking about sleeping in a cold abandoned crack house to living it up in a glass wall home type of change. Payless to Gucci. Goodwill to High Fashion. The list goes on and on and on.

We went through quite a few upgrades with plenty of twists and turns, and now not one eye will fall upon us and know what we went through to get here. When Jenny and me walk into a room, all that people see now is money. Nothing less, just wealth. It has to be that way. Money recognizes money, from the way you walk to the way you talk, and we’ve mastered the act. We’ve put that bitch into submission. We work it. Straight survival mode at its finest. Jenny worries that I’ve lost myself, but it had to be done to save us from that fucking jungle out there.

I know it all sounds crazy. To pull one hundred high profile clients in just nine days is bananas. I thought it would take longer, but it wasn’t hard to find these type of men once we did a little research online at the library and found out who’s who and where they spend their down time. Jenny would hunt them down and I would go in for the kill.

Jenny swears on everything that I must use magic, because she says there’s an art to what I do. Honestly, I don’t think about it, I just do it. It comes natural to me. The sugar just seeps out of my pores when I’m in my Nine Character. I’m a walking, talking sex goddess and they never see me coming. I’m dangerous. I don’t just break hearts, I destroy them. It’s what I do. I reel them in, break them off, and spit them out. And you know what? They like every moment of it. They beg for more like a cocaine addict.

I’ve been blessed with a tight little body and I know what to do with it. Men love my perky tits, small waist, and tight ass. All I have to do is throw this five foot, five inch frame into some four-inch, red hot, fuck-me-hard stilettos and whip through the room like a bitch in heat. The dogs come running every time. Maybe it’s my outrageous, long, wavy, cherry red dyed hair, or my packed on makeup or the fact that my facial expression always looks like I couldn’t care less. Whatever it is, it all works together and they fucking want it.

Nobody does what I do better than me. I’m one of the top requested in my field. I know, because other women like myself seek me out to make threats. They’re jealous and envious at the cash I pull in, and the clients that leave them for me. I tell them all to take a number, because I’m not going anywhere as long as the money keeps pouring in, and boy, does it ever. These street rats want to know my secret; they want to know how I do business without a man in charge. They hate me, but they love me. I can see it in their eyes when they approach me. Business has only gotten better, and that means my enemies will grow as well, but I’m not worried about that. Every successful person has haters.

We started at one hundred clients and now the number is up to three hundred. I’m satisfied now. I won’t add any more than that. It feels like a solid number. I know it sounds like a lot of men, but I don’t always see them on a regular basis. Some are daily, some are weekly and some are monthly but everyone I see is scheduled. There’s also a waiting list for cancellations of clients that will pay any price to see me, which includes buying off their competitors if they can find out who they are and where they are on the list. I never tell, but sometimes clients know each other and sometimes they talk. Jenny’s been offered extreme amounts of cash to bump them up as well, but she knows better. We never give them what they want or what they need until it’s their time. This is how we have become so successful. I strongly believe if you take an apple and hold it over someone’s head long enough; they will get hungry for that particular apple even if other apples are available. It’s human nature to want what we can’t have. It’s the basic flaw to humanity and I use that flaw to my benefit. I love it. It’s an ego boost to have men clawing at the door for me.

I don’t mind the clients being so needy. It pays the bills. It’s everyone else that makes me nervous. It’s all the people around me with their normal vanilla lifestyle and intrusive questions.

What’s your occupation? What do you do for a living? It’s become the mandatory thing to know about someone when you first meet them. I never could quite understand why a job title made you more or less important in the world. It’s not like a lawyer is always honest or that a doctor is always kind and caring. It’s not like every tattoo artist is a criminal. All a job title does is give another person an idea of how much money you might make. It doesn’t tell them shit about your character. There is also a certain level of judgment that immediately comes as soon as someone finds out what you do. So in my case, I just tell people that I’m self-employed. If they press on to ask what exactly it is that I do, I tell them that I provide stress relief for the body, almost like a holistic healer. Most people cut the conversation off right there. Holistic health sounds weird to most, and they usually just back off. Most people have no idea what the hell a holistic healer is anyway. I’m not lying when I say it. I do naturally provide stress relief for the body. The truth is, I can’t be honest with people because my industry is tainted with lies, deceit, and disease. It’s frowned upon and nobody knows this better than I do. There’s a very ugly name attached to what I do and only one fantastic place to do it at, Las Vegas. Some call me a prostitute, others call me an escort or a call girl and the rest will call me a whore. It doesn’t matter what the title is, I provide a service that will never go out of business, is in high demand, and pays well.

I’m good at my job, so good they keep coming back for more. I suppose that’s also why I keep doing it. I’ve never lost a client in my life, and I chalk it up to my skills. I’ve seen them all, old and young, gay and straight, married and single. They come to me seeking something they don’t have or don’t get enough of at home. People like dirty things in the bedroom, and I don’t judge. The kink factor goes from mild to heavy and they all pay to play the game. The dirtier they want it, the higher the cost. I don’t do quick, cheap blowjobs. It’s not worth my time. I could cost you anywhere from $500-$1000 an hour depending on what we do. Every client is different in their needs, and if some of these street rat whores took their time they might just double their income.

It’s not always about sex for some men, sometimes it’s the companionship. I don’t mind it. I just have to sit there and listen to them, which gives my body a rest. On some occasions, gentlemen just need a date for an event, a little arm candy to show off. I get paid to go to extravagant events, to smile and laugh at their jokes. That there is fucking amazing.

But not every customer will treat you like the belle of the ball. Some days I have to push my body, erase my mind, and numb my soul. People have no idea, nor do the clients. I hear the way they talk about us girls, as if we’re nothing. They say what I do isn’t really hard work, but they have no clue what I force myself to endure on some days. Just like any job, it does have its ups and downs. It isn’t always easy. Like I said, not every customer is a prince and not every moment is jam-packed with sunrays and daisies. When the bad days hit I choose to block it out when it happens. It’s a mental thing and I’m not weak, so I won’t let it crush me. I won’t lie or sugar coat shit. The feeling of regret has a tendency to pop up here and there unannounced, but it always passes through and that’s why what I do doesn’t phase me for the most part. It’s all worth it when I look around at what we have now and how far we’ve come. There’s really no turning back at this point, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve shut the door on my old life. That girl, Storm, died a long time ago along with all the bad memories the very moment I dug Jenny and me out of that metaphoric barrel.

I smashed that barrel and grabbed life by the balls. I made a path where there wasn’t one available. I’m an escort, so the fuck what?

How many people get to be their own boss, set their own schedules and make their own rules? Not many, that’s for sure. Let me stay optimistic and say I’m the lucky one. I work for me and when it comes to rules, I only have two. No cuddling and no kissing. I don’t kiss or cuddle because it’s too intimate and too romantic. Most of the men couldn’t care less. They really just want a hole to put their dick in, but these rules are set to keep my guard up. I’m sure plenty of gals have fallen for a John before, but I refuse to be one. I have to stay at the top of my game. It’s who I have to be. It’s who, Nine, is.

Chapter 2. Man. Job. Money. Repeat

I forcefully swing open the front door and hear it slam against the wall. I stroll inside, drop my purse on the floor, and look at Jenny who stares at me with wide eyes.

“It’s so hot outside. My tits are sticking together. My ass cheeks have become one, and my thighs are protesting with heat rash. I hate Las Vegas summers with a passion,” I bark.

Jenny holds back her laughter by clamping her lips together.

“You’re letting all that hot air in,” she finally says. “Close that door.”

I don’t move fast enough, so she stands up and comes over, shutting the door behind me. She’s a petite little thing dressed in her usual sundress attire. Her short black bob of a haircut bounces around as she makes her way back to the desk. She sits down and stares at the PC monitor.

“Okay, I’ve officially cooled my body to where I can think again. Give me the rundown.”

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