Page 1 of Nine

Prologue

A Typical Day

I’m standing here naked and staring at him as he dips his hand into his wallet. It was the same hand that was planted on my ass cheek not even an hour earlier. It was the same hand that was gently wrapped around my throat thirty minutes ago, and it will be the same hand of the man who returns home to his wife in the next fifteen minutes. I slide into my panties as he quickly zips and buttons up his pants, and then I watch as he tosses crisp hundred dollar bills on the bed next to me. I look down at the cash and then back up to him. He’s grinning, a usual side effect from our dirty little night. It’s an I just had my brains fucked silly type of expression. I don’t want to smile back, but it’s a habit. This sexual game we play is already set into motion the very moment any man meets me. He licks his lips while he eyes me up and down. I’m waiting, standing there perfectly still, with my tits out and fuck-me eyes glued to him. He leans in and grips my waist with both hands. I remain silent. My job is done. The cash is on the bed and I’m ready to leave, but I can’t. Not yet. I have to stay in character for a little longer. He’s thirsty for me, and if I give him just a drop, he’ll keep coming back for more. I’m setting mental traps in that head of his and he doesn’t even know it. These men never do. Fucking Idiots.

“If my wife did half the stuff you just did, I’d be a happy man.”

I smirk, and play with the ends of my hair. The words my wife circle in my head for a few seconds until I push them far out of my thoughts. I put one finger in my mouth and playfully bite it.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” He asks, as his hands find their way to my ass. He gives it a tight squeeze. “I want to tie you up and taste that pretty little kitty of yours again.”

He gently nuzzles his face into my neck. He inhales long and hard as if he’s trying to breathe me in. It’s the aroma that’s intoxicating. My skin carries the scent of sex more than it did previously of perfume, and apparently, that mix drives most men crazy. I remain silent, forcing him to work for a response.

“Please,” he pleads, before he drops to one knee and pushes his face against my underwear. He’s down there inhaling my crotch like it’s a damn rose. It’s nothing he hasn’t done a dozen times before. The guy has a serious thing for crotch sniffing. So what? I stare down at him and watch him nip at my panties with his teeth. “Please,” he moans into the fabric again, as he runs his hands up and down my legs.

He’s addicted to me, just like the rest. I slowly squat down in front of him, place the palm of my hand on his cheek, and look at him with adoring eyes. He knows what’s coming. He knows the rules. They all do, and they all want to break them.

“Baby.” I pause. “You’ll have to take a number and wait in line. You’re not the only one who likes to take this pussy cat out of its cage.”

Chapter 1. The Pact

My birth name is Storm Wilson, but my clients call me Nine. I was born in a trailer park just on the outskirts of Albuquerque, New Mexico, with two junkies for parents, and enough bad childhood memories to qualify for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s a miracle that I can even put a damn sentence together when speaking after everything I’ve been through.

Fortunately for me, I’m driven, smart, and sexy, and when it comes to the moneymaking business, I know my shit. That’s the only reason I’ve managed to stay alive this long, but to do so with longevity as I have, I had to do the unthinkable. I took a deep plunge and made a decision that most teen girls should never have to make, but it was the only way out.

I was young, homeless, and terrified at the time. It was a swim or drown type moment and I chose to swim. I wanted to breathe, so I set my feet in motion. I figured that since I was already lying in the bottom of the barrel of life, any move I made was better than not making one at all. That’s exactly where I was, and how I convinced myself to become the one thing I never imagined I’d ever be. An Escort.

It was by far the best decision I’ve ever made, but also the hardest decision of my life. I still mentally struggle with my choice, because I can’t quit, even after all these years. The thing is, I don’t really want to, and that’s what bothers me the most. I’ve become content doing this. The truth is, the money’s too good. It’s now my addiction. The cash has become my drug of choice, and the paper high I speak of is a killer. The more I have, the more I want. I love the smell of money. I can’t help it. There is nothing like crisp, green cash stacked in my hands. I’m not lying when I say this. It definitely makes my nipples hard and my panties wet.

In this business you learn that cash never comes alone. It has a best friend called power, and I personally love how they complement each other. I have something these men need, and they have something I want. The very two things that make this world go round. Pussy and money. That is why I find myself chained to this industry. I’m addicted to the Benjamins, and being able to control and manipulate the situation is just a bonus.

I know that sounds all badass, but if I’m really being open and honest, it’s not just about money intoxication, and it’s not just me that I do it for. It goes a lot deeper than that. It’s also for Jenny, my assistant. She’s a woman who I consider my sister. She was the first person I met when I arrived in Nevada, and the only person I ever trusted with my life. I was what felt like a million miles away from home, and nothing scared me more. The only thing that kept me from having a psychotic meltdown was her existence. She happened to be in the right place at the right time, and oh what a terrible time it was.

I was sixteen, freshly kicked to the curb by my parents. They told me they didn’t understand why C.P.S placed me back in their care again, because they couldn’t afford another mouth to feed, and since welfare cut them off I was no use to them. I believe their very last words to me were, “You’re almost an adult, anyway.” My father grabbed me by my arm and shoved me out of the house like nothing. No money. No clothes. No food. They slammed the door, locking it, leaving me in tears on the front porch. I can still picture me screaming at the top of my lungs and pounding on the windows to get back in. I was hurt and angry for everything they had put me through in the past, and then they go and pull this final selfish act.

I don’t know what I expected from two strung out meth heads, but whatever it was, I never saw it. I just knew at that very moment I wanted out of that city and far away from them, so I ran until my chest hurt, until I couldn’t breathe, until the tears dried against my face. I was up against the clock to leave; an invisible stopwatch was pushed. My thoughts pounded against my head and my insides twisted into what felt like knots.

I think I left my heart back on that porch and it was too late to go and retrieve it. God damn them both to hell. I ran faster as if I was on a mission, and I was. It was to get to a nearby road where traffic was heavy, and maybe I could seek an escape from it all.

My feet stumbled as I stopped at the end of the road. My side was aching and my lungs were on fire. I bent over and placed my hands on my knees in an effort to catch my breath. I then tossed my thumb up in the air just as I had seen in the movies. A kind trucker who was passing through pulled over to pick me up. He said he was headed to sin city for a delivery, and asked if I wanted a ride. Without hesitation, I jumped in his truck and never looked back as we left Albuquerque. It was a place I wanted to quickly wipe away from my memory.

The trucker drove me up to Nevada and paid for all my meals. Not once did he pry by asking me uncomfortable questions about my life. The trip was mostly a quiet one with a few discussions about country music and troubled celebrities. I don’t think he needed to ask, because the pain was written across my face. The abuse was marked across my body, and the gaping hole in my chest from where my heart used to be was empty. He just smiled and talked about his favorite singers and how they overcame so much to get to where they are now. I enjoyed his little talks. They kept my mind busy and off of the thoughts that banged against my skull. Ones of my parents. Ones of my uncle. Ones of the several foster parents I had. The more he talked, the more the thoughts were silenced and I liked that. I liked him. He was nice, and nice I was not accustomed to.

Sadly, it didn’t take too long to get to Vegas. That is where we would say our goodbyes. He pulled his cab over, and looked at me. I stared back in silence. He exhaled long and hard and then removed his old tattered baseball cap from his head. I watched as he placed it on one knee.

“I’m gonna pray for you now young woman. I ain’t sure if you’re a girl of faith or not, but we all God’s children. You remember that, ya hear me?” he said in a southern accent. I nodded.

And he did. He prayed so hard I had tears falling down my cheeks. It was the first time anyone had ever done that. He prayed and prayed for my safety and it was beautiful. It let me know that good people still existed in this world and that someone cared for me. He then stuffed a little money in my hand, and told me to be careful. I was filled with a strange warmth, but the feeling was short-lived as soon as I watched the back of his truck trail off into the distance. That is when reality hit. I was completely on my own.

I found myself lost, wandering the busy streets of Las Vegas when I spotted Jenny. She was young like me and sitting all by herself on a curb. She looked like she had a story to tell and so did I, so I sat down next to her.

“I’m Storm,” I said, nervously putting my hand out. “I’m really lost here.”

“Yeah, me too,” she replied, barely taking my hand.

It was her facial expression that I sympathized with, because I knew it all too well. It was fear. She was just as broken as I was sitting there with her black mascara running down her face. She had her arms folded across her chest and she kept rocking back and forth. I waited for her to say something else, but she never did. I had to make the next move for this conversation to happen. This was my area anyway. I could break ice easy. I did it every time I had to go to a new foster home, every time I had to go to a new school, and every time I had to lie and cover up something. I could break ice like there was no tomorrow, and that’s what I did that day to get her to warm up to me. I needed her to like me. I needed somebody. I needed a friend.

“I can eat two large boxes of pizza and not throw up,” I blurted out.

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