Page 7 of Violent Hearts

"No, no, not at all," Miss Barry interrupts me. "It's nothing like that. If you're desperate for some quick and easy money, you don't come here. We have a comprehensive application process that's not open to just anyone, and we certainly don't hire every girl who applies."

She pauses to take another sip of her bourbon, and to make me wait for an expanded version of her explanation. I know this move is deliberate, and she's enjoying my bewildered gaze.

"These girls are more than just high-class hookers, dear," she continues. "They need to bring more than beauty and the will to please to the table."

"Like what?"

When our eyes meet, I notice that hers are laced with fierce intensity as she prepares her next response.

"Brains," she says. "And stability - emotional and psychological. Each girl has to pass a variety of tests before we even consider hiring them."

"And then? What happens after they're hired?"

"Depending on the conditions they've set for themselves, we'll add them to our different catalogs and then offer them to potential clients. Not every client is a good match for every girl. The selection process can be quite... tiring."

She exhales loudly with that last sentence, rolling her eyes as if she's remembering something - or someone - highly unpleasant.

"And what does that process look like?" I inquire. "You mentioned there are tests? What kind of tests?"

Instead of giving me a reply, Miss Barry regards me with a contemplative look, scanning me from head to toe, the same as that guy Mr. King did. My hand instinctively wanders up to the collar of my blouse, pulling the fabric closer together as if this would help to shield me from her curious eyes.

"Would you like try it?" she asks.

"Try what?"

"The application process," she says. "If you have some extra time, we can complete some of the tests."

She pauses then, a little smirk appearing on her face before she continues speaking.

"Isn't that the best kind of research?" she asks. "Hands-on?"

I blush and inhale audibly. There's something about the way she looks at me that's extremely unsettling, but I can't put my finger on it. In fact, I don't even know if the feeling she evokes is even negative. It's just ... disconcerting.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three," I reply instantly. "I’m turning twenty-four in about six months."

"Good," she states. "I assume you're not a virgin?"

I let out an indignant huff. "Not that that's any of your business, but no, I am not."

"Pity," she says, using the exact same word that guy used before. "You could make a fortune here, especially if you were untouched."

I chuckle. "I've heard that before..."

Her eyes flare at my words.

"I heard those exact words from a guy earlier, outside of your office," I explain. "One of your clients, I assume. I think his name was... Mr. King?"

She raises her eyebrows, and then shifts to place her elbows on the desk between us as she leans forward. "He talked to you?"

I shrug. "Briefly. He thought I was one of your girls. Which - to be quite frank - I thought was a little insulting."

"I see," she remarks. "Did he appear disappointed when you told him that you're not?"

Her question baffles me. Why does it matter? "Maybe, a little."

"Interesting."

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