Page 3 of A Mistake of Identity
“Needed the money. Room might be free, but nothing else is.” Ellis gave up the fight. It was never a winning one with Jean. The boy was clingy. “You working tonight?”
“Regular. Owns a few bars in South First Cat. Third time this month.”
“Three months here and already regulars?”
Jean shrugged against Ellis’ chest. “He bathes. Probably has a white picket fence and 2.5 kids.”
“Usually do. The ones hiding affairs avoid the popular houses.” Ellis checked his phone. “Speaking of, I need to get ready.”
“Think he’ll make you call him ‘Daddy?’” Jean snickered.
“They never want me to call them Daddy. Do I look like a sugar baby?”
“You could be. You’re handsome. Got that swimmer’s body.”
“I’m a swimmer. That’s what happens when you swim.” Ellis nudged Jean with his shoulder. “You should come with me sometime. YMCA has discounted memberships for us.”
Jean’s face scrunched up like he’d bitten into a lemon, tongue poking out in disgust. “No, thanks!” He reached up, fingers ghosting over Ellis’ cheek where Donovan had struck him. His lips formed a perfect pout that Ellis couldn’t help but envy. It was the kind of pretty that came naturally to Jean, the kind clients paid extra for. “Grab my makeup kit from my room. The good concealer’s in the blue bag.”
Ellis finally extracted himself from Jean’s octopus grip. “See you after the Cat Hours.”
“Don’t be late!” Jean called after him. “I want every detail about this mystery client!”
The narrow stairs to the dormitories creaked under Ellis’ feet, each step a reminder of Heart Court’s age. His room waited above—just a single bed and dresser, but better than the ratty tent he’d called home for four years. The communal showers weren’t modern, but they were clean.
He grabbed his shower kit and Jean’s makeup bag, heading for the showers. The enema attachment was the only modern thing in the room. Its self-sanitizing cradle glowing blue, Donovan’s one concession to modern hygiene. Ellis wentthrough his preparation thoroughly. Experience had taught him that “clean” meant spotless inside and out unless specifically requested otherwise. The lukewarm water never quite got hot enough, but at least it never ran cold.
Ellis stood before the mirror in his room, squinting under the harsh fluorescent light that made everyone look sickly. His fingers slid over his cheek, feeling the heat of the bruise blooming beneath. Jean’s concealer was expensive—probably lifted from one of those high-end boutiques in the Fourth Cat where the Union escorts shopped. He dabbed the cream carefully over the darkening mark, but his unpracticed hands made the coverage look obvious and patchy. He sighed heavily. Makeup wasn’t his forte, but it would have to do. The client probably wouldn’t care anyway—wouldn’t be looking at his face much, much less notice a poorly concealed bruise.
Ellis stared at his reflection, trying to summon the energy, the enthusiasm this client would expect. Half-price or not, he needed this to work. Heart Court wasn’t much, but it was a roof over his head, electricity that mostly worked, and running water that was usually clear. His small luxuries, the tablet, the phone, and regular meals, depended on keeping Donovan happy. Better than the streets. It had to be better than the streets.
One last chance. He’d make it count.
Ellis
Ellis tugged at the sleeves of his cream Henley, the nicest thing he owned that wasn’t obviously “working clothes.” The soft fabric hung loose over dark-wash jeans that clung in ways that would draw attention without screaming escort. Beneath them, the lace thong, his only pair, bought with tips since Donovan didn’t provide a clothing allowance like Union houses did—scratched against sensitive skin. The cheap material would leave marks, nothing like the silk and satin the Union escorts wore, but it satisfied the client’s lingerie requirement.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the Lumière’s extravagant lobby.
Of all the casinos in PDC, the Lumière stood apart—literally. While every other respectable gambling establishment had migrated to the neon-drenched shores of the Fourth Cat across the Mississippi, the Lumière remained firmly planted on the Missouri side, where the city’s first casino had opened over a century ago.
The place had survived countless attempts to shut it down; the last effort had nearly sparked a riot when locals took to the streets to protect their historic landmark. Sure, there were other casinos on this side of the river—rough spots down in the Third Cat where dock workers bet their paychecks—but those were strictly locals only. No tourist would dare set foot there, let alone the clients who frequented the Lumière.
The lobby was awash in reds and gold, crystal glinting off nearly every surface that wasn’t marble. Three-story-high ceilings stretched overhead, dripping with massive chandeliers that cast rainbow prisms across the polished floor. The air was perfumed with something expensive and subtle that cost more per ounce than what Ellis brought in for Donovan in a month. Around him, high rollers in designer suits and cocktail dresses mingled with tourists in resort wear, their voices a constant murmur beneath the distant siren song of the slot machines.
Since he wasn’t dressed like one of the typical Union Escorts in highly revealing clothing, the lobby clerk and security ignored him. The security guards, positioned strategically near the gaming floor entrance in their perfectly tailored black suits with the Lumière logo prominently displayed on their chests, watched the casino floor. The front desk staff, in their burgundy uniforms that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe, were too busy checking in guests who carried Louis Vuitton luggage sets.
Better they didn’t spot him as a non-union escort—the Lumière had exclusive arrangements with a few of the nicer Fourth Cat union houses, and they weren’t shy about charging hefty “fees” to anyone cutting into their profits.
Ellis made his way over to the extravagant chandelier fountain, which had some significant history, but Ellis didn’t know or care about it. The fountain dominated the center of the lobby, water cascading down crystal tiers that had once hung from the ceiling, catching light and throwing it back in mesmerizing patterns. The marble basin below was studded with coins—wishes made by people with money to throw away.
A plaque with the details was ten feet from him, but Ellis had more important things to do right now than learn about some ancient lighting-turned-fountain. Like meeting the client who could afford to meet him at this establishment. Eithersomeone wealthy enough that the Lumière’s fees didn’t matter, or stupid enough to think they could dodge them. Not his usual Johns booking rooms at those run-down motels on the outskirts of the Fourth Cat.
Ellis checked his phone. He was 15 minutes early.
Better early than late.
Or, at least, that was his thought until he spotted his client seated at the Café Rochelle.
