Page 37 of Devoured
CHAPTER 10
Roland
By the next morning, Iris was back to her usual self. Arms crossed over her chest. Wearing a long sweater with a huge hood hiding her short black hair. Sleeves that covered her arms. The sweater was tight at the waist, then flowed out to cover her hips, like a short dress. Black tights underneath, ankle boots to match. It was sexy on her, giving off a witchy vibe, especially when she glared at me from under that hood. I smiled in response. Today was for business, not games.
At least not yet.
I held out my arm for her and she rolled her eyes, stomping past me, pushing the door to the Dahlia District open, heading directly for my car, the driver standing beside it. Suddenly, she turned to me, curiosity twinkling in her eyes.
She pointed at the moon still hovering over the trees. “It’s too early,” she groaned.
“You can sleep on the plane,” I said.
She straightened. “On the plane?” I nodded, and she continued, “Do I need to bring clothes? My toothbrush?”
“I took care of that.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
After a short drive to a private airport, we took my jet, which made the distance a short, two and a half hour flight. Considering her background, I figured Iris had never been on a plane before, but as soon as we were in our seats, the pilot reading takeoff instructions over the speakers, she turned to me.
“Do you have a face mask and earplugs?”
I did, actually. I pulled them out of a small suitcase. She immediately molded the silicone, then popped them in her ears, sliding the face mask over her eyes. The nice thing about having a personal, customized jet, was that the chairs leaned back without concern for other passengers. Iris adjusted accordingly.
We landed in a private airport in Nevada, right outside of Clark County. A driver in a black SUV was waiting, and Iris, still groggy from her morning nap, didn’t question it when I offered her my hand to help her into the car.
The desert passed in long flashes of brown. Dull green shrubs. Cacti stretching in gnarled angles. Hills out in the distance, rocky and grim. Then between two rocky hills, a small town popped up like a random weed in the dusty sand. It started off with a few short buildings, nothing special about them. Then a run down casino. A renovated one. A karaoke bar with a country twist. A grocery store. And down a road off to the side, we came upon a few flat buildings, a picket fence around them marking exactly where the property grounds ended.Bambi’s Ranchin pink letters on a sign.The United State’s Number One Legal Brothel & Resort.
Iris’s eyes were glued to windows. Images of women’s silhouettes were painted in long strips on the walls, and near the building, artistic sculptures of half-naked women, much like Greek sculptures, but more detailed. More vulgar.
“A legal brothel?” Iris asked.
“One of the only places in the States,” I said. “Good old Pahrump. Never lets me down.”
She let out a small huff when we parked, but she practically bounced towards the entrance. We rang the doorbell. The doors were opened by the manager, and the women were lined up to the side. Sixteen women. Lighter skin. Darker skin. Tattooed. Bare. Decadently thick. Ballerina thin. Brown and black and red and green hair. More variety than a person could ever want.
Iris lifted a brow, unable to hide the amusement on her face.
One of the women eyed me, a curvy woman in her late twenties with two black braids and tan skin. I acknowledged her, then turned to the rest of the lineup.
“We’re going to wait for now, thank you,” I said. They all smiled, one even giving a small curtsey, then dispersed into the bar and restaurant of the main floor. A few returned to the bedrooms upstairs.
The woman with the braids came towards us and held out a hand to Iris.
“You must be the beloved Iris Weaver,” she said.
“I am?” Iris said, confusion in her voice. She turned to me for an explanation, but I had none. Iris was the one being addressed, not me. “And you are?” she asked.
“Cashmere,” the woman said. She smiled brightly at Iris, her white teeth gleaming. “You can call me Cash though.”
“Cash,” Iris said. “I like that.”
“I know, right? It’s a perfect stage name,” she grinned. “So, Roland says you wanted a tour of our resort. You were thinking of starting your own?”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s hard to explain.” Cash waited for an explanation, but Iris shook her head. “Nevermind. It’s a long story. But yes. I am.”
