Two years ago, just before Priscilla's affair with Governor Carlson began, one of the governor's mistresses went missing. Maybe. Missy King was a working girl and rising p**n star the governor met on a gambling trip. He put her up in a fancy Vegas apartment complex—that part, we've confirmed is true—where she lived until she didn't. There are no missing person reports, and there has never been a police investigation. But her friends tell Dave they think she was kidnapped, and the LVPD did nothing to find her.
Priscilla's phone is bugged as of today, so I'm looking forward to the next time she talks to the governor. Or to Smith. Or Lockwood, for that matter. I'm hoping they’ll fill in some of the pieces, because right now I don't know what this is.
In a few days, I'll go down to San Luis myself to see what the hell could be down there, but tonight, the most important thing I can do is go to the gala. In my most ambitious plan, I can get my hands on Lockwood's cell phone. He'll be there because, like me, he's brawling at the Joseph Club tomorrow night in the name of charity.
Marchant wouldn't sign up for the brawl—something about winning making him look like a pimp and losing making him look like a loser—so I paid my five grand and slid into a spot vacated by a Vegas councilman who sprained his ankle.
There was nothing Priscilla could do to keep me out of the party at the Heat Mansion, so she pretended to be pleased. I wonder if she's coming up here now to try to keep me away.
As if on cue, the door to my penthouse swings open with a swoosh of air. I let her get a few paces inside before I slam the door shut, jumping on her from behind. I sweep her up into my arms and tear her mink coat open.
She squeals, and I hear something drop. I spin her in a circle and see a big, leather bag sprawled on my floor.
"What did you bring me?"
"Why don't you open it and see?"
I strip Priscilla to her open-nipple bra and crotchless panties before I dump her on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace and open the bag.
What's inside is vile. And it doesn't make my c**k soften at all.
Chapter Sixteen
~ELIZABETH~
When Marchant Radcliffe started Love Inc., it was a high-end brothel on the Vegas Strip. If the Wikipedia page can be believed, Marchant never wanted to open 'just another brothel'. He wanted a place where the escorts were treated like any other profession—they have excellent health insurance, 401Ks, and the top performers can even buy a small stakes in the company.
He wanted a different kind of clientele, too. Wealthy. Connected. Men and women who appreciated an upscale ambiance and a whole lot of privacy.
I'm guessing this must be Wiki's way of saying he wanted to keep the riff-raff out. Eliminate tourists, bachelors, and shut-ins.
After only a year or two, he opened another location in a rural area southwest of Vegas, on a plot of land so large it's a bonna fide green spot on my GPS. If I recall, it's something like two hundred acres. For several years, the location on the strip acted as a sort of gatekeeper. If the escorts liked a client or the client was regular enough, they got invited to the ranch. The strip location was swanky enough that it competed easily with more established places, so Love Inc. grew as a name-brand, but all the while, the ranch was building an identity of its own.
According to Forbes, the ranch location made more than $600 million last year. It has two dozen full-time female escorts and seven full-time male escorts who live on the grounds, setting their own prices and choosing their own clients. Many of them have worked there five years or more. The place has a job-satisfaction rating comparable to Google.
Somehow, the Love Inc. Ranch has come to be known as the 'fluffy bunny' ranch. I've heard it's not fluffy—all kinds of prostitution goes on there, even some of the more hard stuff—but it's nicer than most other places.
I bypass Vegas, veering onto an interstate and following it southeast. It's eight thirty, and I'm starting to get a serious case of belly bats (the unrelated more serious cousins of butterflies).
It takes me almost forty minutes to get past Vegas and into the dry, flat land to the southeast of the city. In that time, I manage to contain my excitement/horror/hysteria by clinging to the 'fluffy' part of this place's nickname. I think about sparkling fixtures; plush, animal skin rugs; gleaming hardwoods; gourmet foods; and beds so soft you might actually want to climb into them with a stranger.
I veer off the highway onto a smaller, freshly paved two-lane road, its dark asphalt gleaming in the glow of an almost-full moon. Suddenly there are lamplights, and although the land on either side of the road is reddish desert dirt, my GPS tells me I'm within eight miles of my final destination.
Holy belly bats!
I can't believe I'm actually doing this.
As I grip the wheel, I wonder who will greet me. Richard? The manager, Rachelle? What if it's Marchant? When I spoke to Richard this morning, he didn't say. Why didn't I ask?
I look down at myself. What if I'm not dressed right? Should I have worn a skirt or something? Maybe something more glam? Black slacks? My Manolos? I slow my car, pulling over on the side of the road, and reapply my lipstick. It's red, at least. That should be a good thing—I think.
As I flip my mirror shut, headlights, then tail-lights, wink past me. I recognize the shape of the vehicle: a limousine.
I pull back onto the road, excited and frightened to see that, just ahead, a billboard shines over the road.
I squint and slow down.
'Selling Scarlett'. And there I am, stretched out on my stomach, airbrushed and fake-tanned, but still very much the version of myself I was a few days ago when Richard asked me to send these pictures. I'm on a billboard, stamped with the Love Inc. Symbol.
Holy moly. Suri did a nice job posing me against white sheets in the great room. I don't even look like me. I look...like an escort.
My stomach clenches, and I try to feel okay about that. This is my choice, I remind myself. I'm doing this for Cross.
Another half-mile, and there's another Love Inc. billboard. This one features a stunning black-haired beauty with yellow eyes and a supple, suntanned body clad in jade green lace. She's opening a bedroom door, beckoning with her finger, the tiniest smile on her cat-like lips.
Another half-mile and another one. Except that this one has an arrow, pointing to a road that intersects this one. There’s a brick guardhouse, and metal arms blocking both the entrance and exit.
Oh my God. I'm really here.
I roll my window down with sweaty fingers, and the beautiful face that appears behind the glass is framed by long, curling red hair.
"Scarlett!" She grins. "You're the VIP tonight." She leans to the left, and a door behind her opens. Out steps a tall, bulky man with thinning brown hair and a devilish smile.