I FEEL BEN intake a sharp breath at the same time I do.

Ralph is sitting on the steps of the porch that lead up to our mobile home. He wears discolored jeans and a wife-beater that fits so well with his sadistic personality. A green baseball cap pushes his neck-long hair back and his overgrown beard houses remnants of the cocaine he snorted three minutes ago.

His face is wrinkled and scarred, accompanied by blackheads along the tip of his nose.

He is the kind of ugly that makes my skin crawl in disgust and horror—looking more like a character at a haunted house than a human being.

He reaches for the pack of cigarettes and lighter next to him. Placing the orange butt between his lips, he flickers the lighter.

There's something wicked about how well the sparks contrast against the fairness of his skin, almost as if he belongs in a place where there is fire all year round.

A shiver runs down my spine when his bloodshot eyes meet mine. He gives me a sinister smile and takes a long puff before exhaling it through thinly parted lips.

The tender squeeze of my hand breaks my connection with Ralph. My eyes search the source of the caress only to see a small hand locked with mine.

"It'll be okay. I'm here. We'll do it together," Ben says, giving me another one of his comforting squeezes.

It shouldn't be like this. I should be the one comforting him, not the other way around. Hell, no one should be comforting anyone. We should be able to come to our house unafraid without any need of comfort. We should be happy to be here, not dread the thought of it.

I nod my head and unbuckle my seatbelt, needing to be strong for Ben.

Grabbing the McDonald's bag of food from the passenger seat, I get out of the car and open Ben's door. With his backpack strapped around his shoulders, he helps me unload the groceries we bought after I picked him up from school.

As I manage to hook all the bags onto my forearms, I hear Ralph's menacing laughter. The expression on his face reads pure pleasure, enjoying every ounce of our struggle.

It isn't like him to get off his ass and help carry the food he doesn't pay for but loves to eat.

Before Ben and I can make it up the steps, Ralph extends his left leg and blocks our path. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. He loves to taunt me and enjoys watching my skin scrawl in annoyance. If I try to defend myself, it will only offend him and give him a reason to assert his manhood. Anytime he feels the need to prove himself, he does so through violence—toward Mom, toward Ben, toward me.

If there is anything I cannot afford, it is bruises on my body.

Andrews will brand me as tainted and won't give me a job until my skin is back to its natural hue. I'll be responsible to repay him the money he lost during my absence. It's a debt I've had to pay for before and I am not going back there.

I am to uphold this image of a porcelain doll, and Ralph knows as much, so whenever he acts out with his version of "tough", I don't retaliate. I don't try to boil his blood the way he does mine and I try to stay away from his cruel games at all costs even at my own peace and sanity.

While I might not be allowed to have any scars on my outward appearance, I refuse to allow Ralph, or anyone for that matter, to scar Ben.

That is why I always tell him to do as I do and hang his head low to show we are but prey to this vicious predator. Behind closed doors, however, I tell him to always stand up for what is right and that in life, you may have to hang your head low to survive but once you're out of danger, your head can be held high with strength.

It shows great power when one knows when to stand down.

All of this misery is temporary, I remind myself as Ralph's eerie smile physically churns my stomach.

"Good afternoon, Ralph," I say through gritted teeth.

He glances at me and scoffs arrogantly.

I never know what side of him I'm going to get. Every day is a mystery I never wish to unravel. I walk by him without saying hello, and he gets all butthurt about it. I say hello, and he gets offended I dared speak to the "master" of the house.

Ralph looks over at Ben with an eyebrow raised but Ben continues to stand in silence with his face toward to floor, knowing not to play into his malicious tricks.

He learned his lesson last week when he "misspoke" during an "adults only" conversation between Ralph and me. Ralph felt disrespected and wanted to show Ben his place, so he kicked him right on his shins, leaving behind a couple of bruises that to this day haven't fully healed.

He slaps Ben on the back of his head. "You ain't gonna say hello, boy? What, did your momma forget to teach you some manners?"

I tug on Ben's forearm and bring him close to my side. "Please, don't touch him."

Ralph scoffs in utter surprise and stands on unstable footing. He gets right in my face as he says, "Or what?"

"Or nothing. I'm sorry. Can we please pass through?" I fight the urge to drop all the bags and slap him hard across the face.

His triumphant smile repulses me. He gets out of the way and lets us take one step before blocking our path again. "Aren't you forgetting something?" he asks, pointing his chin to the McDonald's bag.

I open the bag and hand him a burger and fries—our payment for passage up the steps.

Stepping inside the house, I find Mom in the exact spot I left her ten hours ago. The only difference is that the coffee table in front of her is now filled with a rolled-up dollar bill, a maxed-out credit card, and streaks of cocaine.

"Go shower, Ben," I tell him.

As much as I might try, I cannot shield him from everything that happens in this house. I know I'll have to answer to him someday and I dread that day already. I don't ever want him to see me in a different light. I'm his Momma—I'm strong, not weak. I'm not a victim. I'm not a survivor either. I'm just a regular person how was delt a bad hand. That's it.

Hearing our bedroom door close, I drop the grocery bags on the floor and quickly fall onto my knees before my mother.

This is the crash after the cocaine has worn off.

Where her body was once alert and energetic, it now lays limp on the couch as her psyche tries to recover from whatever extraneous activity she put it through during her high.

Leaning against her, I watch for the rise and fall of her chest. Her heart thuds so rapidly that it is practically beating out of her chest. I touch her gently and call out her name softly, not wanting to startle her awake but when that doesn't do the trick, I place my hands on her shoulders and shake her. Hard.

"Mom, come on. Wake up," I say.

Her eyelids flutter rapidly as she tries to regain her focus. As soon as she notices I'm the cause of her disrupted slumber, she mumbles something hateful and tries to fall back asleep.

Regardless, I help her up from the couch and remind myself that I need to be setting an example for Ben. I want him to know that no matter how someone treats you, you must care for them with kindness. I want him to understand that kindness isn't synonymous to weakness, but that the only way we may rise is by lifting those around us.

Once I've managed to sit her up against the arm of the couch, I clear off the coffee table.

"Hey, hey! What the fuck are you doing? That's mine!" Mom shouts in anger. She tries to rip the credit card from my hands, but her body is too weak to fight mine. With a soft push, she falls sluggishly onto the couch.

"I know you hate how you're feeling right now," I say as I wipe down the table with a dishcloth. "I understand your body is craving the drugs even more than it did before, but Mom, you have to eat something. After you eat, you can do it again, I promise. But you must eat, okay?"

Her green irises, drowned by dilated pupils, stare up at me.

If only for a slight second of awareness, I see shame and gratitude. These moments are rare but when they happen, they form along the saddest memories of my life, reminding me of the amazing mother Claire once was.

It is in these rare moments, that hope fills my heart that she might one day step up to Ralph for the sake of Ben.

In her minute of shame, I don't let her apologize for the trauma she's caused because in doing so, she'd be admitting she was, at some point, conscious and decided not to do anything about it. So, I hand her the burger and fries with a water bottle before she gets the chance to say a word. She never seems to have an appetite these days, but whenever I'm around, I make sure she has something to eat even if she can't stomach it. If not me, then who?

Heading to the kitchen, I begin unpacking the grocery bags, placing each item where it belongs. To be honest, I don't even know why I do it—why I take the time to try to make this house organized or clean when I know as soon as I leave, they'll just make a mess out of it. But if not me, then who, right?

As I open the refrigerator, my eyes glimpse over a picture of a then two-year-old Ben. His innocent and naive smile reminds me once again of why I do it all.

He is why I dropped out of high school at only fifteen years old. He is why I begged my mother to let me keep him even after the many times she threatened an abortion. He is why I sleep with the wealthiest most obnoxious men in Vegas. He is who I think of when every ounce in my body tells me to give up, run away, and never ever come back.

Ben peaks his head out of the bedroom to let me know he has finished showering. I get him a glass of water and some snacks in case he gets hungry later in the evening.

Entering our room, I notice the bed we share is scattered with his agenda, folder, and pencil case. I open the case and pull out a marker as I skim through the agenda for today's date. Finding a happy face under his daily behavior chart, I sign my name under it and read over what he has to do for homework.

In all aspects, Ben never ceases to amaze me. At such a young age, I'm able to leave him alone for hours on end behind a locked door with a belligerent drunk and drug addict on the other side. I never have to reprimand him or repeat myself. He listens and knows how to handle himself when I'm not around.

Sifting through his homework binder, I take out a sight word sheet for reading and a fluency probe for math. My phone buzzes in my pocket with an email from Andrews, reminding me I only have two hours to get ready, so after explaining the homework, I leave Ben to finish it on his own while I hop into the bathroom for a quick shower.

Reaching for my dollar store razor and shaving cream, I prop my left foot up onto the rim of the tub and lather my leg with foam up to my bikini area.

I absolutely hate shaving.

Most of Andrews's girls get professionally waxed, but when all my money goes to Ben and my drug-addicted parents, I cut corners wherever I can. The razor burn is what I can't stand the most. Maybe if my razor wasn't so cheap, I'd be able to tolerate this routine a little more.

Finishing off my right leg, I take mini scissors and trim the hair on my vagina. This part always makes me feel like one of those landscapers who trim shapes out of fancy little decorative bushes in front of the ritzy hotels my dates fancy.

You'd be surprised how many men like a hairy pussy.

Unlike my razor, my shampoo is a top-notch brand I purchase from my hair stylist every time I go in for a touch up. According to Andrews, the sexiest smell a woman could have is vanilla. So, I buy everything that carries the scent—my lotion, body wash, and perfume, in an attempt to bewitch men as the siren sisters did the lost sailors.

Putting on my softest sweatpants and an old t-shirt I've had for years, I scan over Ben's completed homework and slide the papers back into his pocket folder. As I pack up the rest of his things, Ben climbs into bed and waits for me to tuck him in like I always do.

I sit at the edge of the bed at his side and reach for the lotion on the nightstand. Rolling up the sleeves of his arms, I rub at his elbows in a circular motion and subtly check for the bruises on his legs. I let out a slow sigh when I notice they are finally healing, changing from a dark purple to a light shade of green and yellow.

I again remind him of the rules and listen as he repeats them back to me.

"I will not open the door for anyone. If something happens, I will pick up the phone and dial the number one. If you do not answer right away, I will keep trying. 911 is only for emergencies."

"That's right, Benny," I say. Kissing him on the forehead, I place the phone on the nightstand with headphones to block out any noise that comes from the living room.

Closing the door behind me, I twist the knob to make sure it is locked. As I make my way down the hall, I hear Mom and Ralph have already managed to start an argument.

I would rather get pool water stuck in my ears than listen to another argument about missing drugs or lack of money, so I try my hardest to get out of the house as swiftly as I can without being seen, but just as I reach for the front door, Ralph stops me dead in my tracks.

"Where's this month's rent?" He holds his palm out like a beggar on the streets, except this one has a roof over his head and a full stomach. He stands there, waiting for me to slap his hand with money he hasn't earned, nor does he deserve.

I reach into the side pocket of my bag and pull out the two-hundred dollars that were left over from my night with Mr. Wilson. I hold it tight and pause for a moment, staring straight into Ralph's soulless and thoughtless eyes. I see pure and utter evil—a man who lives his life selfishly without regret.

He is empty without a shot at redemption.

Snatching the money from my hand, he licks his dirty fingers and counts the two bills. Stuffing the cash into his wallet he sighs disappointedly. His fingers spread across his bushy eyebrows.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with two-hundred dollars, baby doll?"

Baby doll.

Any other person using this term would mean it with kindness, some sort of affection. Ralph uses it to be demeaning and condescending.

"I hope you don't think this includes you paying us to watch over that little brat of yours every night."

Squeezing my nails into the palm of my hand, I calmly say, "That is all the cash I have. I'll get more tonight."

"I sure hope you do, baby doll, otherwise, you'll have to start paying your share in other ways." He steps closer to me and gives me a sniff as he leans into my ear. "Oh, how I've missed being inside that tight cunt of yours."

Every hair on my body stands on its end and my head rushes like I got up too fast from my chair. "Am I free to go now?"

"Well, I ain't holding a gun to your head. Go wherever the fuck you want, you little shit."

Before I make it out of the door, I hear Mom mumble, "Fucking whore."

There goes another beautiful memory—another moment replaced by her putrid words.

Somewhere in her fucked-up mind, she truly believes I wanted to do the appalling things Ralph has done to me.

Somewhere in that fucked-up head of hers, she truly believes I asked for it.

She feels like we are in some twisted competition to gain the love and affection of the poor excuse of a man that is her husband. I recognize her less and less every day, and soon, I'll forget the woman she ever was.

Driving out of our street, I watch through the rearview mirror as the yellow trailer disappears in the distance.

How easy would it be to never come back—to drive and drive for hours until my tank ran out of gas. I would stop and fill it up and drive farther and farther until I met the horizon, and the memories of my past burned to ashes with the setting sun.

But I can't.

I'm too much of a coward to never come back. If I can't stand leaving Ben behind for a couple of hours, how can I stand to live my life without him?

I want to tell myself that he is sleeping peacefully behind a locked door and that if he is quiet enough, no one will remember he is even there. But my mind immediately goes to the worst possible scenario of Ralph bursting the door down and scaring the living shit out of him. Of Ralph dragging him out of the room and using him as a sex slave to pay up his drug debts.

If that ever happens, I will have officially failed him.

I park my car in the parking lot in the storage unit and turn up the radio in an attempt to distract my mind from the horrible images of a past that can easily repeat itself.

I have a job to do, and I cannot allow my mind to drift from anything that takes away from the pristine image that is Belle.

I cannot afford for the men to see they are not the center of my every thought.

In an attempt to shift to a business mindset, I pull out my phone and look over the email Andrews sent.

To: Las Belles
From: Global Trips
Subject: The Bellagio Hotel and Casino

Dear Miss Belle,
Due to your interest in the Bellagio Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada, I have put together a file with all there is to know about the luxurious resort.
I look forward to your reply.

I click on the PDF file.

Subject: The Bellagio Hotel and Casino first opened its doors in 1962. Inspired by the Windsor Castle, this hotel will make you feel like royalty. At midnight, the Fountains of Bellagio jets water into the air that projects as high as six feet. Most tourists don't come for the casino, rather to enjoy an intimate night out with their significant other. They sit for hours on end, sipping a glass of Cabernet all while getting lost in the extravagant views of the city.

Attire: The Bellagio Hotel and Casino isn't for people who live a bland lifestyle. It is for the rich and famous—for those who want to be seen by the public eye, so flawless appearances are a must. On a night out, I'd recommend a black, silk dress that slits on the side to show off toned legs and high heels as high as the dancing droplets from the Fountains.

Andrews always sends an email before every date that includes a small summary of my suitor. There's never any information that would jeopardize the identity of the men, nothing that would render them vulnerable.

If there was ever a cyber-attack, all the hackers would have as collateral would be that we are terrible at hiring travel agents. They are horrible at their jobs and give misinformation about their hotel recommendations. Not that there ever will be an attack on Andrews.

He runs the agency like a well-oiled machine and has the most powerful men and women in his pocket.

He owns Las Vegas and he knows it.

The only ones that can decipher his cryptic emails are his girls.

My suitor is a sixty-two-year-old man who was born in England and spends his free time flaunting his fortune. He enjoys intimate conversations while sipping the most expensive Cabernet there is on the menu. A traveler at heart, he will go to the ends of the world for a picturesque view. At six feet tall, my date expects me to dress in my highest heels and silkiest black dress.

With my mind back to the present, I get out of the car and walk to my unit. Sliding the orange door up, I get right to work.

Morphing from Annabelle to Belle takes great precision and time.

My makeup placement is strategic, and my hairstyles are constantly changing.

Typically, the men make specific requests when it comes to my appearance, down to the color of my toenails. Sometimes, it makes it easier to pick out an outfit. Other times, it makes me feel like a pieced-together barbie doll.

Luckily for me, the Brit is more interested in a dolled-up view than a dolled-up woman by his side.

This will be a boring date.

I don't say that in vain.

Trust me when I say, I live for the boring dates. I yearn for the men who simply want to lather me in wealth and jewels. I seek men who enjoy a sit-down dinner and a philosophical exchange. I've actually learned a couple of life lessons during my chats with those suitors. I take it as a perk of this job.

The thing about wise, old men, is that they start out wanting to be liked. They're nice and cuddly, giving daddy or grandaddy energy. And because the girls that do this have never had a man be nice to them, mostly have daddy issues, they fall right into their traps. Only for those men to be the worst of them all.

So yes, boring dates are good, but they're also scary because you never know what you're going to get.

With a more direct suitor, you know their intention right from the get-go. With a wise, old man it's a scavenger hunt, a riddle you must decipher on your own.

The drive over to the unit gave my hair time to dry out, but not completely, so I have to use my hairdryer to finish drying off the ends. Plugging in my straightener, I relax my black curls. I flip my head over, adding hairspray at the roots to give it volume.

I always apply my foundation before styling my hair and finish off the facial details once every strand is in its perfect place. I adjust the lighting of my vanity and sift through my many shades of eye shadow, continually settling on the ones that make my green eyes pop. I go with the smokey eye look for tonight and red lipstick to compliment my black dress.

Looking inside my lingerie drawer, I skim my fingers through the European imported fabrics that are only to be handwashed by Mrs. Ramirez, my dry-cleaning lady. Picking a black, embroiled voile bra and matching thong, I remove my clothes and adorn myself with the luxury pair.

Going through my collection of silk dresses, I settle on a thigh-high slit dress. I wear very minimal jewelry, choosing a small diamond tennis bracelet I was gifted by one of my many suitors and studded diamond earrings to match.

Hearing the honk of a car, I know Luke has arrived and is waiting for me outside. I quickly gather my purse and look at myself one last time in the mirror, making sure every detail of the email has been adhered to.

I relax the lids of my eyes to see that both sides of my eyeliner are as close to identical as possible. My blush sits high on the apples of my cheeks to keep my face tight, and my contour accents the concavity of my cheekbones, structuring my face symmetrically.

My lipstick reaches the corners of my lips, and I meet my teeth together to make sure they are stain free. Every inch of my hair is still in its place, styled to perfection as it lays loosely along my back.

My black, silk dress skims seamlessly over every one of my curves and my dark stilettoes make my legs appear miles long.

Luke grins at me through the windshield, giving me one of his love-struck smiles. He quickly gets out of the car and opens the passenger door for me. The overwhelming hint of his cologne sends me spinning.

Jesus, Luke. Just a small amount will do wonders.

"Fuck me, Anna. You look stunning," he says as his eyes scan over my curves.

I blush inwardly.

Luke was the first person I met when I arrived at the agency and ever since then, he's been there for me when I've needed him most.

He's been my big brother—my protector, and at times, I wish I could take him home with me.

He, however, feels differently toward me.

I know deep down, he'd like to be more than friends, if that is even what we are, and one day, he'd make a great boyfriend or husband to a very lucky girl.

That girl will never be me.

I don't have the freedom to date anyone. My priority will always be Ben.

"Thank you," I say, clipping my seatbelt.

Traffic is light as we head east on Tropicana Avenue en route to the Bellagio. I've been on this road so many times that I'm pretty sure I could drive anyone here even if I was blindfolded. I notice the stop sign on Las Vegas Boulevard and know we are only six minutes away from our destination. This late in the evening, the strip gets crowded with the rowdy tourists Luke can't seem to stand.

If I'm being honest, they are a bit obnoxious. The tourist, I mean.

They stop at every intersection to take countless pictures, rack up the price of everything in Vegas, and think prostitution is legal.

No, it isn't.

This isn't Sparks.

Prostitution is very much illegal in Las Vegas, so act right before we both end up in jail.

Driving the escalade up to the main entrance, Luke places the car in park and gets out. He opens the passenger door and offers me his hand as he helps me out of the car.

"You'll be meeting Mr. Edmond at the bar. I'll let him know what you're wearing," he says before driving off.

I nod in acknowledgment as I enter through the double doors of the Bellagio Hotel and Casino.