The horn honked twice when Miley stepped outside the club. She spotted the shiny silver S-class Merc blocking the main entrance, the engine ticking over. Most girls would kill to have a man pick them up for a date in a ride that cost more than average people earn in a year. Of course, the man behind the wheel was only interested in driving her where she needed to be. And while the date would definitely get physical, there would be zero romance involved.

Miley dashed across the gravel car park as quickly as her six-inch heeled stilettos would allow. The first drops of rain landing on her bare arms before she made it to the car. "Looks like it's going to piss it down," she said. Maneuvering into the passenger seat so her sequined sheer cocktail mini-dress didn't ride any further up her hips.

"Keep the farmers happy," DeShawn said. "Won't be moaning about no droughts. Way they talk, you think nobody else in the country have problems 'cept them."

Miley didn't know what to say to that.

"Damn, you looking fine as hell in that dress, girl."

"Thanks, hun," Miley said, grinning. The dress, the most expensive she owned, designer brand, had set her back almost two hundred euros. "Thought I better make the effort. Last time I was there, I had on a tarty little number cost less than Elana's shampoo."

DeShawn looked over, arched a single eyebrow. "Girl, I seem to recall you not wearing much at all last time we met."

"As I recall, it didn't seem to bother you much."

"You been around Elana as long as I have, nothing bother you much."

Miley giggled. "I can imagine." She liked DeShawn, a big cuddly teddy bear with an easy charm. Not that she couldn't imagine the teddy bear turning grizzly bear if provoked.

"I don't think you can." DeShawn, suddenly turning serious. "Elana's beautiful, but don't go falling in love. That lady's only about having fun. Fun for her."

"Honey, I might be young, but I ain't naïve."

"I'm just sayin', don't get too attached is all. Elana's specialty is making folks feel special. Until she find the next beautiful young thing take her fancy."

"I might be a pretty woman, but I sure as hell don't expect no millionaire to ride in and rescue me from the life."

DeShawn chuckled. "Girl, how old are you? You be bringing an old Julia Roberts movie into the conversation like that."

Miley smirked. "Old enough to know a classic movie when I see one. And, that Hollywood writers know about as much about the reality of hooking as I do about quantum physics."

Fall in love on the job? Jesus, more chance of a mortician encountering their soul-mate in the line of duty. A hell of a lot more if you believed the stories about the undertaking profession. Miley could count on one hand the johns she'd ever been attracted to.

Okay, she kinda liked that guy from a few nights back. Bit of a goofball that seemed to accidentally say the right thing, like you could tell he wasn't just feeding you a line. Had that seedy criminal look, with his slicked back hair, that she found so damn appealing. With his sleepy blue eyes and those homemade abs. Sixty push-ups every morning, he'd told her when she'd asked. Only way you'd catch him in a gym is if they left the takings there overnight. And, of course, that irresistible Irish brogue, like Colin Farrell, make a girl's toes curl just by opening his gob.

But that guy was gone. Like a leaf in the breeze, swirling enchantingly in front of your eyes for a moment before blowing away. She'd never see him again. Probably for the best, guys like him could attract trouble in a Buddhist temple.

"You enjoy doing what you do?" DeShawn said, snapping Miley out of her reverie.

"You mean do I enjoy the sex?" Miley said. "Occasionally, sure. Do I enjoy not being able to choose who I'm having it with? No."

"I'm just curious how you got into the game?"

"Long story. How did you come to work for Vic and Elana?"

DeShawn rubbed his chin. "That story's longer than War and Peace."

"You read Tolstoy?" Miley said.

"Dostoevsky, too. I prefer Dostoevsky. The man digs deep into his character's psyche." DeShawn glanced across at Miley. "What? You think 'cause I drive rich folk around, I don't like to educate my mind."

"I didn't mean—"

"Used to be a guy 'round our 'hood, ol' hurdy-gurdy man, spend his days begging for change to buy him some liquor. That man could quote James Baldwin and Maya Angelou, like a preacher quote the good book."

Miley nodded.

"Life ain't all about how intelligent you are. Or how talented, or good looking. Life's all about the breaks. Being in the right place at the right time. Look at the Beatles. What would've happened if somebody ring Brian Epstein the night he supposed to go to The Cavern, say, man, your mom's been in an accident. John Lennon might've ended up another long-haired white boy with a guitar busking on the streets of Liverpool."

"C'mon," Miley said. "It's the Beatles. Eventually, they would have being signed up by some exec."

"'Cause they talented?" DeShawn said. "World is full of talented musicians. Some make it, most don't. Look at you."

"Me?"

"Sure. You got your webcam thing going on. You got a couple of thousand followers, right? Other girls got over a hundred thousand. You better looking than a lot of these—"

"How do you know about—"

"Girl," DeShawn said, with a slow headshake, "You think Vic ain't vetted you?"

"That's just creepy," Miley said, wrinkling her nose.

"Man likes to know who is spending the night in his expensive home, with his expensive wife."

"I thought they had an open marriage."

"Just because you leave your hall door open, don't mean you want anybody off the street walking in."

"Isn't that dickhead working on a device to prevent people snooping on private online activity?"

"Ironic, huh?" DeShawn said coolly.

"Hypocritical," Miley said, fuming.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Miley was glad the journey was a short one, the atmosphere taking a weird turn.

"You know," DeShawn said. "If you don't wanna go tonight, I can turn around. Say the word. I'll tell Elana you down with a cold. Vic petrified of catching Covid."

"I've got bills," Miley said.

"How about I front you the money?"

"Why would you do that?"

DeShawn scratched at the short graying hair by his temple. "Sometimes life breaks good for folks, other times it breaks... You seem like a nice girl, I just don't want to... The offer stands."

Miley glanced over at DeShawn, who looked away. Did he have a latent crush going on? Wouldn't be the first, although usually, Miley could tell. And it would explain the weirdness, the almost guilty look on his face.

It reminded Miley of how Tommy Johnston, the greengrocer's son, used to look at her. They'd worked side by side in his fathers store for two years until one day he texted, asking her to ditch work, go drinking with him in the park. So, Miley rang his dad, told him between exaggerated coughs, she had a cold and couldn't come into work. Later that night, a neighbor, out walking her cocker spaniel, spotted Miley and Tommy making out of the park bench. When Tommy's father found out he fired Miley and told her parents. Her dad refused to speak to her for months.

"I think it's best I go," Miley said.

DeShawn shrugged his shoulders. "Ain't no thang."

They pulled in in front of the black gates.

"Think I'll head down Xanadu for a few hours, check the place out."

"Oh... right. Cool." Miley winked. "Ask for Ivona. Her name means a gift from God. And, believe me, her knockers truly are." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "And thanks for looking out for me. You're a sweetheart."

"Hey, girl," DeShawn said as she exited the car. When she whipped her head around, he waved her purse at her. "You forgetting something."

Elana answered the door in a gunmetal grey and black wrap mini-dress as dazzling as her porcelain smile. The long, plunging decolletage exposing a generous tan cleavage that made Miley stop in admiration. And doubly glad for her own choice of attire.

"Wow, you look amazing," Miley said, stepping through the door.

"A girl has to look her best when she's entertaining," Elana said, without a hint of modesty. The scent of her perfume, like a floral explosion, wafting around her. Everything about her, down to her strappy stilettos, screamed look at me. One look and the image seared in your mind for weeks.

Elana patted Miley's rear. "Why don't you jump in the shower, and get comfortable, and I'll be along in just a minute."

Miley heard DeShawn's voice in her head as her heels clicked on the marble staircase. The first time she had been here, they had hung out at the pool, conversing, actually enjoying each others company. But tonight, already, had the feel of just another trick. 'Take a shower,' that's what she said to johns.

And would it have killed the bitch to pay her a compliment? She wears her best dress, only ever worn twice, and Elana can't be arsed with a simple, you look nice. Jesus, a john see her all gussied up like this; The fawning eulogies would come on stronger than a drunk critic reviewing the latest Sundance smash.

Miley entered Elana's bedroom, the door left open, the recessed ceiling lights on. Torrential rain battered down on the wall-to-ceiling glass doors. The leaden sky outside flickered with an ominous bolt of blue, followed by a thunderous rolling clap.

She dropped her super-cute bright-pink purse on the oak vanity table, sat on the end of the queen-sized bed, and undid the strap of her heeled sandal. Folded her dress neatly and placed it by the purse before padding barefoot into the marble tile ensuite. Stepped under the power shower, even though she had showered not less than an hour before she left the club.

She threw her head back, let the jets of hot water work some of the tension from her neck and shoulders. Damn, she could get used to this. Except, she couldn't, this luxury as fleeting as the thunderstorm outside. Tomorrow morning, it would be back to her shower, with weak-assed pressure and bath towels that some oily john had used to dry their hairy back with.

"Oh, there you are," Elana said, when Miley entered, her slender form banded in a fluffy white towel, steam escaping into the cool room. "Thought you'd got lost in there."

Miley unwrapped the towel, let it drop on the natural stone floor, then, picked up her purse. Rummaged through the change, tissues, and the roll of breath mints, hunting for the rubbers. Frowning, she did a deeper search.

"Everything all right?"

"The condoms. I had some... I know I did." Not something she'd ever forget. Double-checked her purse before shed left the club. Her purse. She flashed DeShawn, handing her back her purse. He wouldn't have, would he? Keen for her to take the evening off. But why? Made no sense.

"Never leave home without them," Elana said, jokey, tempered with mild irritation. "Never mind, I'll give DeShawn a holler." She plucked her cell phone from the bedside table. "We'll watch TV 'till he gets back," she said, hitting the touch-screen. She motioned with her head to the vanity. "Remote's over there."

"Goddamnit," Elana said, pulling the phone away from her ear. "What's so important he needs to knock his phone off?" Miley suffocated a smile, picturing DeShawn unwrapping his gift from God.

Miley climbed onto the mattress. "Um, does Vic—your husband, not have...?"

"Only thing rubber he has close at hand is his non-slip mouse pad." Miley giggled, abruptly stopped when she caught Elana's stoney stare.

Elana stood up, her hands on her hips. "It's not wrong what they say. If a woman wants pleasure, she has to do it herself."

With that, she was gone, leaving Miley to get comfortable under the sheets and channel surf. So many channels. She couldn't believe it when she stumbled upon one showing Hana-Bi. Her dad bought it on DVD, and hated the stylistic violence, more of an Akira Kurosawa fan. But Miley loved those quick-tempered, slick, hard men. And Beat Takeshi, the baddest of the lot. With his lived-in face and savage hands, slapping the shit out of anyone who got in his way.

Miley was so engrossed in the on-screen action, the sound of the bedroom door opening barely registered. Until her sixth sense kicked in. She turned her head away from the screen, clocked the guy in the blue boiler suit. His face obscured behind a black ski mask.

Her initial reaction; this is some kinky role-play. Vic and Elana having some fun; Miley pissed, because they'd never discussed this. BDSM, so not her bag. No way she'd consent to that freaky shit. Save those EL James fantasies for someone else.

Then she saw the gun in his hand.

The gunman stood there as if in a freeze-frame. Eyes peering through the slits, looking at her, like this a movie scene. "The fuck?" That voice, sounded like Colin Farrell doing an American accent. Her mind flashing back to the Irish guy smoking a joint and talking about the Breakfast Club.

"Judd?"