As I opened the door, he pulled me back into the car. I turned my body toward him.

"Before you go in, you must know you moving here is simply protocol."

"Is that what yesterday was as well? Protocol?"

"Since you understand. Shall we?"

My first orgasm was fucking protocol.

With a beat, he opened his door, grabbed my bags from the trunk and handed them over. The sparkle in his eyes vanished; it was every woman for herself because he had turned all business.

"Since I was five."

"Excuse me?"

"I've been dancing since I was five. Trained in jazz and ballet and danced my way through college."

He swallowed, and I caught the hint of a smile form on his face, but it never manifested.

White marble steps led up to the double wooden doors. Inside stood Paisley, Jesse, and another girl whom I hadn't met yet.

"Everyone, please welcome Ms. Jennifer Downs to the house. She is new to the business, and I hope that each of you welcome her as if she were a long-lost friend."

Jesse scoffed, and Paisley elbowed her. Mr. Felton stared at Jesse until she looked away. The other girl, pretty with dark brown hair and blue-gray eyes, had freckles sprinkled across her face like stars in the night sky. There was no pattern to her prettiness. She had a natural quality about her. Not innocent but not fake, I couldn't explain it. Her hair flowed midway down her back, and she wore it in a tucked-in side swoop. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. A kindred spirit in a room full of tigers, I supposed.

"Lori, won't you show Jennifer to her room?" Paisley asked.

She didn't complain, or give dirty looks, or act upset by my presence. Instead, she introduced herself formally and grabbed a suitcase from my hand, and we walked up the stairs. I couldn't help but stare up at the high ceilings or memorize the various abstract paintings on the wall.

The upper floor had several doors lined against the wall, and I wondered how many women lived here at one time.

"Don't worry. You'll get used to being here. It doesn't take long."

Her words and voice were reassuring, soft, and motherly, although she couldn't have been much older than me.

"How many women live here?"

"Right now there are five of us here, six including you. The rest of the girls have their own places but drop in occasionally. Here we are."

The fourth door on the left would be mine.

Inside were beige walls, a sleigh bed, and a large window with a balcony. At least I had that.

"I'm right next door," she said as she pointed to the right, "if you need anything."

I smiled.

"I'm happy you're here, Jennifer. It seems everyone else is sewn into cliques. Plus it's nice to no longer be the new girl."

She gave a sincere smile and shut the door.

I unpacked my clothes and laid them in the dresser and then opened the balcony door and stepped out. The backyard had a hot tub and a pool, and a patio bar and pool house. I only imagined the kind of sex parties that happened down there. My mind went wild with naked people strutting around the pool, having sex with one another in the corner, and the moans. Oh gosh, the nasty moans. Sometimes my imagination even scared me.

Three knocks tapped on the door, and I barely cracked it. Mr. Felton leaned against the frame only enough for me to see his face.

"Yesterday was a mistake. I wanted to apologize."

"It's not like I enjoyed it anyway."

"Of course you didn't. I wouldn't expect a virgin to."

"Bastard," I whispered.

And then he walked away.

Mr. Felton and I didn't cross paths for weeks. The memories of getting naughty in his office were just that, memories. Mistake memories, if I were to term them correctly.

Training sessions, one after another, continued to bore me to death. I never knew there were so many forks and spoons, or that there were proper ways to eat spaghetti, sip wine, or cut steak. Sitting up straight and making sure to act like a lady were top on my scold list along with learning to speak only unless spoken to. No swearing, biting nails, or making ugly faces. Act interested in what the clients have to say. Men do not like women who act like barbarians, my coach said after I ate fried chicken.

Barbarians? She would die in Texas, where everything was bigger and the trivial things didn't matter. Where we walked around with barbecue sauce on our T-shirts because it was easier than changing, and being barefoot was natural. Texas, where the sun always shone, and where everyone worked hard until their dainty hands had calluses.

Coach demanded practice in four-inch high heels, taught me to laugh genuinely at stupid jokes, and flirt with my eyes. Twice a day, exercise was required, cardio in the morning and afternoon with weight lifting every other day. I essentially attended princess training. Where the hell was my prince?

The contract stated I would have a dedicated week of training, but I didn't expect mannerism school. I expected to watch porn, learn how to give hand jobs, blow jobs, and to pop my ass out when I walked. My views on being a call girl were steadily changing.

Lori laughed when I told her that. Her response was, "The Elite are classy individuals, Jennifer. Not whores that are picked up on the side of I-10. You have to make the men feel important. It's easy, really. Our clients act like gentlemen, and they do nice things to make a girl feel special. I have a great time with my Number One, you know, the man I'm most compatible with out of all the clients," Lori said.

I loved her. She was my saving grace. Although I kept my deep secrets to myself—more specifically the ones about Mr. Felton—she knew most things about me, and I her. She was no Abbie, but was the closest alternative, and would be returning from a business trip the next day. Until then, I would be alone in the lion's den.

After I strutted my way through hell, also known as Jennifer's mannerism training, I was given a manual with dating guidelines for The Elite.

Trust between client and employee must not be broken.

Never kiss on the lips because it's too intimate.

No blow jobs, hand jobs, or any sort of sexual acts on the first date.

All dating curfews must be followed.

And the list continued with more No's than Yes's. Of course, the fine print stated that if agreed upon beforehand or if the price was right, some of the No's could become Yes's. Each case would be reviewed and approved on an individual basis. Along with the guidelines, we were given specific to-do's such as checking our email each day. Most correspondence from Mr. Felton arrived that way. Nothing personal like a phone call, or a text, but rather a group message sent to every girl. Tomorrow would be the night that I met one of my matches.

The email clearly stated the instructions:

The limo will arrive at eight. All girls will be escorted to the corporate office's convention center, which will be setup for the client meet and greet.

Below was a reminder of how everyone was matched:

Both client and employee must take the match survey to see if they have fully compatible personalities.

The client must decide if he is attracted to his matches, and then a bid is placed.

The highest bidder is granted access to the employee. Documents will be signed between both parties, creating a legally binding contract.

Lori would be back in the morning.