Chapter 421: Baby Doll—Hockey Players

Unusual week, not very busy, but those men, the fat blond one, the hairy Greek one, took a lot out of her. Not the blond one really, just a voyeuristic, loud mouth who had more bark than he did action, but the Greek one, he needed a lot of attention. She’d felt so exhausted after he left, feeling the after effects of his rage, pain, torture, and ponderous affliction. Not that he’d raised a loud word or violent hand to her, but his spirit just sucked so much out of her. But she couldn’t let him leave afflicted, it had never been within her to let anyone suffer around her.

And then barely had she to recuperate from that when the agency granted woman writer and audience with her on the contract of anonymity and paying for each hour spent with the interview. She had sat there, smiled to the writer, pretended to be a little feeble minded and listened to the bookish woman rant to her about the plight of women in today’s sports oriented world and especially the evils and pomposity and depravity of hockey players and how they had no souls and how the abused women and in this case children. “You understand what I’m talking about? Do they make you service hockey players?”

“I did yesterday,” she’d replied, and she thought about him, a little rough, more without grace, hurting inside, and hurting badly and she felt his own disgust with himself, and the effect she’d had upon him, and the light that entered into his world, the relief. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about ma’am cause he sure as hell had a soul, he just needed a lil help is all.” And she wanted to kick herself for not thickening her accent more. Now she couldn’t fake stupidity.

“Of course he didn’t!” the woman exclaimed. “You’ve just been abused and kicked around so much that you don’t know what to see as the truth, you poor child. No one has let you have your own soul or voice, and your comments, how you truly feel will be put in my book, and you don’t have to be afraid that you’ll get into trouble because no one will know it’s you who said them, but your story will go to great lengths to exposing the truth and bringing you justice.” The Writer nodded eagerly and held onto her tape recorder.

“I dunno,” she said, “If no one knows my name how will I be getting justice like you said ma’am?”

“Well,” the woman said slowly. “Well everyone would know your story.”

“But if they don’t know it’s me how could they do somethin’ bout it?”

The woman’s cheeks reddened. “Well, they could if they knew what was going on. Then the public would become aware of the evil hockey players could…”

“But that still don’t change my situation any, ‘less you’re thinking of doing something about it, but seeing as the only reason you’re in here is cause you paid them money for my time and promised not to tell anyone no names, I don’t see how I’d be getting any help.” She crossed her arms and looked at the woman.

“But when this is published then it would be easier to…”

“So basically you’re no different than the painter I model for in this bedroom, you just need to get your story done, right ma’am?”

The writer cried for half an hour, sobbed about how she’d been raped by a junior hockey player as a girl in Canada, how it couldn’t go on any further and didn’t anyone understand that they couldn’t be worshipping these beasts. With barely any energy to comfort, she patted the writer’s hand and sent her on her way, a miserable woman, a miserable life.

They called her Baby Doll, all the girls did. Chloe didn’t mind it when they called her that they had always. She minded when the men did, especially the fat, old ones who pawed at her with thick fingers, wanting to sit her on their fat knees. It annoyed her when they did that. But when the other girls did, she knew it was a term of endearment, and it meant that she was still a little thing that they cared for.

Caring for each other was important. It was all they had sometimes.

Chloe liked to think of herself as more resilient than the other girls and in many ways she had become something of a mother to them rather than the other way around. She had always been a quiet, solemn thinker and the one thing she had learned fast when she was brought into The Agency was not to panic, not to cry, not to scream. She told this to the other girls, especially the new ones almost on a nightly basis. If they would just relax and pretend they’re having a good time, then the ugly shit fucking them, would get it over with faster. Hugging them afterwards, that helped.

Sometimes Chloe smoked, she knew some customers liked it when their whores smoked. The sight of her skinny throat inhaling a cigarette she was still years away from being able to buy legally was seemed to be an aphrodisiac to men. The Boss, noticed that so she’d taken to having the girl placed on street corners near hotels, sports bars, and expensive restaurants in expensive outfits and with that ciggy. Men noticed her, or groups of men, and in approaching her they would meet the ad campaign for the escort service.

I’m making her more business than she’ll ever have again, Chloe thought to herself. I help bring in more fucking customers for these girls per day then a crack whore will in a year and what sort of money do I see from it?

She knew nothing of the things girls her age swooned over and obsessed over and dreamed about. She only knew how to stay employed, how to sell and how to want her share.

Tonight Chloe stood on the corner outside of the L---- H--- Hotel in the heart of Los Angeles. The concierge knew who she was and sometimes she would get worried looks from them as they rocked nervously back and forth in the glass doorways of the hotel. She supposed that they could shoo her away, but they never did. Obvious whores wore ripped panty hose and animal print skirts, or just wore next to nothing at all. Her clothes came from the biggest designer labels in town. For all anyone could tell, she could be some rich bitch’s daughter stealing a smoke on the sidewalk.

Halfway through her cigarette, a fish bit, damn early too!

“Hey aren’t you a little young to be smoking?”

Chloe sucked on the ciggy and looked at the man. He cut a pleasing figure; she liked his pale eyes, and his thick auburn hair. Immediately though, she knew that the red beard he had covered a weak chin. Broad shoulders, small waist, she knew an athlete when she saw one. Pale though... not baseball or football or soccer, not tall enough for basketball, still wearing expensive shit.

“Not if ya don’t tell,” Chloe said, blowing out a puff of smoke. She saw him cringe from the smoke; he had to be a hockey player. “Rink Rat.”

The man smiled showing an unusually nice set of white teeth for a hockey player.

Chloe smiled at him, but not a friendly smile. Hockey players, even the most arrogant of them seemed always aware of the second rate status they held amongst American sports, so there was always a certain insecurity about them when they asked her that question. “You like hockey then?” he asked.

“I don’t know shit ‘bout hockey,” Chloe said dropping her cigarette that so obviously bothered him onto the pavement and grinding it with the toe of her shoe. She looked back into his eyes. “But hockey players, well I know lots ‘bout thim.”

The man raised his eyebrows and the way his eyes darted around nervously to see if anyone was watching told Chloe that she was close to a sale here.

“Shouldn’t you be at home, in bed?” he asked, fish nibbling at the bait.

Chloe crossed her arms. “I should be in bed,” and she leaned forward whispering, “Like to tuck me in?” Now here the moment of truth, he could run in horror, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one had seen them talking, or he could stay.

The man stepped back as if he had been burnt but she could see that curiosity in his face. “Oh no... I don’t...” Oh yeah, he had it in his mind, working it over.

“The plastic with my photo on it says I’m eighteen, expensive piece of work, in

case you’re worried. I don’t talk a lot. Don’t have no parents worried ‘bout me neither. They in Georgia, a world away. I’m a piece of sugar pie.” Chloe said, leaning back onto the wall, showing him how non-threatening she was. Again he could take it or leave it; really it didn’t matter to her.

He ran his tongue, just the tip in and out, nervous eyes, but he stood still. Oh yeah honey, she thought, you want it bad.

“How much?” he whispered to her as she walked with him into the hotel lobby, not obviously hanging upon him or touching him, not attracting attention. The concierge appreciated that much.

“Eight hunnerd,” Chloe said quietly in the elevator making him gasp and look at her. She smiled brightly. “Honey, you fellas always have friends with ya? Don’t ya? If it’s more ekky-nommy-kal just share the bill with someone.”

“Shit,” he said. “I could get a whore for ten bucks three streets over!” His voice cracked with annoyance and disbelief, a man who felt he knew the proper prices for his women. More than likely he prided himself on his variety of taste with women, his smoothness with them, his experience.

“Then git one,” Chloe replied pulling out a compact and checking her teeth for lipstick. “And see if she still has her own teeth. Quality comes with a price.”

“Jesus Christ,” the man sighed with a humorless laugh and he leaned back on the elevator running his fingers through his hair. Nice hair, the color had strands of gold and brown mixed with the auburn, good enough for a commercial. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad night after all. Still, he didn’t seem very comfortable. It wouldn’t be a surprise to her if he balked as soon as the elevator stopped.

“Hells bells honey,” Chloe said. “I ain’t forcin’ ya to do nothin a’tall.”

She could detect the tracings of an accent in him as he chattered to her nervously as they exited the elevator and walked down the long hallway. He was European, she knew that much. “....anyway his usual roommate he’s been really injured so he couldn’t make the trip here,” he said rapidly, the fluency of his voice beginning to crumble. “I bet he wouldn’t mind splitting the bill with me.”

The man knocked on the door, and a sharp voice answered on the other end. “Yeah? Who is it?”

“Hey Patrick,” the man said, and he looked at her only briefly, icy eyes, a nervous flit of tongue across his lips. “I know how you hate being alone, I brought some company.”

“Eh?” Patrick said as he opened the door, his dark blue eyes slitted and irritated. Chloe kept her face demure when his gaze settled on her; she could feel him perusing her body. “Peter,” he said in an angry voice. “What the hell are you doing with her?”

Chloe decided that this one looked more like a hockey player. She could see the busted nose and the overall roughness in his face, the hardness in his eyes.

Peter’s huge hand closed around her upper arm and Chloe hopped as he took a large step into the room, taking her with him. “Hey she’s eighteen,” Peter said. “I saw her ID, it’s OK.”

“I’ll be fucked if she’s eighteen,” Patrick said and Chloe smiled at him. “She’s not even sixteen I don’t think.” French Canadian, Chloe immediately catalogued him. With Quebecois she didn’t have much experience but she heard enough funny stories from some of the other girls about breaking furniture and diddling other men.

“Shit what does it matter to you?” Peter snapped. “It’s not like you boys checked the ages of every whore you fucked in Montreal, did you? Come on Patty! I know you want company and I need someone to split the bill with!”

“Well aren’t you feeling self destructive tonight, eh? That bad eh?” Patrick’s eyebrows rose. “How much?”

“Four hundred,” Peter said. “I mean your half, four hundred.”

Patty looked at her and Chloe was nervous for a moment. Odd, searching, flickering light seemed to come from his eyes, different than anything she’d seen before and it made her uncomfortable. It felt almost predatory rather than lusty or mean. “Then I am curious,” he said slowly. “What makes you worth eight hundred?”

“An’ that a discount,” Chloe said, putting her hand on her hip and tilting her chin up. Reluctance never made a sale or put a good word in for her at the Agency. She prided herself on her lack of squeamishness and extraordinary ability to make a sale. “Next time with the Agency it’s eight hunnerd ah hour!”

A smile spread across Patty’s face and for a moment he almost looked relaxed and boyish. Through half closed eyes, and dimples on her cheeks, he communicated to her a harmless casual friendliness that went beyond spoken words. And beside herself, she felt momentarily lulled. And with that, a small alarm rang in her heart.

“Come on!” Peter said in that breathless almost whining voice she had heard so many times over with the sort of man who was on the verge of buying his first underage whore. “Patty she’s... she’s... on sale!”

Chloe couldn’t help but burst into a laugh that brought tears to her eyes. “That’s a first!” she giggled. “On SALE!”

“Well, it is a bargain yes?” Patty said quietly. “Well then girl, show us.”