“That’ll work,” I say. I don’t tell her the truth, that she’s breathtaking. Galas such as tonight’s won’t be in her normal job description. I don’t want her to think this is customary. “Change out of it so I can do your makeup.”
The fresh-faced newcomer transforms into a goddess as I dab concealer under her gold eyes and deepen the color along her cheekbones with blush. I apply neutral eye shadow across her eyelids and lengthen her lashes with a heavy coat of mascara. She wants to try the shimmering highlighter down the bridge of her nose, and she chooses a deep cranberry-colored lipstick. We laugh when some smears across her front teeth, and she jokes about leaving it there all night.
Camilla helps me pull the rollers from her hair, and we decide it’s too pretty to pin up and shape her curls into an elegant wave instead.
“I don’t recognize myself,” she whispers, staring at her reflection in my vanity mirror.
Over her shoulder, I say, “Get used to it.”
Camilla returns to her room to finish getting ready, and I pull my dress out of the closet. Tonight I’ve chosen a paisley lace off-the-shoulder evening gown that accentuates my hourglass figure and emphasizes the length of my legs. Paired with a metallic ankle-strapped heel, I almost don’t recognize myself either.
“Wow, Lydia.” Camilla beams when I join her in the living room. “You’re the loveliest person I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
We’re quite the duo—an angel and the devil.
I should be the one dressed in black.
Camilla follows my every step precisely, first by greeting our chauffeur with only a modest nod and then closing the partition between the front and back of the limo before I do. We share a glass of champagne on the drive to a recently renovated urban art gallery space that was once an abandoned warehouse that stored retired fishing vessels. The rich love to take things they consider to be trash and give it new purpose, almost always for the sole objective of jerking each other off. They wave around their wealth and compare who has the most. Each refurbishment is bigger and better than the last, complete with a ribbon-cutting ceremony and a reason to get drunk or high and fuck women who aren’t their wives.
The Carousel of Love Gala is the crème de la crème of dick measuring.
For Inez, tonight’s about making as much money as possible. Drunk rich people love willing and able escorts. They’ve come to expect Inez to let her girls loose at functions such as tonight’s gala, and they’ll battle over the limited stock of beautiful women until the highest bidder wins.
Camilla and I won’t partake in the debauchery. Her job is to get a feel for the crowd and network, and I’m here to enjoy the view and supervise.
“Are you ready?” I ask when we arrive.
Camilla drinks the rest of her glass of champagne and whispers, “As ready as I’m going to be.”
In and of itself, the warehouse has been transformed into a masterpiece. Colorful lights, massive sculptures, and floral art accentuate the space. The media’s roped off on either side of the massive red carpet leading toward the entrance. In order to drown out the sounds of their snapping cameras, a live string orchestra plays a soothing tune to guide the guests inside where the real show begins.
We walk hand-in-hand up the red carpet, unbothered by the people behind the cameras. As far as they’re concerned, we’re nobodies and there are more interesting people and scandal to shoot.
Little do they know…
“Cara Smith and Megan Rice.” The person at the door checks our names off the list.
Camilla changed her last name a hundred times, chomping on surnames such as King, Murphy, and Weaver. Megan Rice has a powerful ring to it without being so generic it’s blatantly fake. The idea is to blend in, not to stick out with a name that’s overtly exotic or ridiculously mundane.
“Enjoy your evening.” The doorman opens the velvet ropes and allows us to pass.
Bars are set up in every corner of the large building. The dance floor is in the center, framed by rows of round tables, topped with stunning floral centerpieces. Servers walk around with trays of hors d’oeuvres and tall glasses of champagne. The music is so loud, it vibrates through my bones, competing with the beat of my heart.
Unlike the other girls at Hush, I don’t typically attend these functions and I’m overwhelmed by the amount of people in attendance. I’m guaranteed to run into men on my clientele list, but per our agreements, I’ll act as though I’ve never laid eyes on them before.
“What now?” Camilla asks as we take in the scene.
“Now we see what you’re made of,” I say, grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing server. I give one to Camilla. “This is your chance to become anyone you want. Forget where you come from. Forget what brought you here. You own this city. There’s not a single person in this room more powerful than you. Bring them to their knees.”
Her excitement is profound, and she embodies every part of the vixen she’s intent on becoming. Camilla’s beauty siphons energy from the room, and she’s a head-turner, growing brighter while the rest of the gala lacks luster. Her dress twinkles like a starry night sky, and her perfectly curled hair sweeps along her lower back. She walks on water—a god among us. Men and women can’t pull their eyes away from her, and I sip my champagne at a job well done.
My duty tonight is not to interfere but to keep an eye on Inez’s newest recruit. She walks down the center of the room, and I keep to the left. If Camilla is the brightest star in the sky, I’m the moon in cloud cover. My face, my dress, my overall aura draws people in, but I keep the charm to a minimum and make it clear I don’t want to be approached.
The night is young, so I sip the same glass of champagne for an hour to keep the offers to buy me a drink at bay. I sit alone with my back to the bar, and my eyes on the row of tables closest to me. Camilla found our assigned seats, and she’s enjoying the two-thousand-dollar meal purchased with our ticket. How Inez managed to score her a seat at the same table as the mayor and his cronies probably has everything to do with the fact that the mayor likes his whores to fuck him with a strap-on.
Or so I hear.
She babysits the same glass of champagne I gave her upon arrival, and she charms the entire table with her laughter and wonder.
“Stroke their egos,” I told her last night. “They like that more than having their cocks touched.”
A life lived as lonely as mine doesn’t normally leave opportunity to people watch. Human nature is inherently interesting. A thousand different people with a thousand different backgrounds, personalities, and secrets mingle among each other like we all don’t have something to hide. Some speak animatedly, moving their hands and showcasing an array of facial expressions. Others speak with their eyes. Others don’t speak at all.
Body language will tell you a lot about a person.
I’ve yet to meet every single one of Inez’s escorts, but they’re easy to pick out of the crowd. They’re the ones who laugh too loud, touch who they’re talking to, and continuously gesture around the room like they’re the lucky ones to be here.
The Carousel of Love Gala doesn’t lack in narcissists. Narcissists, with their shiny shoes and perfectly cropped hair, are the flashiest ones among their groups. They tend to flock together and gloat in the endless supply of people to make them feel good about themselves.