“She is out on business,” Delilah replies.
“Business. Business, outside of the hotel?” By the firm tone of Taylor’s voice, I guess she expected to see this woman promptly. Considering the nature of this business, I find myself intensely curious as to what for.
“Yes. It is an important client and I agreed to the terms.”
“You let her out of the hotel alone?” Taylor’s voice rides the razor-thin edge of incredulity and respect.
Delilah is composed, regal, smiling at my increasingly agitated captor. “Yes.”
“You know how I feel about that,” Taylor replies. “I am not comfortable with Jacqueline leaving the premises.”
“I do not run my business based upon what makes you comfortable, dear. If I did, I’d have no business to run here, would I?” Delilah places a calming hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “Trust me, it was a necessary appointment.” Lifting her hand, she angles a lustrous silver watch. “She will be back within the hour. I promise you may see her when she returns.”
Taylor relaxes, temporarily dulcified. With the wheels spinning behind her eyes, she nods toward the staircase. “I’ll bring you to your room, Miss Piccolo.”
Similar to my home, the grand hotel’s style is functionally Victorian with thick red draperies hanging from the windows, ceilings inset with crystal chandeliers bouncing light against patterned wallpaper. Prim, modestly stuffed chairs sit against the wall panels below intricate, intimate, Schiele art. Dim, possibly tinted lights toss lurid shadows across the corridor. Doors are shut, doorknobs tied with colored scarves, but no noise seeps from beneath the doorways.
We stop at a room second from last near the stairwell, the door adorned with a gold-emblazoned numeral nine. On the wall next to the door is a row of hooks with different colored scarves hanging from it: red, yellow, green, black, and white. Taylor wraps the white scarf around my doorknob.
“What’s that for?”
“The scarves indicate what the client inside expects. White is for guests, not clients.”
“What do the other colors mean?”
“As I understand it, yellow is for clients with what they consider typical preferences. The green is for clients who would like guidance from their companion. Red is for more experienced clients with particular desires.”
“Particular desires?”
“Yes. BDSM, fetishes, role play, et cetera,” she rattles off casually as she nudges me in the small of my back into the room.
I’m almost afraid to ask, but I can’t help myself. “What’s the black for?”
“It means not to interrupt under any circumstances,” she says.
“Sounds like a dangerous rule to have.”
“Clearly, I do not make the rules here. Make yourself comfortable, but do not leave the room until I come back.”
“Wouldn’t want anyone mistaking me for the help.”
Taylor rolls her eyes and backs out of my room, closing the door and locking it from the outside.
I lean against my cell door and give the room a once-over. Warm and perfumed air is pumped in from unseen vents. Breezing past the four-poster bed, I avail myself of the luxurious bathroom. Generous jets burst forth with hot water and quickly fill the mauve tub. I soak in flowery soaps, submerging myself in the comfort. It could almost be like home, here underneath the water. But when I breach the surface, I am lost again.
The ritual of shaving is comforting and relaxing, though useless. Nobody even sees my ankles anymore, let alone any other hidden parts of me. Nonetheless, I am refreshed and feel more like myself as I splay on the bed in a fluffy robe.
About an hour later there is a knock on my door. Assuming it’s Taylor, I shout from the bed, “You locked it, hero. Open it if you want.”
However, in place of Taylor, a slim, faux-redhead appears. She has the carriage of a doe, gentle, with wide brown eyes. In her hands is a silver platter, atop it what looks like a feast. Carefully, she places the tray on my nightstand, puts her hands behind her back, and nods to me. “Sorry for the intrusion. Ta—Eos asked me to bring your dinner up here,” she says, face full of apology.
“She did, did she?” The girl confirms this and I roll my eyes. Plucking the wineglass from the tray, I sit up and lean back on my free hand. “What’s your name?”
“Faith,” she replies in a quick chirp. Her face falls dramatically. “Oh my gosh, we are not supposed to tell people our real names.” She slaps her forehead. “It’s Jacqueline. I’m still not used to that.”
Ah, so this is the famous Jacqueline. I chuckle and take a sip of the wine. God, it’s so good. “It’s okay, Faith. Your secret’s safewith me,” I assure her with a conspiratorial wink. I cross the room and extend my hand. “I’m Lucy.”
She takes my hand and smiles. “I know who you are.”