4

4

LAST STOP BEFORE heading out to meet our mark is the wardrobe department. If this were a long-term assignment, the wardrobe workers would have already set aside a full set of clothing, fake I.D.’s, etc. Since this is just a one-off job, however, the wardrobe assistant just leads us to a room with racks and racks of clothes, along the lines of a Ross Dress for Less store, and leaves us to our own devices.

While many non-Vegas escort ladies often try to ‘stay under the radar’ when arriving at a John’s location and not be too obvious about their profession, Mary Sue and I have a different priority for our job. We want anyone who sees us to assume we are sex workers, and often the best way to put an idea into someone’s head is to give them exactly what they expect.

To that end, I pick out the tightest, skimpiest skirt I can find on the rack, and Mary Sue chooses something I suppose is technically a dress, but is more like just a large belt. We each select a pair of stilettos that would make Jack the Giant Killer start chopping down beanstalks if he saw us wearing them.

Our wardrobe selected, we return to the wardrobe counter and sign off for the items we are checking out. The clerk also hands us two fake I.D.’s—featuring the pictures taken by the F.U.C.K.’s—and two purses containing various tawdry items, some petty cash, and a knife each. My new name is Jessa Monroe, and Mary Sue’s is Ming Lee. If those don’t both sound like stripper names, then I don’t know what does—but as with the wardrobe, it’s best to give people exactly what they expect if you want them to assume something.

In the dressing room, I take a look at my ‘temporary’ self for the first time. I don’t care how many times I go through this, I will never get used to looking into a mirror and seeing a complete stranger looking back me. My green eyes have been turned brown, my dark brown hair is now platinum blonde, and my skin tone is significantly paler than normal. My cheeks have a bit more lingering baby fat than I’m used to seeing, and although my boobs are slightly larger than normal, I whisper a silent thank you to ‘Jessica’ for saving me from the enhancement Mary Sue received. Even I wouldn’t be able to pick myself out of a line-up.

On our way out, we stop at a board that has several pegs with car keys and labels. I select a set labeled ‘red ‘97 convertible’ (I like red . . . so kill me . . . ), and we proceed back upstairs into the porn warehouse. I can literally feel the eyes of the security guard following us out the door as we step out back into the sunlight.

We cross the parking lot to where the ‘company’ cars are located and find our temporary red convertible. Mary Sue grabs the keys out of my hand and says, “I’m drivin’, sweetie. Last thing we need is to have to take you to the hospital before we’ve even gotten to the mark.”

I roll my eyes in irritation, but don’t argue, because even I have to admit she is right. I really don’t like admitting that, though.

Almost as soon as we have pulled out of the T.H.E.M. parking lot, I receive a text message from Zeke.

“Booking confirmed. Keeley will come to you @ 17:30. Reservation @ Motel 5 on Hollywood Blvd under Jessa Monroe. Text back when you have the room number.”

I relay the information to Mary Sue, who rolls her eyes and responds, “Motel 5. Great. The hotel that makes Motel 6 look like the Ritz Carlton.”

We make our way down to Hollywood and check into our reservation, using the petty cash we received from wardrobe to pay for the room. Inside, I can’t help but take silent pleasure as I watch the motel clerk’s internal struggle as he tries not to assume we are sex workers, but can’t stop himself. People are such puppets.

By the time we get to our room, it’s already almost 5:00. My, how time flies when you spend the day driving back and forth across L.A. and getting a complete head-to-toe make-over in the middle of it all.

I text our room number to Zeke, and Mary Sue settles onto the bed and turns on the T.V. while we wait. I can’t settle for anything so mundane—I’m too hyped up, so instead I pace across the room, counting down the seconds until our mark arrives.

Every pore, every nerve in my body is tingling with anticipation. My oldest, dearest friend, Death, is just around the corner. Soon—oh, so soon—I will be taking the knife from my purse and plunging it deep, deep into soft, moist flesh. The tension of knowing a cathartic release is coming . . . I tell you, it’s better than sex.

The fact it’s a man who I’ll be killing is just icing on the cake. I have always preferred killing men. Working for T.H.E.M. I usually don’t get to be selective about who I kill, but before I was recruited all but one of the thirteen people I had killed were men. The woman was just me going through an experimental phase, really. Trying it out to see if I liked it. She was alright, I won’t deny I still enjoyed it, but really there is nothing more satisfying in this world than killing a man. You can just call me Sarah the Heterogametic Slayer.

“Girlfriend, you’re making me dizzy with all that pacing,” Mary Sue snaps in an uncharacteristic display of irritation—normally it’s my job to be the bitter one in our relationship.

Realizing that if I managed to get on Mary Sue’s nerves, I must be in bad shape, I stop pacing and sit on the edge of the bed, my fingers twitching and my feet tapping with continued anticipation.

“Sorry,” I respond to her, “I’m just revved up. I haven’t killed anyone since . . . well, you know . . . Duluth . . . ”

“Yeah, I know hon, but trust me—a watched corpse never croaks.”

I can’t help but laugh—Mary Sue always has a way with words.

“So, have you talked to Jason lately?” she asks, not-so-subtly.

Porcupines, sometimes I really hate this woman. She knows about Jason and me because she was training under Jason to become an assassin around the time I broke up with him. For a while, I suspected Mary Sue may have been the woman he was cheating on me with (I never actually was able to catch him at it, but I knew he was seeing someone else). If I’m going to be honest, part of me still wonders, but even if Mary Sue is the one, that was before I knew her and Jason and I were long over and done with by the time she came into my life a few months ago.

But Mary Sue and Jason are still on speaking terms, and so every chance she gets she brings him up, no doubt trying to speak on his behalf. She claims she believes him when he says he never cheated on me, but I know what I know and I know the dirt bag is a cheating asshole. So there.

“Nope. And I’m not going to,” I respond, as always.

“Mmkay,” she says with a nonchalant shrug, then returns to watching TV. Her casual attitude about it all makes me want to scream and strangle her tiny, currently Asian neck. The only things stopping me are the facts that: 1) killing a co-worker would definitely count as voiding my T.H.E.M. contract, and 2) I’m pretty sure the calculating little twat intends to rile me up this way, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she got me angry enough to murder her.

Suddenly, my phone vibrates and I nearly jump through the ceiling into the room above us. I pick up my phone, and see a text from Zeke: “He is on his way up.”