Free Selling Out by Amber Lin Page A

going to go anyway,
I might as well tell you. Jade said that her information… It’s about Luke.”

Chapter Four
    Without much time, our plan was simple: Allie swiped their
keys for me and then distracted both men while I got away. I knew Allie could
hold her own, but I hoped Colin wasn’t too annoyed at her on my behalf. At
least his old truck didn’t stand out so much in this neighborhood.
    Jade’s house sat at the end of the street, the hinge between
a poor residential neighborhood and a row of ratty strip malls. I parked in the
small paved lot and climbed the creaking wooden steps. The glass in the front
door had been painted black for privacy, which proclaimed the type of
establishment this was as much as the neon THAI MASSAGE sign.
    My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim interior. It
looked the same as when I’d first been introduced here years ago, summoned by
Jade and escorted by one of Henri’s senior girls. Only later had I learned that
an audience with Jade was a commodity in Chicago’s sex industry.
    The city was fractured in half, the upstanding and the
underworld, each with its own customs. The bookstore had a chatty sales girl to
usher a new hire in. Jade was my guide. She ruled with a power none of us
completely understood but we all respected if we were going to last in the
business.
    Technically she didn’t control anything outside these walls,
but everyone showed her deference. Even Henri had always stepped carefully
where she was concerned. I wondered about them, what bound them together, which
one of them was the devil and which had struck the deal. There was something
deeper there, but that was the old guard, and I was the new girl.
    Back then, the bright red vinyl banners with gold lettering
had seemed jarring over the cracked yellowed walls, the irony almost mocking. A
little cat statue waved its paw, representing prosperity, next to the sign
listing $75 FOR 30 MINUTES. The good-luck pendant hung over the door leading to
the “massage” rooms. Over time I had come to appreciate the blending of noble
tradition with harsh reality, the evidence of hope within a brothel.
    I wasn’t the new girl anymore.
    After ringing the small desk bell, I scooted one of the
metal folding chairs away from the wall and gingerly sat down to wait. I had
only seen a cockroach on the wall once, but it made me eternally grateful for
the expensive hotel rooms where I usually worked.
    Two men came in, squinting and laughing and stumbling. Boys,
really. They sobered at the sight of me, a woman in the waiting area of a
whorehouse. The one with his hair in two-inch spikes whispered to the other
furiously; the other argued back.
    I couldn’t make out their words, but as if channeling some
animal instinct, well sharpened, I sensed their lust, their anticipation at
having it soon slaked, and their terror at this taboo venture. First timers. I
disliked being a man’s first paid sex experience, vicariously living their
thrill and shame over less money than they’d have dropped on a nice date. Plus,
invariably, first timers tipped like shit.
    They leaned against the opposite corners, seemingly deciding
to stay, shooting me dirty, desirous looks. Possibly they wondered if I was for
hire, but of course I never would be here. It wasn’t even the prices, which
were low but not offensive. There was a caste system to these things, and
Jade’s house was as low as you could get and still warrant a bed.
    It wasn’t usually an Asian fetish that drew men here. Like a
prime-time sitcom, any escort agency offered an assortment of white girls, with
a token black and Asian to round out the group. Men usually came here for the
convenience—women available without an appointment, location secured.
    Jade stepped out, wearing her usual uniform of a
floral-patterned pajama suit cinched at the waist and cheap leather and
cardboard sandals. Her hair was sleek black in a crop that would be hip on
someone thirty years younger. There was an