Mrs. Brittany smiled. It was as though she could read my mind.
“The reason the termination fee is so high is, first, to ensure your discretion and, second, to give you a concept of how much more you will make should you complete your training and get placed in the f
ield.
”However,” she continued, “if you took that kill fee and then betrayed my confidences, there would be other consequences. I have many friends in high places. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your viewpoint, we live in a world where it isn’t what you know so much as whom you know. Do you understand?”
I looked at Mr. Bob. He was watching to see my reaction to that. It rang like a Mafia threat in my ears, but I just shrugged and said, “Of course,” and continued reading the dos and don’ts.
One paragraph stated that in the event there were any legal issues involving me, the organization would provide an attorney. It would be decided afterward whether the costs were incurred because of something that was my fault. If so, the cost would come out of my commission, which was simply stated as fifteen percent the first year, rising five percent every subsequent year until I had reached fifty percent.
“What’s the amount I get a percentage of?”
She smiled. “Now, that’s your first good question, as far as I’m concerned. The amount will be based on how much in demand you become. I’ll decide the initial fee, depending on how I evaluate you at the start. It could be anywhere from two thousand to ten thousand.”
“Each time?”
“No, each hour.”
I didn’t want to gasp or look astonished, but how could I not? There were men who would pay as much as ten thousand dollars an hour to be escorted by one of Mrs. Brittany’s women? The full meaning of all this was settling into my brain like a stone in quicksand. An hour? The cash register in my imagination began to purr.
“How often would I work?”
“Again, that will be up to how much in demand you become, but at the start, my girls usually work five or so times a month.”
I quickly did the math. My brain spun with the possibilities. I could become a wealthy woman in a relatively short span of time.
“There’s one other thing that’s not written there,” Mrs. Brittany said, nodding toward the papers.
“And what’s that? I donate a pint of blood a week or something?”
She smiled. Mr. Bob chuckled.
“Not quite. We take nothing from your body. Only your soul,” she said, seemingly half in jest. “On occasion,” she continued, “I get requests from very important female CEOs and the like, especially celebrities. They like being accompanied by an attractive female or merely sharing her company privately. Is that something you absolutely cannot see yourself doing?”
I glanced again at Mr. Bob. The expression on his face told me it was important not to refuse.
I shrugged. “I’ve always liked boys better, but whatever,” I said.
She didn’t laugh or smile. “Don’t make the mistake of treating any of this too casually, Roxy. Indifference usually leads to self-destruction,” she warned.
“I’m not indifferent. Nothing here intimidates me. That’s all.”
“Good.”
“Anything else you want to add?” I asked.
“Nothing else for now.”
There was a place for me to sign at the bottom of the second sheet. Mrs. Brittany’s signature was already there. I nodded to myself. It did feel as if I was making a deal with the devil, but just like anyone who did, I felt I had been tempted into it by the devil’s knowing where and what my weaknesses were. I put the papers down, reached for the pen on her desk, and signed. She took it and dated it.
“Very good,” she said. “I hope the next time we do something this formal will be when I welcome you into the company.”
“What will that be, an initiation ceremony with animals sacrificed or something?”
She shook her head and looked at Mr. Bob. “She’ll either rise quickly to the top or sink quickly to the bottom,” she told him.
He nodded and smiled at me. “I think she’ll rise to the top.”