Georgia’s Elite, a (non-smoking)Mound House Brothel, because we care about your health. . .
The Sleep Overs
Please cum again.
The sleep-overs had been Madam Georgia’s idea to bring in more business to their faltering bordello. Jade hadn’t been happy about it at first. Didn’t want a john in her bed all night. Rather a few quickies, give them the boot, then spend the rest of her shift alone to work on her master’s thesis in Clinical Psychology, “The Pathophysiology of Somniloquy”.
What had started as a hobby, during her six years at a sand-blasted Wells brothel, a short stint at the Bunny Ranch and a year at Georgia’s had become an obsession. She’d heard countless drunken confessions, both awake and in their sleep, from her clientele. She had become adept at coaxing their guilty dreams into speech.
She sat up in bed writing while Steve slept. A few times he’d muttered something unintelligible, waved his hand in fron of his face, and rubbed his runny nose. Jade wondered what Steve’s job was. He’d come in last night, wearing blue jeans and a polo shirt, but she had him pegged for a suit — computer analyst, accountant, lawyer. Jade glanced at the nightstand on his side of her king size bed. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a half-full pitcher of water. Just like this john spending the night, half-awake and half-asleep — a perfect candidate for a little game she liked to play.
Placing her notepad on the nightstand, she stretched out beside him and whispered in his ear, “Steve, are you awake?”
“Um hum. Sleepy.”
“I’d like to hypnotize you.”
“Make me hop around like a bunny?”
“Something like that.”
“Anything your heart desires.” He reached for her breast, gave it a squeeze, then let his hand fall to her leg.
She waited while he settled in again. “Tomorrow whenever you hear the word ‘job’, you’ll scratch your face like you’ve just walked through spider webs.” Hmm, kick it up a notch, “and you’ll pick your nose.”
“Knows. Knows about the desert,” Steve muttered.
“Desert? What about the desert?”
Steve smacked his dry lips.
“You thirsty?” she asked.
“Thursday, nope. Nope. Wednesday.” Steve giggled. “Hump day.”
“Yes, baby, hump day. So,” her voice low and silky, “tell me about the desert.”
“Bury ’em in the desert.”
Barium in the desert?
“Bury ’em in the desert,” he repeated, the lines on his forehead furrowing.
“Bury who in the desert?”
“Not in the desert. Nope. Nope.” He shook his head back and forth on the goose down pillow. “In the back yard,” he said in a sing-song voice.
“Who’s buried in the back yard?” Jade asked. Moving to her side of the bed and reaching for her notepad and pen, she wrote down their meandering conversation.
“Paco and Mi -guel. Seedlings, grow into little trees, little stoned trees. Hahaha.”
“Who are they? Steve, who are Paco and Miguel?”
“Bjorn’s pilots. Sing it with me. Stoned pilots, how high can they fly?”
Bjorn? How many Bjorns could there be in northern Nevada? I saw him with Candy when I went to get our drinks. “Bjorn who owns Rain Forest Gym?”
“Jim, yep, Rain Forest Jim. Bjorn wants to kill him, too. Stone him. Bury ‘im.”
Jade got up from her bed, put her notebook inside her dresser drawer, and paced the room.
An excerpt from “Rain Forest Jim” available from the author.
A dark comedy about the take down of a major drug cartel by an unlikely cast of characters: A down-on-his luck Navajo, the cartel’s own stoned pilots, a gaggle of hookers, an unlucky goose . . .and the elusive Rain Forest Jim by Ann James.