Whore
Willow Aster
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Willow Aster
Artwork created by Blade
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN-13: 978-1979226158
ISBN-10: 1979226156
Created with Vellum
Thank you, Hosea and Gomer, for inspiring this story.
Contents
THE AWAKENING
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
THE RENAISSANCE
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
THE DOWNFALL
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
THE UPRISING
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
EPILOGUE
Hosea and Gomer
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Willow Aster
THE AWAKENING
Chapter One
LILITH
Dignity cannot be stolen; it can only be given away.
No one plans to be a whore. Except maybe my mother. It certainly wasn’t my life’s dream as a little girl. As I got older, it was more of an understanding: this is what we’ve always been, and this is all we’re capable of becoming. It’s in my blood.
In 1923, my great-grandmother Fontenot opened Maison D’amour in the heart of the French Quarter. At the time it was the only brothel of its kind, run entirely by women. My grandmother inherited it from Gigi and built the business for fifty years before passing away ten years ago, leaving Maison D’amour to my mother. One day it will be mine. No longer a pawn, but the queen. It isn’t time to entertain these thoughts—my mother is too wicked to die anytime soon.
Most mothers are proud when their daughter graduates or learns to cook. My mother is proudest when I average at least a dozen more calls each week than any other girl on the street. She is determined that I keep it that way. As the queen madam, she doesn’t just keep track of our house. Since taking over Maison D’amour, she owns New Orleans.
The house proudly sits on the corner: four stories of imposing stone, windows, and iron railing. Twenty-four arched windows entice people to peek into the first level. Balconies wrap around the entire second and third stories; the iron railing and black shutters around all the windows leave an intimidating air. The fourth story has dormer windows facing both streets. We’ve been labeled “haunted” by outsiders, but I’ve never come across a ghost. Gigi would be the type to haunt us all if she could. Maison D’amour—called House of Love by the regulars, but never the employees—wears its age well. Fronting as an upscale spa, the small courtyard in the main entrance leads to the plush interior.
My mother, Alexis Fontenot, is always in the foyer, greeting the clientele. A vision of Southern gentility, Alexis is a walking contradiction of formidable and charismatic. Her look is well-crafted—never a hair out of place or a crease in her pencil skirts. She keeps a strict house; we are no seedy establishment. Top dollar is paid and we don’t stoop to service just anyone. A high level of dignity and decorum is maintained at all times, by all parties. Voices are kept at a quiet decibel. Alexis says it gives an air of mystery when people have to lean in to hear what is being said. No unseemly language, ever. Sometimes I rebel and leave the house wearing clothes Alexis would never approve of, but in the house, our clothes are sexy, yet classy. It is her firm belief that a man prefers to unwrap the package himself, rather than seeing the full view for free. And it is a given that we are all groomed in every possible sense: plucked, waxed, buffed, tinted, dyed, manicured, pedicured, once-a-week facials, and so on.
Some do, in fact, come for the spa amenities, but the majority enter the doors of Maison D’amour for what the second, third, and occasionally, the fourth floors offer. We get deep satisfaction from the fact that our house has never been compromised. Government officials close their eyes to what goes on, largely because most of them are regulars. Once you enter our doors, you can rest assured your secrets are safe.
If these beds could talk…
Ten women live in the house. If Alexis is the face of the house, Darla, Jessica, Lexy, Priscilla, Talon, and I are the bodies. And the three who keep us and our surroundings looking beautiful are Angel, Jonell, and Tricia. Alexis has a way of calling us in alphabetical order, saving me—Lilith—for last. Her only outward nod to me being her daughter. We are on call six days a week, year round. No vacation time, unless an emergency arises.
The friendships I read about seem too good to be true. It isn’t that I don’t get along with the girls—we’re mostly pleasant with each other—but Alexis has cultivated competitiveness in the house. She thrives on drama and I will do anything to avoid it. If the girls are mad at her, I’m the one who feels the sting. It’s fine—when I have downtime, the last thing I want to do is be around people anyway.
My mind and body are resilient due to daily workouts and the pampering I get on my day off. I don’t mind sex—it’s just a job. Sex is such a mind game anyway. If I stay in the right head space, it doesn’t matter if I’m with the most repulsive man or not. I have techniques to block it all out. But for the most part, I don’t mind men either. I have something they need and I’m paid very well to give it to them.
Jonell taps on my door. “I finished changing the sheets downstairs. You’ve had a busy one.”
I’ve seen nine clients already and it’s only three p.m.
“Alexis is looking for you,” she adds.
The girls have an assigned room on each floor. Men who pay by the half-hour are assigned to the second floor. Sparse and not meant to encourage men to get cozy, the rooms hold none of our personal belongings. The hour slots go to a larger third-story room that has a comfortable bed and couch. My room on the fourth floor is my haven. I do my best to keep Alexis out of it, which drives her crazy. It’s the only place I can let my guard down and relax.
We keep our personal things out of sight when we entertain. If a man feels he knows you too well, it can become dangerous. Far too risky. We all have extensive training in self-defense and aren’t afraid to use it. I know my way around a knife and gun. It’s a necessity in this line of work.
Minutes before my next client is scheduled to arrive, my mom sweeps through my door on the th