Chapter 5 Jordan
JORDAN
The fridge light clicks on when I pull the door open, revealing exactly what I expected.
Nothing.
There's a half-empty bottle of ketchup, expired almond milk that smells like wet cardboard, and three loose carrots in the crisper drawer, shriveled and soft from the farmer's market like two weeks ago.
For some reason, I keep staring for a few more seconds, like magically a sandwich or salad will appear.
I sigh and close the door.
It's been three days since the shooting at the club and one day until rent is due.
I have managed to keep my forty-seven dollars in my account, so there's that.
But still, the math doesn't work. It never works. I've been broke before, but this is different. This is the kind of broke where you start calculating which utilities you can let lapse first. Water? No. Internet? Maybe. Cell?
Never.
My phone sits on the counter where I left it, screen dark. I haven't checked it in hours, not since I blocked Taylor's number after his fifth call this morning.
His last text to me was:
If you come in tonight, Jordan. Do the job and I'll Venmo you everything you're owed. Don't come, no back pay. Nothing. Your call.
Asshole.
He thinks I'm stupid enough to walk back into that club because I need the money badly enough to risk whatever comes next.
I think the most annoying part about all of this is he's almost right. And when he sent some guy to bang on my door for a good twenty minutes, I almost broke down and answered.
A horn from outside shakes me out of my trance.
The traffic off Sunset is a constant hum. Engines always revving and horns always blaring.
It's the true sound of a city that taxes you just to exist in it.
I move toward the living room, stepping over the pile of laundry Lindsey left in the hallway. My foot catches on something, and I glance down.
Our mail. Advertisements mostly. Why they're on the floor, I have no idea.
I crouch and pick them up.
The ad that's on top is of a pretty girl wearing a white sundress, standing in golden hour light. Her smile is wide and genuine. Her eyes are bright, like she actually believes in something.
I remember that feeling. My first ad campaign.
The photographer kept telling me to think about my dreams, to imagine them coming true.
What does success look like to you, Jordan?
I thought about magazine covers, runway shows, and red carpets.
That was before I met Brian Saunders.
His name still makes my stomach twist.
He was the producer to meet. Big name, big money, the kind of guy who could make careers happen with a single phone call.
He saw me at a casting and said I had "something special.
" Said he wanted to introduce me to some people.
Said there was a Vogue Italia spread in the works, and I was perfect for it.
I believed him.
God, I was so fucking naive.
We met at a hotel bar in West Hollywood. He bought me champagne, told me I reminded him of a young Audrey Hepburn, just taller and more lucky in my features. I knew he was talking about my breasts, but I smiled and nodded because that's what you do when someone powerful is paying attention to you.
I wound up going up to his hotel room for a more private drink and to discuss the opportunity further. Room 412. I still remember it.
The door hasn't even closed when he pinned me against the wall and slid his hand up my dress.
"The hell," I said and grab his forearm.
"I need to make sure you've got what it takes for this business."
"No."
"I don't think you fully understand how this works," he said. "You want something, so do I," he continued, and squeezed my breast.
I got so scared I slap him. He hit me back and tried to throw me against the wall, and I kneed him right in the balls, and he fell to the ground yelling.
I just turn and walked out. I almost went back to tell him to go fuck himself, but I was so rattled by his actions I couldn’t make myself go back.
The next day, my agency dropped me. No explanation. Just a polite email thanking me for my time and wishing me well in my future endeavors.
Then the castings stopped and the callbacks dried up. People refused to even let me audition.
I got drunk one night and called Brian to ask him if he had something to do with it.
He laughed.
"Who are you?" he asked. "You think you're worth my time? I've got hundreds of girls like you, and they got what it takes."
Then he hung up.
I learned the lesson fast.
In Los Angeles, when you have nothing and want what they have, your "no" costs you everything.
So I stopped saying it so much.
Lindsey's door opens, and I shove the ad into the middle of the pile of mail and place it on the table.
She steps out, already dressed for the club. She's wearing a black dress that barely covers her ass, her makeup flawless, her hair slicked back in a high ponytail.
She looks good.
She also looks jittery.
Her hands shake and her pupils are too big for the dim lighting in the apartment.
"You're going?" I ask.
She glances at me, then away. "Yeah. Um, Taylor said I could pick up your shifts if you're not coming back."
"He say anything else?" I ask.
"Like what?"
"Like what happened to the Bulgarians."
Lindsey's jaw tightens. She walks to the bathroom and starts reapplying her lipstick in the mirror.
"He said it's handled," she says. "That we don't need to worry about it."
"And you believe him?"
She caps the lipstick and drops it into her purse. "I believe in money, and that rent is due tomorrow, and that there's nothing in our fridge."
I lean against the doorframe, watching her.
"We could make it in one night," she says, not looking at me. "Both of us. Taylor said there's a private party tonight. High rollers. The kind that tip big."
"I'm not stepping foot in there."
She finally meets my eyes in the mirror. "I know what we saw was fucked, but honestly, I've been back and you can't even tell. All the other girls are back, too. Except you." She pauses for a moment. "Jordan, come on. You can't just hide forever."
"Watch me."
Lindsey sighs and turns around, leaning against the sink. "What are you gonna do? Cam shows? What happened to that whole rant about never doing them?"
"Well," I say and shrug, "that was before everything. I'm logging in tonight."
She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." She adjusts her dress, smoothing it over her hips. "Good luck with that."
"You too."
She grabs her purse and heads for the door, but she pauses with her hand on the knob.
"Jordan?"
"What?"
"I can cover this month, but I won't be able to always do it."
"No, we're roommates. I'll figure it out. I promise."
She nods, but I can see she doesn't fully believe me, which is ironic because I've covered her share of the rent twice since living together.
Then she's gone. The front door shuts behind her.
I hate this. The tension between us. Clearly, we're both scared, but turning on each other isn't the answer.
I sigh and lock the door, sliding the chain across. I check the peephole and watch her walk away.
The apartment always feels bigger when I'm alone.
I walk to my bedroom and close the door.
The ring light sits on my desk, its tripod legs splayed out like a spider. I plug it in, and it flickers to life, casting a bright white glow across the room.
I pull open my dresser and dig through the bottom drawer until I find what I'm looking for.
Pink lace with sheer fabric. The kind of lingerie that looks innocent but isn't.
I change quickly, adjusting the straps, smoothing the lace over my thighs. The mirror on the back of my door reflects a version of me that feels fake.
But that's the point. This version of me isn't Jordan.
This is SillySexyKat143.
And Kat doesn't have rent problems or maxed-out credit cards.
Kat is whoever I want her to be, and when they pay, whoever these men want her to be.
I sit down at my desk and open my laptop. The cam site loads slowly, the familiar pink and purple interface appears.
I log in and my profile picture stares back at me. I'm biting my lip, looking up at the camera through fake lashes while showing every bit of cleavage I have. It's the photo that got me ten thousand followers in six months.
I hover the mouse over my username.
SillySexyKat143
Last online: 63 days ago
The notification count is at 127. Messages, old tips, and requests. Men who want me to remember them, to say their name, to pretend they matter.
I click into my settings and adjust the camera angle. The ring light creates a halo around my face, washing out the imperfections.
I practice my smile while looking at the screen.
It doesn't reach my eyes, but the camera won't catch that.
I adjust my hair, letting it fall over one shoulder. I tilt my chin down slightly, softening my features.
This is the part that always feels different.
When the ring light is off, I'm Jordan.
When the light is on, I'm untouchable.
In the real world, men think they own you when they pay. They think their money buys them access to something real.
But online, I can mute them. I can ban them. I can turn them off with a single click.
They can't smell fear through a computer screen.
This is the only place I'm safe.
Maybe I should have just stayed doing this even if the money isn't as good. There's always the fear a family member might see you, but hell, if they are on sites of live cam shows, it's their fault, not mine.
My hand hovers over the GO LIVE button.
The screen shows my viewer count: 0.
But the second I click that button, they'll flood in. Usernames I recognize. Usernames I don't. Men who'll type disgusting things in the chat and men who'll tip fifty bucks just to see my feet.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
Just a few hours. Just enough for rent. Then I log off.
I click the button.
The screen flickers, and suddenly I'm live.
The first few minutes are nothing, and then it's like I never left.
The chats start rolling in.
OMG SHE'S BACK
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN BABY
MISSED YOU SO MUCH
Show us those perfect tits
I lean forward, letting my smile brighten.
"Hey guys," I say, my voice light and breathy. "Did you miss me?"
The tips start rolling in.
KingDaddy69 tipped $50: Welcome back, princess
"Aw, thank you, Daddy," I purr, and I hate how easy it is to slip into this role. How natural it feels to be someone else.
Where were you?
Thought you ghosted us
You okay? I missed you.
I laugh, and it sounds almost real. "I'm perfect now that I'm here with you guys."
LoneWolf88 tipped $100: Private show?
My heart skips.
That's $100 closer to rent right there.
I glance at the username. LoneWolf88. I don't recognize it, but that doesn't mean anything. New users pop up all the time.
"Maybe later, Wolf," I say, winking at the camera. "Let's have some fun in public first."
The chat goes wild. More tips. More requests.
Stand up
Turn around
Take off the bra
I stand slowly, letting the pink lace ride up my thighs. The camera catches the curve of my hip, the dip of my waist.
DirtyMike tipped $25
JoeyBlaze tipped $15
I turn, giving them the angle they want. My body doesn't feel like mine anymore. It's just a product. Something I'm selling piece by piece.
"You guys are so sweet tonight," I say, glancing over my shoulder at the camera.
Another notification pops up.
User18290318 want’s a private show. $5k
I gasp and almost fall over.
Five thousand dollars.
I stare at the username, my smile frozen on my face.
That's rent, groceries, and who knows what else.
"Okay, User182," I say, my voice still light. "You win."
The chat flutters:
Boo
Nooo
Don't leave
Come back when you're done
My man won. You deserve it. You're so fucking sexy.
I click the button to start a private show. I wait for confirmation, and then the chat disappears and we're moved to a new room.
$4800 is in my account, minus the cam site's fees, and now it's just me and him.
The screen shows his username in the corner. No profile picture. No bio.
Just: User18290318
It's a generic one you get when you sign up. What isn't generic, however, is the amount of money this person just sent my way.
Well, here we go, my dignity in exchange for my livelihood.
"Hey there, User182," I say, adjusting the camera angle and flashing a smile. "What do you want to see tonight?"