Chapter Three
(EG) The marketing team needs your permission to run this blurb about sex work. We want to weave it into your narrative.
(Marlow) Did they decriminalize it between now and the last time we had this conversation?
(EG) It’s empowering, Marlow. It’s best if you take control of the story before anyone tries anything.
(Marlow) You mean, before anyone tries to dox me. But this is part of why I used a pen name for the books and had a stage name for my clients. I should be layers removed from this, don’t you think?
(EG) You’re smart, Mar. You know it’s going to come out. You told the company about your former line of work when you signed for a reason.
The phone became a blank sheet of black glass once more as I locked the screen without replying. I tugged the duvet up higher, groaning against the worst way to start the day.
EG was right.
I’d told her on our second meeting, long before the ink dried on our contract. I’d insisted that the meeting be over video chat. I needed to see her expression when I told her with a proud, cheery face that I’d been able to write the first Pantheon novel because I’d saved up from years of sex work. I’d planned to decide whether to give Inkhouse my partnership based on any flicker of judgment, any twitch, any hesitancy. EG’s face had lit with the only brand of validation that could have won my business.
It wasn’t the sort of conversation I liked to have before caffeine, but my editor’s work hours were eternal. Before shutting off my phone I reemphasized that my decision was final. I’d enjoyed escorting—it was talking about it that I didn’t like. At least, I enjoyed eating like royalty, the connections to society’s upper echelon, and abusing the metallic, limitless cards of any man foolish enough to think he could impress me by taking me to an upscale shopping mall. I made them all pay, literally. Financial domination was my favorite flavor of the girlfriend experience. It meant charging exorbitant prices for my companionship, expecting only Michelin Star restaurants, Birkin bags, and jewelry worth more than what either of my parents made in a decade.
I hadn’t told EG all of the details, nor was I convinced I wanted to. I wasn’t sure where I’d start if I were to make it a part of my publicly available backstory. I didn’t exactly want to create a how-to handbook for young women. It had been empowering for me—life-changing, even—but the dangers of being groomed into a life beyond your control weren’t something I wished on anyone.
I guess if I chose to tell her, I’d need to begin with day one. As with most tales, this domino effect had tipped into my life quite by accident. Unlike most stories, this one started on the sweaty streets of Buenos Aires.
I met my first escort on a failed attempt at escaping to the far side of the globe. One week out of college, crawling out of my skin with anxiety, and with no direction for my life, I’d clicked on a sponsored ad to teach English as a second language in Medellín, Colombia. I hadn’t given myself the chance to change my mind. I’d thrown everything I owned into a suitcase, found a subletter for my shitty basement unit on Craigslist, and gotten on a plane.
That was when I let hyper-independence take the wheel. I thought I could get a fresh start and get away from Caliban—but any reputable psychiatrist would have told me that psychosis isn’t something you can outrun.
I closed my eyes once more, wishing a cup of coffee would materialize in my hands. In the meantime, I’d enjoy the succulent warmth of the duvet cover, letting my cozy, trapped body heat transport me to dream-like memories of my year just above the equator.
I could still feel the baking sun on my skin when I thought of that day.
Except, unlike the cocoon of a comfortable bed, misery was all I felt.
DECEMBER 23, AGE 22
Sweat beaded along my upper lip. My feet were covered in blisters from the plastic rub of cheap shoes. I was desperate for a bottle of water and a cold shower. I’d been waiting for the bus in ninety-degree heat when a curious, pretty girl in Louis Vuitton heels paused at my side. They were chunky, tall boots that she’d paired with high-waisted black shorts, a black bralette as a top, and a cross-body bag with yet another designer logo, though I hadn’t been well versed enough in name brands at the time to know a Chanel bag when I saw one. She’d managed to make her wealth look sporty rather than stuffy, which was quite an accomplishment. Ten seconds of mental math estimated that I could sell the clothes off her back and buy three roundtrip tickets from Los Angeles to Bogotá.
She grinned at the sunburst tattoo on my right ring finger, breaking the silence. “I’ve been wanting to get a tattoo on my hand,” she said, “but I hear they hurt like a bitch! And people say the ink falls out really easily. I rarely see hand tats in Buenos Aires. Most ink has kind of a thuggish reputation, I guess. It’s cool as hell, though.”
I returned the smile and lifted both hands. I had its counterpart on the opposite finger.
“Live by the sun, love by the moon,” I said, referring to the tiny, matching moon on my left ring finger. “It seemed so profound when I was eighteen.” I left out the part where the tiny finger tats had been too painful for me to dare return to a tattoo shop. My two celestial pieces of inky rebellion would have to suffice.
“And how old are you now?” she asked.
“I just turned twenty-two.”
“Sag or Capricorn?” She smiled. “I’m an Aquarius.”
Astrology wasn’t something I cared about, but I’d memorized enough about the signs to know where my dates fell. “Sagittarius. My birthday was the twenty-first.”
“Aw, we missed your golden birthday by a year. But you bagged a great astrological sign. Independent, adventurous, straight shooters. Our signs are super compatible for friendship.”
I nodded along, because that was all I could do.
Her accent was North American, but between her black-and-auburn hair, her golden skin, and an ambiguous almond to her eyes, she could have been from any side of the pond. If it weren’t for the heels, she would have been a full head and shoulders shorter than me, though I was average height by the most generous of North American estimations.
“You’re right. About the ink, that is,” I said, trying to steer the conversation into my more knowledgeable territories. “My tattoos stand out. And I don’t know how adventurous I am. I’m six months into this yearlong contract and I’m struggling. I wish I could say it was homesickness, but it’s more just…being a person. What about you? Do you live here? Visiting family?”
Her laugh was warm and easy. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “No, I’ve been staying in Montevideo. There’s a lot of money there. I was just here to meet a client for a few days. My friends and I rented a villa outside of Rio de Janeiro for Christmas, so I’ll head there next.”
“You travel for work, then? What do you do?”
She giggled. “My life’s a party. Back to Rio—have you been there yet?”
I looked around the sidewalk, glancing between the palm trees, the shiny buildings, the bustling pedestrians in their tailored suits, their flashy bags, their sunglasses that cost more than my rent. I couldn’t think of any reason she was talking to me. I shook my head. “No. I work a lot, and I haven’t had anyone to go with.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like you’re working right now. And if you wait for someone else to define your life, you’ll never go anywhere or do anything,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You might be on to something,” I mused. I’d used my PTO to take the holiday off and gotten on the plane to visit Argentina with no plan in mind, but I certainly wasn’t making the most of it. Unhappiness had boarded the plane with me.
She frowned, fully soaking in how alone I was. I’m not sure if she was looking at the dishwater-blond hair, the evidence of ink, or the clear signs of economic disparity between me and the others on the sidewalk, but it was obvious that I didn’t fit in. If she hadn’t been so friendly, I would have been embarrassed standing next to someone in designer heels, and yet, nothing about her made me feel judged.
“What brings you to Buenos Aires?” she asked.
My lips twisted into the corner of my mouth. I looked between the pristine streets and the skyscrapers that lined the downtown. “Those travel accounts made it look so colorful and European. It just seemed like the kind of place I should visit while I’m in the area.”
She tilted her head, curtain of silky hair cascading over a sun-kissed shoulder. “What do you consider the area?”
Teachers had developed something of an unsavory reputation among the expatriate communities, or so I’d learned in my six months overseas. We were the backpacking barrel scum of the international community. I didn’t have to tell her. She was a stranger at the bus stop. I could lie. I could tell her that I was a factory manager, a digital nomad, or that I worked at an embassy. But I had a feeling she wouldn’t believe me.
I hedged before opting for honesty. “I’ve been teaching English to preschoolers in Colombia. I just thought I’d pop over here see what all the fuss was about. Plus, it’s only, like, two and a half hours in the air. It turns out it’s equally hot, and fifty times more expensive. And I’ll deny it if you ever tell an Argentinian I said this, but the food is nowhere near as good.”
Her lower lip lifted as she considered. “You like kids, then?”
I stared at her for a moment before giving the first honest answer about my job in six months. “Not at all. Don’t get me wrong, I care about my students. They’re a delight. And working with them has made my Spanish excellent. But I don’t like being around children. Definitely pounded the final nail in the ‘motherhood is not for me’ coffin. But college was wrapping up and I had no plan for my life, so, might as well go make memories, right?”
I chewed my lip uncertainly. I wasn’t good at knowing when I’d overshared.
She frowned. She looked me up and down a final time before saying, “I like your vibe. Give me your cell.” She stretched out her hand, wiggling her fingers expectantly.
I didn’t know why I complied, but I did. I handed the beautiful stranger my phone. She punched in her contact information just as a glossy black town car pulled up. With a hand on the door, she said, “A preschool teacher doesn’t need to spend Christmas alone in a big city; she needs a beach day and a drink. Come to Rio. Hang out at my villa. Sing Christmas carols with a pitcher of sangria in your hand. You’ll only be responsible for the airfare to get yourself there. Just text me when you land. I’ll give you directions.”
“What’s your name?” I shouted at her, but she was already gone.
Taylor. That’s what she had typed in my phone. And for all I knew, Taylor was a smooth-talking kidnapper and I was being set up to have my organs harvested. But that didn’t feel like the case. I’m not sure why I did it, but I took her up on her offer.
I’d taken ten days from teaching, intent on using the entirety of my time off on exploring Buenos Aires, but it had taken me roughly three days to learn that I couldn’t afford to breathe the city’s air, let alone do anything fun. I went back to my hotel, showered, and popped four sleeping pills to avoid Caliban confronting me to talk me out of going. A budget airline had me on a flight the next morning, leaving one of the most expensive cities on the continent and heading toward what would either be paradise or a story that ended with me waking up in a bathtub full of ice and missing a kidney.
It was just shy of a three-hour flight, followed by forty-five minutes in the customs line, thirty minutes waiting for my bag, and a two-hour cab ride to the small beach town south of the capital. I was sweaty, disoriented, and nervous and questioned the wisdom of my impulsivity every twenty seconds.
I remained glued to the window in the back seat of the cab, fixed on the dreamy landscape as I fretted. The buildings reminded me a lot of my home in Colombia, as did the scooters, the heat, the narrow alleys, and the markets. The cityscape slowly gave way to greenery. Tall clusters of trees and thick, tropical grasses populated one side of the car. Through the other window, the ocean broke in large, tube-like waves as it washed up on long, sandy beaches. Before long, I was in a six-bedroom villa on the beach. Taylor was the friendliest, perkiest, most generous person I’d ever met. Two of the bedrooms were occupied by unnaturally beautiful friends, Ivy and Quinn, both of whom oozed similar compassion and support. They were so kind that, at first, I was convinced they were insincere. My hackles went up, terrified that my naivety had lured me into a trap. I wondered how long it would be before the organ harvesters showed.
But no. Instead, it was something far rarer.
They were just really good people.
Taylor, Ivy, and Quinn were escorts.
Taylor was exceedingly open about her life. She dangled her feet in the pool, holding a sangria in one hand and snapping pictures of her friends with the phone in her other. She told her stories with a happy face, whether discussing backpacking down the Chilean coast or being the arm candy at a red-carpet event. She told the tale of how she’d started escorting, her pitfalls, her mistakes, and how she’d gotten to where she was now. She and her friends were exclusively word-of-mouth, she said. They only worked with elite, prescreened clientele.
And I didn’t want to teach preschoolers. I didn’t particularly want to talk to men, either, but I did want to pay my bills. I wanted to be able to move out of the basement apartment. I wanted to pay off my student loans, to take vacations on the Yucatán Peninsula, and to escape the cycle of intergenerational poverty that had kept me under its thumb.
By the end of the day, she’d help me pick a new name, set up a covert profile, and book my first client—a weekend in Montevideo scheduled for the end of the month. Taylor connected me with a few of her old patrons whose schedules conflicted with her own, saying she didn’t mind passing them off on me. Community over competition and all that.
Quinn made a comment about how I was fortunate that I had only two tattoos—both of which could be covered with chunky rings—as it would make it easier for me to fly under the radar. Ivy and I were similarly gifted—or cursed—with ample chests, and she gave me several pairs of strappy lingerie with the tags still on. She made a comment about her shopping problem and how she was happy they’d be getting some use. Taylor was thrilled that I could speak Spanish, as there’d been a few clients who had passed the screening but needed a bilingual provider, which only Quinn was.
The ones she’d selected for me were good starter clients, Taylor said, as they’d already been vetted and gone through the appropriate background checks. She promised she’d walk me through it before I started booking on my own and told me never to meet someone without exercising my due diligence.
“That said,” she amended, “the world is not a scary place. In the hundreds of cities I’ve traveled and the thousands of people I’ve met, I’ve only had two bad experiences. And both of those happened in my hometown. People like to comfort themselves by believing the scary things are out in the world. It keeps them from living. It’s often the danger out your front door that blinds you.”
“Are you…” I looked between the drink in my hand and my toes as they dangled in the water. “I don’t know how to ask this. Do you…get something out of this?”
She giggled. “Are you asking if I’m a pimp? No. We all work exclusively for ourselves. And if anyone ever approaches you with offers to hook you up with clients for a fee, run for the hills. Pick a cover industry, pay your taxes, and start living large.”
“A cover industry?”
Ivy smiled. “If anyone asks, I’m a model.”
Quinn raised a finger. “Translator.”
Taylor explained, “And I’m a tour guide. The cover helps with explaining your life to your family, but it’s more about the law. As long as your income is taxable, the government doesn’t care what you do.”
The first day in Brazil was a beautiful, confusing, colorful, dazzling dream. We’d eaten fruit, drank innumerable pitchers of sangria, relaxed, and genuinely laughed. Taylor was right. Her life was a party. But it wasn’t the drugs and rave music and bandage-tight dresses that I’d pictured when envisioning a party. It was the relaxation of a life spent without worry.
I left the windows wide open that first night, listening to the tropical birds and watching the shadows of curious macaques jump from branch to branch. I’d been warned that the cute little monkeys might steal your things, but I’d never been so close to one, and it was a lesson I wanted to learn for myself. I hated being sweaty and typically despised sleeping without the air conditioner, but the wind off the water was deliciously cooling. I soaked in the wind, the waves, and the tropics as I let both the stress of my job and the financial nightmare of this trip wash away.
“Starting a new career, are we?” came a voice from an unseen speaker in the shadows.
I looked into the gloom where I knew he’d be leaning against a wall. A spike of defensiveness worked through me as I feigned nonchalance. I’d hoped he might show up, though I never knew for sure if he’d come. Of course, I’d gotten on the plane to get away from him. I’d hoped to be set free from my hallucinations. My hopes had been lies that I’d been unwilling to admit until the red-eye flight to South America and the relief that had flooded me when the rush of gin and moss had filled the space beside me. I wanted him here. I wanted him in my life. I just hated myself for it.
My legs twisted beneath the thin sheet. “Teaching English was always temporary. I’ve just shortened it by half a year. Why? Are you showing up as my conscience?”
“Never,” he said. “Whatever makes you happy. I know that struggling to pay the bills does not make you happy. But I’ve said it before: if you’d let me help with that…”
“Yes. You can help by making sure I only book the richest clients and make the most money so that my boat sets sail on an endless sea of cash by this time next year,” I said. I plopped the pillows behind my back and sat up in bed, looking expectantly into the gloom. The ocean crashed in lulling waves on the beach beyond the open villa window. I listened to it break time and time again, peering into the darkness while I waited for his reply.
After a long period of silence, I began to worry.
He said nothing.
“Caliban?”
But no answer came.
DECEMBER 29, AGE 22
“How was your first night?”
I spun toward the darkness, doing little to fight the inner glow tugging up the corners of my lips. My heart squeezed, his voice both excitement and balm all at once. It was exactly what I needed to end my out-of-body experience. I wished I could see his face. His question held the edges of a smile. And god, how I missed that smile.
The night had been spectacular, and he was the only one I wanted to share it with.
Taylor had made sure I was compensated for the exhaustion of travel in addition to my time on the clock, helping me set firm boundaries and holding my hand over text as she insisted that time was my only nonrenewable resource. It wasn’t enough for clients to buy my tickets, but to show their gratitude at my willingness to get on a plane and stay in a hotel while away from my home.
The five-star Wagyu steak house in Montevideo, Uruguay, had been a haze of flavors and colors and nerves. The client, to my surprise, had been an attractive, well-dressed, polite, and friendly man, though woefully short for society’s unreasonable norms. He’d greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a bulging envelope filled with USD, as something Taylor had drilled into me was that I always needed to get paid before the date began. He’d opened my doors, pulled out my chair, and asked me about myself. I’d played my role as upscale girlfriend perfectly, straddling the line between sexy and conservative in a long-sleeve dress with a plunging neckline. The dress belonged to Ivy. Where she’d let me keep the lingerie, she expected this particular piece of clothing back when I was done. My aim was for everyone at the restaurant to think I was a trophy wife, while he remained the only one excited for what might come next. He’d paid for the most expensive multi-course meal, which was delicious and added an extra three hours on the clock for my eventual paycheck.
The best part of the sex was that he’d left the television on. He’d flipped me to my back, and I’d looked over his shoulder to watch a rerun of an old comedy with the subtitles, making encouraging sounds and digging my fingernails into his back with theatrical pleasure at the right moments. I knew this episode. It was the one where the main characters locked themselves out of their apartment on Thanksgiving. I stifled a laugh when a character stumbled out of his apartment with a turkey on his head, which was my favorite brand of poorly written comedy. The man had felt my body clench and assumed I was close to climax.
Good.
The show had made me loosely aware that, though I’d eaten more than six hundred dollars in tiny foods, I was still hungry. Afterward, we lay in bed for another hour, playing the pillow-talking role of lovers. And then it was time to go. I’d been given an additional stipend to book myself a luxury room under my own name—somewhere safe where the client didn’t have access to me.
His hotel had been lovely. His suite was three times larger than the place I’d been renting in Colombia, with towels more expensive than any shirt I owned. Still, all I had to do was enjoy my dinner and watch TV.
Taylor had been right. This was the best.
I checked in with her afterward to let her know I was safe, and she scolded me for not turning on the GPS on my phone during my date. We were a network, she said, and the world wouldn’t understand us, so we had to have each other’s backs. If she was unavailable, then I should share my location with Ivy, Quinn, or one of the others in our line of work who she promised to introduce me to once I returned to the States.
This was so much better than disappointing lays with broke one-night stands. My overcorrection from an upbringing in purity culture meant that virtue had never meant much to me. If I wasn’t going to raise my standards, I should at least be getting something out of it.
I had one more comped night in Montevideo before I’d go back to Colombia, collect my meager earthly possessions, and quit my teaching job. They’d asked for thirty days’ notice, but I was ready to make good on what everyone already believed to be true about English teachers and live up to my transience, vanishing in the night. Once I stepped into the high-end life, I was unwilling to go back.
I’d left his hotel with more money in my purse than I’d seen in my entire life. I leaned my head against the window in the taxi and grinned at the night sky, buzzing with a euphoria that felt strangely like a cocktail of alcohol and MDMA, despite being stone-cold sober. I recognized the feeling while watching the buildings and trees bleed into a colorful swirl of paint behind the window. This was how it felt to not worry about money.
I’d propped my pillows up and sat in the dark but left my hair, my makeup, my dress exactly as they’d been. For the first time in my life, I wouldn’t live paycheck to paycheck. I’d never imagined what it might feel like to eliminate credit card debt, cover my rent, and still have money left over for food. Not only that, but I’d made a powerful connection with an elite new contact, had an extravagant meal, and gotten to watch one of my favorite comedies.
Answering his question, I reached to the bedside table and felt around until my fingers wrapped around the paper wad held together with a small rubber band. I procured four thousand dollars in cash.
“You’re welcome,” he said, that same smile playing on his voice. “You look beautiful, Love.”
“I’m sure you do, too,” I sighed.
I set the money down and slid backward, beckoning him to me. I closed my eyes and tilted up my chin, waiting for the hands I knew would come as he approached the bed. They started at my shoulders, running gently over my collarbones, up my neck, and into my hair. He planted a slow kiss on my throat, lingering on my jugular long enough that I could have sworn he was feeling the way he made my heart race.
I ran my hands over him, breathed him in, and was utterly overcome by his presence.
This had been why nothing else felt real.
The client, his suite, his money, it was as if it had happened outside of reality—like an unimportant dream quickly shaken from the mind. Because this touch, this kiss, the taste of his tongue on mine, this enveloping scent of gin, mist, and moss…this was real.
“Are you happy?” came the low rumble of his lips against mine as he cupped my face.
“Now I am.”