Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Five months later
Skye
"Honey, I'm home!" Harper's voice rings through our apartment as the front door slams shut.
I've lived with her in this place her dad pays for since we started college last fall—second semester now—and that is before everything went to hell.
I'm even more grateful that her dad covers the rent and I get to stay here free, because I'm too broke to afford this place now that my dad took off months ago and refuses to help out.
He's a piece of shit. I can't believe it has taken me so long to see that.
"In my room!" I call back, not looking up from my laptop screen where notes for my art history final blur together.
"Hey, hot stuff," Harper says, bouncing into my room with that infectious energy she always carries.
"Shut up." I grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at her. "I look like shit."
And I do. Sweatpants that have seen better days, an oversized hoodie with paint stains, and my hair twisted into a disaster of a bun on top of my head. I haven't even showered today—too busy cramming for finals.
"Yeah, you look like shit," Harper agrees, which is why I love her. No sugar-coating, just brutal honesty delivered with a grin. "Have you showered?" She comes closer, actually sniffing the air around me.
"No," I say matter-of-factly, "I haven't. You want a better whiff?" I lift up my arm threateningly.
"Eww, no!" She jumps back, laughing. "I just wanted to see if you wanted to grab dinner, but you're not fit to leave the apartment. So I can order us something instead."
"Feed me." I slam my laptop shut, officially giving up on Baroque art movements for the night.
"I will if you shower," she says, crossing her arms.
"Do I have to, Mom?" I whine, flopping back on my bed dramatically.
"Yes," she says firmly, "and I'll order Chinese."
"Deal." Chinese food is worth basic hygiene. "Oh, and Mom wants you to come to dinner tomorrow. She said she's making lasagna for you."
"Aww," Harper's face lights up with genuine warmth. "Of course I'll come. How's she been doing?"
"Better, I guess." I pick at the frayed edge of my hoodie sleeve. "She said they'd been having problems for a long time and she suspected it, but..."
"It still hurts," Harper finishes for me, settling on the edge of my bed.
"Yeah." The word comes out heavier than I mean it to. "And the fact that he ran off and isn't helping financially, I think that's the worst part."
Not the abandonment—though that sucks. Not even the betrayal of watching him choose his secretary over our family. It's the deliberate cruelty of cutting us off completely, leaving Mom to figure out how to pay the mortgage and Justin's therapy appointments and everything else on a teacher's salary.
"She needs a good lawyer," Harper says. "Do you want me to ask my mom or dad for a recommendation?"
"No." I shake my head quickly. "She can't afford a lawyer."
"I need to finish this semester and I'll do more private shows to help out," I say, pulling clean underwear from my dresser drawer. The cam work isn't exactly my dream career, but it pays better than any part-time job I could get as a college student.
"Oh shit, I saw something today that could help you," Harper says, her voice taking on that excited tone that usually means trouble.
"What?" I turn to face her, clutching my clothes to my chest. "I'll try almost anything at this point. Mom can barely afford everything and she's worried they're going to kick Justin out of his private school because she's behind on payments."
That's the part that kills me. Justin needs that school. The teachers there understand autism, have programs specifically designed for kids like him. Public school would be a nightmare for him—too loud, too chaotic, too much.
"Well, I'm glad you have an open mind," Harper says, and that smile spreading across her face makes my stomach drop.
"Harper..."
"So I found this website for an exclusive underground gentleman's club in LA called Obsidian," Harper says, her eyes bright with excitement.
"One of my clients mentioned it—some wealthy businessman who offered to take me there.
Anyway, they have this section where girls auction off...
experiences." She leans forward, lowering her voice.
"Including their virginity. And I thought maybe you could do that.
Think about how much money you could make. "
The clean clothes slip from my hands and hit the floor. "I know I said I was desperate, but damn, Harp. That's crazy."
"I know," she says with that big smile that means she absolutely does not think it's crazy at all.
"Are you serious?" Because this is insane. We're actually talking about this. About me selling my virginity to some elite member of an underground club three thousand miles away. "This is crazy, we're crazy for even talking about this."
"Yes, dead serious," she says, leaning forward like she's presenting a business proposal. "I just wish I was a virgin so I could do it. You could probably rake in close to a million. These Obsidian members are like, the wealthiest men on the West Coast."
My mouth falls open. "Shut up."
"I'm serious," she insists, and God help me, I can see she actually is. Harper doesn't joke about money. She understands what desperation looks like, even if she's never lived it herself.
"No way." I bend down to collect my dropped clothes, my hands shaking slightly.
A million dollars. That would solve everything.
Mom's mortgage, Justin's school, his therapy, college tuition, groceries, utilities—everything.
But selling my virginity? To some stranger at an exclusive LA club who could afford to spend that kind of money on sex?
The thought makes my skin crawl and my heart race at the same time.
"Go order our food so I can take a shower," I say, shaking my head as I walk toward my bathroom. "You're insane."
"Think about it though," Harper calls after me as I'm shutting the door. "It's just sex, Skye. And you'd never have to worry about money again."
I pause in the doorway, my hand on the door knob.
Just sex. Like it's nothing. Like the fact that I've managed to keep my virginity through high school and almost a year of college doesn't mean anything.
Like the idea of giving it to someone who sees it as a commodity rather than something intimate doesn't make me want to throw up.
But then I think about Mom crying over bills she can't pay. About Justin asking why he can't go back to his school in the fall.
"Order the Chinese," I say quietly, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind me.
In the mirror, my reflection stares back—messy hair, dark circles under my eyes, paint-stained hoodie. Not exactly virgin auction material.
But a million dollars.
I turn on the shower, letting the steam begin to fog the mirror until I can't see myself anymore.
The hot water cascades down my back, but even the steam and heat can't wash away Harper's words.
They cling to me like smoke—just sex and a million dollars—repeating in an endless loop that makes my chest tight.
I press my palms against the shower wall, letting the water beat against my shoulders while my mind spirals through everything that has led us here.
The paint under my fingernails from today's project swirls down the drain in pale blue streams. I watch it disappear, wishing I could wash away my problems just as easily.
But they'll still be there when I get out—Mom's exhausted sighs when she thinks no one is listening, the stack of bills that seems to grow taller every day, Justin's confused questions about why everything is changing.
By the time I emerge, wrapped in a fluffy towel, my skin is pink from the heat and my thoughts are no clearer than when I stepped in.
We settle into our usual spots on the couch afterward, me curled into the corner with my legs tucked under me, Harper sprawled beside me with the lo mein container balanced on her stomach.
The familiar ritual of sharing takeout containers and fighting over the last spring roll feels like slipping into a warm sweater—comfortable, safe, exactly what I need.
The Craft flickers to life on the TV, and for the first time in weeks, I feel my shoulders truly relax.
Nancy Downs is just starting her descent into madness, her dark hair whipping around her face as she embraces powers she can't control.
There's something oddly fitting about watching someone else's life spiral out of control while mine teeters on the edge of its own cliff.
"God, I forgot how crazy this movie is," Harper mumbles around a mouthful of noodles, gesturing at the screen with her chopsticks. "Remember when we thought we could actually do magic like this?"
I laugh, the sound surprising me with its genuineness. "You mean when you convinced me to try that light-as-a-feather ritual at your thirteenth birthday party?"
"Hey, it almost worked! Sarah definitely felt lighter for a second."
"That's because you and Michelle were actually lifting her," I point out, stealing a piece of broccoli from the container. "Magic had nothing to do with it."
Harper grins, that mischievous smile that has gotten us both into trouble more times than I can count. "Magic is all about belief, Skye. You have to want it badly enough."
The words hang in the air between us, heavier than they should be. I want it badly enough. Like wanting my family's financial problems to disappear. Like wanting to give Mom a reason to smile again. Like wanting to fix everything that broke when Dad walked out.
For two blessed hours, I let myself disappear into the familiar chaos of teenage witches and high school drama. No bills to worry about, no future to plan, no impossible choices to make. Just me and my best friend, sharing food and commentary on a movie we've watched a dozen times before.
When the credits finally roll, Harper stretches like a cat, her hair catching the blue glow from the screen. "I miss this. Just hanging out like normal people."
"Me too." The guilt hits me immediately, sharp and unexpected. "I'm sorry I've been so busy lately."
"Skye, stop." Harper twists to face me fully, her expression serious in a way that makes my stomach clench. "You don't have anything to apologize for. I know what you're dealing with. I just miss my best friend sometimes."
The simple honesty of it makes my throat tight. Since Dad left, I've been moving through life like I'm underwater—everything muffled and distant, every action requiring twice the effort it should. There's never time to just exist anymore, never time to be nineteen and stupid and carefree.
"We need to make Saturday nights movie night," Harper announces, turning off the TV. "Non-negotiable. Even if we have to watch on your phone in the library bathroom."
Despite everything, I laugh. "I'm down. Though let's aim higher than bathroom viewings."
We move through the familiar routine of cleaning up—Harper gathering the empty containers while I fold the throw blankets we've been using. The domestic simplicity of it feels precious, like something I should memorize and save for later when everything gets complicated again.
"Goodnight," I call as I walk down the hall. "Oh, and don't forget dinner tomorrow."
"I won't," she calls back. I go into the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth.
When I'm done, I climb into bed under my sheets and download the Obsidian app.
I already market myself as a virgin on Good Girl Gone Live and I only do light stuff—talking to men topless or naked, strip teases, and for some of my good-tipping regulars, I'll masturbate for them in private sessions.
I've never even thought of this though. There's a section for members, apply for membership, and list yourself as available.
I click that last one and fill out the required information, my hands shaking slightly as I type.
At the bottom it asks what I'm interested in and I select the auctions , then it opens a text box asking me to add any details or requirements.
I think for a moment, then start typing.
Minimum winning bid of $600,000—if it doesn't go over that, I'm not trapped.
Must meet in person first to make sure we're both comfortable before the "event.
" Transportation must be provided to me or they come to me—I'm not travelling alone to some stranger.
And the most important one of all: no married men.
I hover over the submit button for a long moment, my heart hammering.
Then I close my eyes and hit enter, taking a deep breath.
Holy shit, did I just do that? Oh my God, what did I do?
I go to delete it, but it says it's processing and will email me when it's been approved. Fuck.
Panic rises in my chest like floodwater, making it hard to breathe.
I frantically tap through the app, looking for a way to delete what I've just done, but the auction has already disappeared into some administrative limbo.
An email notification pops up, promising I'll hear back within one business day.
I set my phone on the nightstand with hands that won't stop shaking and pull the covers up to my chin.
The ceiling stares back at me, blank and unforgiving, while my mind races through every possible catastrophic outcome.
What if someone recognizes me? What if this gets back to Mom?
What if the wrong kind of person wins and—
But then, cutting through the panic, I hear Justin's voice from yesterday: "It's okay, Skye. I don't mind changing schools. I know Mom's trying her best."
Fifteen years old and already more mature than our father is. Already accepting that his world has to shrink because the adults in his life have failed him.
I close my eyes and try to imagine what a million dollars could do.
College paid for—mine and Justin's art school when he's ready.
Mom's mortgage caught up, her car fixed, her medicine she's been rationing because the co-pays are too expensive.
Security. Stability. The kind of future Dad's leaving has stolen from us.
Maybe Harper is right. Maybe it really is just sex.
But as I lay here in the dark, listening to my heart pound against my ribs, I can't shake the feeling that I've just crossed a line I'll never be able to uncross.