2. Samantha
two
Samantha
“You signed me up for an escort service?” The words come out so loudly that a guy studying two tables away puts down his textbook and stares at us.
Kendra gives him an apologetic smile, then leans across our small café table. “It’s a high-end companionship agency,” she whispers. “Please stop acting like I sold you to pirates.”
Selling me to pirates would be better if they were like Captain Jack Sparrow from the movie Pirates of the Caribbean. I’ve always had a thing for older guys—and Johnny Depp is definitely my type.
Shaking my head, I try to clear my mind of the thought of being ravished by an older guy.
But who am I kidding? I’m a twenty-one-year-old virgin with no idea what it feels like to be ravished by anyone.
And now my best friend has signed me up as an escort.
I need to end this madness. “You used my name, my photograph, and my personal information.”
“I created a profile. You still have to accept assignments.” She shrugs, taking a sip of her coffee.
“That isn’t the reassuring distinction you believe it is.”
Kendra slides my untouched coffee toward me. “You’re behind on rent.”
“I know.” I pick up the ridiculously expensive coffee I know I can’t afford and shouldn’t have bought.
“Your campus job cut your hours.”
“I know.” I take a sip of the coffee, savoring each swallow, wondering if it might be the last real coffee shop coffee I drink for a long time.
“You have sixty-three dollars in your bank account.” Kendra softens her tone.
“I have seventy-eight,” my pride says before I can stop it.
“You bought groceries?” Of course, she would bring that up.
“Then sixty-three sounds right.” My shoulders slump in defeat as she shoots me a pointed look—I hate admitting she was right.
I’m halfway through my junior year at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and I’m one unexpected expense away from having to abandon the degree I spent years fighting to earn.
My mother helps when she can, but she works double shifts at a nursing home and is already supporting my younger brother.
My scholarships only go so far—spending money on anything other than living expenses is a luxury I can’t afford—ask my short-sized coffee.
It could be worse—it could be demi-sized.
The broken screen on my phone is a constant reminder that I can’t afford even small disasters.
Last week, a gust of wind off Lake Michigan yanked the phone from my hand.
It hit the sidewalk face down, shattering the screen.
I covered the worst cracks with clear tape and learned not to swipe too fast. Replacing it isn’t an option. Neither is missing rent again.
“What exactly would I have to do?” I trace the name on my cup with my index finger—the messy handwriting makes it look more like Nathan than Samantha.
Kendra smiles brightly. “Attend events, have dinner, make conversation.” She shrugs, blowing on her coffee before taking another sip.
“With strange men,” I add, feeling neither reassured nor comforted.
“Men whose identities, finances, and criminal histories have been verified.”
“That isn’t the same as knowing them.”
She places her hand over mine. “You choose whether to accept the assignment. Elite Connections sends the client’s profile and event details. You meet in a public place, and the agency monitors the appointment.”
I study her face. “How do you know so much about this?”
“My cousin worked for them last year and paid off her student loans.”
“By going on dates?” This seems too good to be true—there must be a catch.
“Mostly.” She shrugs again, making me wonder if she has a nervous twitch.
“The agency has strict rules. Anything physical is a private decision between consenting adults and never part of the assignment.” And there it is, the too-good-to-be-true part—sex is always part of the deal.
She gently squeezes my hand and gives me a sympathetic look.
“Sam, nobody is asking you to become someone you aren’t.
You can quit after one assignment. But one brunch could cover your rent and groceries for a month. ”
“One brunch?” I clarify, wanting to make sure I know what I’m getting into before I agree.
“The clients are extremely wealthy.” Kendra wiggles her eyebrows, lightening the mood.
“That doesn’t make this any less weird,” I snort.
“No, but it does make the weirdness profitable.” She’s right—money can make anything tolerable.
My phone vibrates on the table, making a loose piece of glass shift beneath the tape. A notification fills the unbroken corner of the screen.
ELITE CONNECTIONS: You have received an assignment request.
Kendra’s eyes widen. “Open it,” she says, sounding nearly giddy with excitement.
“I’m considering throwing the phone into Lake Michigan.” I scowl at the cracked screen, unsure whether I’m ready to open the request.
“You can’t afford a replacement.” Kendra lets go of my hand, freeing it to read the message.
“Thank you for reminding me.” I tap the notification—the client’s name appears first: ARCHIBALD JAMISON III.
Next is a photo of a dark-haired man in an expensive black suit.
His expression is serious but not cold, and his eyes are a striking shade between gray and blue.
He has a strong jaw, broad shoulders, and a mouth that seems to have forgotten how to smile.
Something inside me wants to make him smile.
Thirty-four, founder and chief executive officer of BlackBox Security, the rest of the message reads.
I read the event details twice.
Sunday brunch with business associates and their spouses. Public venue. Two-hour minimum. Conversation and social companionship only.
Beneath the description is the proposed payment. I nearly drop the phone. “Kendra.”
“I see it.” Her face is inches from the screen as she reads over my shoulder.
“That’s more than I make in six weeks.” Sad, but true. Some rich asshole is throwing around five thousand dollars for a two-hour brunch date, and I can barely scrape together enough change for a five-dollar cup of coffee.
“I know.”
“What kind of man pays that much for someone to eat brunch?”
“One who looks like that and is somehow still single.” She taps the screen, making me cringe as a corner of the tape curls up.
I enlarge his photograph—his eyes look guarded—not mean or evil, but lonely. Realizing that makes him seem even more dangerous.
Attraction is a complication I don’t need.
I’ve managed to avoid it through high school and most of college—between classes, work, and weekend glassblowing lessons, I barely had time to sleep.
I’ve certainly never had sex. I haven’t even come close—not once.
Now, if I take the escort assignment, it might be expected.
I look at Arch’s picture again—something in his eyes tells me I won’t have to worry about him asking me to do something I’m not ready for. “What would I wear?”
Kendra lets out a squeal of delight, to the utter disgust of the guy two tables away. “We’ll find something.”
***
On Sunday morning, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, questioning every decision that brought me here. Kendra styles my long brown hair into a loose braid over one shoulder. She adds a little makeup, but I refuse to wear the dramatic red lipstick she wants me to wear.
The dress was mine, a cream sundress with tiny blue and yellow flowers.
It has a fitted bodice, thin straps, and a soft skirt that falls just below my knees.
I bought it at a thrift store two summers ago.
According to Kendra, I look romantic and approachable—though to me, I look like someone who got lost on her way to a picnic.
“You’re beautiful,” she says from the doorway.
“The women at this brunch are going to be wearing designer clothes. My cotton dress is going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Probably.” There’s that shrug of hers again.
“I’m wearing a fourteen-dollar dress.” I run my hands over the soft fabric of my favorite dress.
“Then Archibald Whatever-the-Third can appreciate your talent for finding bargains.”
“His name is Arch.”
“That’s better—Arch sounds hot.”
“Kendra.”
“Sorry.” She hands me my small purse. “Your car is downstairs.”
My palms start to sweat. “Already?”
She hugs me before I can change my mind about the assignment. “Remember, you’re smart, funny, and worth knowing. You aren’t auditioning for him. He’s lucky you accepted.”
I hold on to those words as I walk downstairs. Unfortunately, they vanish when I see the black town car waiting at the curb—I am definitely underdressed.