4.
Saturday evening tasted like hairspray and impending regret.
I stood in front of the warped full-length mirror attached to the back of our bathroom door, staring at a stranger. On a football Saturday, the uniform felt athletic. It felt like I was part of a team.
Tonight, in the harsh, flickering fluorescent light of the dorm bathroom, the stiff polyester felt entirely different. It felt like a costume.
I smoothed the pleats of the skirt down over my thighs.
It barely covered my ass. The tailored shell top pushed my breasts up, the university logo stretching tight across my cleavage.
I had applied my makeup heavier than usual—a dark red lip, sharp winged eyeliner, and enough contour to make my cheekbones look like weapons.
I looked older, harder. I didn't look like a student; I looked like a high-end fantasy available for rent.
"You ready?" Jessica asked, stepping up behind me in the mirror. She looked equally uncomfortable, tugging at the hem of her own skirt.
"Let's just get this over with," I muttered, grabbing my cheer jacket to cover up for the ride over.
The Uber ride from the edge of the campus up into the Calabasas hills felt like we were crossing the border into a different universe.
We passed the strip malls and dive bars of our reality and began the long, winding ascent.
The streetlights faded, replaced by the soft, meticulously planned ambient glow of sprawling estates hidden behind wrought-iron gates and high hedges.
The driver pulled up to a set of massive, heavy iron gates that swung open silently as we approached.
We drove up a long, circular driveway paved with imported stone, flanked by a fleet of cars that cost more than my entire extended family would earn in a decade: Bentleys, Aston Martins, a sleek silver McLaren.
"Jesus," Maria breathed from the back seat, staring out the window. "This guy owns the world."
We were directed to the caterer's entrance at the side of the house. The moment we stepped into the massive, gleaming industrial kitchen, the illusion of being 'guests' vanished completely.
A severe woman in a sharp black suit and a headset—the event planner—was barking orders at a small army of waitstaff in white button-downs.
"Cheerleaders!" she snapped, spotting the four of us in our bright orange and blue uniforms. "Over here. Now."
We hurried over. She handed each of us a heavy silver tray loaded with crystal tumblers of amber liquid.
"Bourbon. Neat. Two fingers," she recited quickly, not making eye contact. "You circulate the main living area and the patio. Do not speak unless spoken to. If they ask you a question about the team, you smile, give a generic answer, and move on. You are ambiance, not conversationalists. Go."
I took a deep breath, pushed through the swinging kitchen doors, and stepped onto the floor.
The main living area was cavernous, a modern fortress of glass, white stone, and dark, polished wood.
It smelled of expensive cigar smoke, roasted meats, and the sharp, distinct scent of old money and absolute power.
There were maybe fifty men in the room, all in bespoke suits, laughing loudly, holding court.
The moment the four of us stepped onto the sunken living room floor, something shifted.
I could almost smell the change in the air.
Conversations paused. Heads turned. I felt a dozen pairs of eyes lock onto me instantly.
They weren't looking at me the way frat boys did—sloppy and obvious.
They looked at me with cold, entitled calculation.
I was a party favor. A piece of the university they had bought and paid for, delivered to their living room.
I forced a bright, plastic smile onto my face and began to circulate.
"Bourbon, sir?" I offered, approaching a group of older men by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the infinity pool.
"Well, don't you look spirited," a man in his late fifties slurred slightly, reaching for a glass.
His hand was heavy with gold rings. As he took the tumbler, he didn't pull his hand back.
He let his knuckles brush deliberately across the bare skin of my waist, right where the crop top ended and the skirt began.
I flinched internally, my breath catching. Keep moving.
"Thank you, sir," I chirped, keeping the smile plastered on my face, twisting my body slightly to break the contact.
I walked away, my heart hammering against my ribs. I looked across the room for the other girls.
Maria was navigating a group near the fireplace, expertly side-stepping a man who was trying to lean in too close. Jessica looked terrified, clutching her tray near the hallway.
And then I saw Lauren.
She wasn't holding a tray. She was standing in the center of the room, holding a crystal tumbler, laughing brightly with a group of three men.
One of them was her father. He had his arm around her shoulders, proudly showing off his beautiful, athletic daughter to his peers.
She had completely abandoned the job, swept back into her own social class the second she recognized a friendly face.
She wasn't the help. We were.
The sheer unfairness of it burned in my chest. With Lauren playing guest, the three of us had to cover the entire massive room. The hazards increased. A hand brushed my lower back. A man 'accidentally' bumped into me, his hip pressing into my ass for a split second too long.
I was exhausted within the first hour. The psychological toll of constantly evading physical contact, of maintaining the bright, vacant smile while older men visually undressed me, was draining my energy faster than a full tumbling routine.
My sprained ankle, tightly wrapped in athletic tape under my white sock, was throbbing with a dull, angry rhythm.
I needed to reload my tray. I needed a minute to breathe.
I hurried back toward the swinging doors of the kitchen, slipping through them with a heavy sigh of relief.
The kitchen was empty. The catering staff must have moved to the patio to set up the carving stations. I walked over to the prep island, setting the empty silver tray down on the stainless-steel counter, and leaned forward, resting my weight on my hands, closing my eyes.
"You look like you need a break."
The voice was thick, slightly slurred, and entirely too close.
I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.
A man was standing just inside the kitchen doors. He was one of the boosters—late forties, red-faced, his tie loosened. He had a drink in his hand and a predatory, confident smile on his face. He had followed me.
"I'm just getting refills, sir," I said quickly, reaching for a bottle of bourbon on the counter, trying to keep the heavy prep island between us.
He didn't move toward the bourbon. He moved toward me, stepping around the island, cutting off my path to the door.
"They work you girls hard," he noted, his eyes dropping to my chest, lingering on the logo stretched tight across my breasts, then dropping lower, staring blatantly at my bare legs. "What do they pay you for a gig like this? A hundred bucks? Two?"
I froze. My grip tightened on the neck of the bourbon bottle. "Five hundred, sir."
He chuckled, a wet, dismissive sound. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a thick silver money clip. It was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills.
He peeled off ten bills, snapping them crisply between his fingers, and dropped them onto the stainless-steel counter right next to my hand.
A thousand dollars.
"I'll give you double that," the booster said, his voice dropping to a harsh, greedy whisper.
He took another step closer, trapping me against the counter.
I could smell the alcohol and the stale cigar smoke on his breath.
"For ten minutes in the pool house. Just a blowjob.
You don't even have to take that little skirt off. "
The world seemed to stop spinning.
A thousand dollars. It was two months of rent. It was textbooks. It was peace of mind. The temptation to get on my knees, close my eyes, and solve all my problems in ten minutes or less was almost fucking irresistible.
But then I looked at his face. The arrogance. The absolute certainty that I was a product he could buy right off the shelf in his friend's kitchen.
The temptation vanished, replaced by a cold, sick knot in my gut.
"No," I said, my voice shaking, but loud enough to echo in the kitchen.
He frowned, his face darkening with instant annoyance. "Come on, sweetheart. Don't play hard to get. A grand must be more than you make all month."
"I said no," I repeated, my voice firmer. I grabbed my empty silver tray like a shield. "The event planner is coming back in a minute, sir. I need to get back to the floor."
I didn't wait for his response. I shoved past him, my shoulder bumping hard against his chest, and practically ran out the swinging doors.
I didn't go back to the living room. I couldn't face the crowd.
I turned left, hurrying down a long, quiet marble hallway that led away from the noise of the party, desperate for a place to compose myself.
My hands were shaking so violently the tray was rattling against my side.
Tears of pure, hot humiliation prickled at the corners of my eyes.
I stopped in front of a massive, vibrant abstract painting illuminated by a gallery light. I stared at the chaotic splashes of color, trying to focus my breathing.
A thousand dollars for a blowjob.
Those words echoed in my head. What sort of bastard did that to a girl half his age?
A vulnerable, desperate girl? What kind of asshole boyfriend would put me in a position where I was desperate enough to even consider it for a second?
I decided I hated the painting in front of me, and the entire world of wealth it represented—a world where men could casually drop a thousand dollars to degrade a girl in a kitchen.
"It's a Gerhard Richter."
The voice was smooth and cold.
I spun around, clutching the tray to my chest.