4. #2
Standing in the archway of a private study, halfway down the hall, was Richard Davies himself.
He was impeccably dressed in a tailored navy suit with no tie. His dark hair was threaded with silver at the temples. He didn't have a drink in his hand. He wasn't slurring his words. He was perfectly sober, and perfectly in control.
He stepped out of the study, walking slowly toward me.
He didn't look at my legs. He didn't look at my chest. He looked directly into my eyes.
"It cost two point four million dollars," he said. His voice echoed slightly in the marble hallway.
He stopped a few feet away from me.
"And by the look on your face," he said, his eyes locking onto mine, holding me captive, "you aren't admiring Richter’s brushstrokes. You're doing the math in your head. You're calculating how many years of your life it would take to earn what’s hanging on my wall."
I froze. I felt like he'd stripped me naked. Dissected me. Stripped away my cheerleader costume and forced smile, and found the desperate, broke girl underneath.
"You're a very beautiful girl." He made it sound like a matter-of-fact observation.
"But you're starving. I can see it. You look around this house and you don't see a party.
You see wealth. You hate the men in that room for having what you want, but you're desperate enough to serve them drinks just to be near it. "
My lips parted, but no sound came out. A hot flush of intense embarrassment and deep, burning resentment rushed up my neck.
He made me feel small. Pathetic. He saw my greed and my desperation, and he was holding it up to the light for me to look at. He had no interest in flirting or seduction or offering me money to get down on my knees. He was dismissing me. I was beneath contempt.
"I ... I should get back to work," I stammered, sounding weak and defensive.
"Yes, you should," he said. "Keep circulating, please. My guests are thirsty."
He left me standing in the hallway, clutching a silver tray, feeling completely insignificant.
Three hours later, the shift finally ended. The event planner handed me a thick, white envelope at the caterer's exit.
I sat in the back of the Uber next to Jessica and Maria, riding in complete silence back down the hill into the valley. I tore the envelope open. Five crisp hundred-dollar bills.
I stared at the money. It felt dirty. Like a down payment on my dignity. And the worst part was, I couldn't even keep it. I had to hand three hundred of it to Tyler tomorrow morning to pay off a bookie.
I felt cheap, angry, and utterly used.
The Uber dropped us off at our apartment complex around 1 AM. Maria went to her unit on the first floor, and Jessica and I climbed the concrete stairs to 2B in heavy silence.
The adrenaline of the night had crashed, dropping me into a dead-eyed, bone-deep exhaustion. I walked into our cramped living room, dropped my cheer jacket on the floor, and sank onto the sagging sofa. My ankle was throbbing with a dull, angry pulse that synced with my heartbeat.
Jessica went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of tap water. She handed me one and sat down next to me. We still had our heavy makeup on, the dark red lipstick smeared, the winged eyeliner smudged. We looked terrible.
"God, that was awful," Jessica finally said, taking a sip of water. "I had a guy ask me if the carpet matched the drapes. He was like, sixty."
"I got cornered in the kitchen," I said, staring at the blank TV screen.
Jessica turned to look at me, her eyes widening. "Cornered? What do you mean? Did one of those creeps touch you?"
"No," I said, rubbing my temples. "He just ... he offered me a thousand dollars."
Jessica stopped breathing. "A thousand dollars? For what?"
"For a blowjob in the pool house."
Jessica said nothing. I looked over at Jessica. She wasn't horrified. She was clearly shocked, yes, but beneath the shock, I saw the gears turning in her head. I saw the same desperate math I had done when the money clip hit the counter.
She would have done it, I realized. If he had cornered her instead of me, she would have sucked his cock and taken his money.
"A grand," she whispered, the number hanging in the air. "Jesus, Sloane. That's... that's two months’ rent."
"I know," I said, my voice brittle. "But I still said no."
"Right. Right, of course you did," she said quickly, looking down at her hands, embarrassed that I had seen the calculation in her eyes.
She took another sip of water, fidgeting with the hem of her pleated skirt. We were both broke, both desperate, and both acutely aware that we had just spent four hours in a room where men threw our monthly income around like pocket change.
"Look," Jessica said, her voice dropping to a low, confessional tone. "I've been thinking about what Maria said at the park. About Sarah and the Sugar Daddy thing."
I stiffened, defensive. "Jessica, you aren't actually considering that, are you?"
"I don't know!" she burst out, her frustration boiling over.
"I don't know what else to do, Sloane! I got another late notice from Visa today.
I can't take another shift at the coffee shop.
I've been looking at the websites. Some of these guys just want to take you to dinner.
They want arm candy. They pay you just to sit there and look pretty. "
"And what happens when they want more than dinner?" I countered, the memory of the booster in the kitchen flashing in my mind. "What happens when they expect a blowjob or more?"
Jessica chewed on her bottom lip.
"I've also been looking at OnlyFans," she said.
I stared at her, stunned. "OnlyFans? Jessica, no."
"Why not?" she argued, defensive now. "It's safe. You don't have to meet anyone. You control what you post. Girls are making bank on there just selling bikini pics and ... and stuff."
"And stuff," I repeated dryly. "You mean porn. You want to make porn."
"It doesn't have to be hardcore!" she insisted. She looked at me, a strange, hesitant vulnerability in her eyes. "Actually ... I was reading the forums. Solo stuff pays okay, but girl-on-girl pays really well. Like, crazy well."
She let that suggestion hang in the air.
Are you asking me to do porn with you?
I wanted to be offended. I wanted to clutch my pearls and act outraged. But I couldn't. I lost the right to be offended by Jessica two months ago at a Delta Sig frat party.
The star quarterback had cornered the two of us in a bedroom. He was drunk, arrogant, and held my boyfriend's playing time in the palm of his hand. He hadn't asked us to sleep with him; he just wanted a show. He wanted to see the two blonde cheerleaders make out.
And we did it. Because that was what cheerleaders do.
That was what the 'good girls' did to keep their boys happy.
We had kissed, clumsily and nervously, while a guy we hated jerked off in the corner.
If I was willing to do that for free just to appease a twenty-year-old quarterback, how could I judge her for wanting to do it for a thousand dollars a month on camera?
"Jessica," I said softly, deflating, the fight leaving me.
"I can't do OnlyFans. I thought about it.
But the internet is forever. If we ever want real jobs, real lives after this ...
if a hiring manager or a client finds a video of us going down on each other, it's over.
We'd be selling our future for quick cash. "
Jessica slumped back against the sofa, defeated. She knew I was right.