5.
I sat at the table, my ankle elevated on a spare chair, wrapped tight in an ACE bandage.
Spread out in front of me were five crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills.
I was staring at them, trying to mentally divide the cash into piles that didn't exist. Fifty for groceries.
Sixty for the electric bill so they wouldn't shut off the power.
A hundred for the minimum payment on my Visa.
It was a pathetic game of financial Tetris, and the pieces didn't fit. Because I didn't have five hundred dollars. I had two hundred. The rest was already spent.
My phone buzzed on the table, vibrating against the cheap wood.
Tyler: Come over. NOW. Bring my money. PLEASE.
The all-caps desperation made my stomach turn. I didn't want to go. I wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep for a week. But the fear of what would happen if he didn't pay his bookie—the fear of him losing his scholarship, our only imagined ticket out of this life—compelled me.
I folded three of the hundred-dollar bills, slipped them into my pocket, and limped out the door.
When Tyler opened his door, he looked terrible. Like he hadn't slept. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair messy, and he was pacing the living room like a caged animal.
"Did you get it?" he asked instantly, not even saying hello.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded bills. "Three hundred. Like I promised."
He snatched the money out of my hand so fast he almost ripped it. He counted the bills, his hands shaking slightly, then let out a massive, shuddering sigh of relief. He slumped onto the leather sofa, dropping his head into his hands.
"Oh, thank god," he breathed. "Thank god. This will buy me some time. I can tell him I have a line on the rest."
I stood there in the middle of his living room, leaning on my good leg, feeling utterly exhausted and completely unappreciated.
"You're welcome," I said, my voice cold.
Tyler looked up at me. The panic was fading from his eyes, replaced by a sudden, intense focus. He looked at my hair, which was still styled from the night before, and the residual heavy makeup I hadn't fully managed to scrub off.
"So," Tyler said, his voice changing, dropping into a tone that was entirely too casual. "How was it?"
"How was what?"
"The party, Sloane," he said, standing up and walking toward me. "The Calabasas mansion. All those rich old fucks."
"It was a job, Ty. We served drinks. We left."
He stepped closer, invading my space. He wasn't acting like a relieved boyfriend anymore. There was a weird, almost predatory gleam in his eye.
"Come on," he coaxed, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers felt rough and clumsy. "You were walking around in your uniform. I know how these guys look at you girls on the field. What did they do when they had you in their living room? Did anyone touch you?"
I frowned, stepping back slightly. The line of questioning made me uncomfortable. "Tyler, what are you talking about?"
"Did they touch you, Sloane?" he repeated, his voice harder now. He reached out and grabbed my hip, squeezing it, a poor imitation of the booster from the night before. "Did they grab your ass while you poured their bourbon?"
"Yes," I snapped, the memory bringing a hot flush of shame to my cheeks. "Yes, they were gross. They were drunk. One of them squeezed my ass. Are you happy now?"
I expected him to be angry. I expected the protective, territorial alpha-male reaction he usually had when guys looked at me at parties.
But he wasn't angry. His eyes went wide, and his breathing hitched. He looked down at my body, a sudden, dark arousal washing over his face. He was getting off on the thought of wealthy, powerful men wanting his girlfriend.
"What else?" he demanded, his voice thick. "What else happened?"
He wanted the details. Wanted to jerk off to my humiliation.
"I got cornered in the kitchen," I said, my voice flat and dead. If he wanted the truth, I would give it to him. "One of the boosters followed me in. He asked what I was making. I told him five hundred."
Tyler swallowed hard, his eyes glued to my mouth. "And?"
"He pulled out a money clip," I said, remembering the terrifying, hypnotic weight of the cash on the stainless-steel counter. "He offered me a thousand dollars for a blowjob in the pool house."
Tyler’s face went completely blank. For a second, I saw genuine shock, maybe even a flash of the anger I had expected. "A thousand dollars?" he whispered. "Those arrogant fucks. They think they can buy anything."
"I know," I said, feeling a tiny sliver of validation.
"And you walked away," Tyler continued, his voice changing again. The anger evaporated. He looked at me, his brow furrowing in confusion, and then in slow, dawning frustration. "You just... walked away from a thousand bucks?"
I stared at him, unable to process what I was hearing. "Tyler, he wanted me to suck his dick in a pool house."
"It's a grand, Sloane!" Tyler suddenly shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "A thousand fucking dollars! For five minutes of work!"
I recoiled as if he had hit me. "Are you out of your mind? You're mad that I didn't whore myself?"
"I'm mad that you're standing there acting like we have choices!
" he yelled, pacing the room again, the panic returning, but this time it was directed at me.
"I owe forty grand, Sloane! They are going to break my fucking legs!
Do you know what a thousand dollars would do right now?
It would buy me a month! It would save my life! "
"I'm not a whore, Tyler!" I screamed back, tears of pure, blinding fury finally spilling over my lashes.
"You're whatever we need you to be right now!" he roared, turning on me, his eyes wild. "You think I give a shit if some old man gets off? I wouldn't have minded, Sloane. I would have waited in the car for you to finish! You should have done it!"
The air rushed out of my lungs.
He meant it. My boyfriend—the man I was supposed to marry, the man whose future I was sacrificing my own stability for—would have gladly pimped me out for only a fraction of his gambling debt.
I stood there, trembling, looking at him like I had never seen him before.
The illusion of Tyler the protector, Tyler the future NFL star, shattered into a million sharp, pathetic pieces.
He was weak. He was desperate. And he saw me as nothing more than a piece of ass he could sell to save his own skin.
"I'm leaving," I whispered, turning toward the door, my vision blurred with tears.
"No, you're not," Tyler said. He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising, and yanked me back.
He didn't look desperate anymore. He looked cruel. He was angry that he didn't have the money, and he was taking the power trip out on the only person smaller than him in the room.
"You owe me," he hissed, pushing me back until my knees hit the edge of the leather sofa. "You cost us a grand last night. You need to make it up to me."
"Tyler, let me go," I cried, struggling against his grip, but he was too strong.
He reached down and grabbed the hem of my hoodie. He yanked it up, forcing me to raise my arms, and pulled it over my head. I was wearing a plain white cotton bra underneath.
"Take it off," he said.
I stared at his angry, desperate face. I should have walked out.
But beneath my anger, a sick, heavy thrill spiked between my thighs.
If I walked away, we were done, at least for a week or two.
But if I stayed, I was admitting he was right, that I was just a piece of ass he could sell to fix his messes.
I reached behind my back, my hands shaking with a dark rush of adrenaline, and unclasped my bra.
I let it drop to the floor. I stood before him, half-naked, my arms crossed protectively over my breasts.
"Now get on your knees."
I sank to the floor, my bad ankle throbbing.
He pulled his cock out. It was fully erect, thick and angry. "You want to act like you're too good for a thousand-dollar blowjob? Well, I want to see what that blowjob feels like. Earn your keep, cheerleader."
I opened my mouth, leaned forward, and took his big black cock deep past my lips, ready to show him what a thousand-dollar whore could do.
He didn’t give me the chance. He shoved himself into my throat and I gagged, tears streaming down my face. He refused to let me set the pace. He grabbed my hair, holding me in place, and started to fuck my mouth.
"Yeah, suck it," he grunted, his hips slamming against my face.
"Suck it like you're trying to make your rent. Suck it like you’re on your knees in that pool house for that rich fuck.
Tell me what he would have done to you. Would he have grabbed your hair like this?
Would he have made you choke on it like you choke on mine?
Show me, you little thousand-dollar slut.
Show me what you would have done for him. "
Him and his dirty talk.
I closed my eyes, disconnecting my brain from my body. I let him use my mouth. I swallowed my pride, my anger, and I choked on my shame because it felt so good. I bobbed my head, fighting my gag reflex, just wanting it to be good.
"Oh fuck," Tyler groaned, his rhythm becoming frantic, his grip on my hair tightening painfully. "I'm close. Suck it harder, Sloane."
And I did. I worked him, eager for him to finish, determined to prove myself.
He pulled almost all the way out, holding his thick head just between my lips, his body trembling.
"You know," he panted, looking down at me with a sick, desperate realization in his eyes. "Maybe ... maybe this is how we do it. Maybe this is how you can raise the money I need."
The words registered in my brain a microsecond before he exploded.
He shoved himself deep into my throat and unloaded. The hot, thick jets of his cum hit the back of my throat. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't swallow fast enough. I gagged, choking on his release, but he held my head in place, forcing me to take every drop of his desperate load.
When he finally let go of my hair, I fell back, coughing and sputtering, wiping the stray cum from my lips with the back of my hand.