Paid With Innocence

1. Megan

MEGAN

“It’s one date, Megs! All you have to do is show up, get treated to an expensive dinner, and go home!” I glance over at Trish from the watercolor landscape I’m working on and give her that frown that only people who have been friends for years understand.

“I am not going to get paid to sleep with a guy—”

“Whoa, who said anything about sleeping with him?” she protests, shifting around so she’s right in front of me. I twist my lips and look back at my brush, doing my best to ignore her. “You’re just there to be good company. Arm candy. His companion for the night.”

I frown up at her. “Okay, first of all, isn’t companion just code for hanky-panky—?”

“Hanky-panky?” She bursts out laughing. “Are you my grandma or something?”

“And second of all, no man wants me as arm candy.”

Trish leans in, grabs me by the shoulders, and starts to shake me. “Girl, when are you going to learn that if you actually just put a tiny bit of effort into your appearance, you’d have men all over you?”

I scoff and pull away from her. I appreciate Trish always saying things to inspire me, but our relationship is clear: She’s the hot one.

The rich one. And I’m the awkward broke one.

I live in a tiny studio apartment with a bathroom I can’t even stretch my arms out in and have to use a hot plate to cook on because there isn’t even a kitchen.

Late at night, I have to put in ear plugs to sleep because my landlord blasts Ted Nugent past our designated quiet hours.

He’s also made more than a few comments to me that could be considered…

flirtatious at best and harassment at worst. But he drinks so much it wouldn’t surprise me to see him hitting on a tree.

“I don’t know why you don’t believe me,” she goes on. “A little makeup, some actual decent clothes, and maybe do your hair once in a while?”

“Well, excuse me if I’m saving all my money for instant ramen so I don’t starve to death,” I reply, sticking my tongue out. She gives me that commiserating look back and drops it.

We’re both eighteen now but have been friends since we were ten.

Dad left when I was thirteen, and Mom got remarried—to the bottle.

I moved out as soon as possible to get away from the string of scumbags coming in and out of the trailer.

I got a job as a waitress, but my hours have been cut so drastically that I’m now two months behind on rent.

If I don’t figure something out quickly, I’m going to be out on the streets.

“I actually need your help tonight, Megs,” Trish says. “I kinda…double-booked.”

“Double-booked? You’re kidding me!” I can’t help but laugh. “So you have two dates tonight, and you want me to cover one?”

She giggles like a kid who’s been caught sneaking an extra brownie from her mom’s freshly baked stash. She shrugs. “What can I say?”

Trish has found a ridiculously lucrative way of making money.

Basically, she finds wealthy men on dating sites and gets them to take her out on dates and buy her things.

She milks them for as much money as she can, and when they want to get serious, she makes up some excuse as to why she can’t be in a relationship right now.

I could never do it, but hey, as Jay-Z said and Trish loves repeating: Can’t knock the hustle.

“There is no way,” I reply, mixing some green for the tree I’m working on. “You really think one of these rich guys is going to be happy seeing me when he’s expecting you?”

“First of all, you need to stop being so self-deprecating,” Trish says, scolding me like a teacher. “Second of all, he doesn’t know what I look like.”

“What?” I ask. “Didn’t you meet him on an app?”

She fidgets awkwardly, trying not to laugh. “He’s only seen me from here”—she holds her hand flat just below her lip line—“down…if you know what I mean.”

I burst out laughing. Just another one of the places where Trish and I differ. She looks at her body as a tool—just a way to get guys to spend money on her. I look at my body as something sacred. Something special that only the man I fall in love with will get to see.

I guess that’s why not a single guy in the world has seen it yet…

“Trish, you are nuts,” I laugh.

She grabs her phone and holds it out to me. “Here, look. This is him. Look how insanely gorgeous he is—”

But before I can look, there’s a pounding at my door like someone is trying to break in. I gasp like I just got jump-scared by a slasher movie.

Oh, no. It’s him.

“All right, Miss Anson!” Derek bellows, hammering the door again. “It’s time to pay up! You’re two months behind!”

Leaping up, I race to the counter and grab the envelope where I’ve been stashing away any extra money I can save. It’s not much, but maybe it’ll be enough to get him off my back.

Brushing back my hair, I put on my best good-girl face and open the door.

Derek stands there in his greasy tank-top and shorts, looking like he’s a six-pack past his limit already.

His glassy eyes move up from my feet to my breasts, then pause.

A shudder runs through me. He’s not even trying to hide it.

“Hi,” I say, trying to sound as sweet as possible. Trish would be a hundred times better at this. “I am really sorry about this. Things have just been really tough at work—”

“Yeah, yeah, save it,” he grumbles. “Everyone’s got excuses.”

“I have this for you.”

I hand him the envelope, and I hold my breath as he sifts through it. After counting it twice, he scowls and shakes his head at me. He’s pissed.

“This isn’t even half of what you owe me!”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but like I said, they’ve cut my hours at work and—”

To my surprise, he takes a step forward and leans in, almost like he’s trying to sniff my neck or something. I can smell the beer on him, as well as at least two days’ worth of sweat.

“You know,” he whispers, “there’s always another way we could work out your payment. If you catch my drift…”

My skin crawls as his proposition sinks in. I want to slap him. Hard. But that would be a bad idea. Instead, I take a step back and give him my best death stare.

“I’d rather sit on a wasp’s nest!” I snarl before slamming the door in his face.

I hear him howl something from the other side, but I’m already blocking it out. I shouldn’t have done that, but it’s too late now. Heart pounding, I turn back to Trish and take a deep breath.

“So…what’s that guy look like again?”

An hour later, I barely recognize myself in the mirror.

I’m wearing Trish’s mauve sequin dress, my hair’s been fluffed up in some glamor-model style I’ve never worn, and the makeup job she did on me has me looking like I’ve got a real-life Instagram filter on.

Oh, and I’m wearing a pair of heels that feel like stilts.

“Going to break an ankle tonight,” I mutter, taking a few practice steps across the room.

“You’re going to be fine,” Trish replies. “Just take it slow, flatter him, act all cute and innocent—which you are—”

“Yes, yes, your friend’s a virgin,” I reply, waving my hand.

“You’re gonna make so much money.”

A sound from outside catches my attention, and I look out the window to see a car pulling into the driveway. I guess you could call it a car. A more apt description would be a mansion on wheels. It’s black, shiny, enormous, and looks like it was custom built for Mark Cuban.

My blood instantly starts pumping as I point down at it.

“Is that…?”

Trish nods. “Your ride for tonight. It’s a Rolls Royce.”

“Rolls Royce?” I reply. The name sounds familiar, but I know absolutely nothing about cars. Trish just laughs.

“You’re so adorable, babe. Now remember, his name is Orson, and he’s thirty-eight.” Thirty-eight. That’s more than double my age. Why does that turn me on? “So don’t talk about social media and doom scrolling and K-pop, okay?”

I frown. “Right, like I know anything about those things.”

Trish shrugs. “I’m just saying—”

“I understand,” I say quickly, taking a moment to calm my nerves—or at least attempt to.

This is crazy. I’m going on a paid date with a man I’ve never met before and being picked up in a car that looks like it cost more than the building I’m living in.

“You’re gonna kill it,” Trish says, rubbing my back. “Who knows, maybe Orson will turn out to be your Prince Charming!”

I open my eyes and scoff as I grab my purse off the back of my Goodwill chair.

“Yeah, and maybe Derek will turn out to be a women’s rights activist.”

Trish cackles, and I give her a peck on the cheek before heading out. Taking the stairs in these heels is like hiking down Mount Everest in the middle of a storm. I’m a Crocs girl—a sandals girl. Any kind of slip-on slip-off shoe that makes my life easier.

As I step outside, I break out in goosebumps, and it’s not because it’s cold out; it’s because there’s a man in a suit standing outside the car, and he is not Orson.

“Good evening, miss,” he says flatly as he opens the back door for me. “I’m William. I’ll be your driver this evening.”

Wow, Orson has a driver? That’s what I want to say. But Trish would never say that, and I’m supposed to be Trish tonight. So doing what is probably an over-the-top impression of my best friend, I simply nod and slide in like the princess I’m supposed to be.

I was right; this car is a mansion on wheels. The amount of leg room seems impossible. There are two screens, cup holders, and if I’m not mistaken, recliner controls. Just for fun, I press one of them, and yep, the seat tilts back.

“Wow,” I say under my breath as William pulls out of the driveway. This is like flying first class to dinner. The night has barely started, and it’s like I’ve stepped into another universe. This is really how the other half lives, huh? Expensive leather, reclining seats, personal drivers…

Meanwhile, I can’t even pay my rent or afford a place with an actual kitchen.

I keep thinking back to the picture of the man I’m supposed to be meeting tonight.

It can’t be real, can it? Trish has to be playing a prank on me.

She must have pulled up a photo of a male model or used AI to generate one or something.

He was so good-looking that I’m getting nervous just thinking about it.

And as we pull into the expensive part of town, where only the rich people go, I’m sure I’m going to have a panic attack.

You’re gonna do great. I replay Trisha’s words in my mind as I practice square breathing and try to relax.

Freaking out at this point won’t help anybody.

But when William pulls up in front of L’Oiseau d’Or, the most exclusive restaurant in the city, and I see all the gorgeous women in their expensive dresses and jewelry, I grab my phone and dial Trish.

It rings once, and that’s when my door opens. William extends his hand. “We’ve arrived.”

This is it. I can’t back out now. Not only am I broke and this close to being out on the street, but I also promised my friend I’d cover for her. And we never go back on a promise when we’ve made one.

“Don’t freak out!” Her voice buzzes from my phone, clutched at my side.

“Sorry,” I hiss back. “We’re here. Gotta go!”

I quickly hang up, then reach out and take William’s hand.

He helps me step out of the car, and somehow, I manage not to topple over like a tree as I walk up to the door.

A couple of girls give me the look—the one the cool girls in school always give anyone that isn’t them—and I instantly feel even more out of place than I already do.

A man in a black suit raises his chin as I walk up to him. “Name, please?”

“Um, Megan—” I start to say, but then realize what an idiot I am. He’s not going to have my name on the reservation. Why would he? “Orson…” God, what was his last name?

“Orson,” I say confidently. “Orson Brooks.”

The ma?tre d’ smiles instantly, as if I just said the secret passcode.

“Right this way.”

It’s like I’m floating as I step into the restaurant.

You can practically feel the money. So much wealth.

Bottles of champagne, gold watches, and diamonds everywhere.

Even the way these people behave is a far cry from the regulars I get at the diner.

They laugh like they own the world, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them do.

Focusing on my breaths, I keep walking, every step deliberate. You’re not gonna fall. You’re not gonna fall.

Just when I think I’ve got myself under control, I see him.

He sits like a king at a table on his own—a table with more space around it than any of the others in the room, like the restaurant is giving him special treatment. He sits cross-legged and upright, surveying the room.

Even seated, I can tell he’s tall, well over six foot.

His hair is dark and immaculately combed back.

His green eyes are crisp and electric, and his jaw looks like it was carved out of stone.

He has just a tiny hint of stubble and broad shoulders like a gladiator in a suit.

When he sees me, his eyes narrow, and my heart leaps.

And that’s when I realize that the photo Trish showed me of him wasn’t accurate at all.

He is way better looking in person, and that just does not seem possible.

“Hello, Trish,” he says with a smile that nearly knocks me over. “Nice to meet you. I’m Orson.”