Twenty-four by thirty-six-inch laminated posters of hot girls lifted from the Internet dotted the plain white walls. Sam even printed up cheesy italicized phrases like; whatever you desire and we turn fantasies into reality.
When Rachel rolled her eyes at the effort Sam said, “Trust me, it’s the perfect amount of cheese for a dumb college kid with a trust fund.”
With the help of Maya, Rachel’s longtime friend and expert computer hacker adding final touches, Rachel built a website in two hours stacked with stock Internet photos of sexy girls all over the two-page site. Rachel got a kick out of writing up erotic bios and fake names for the girls.
As she tweaked the site, she heard Colt’s late model Corvette Stingray pull up to the building. Of course he had a ’Vette, Rachael thought thinking back to the night she met Colt at the bar. Colt and his bro Brian a.ka. Biff (where do they get these names?) were pre-celebrating the end of Biff’s life of freedom. “The dumb shit’s getting married,” Colt would holler after each tequila shot. These guys were beyond ripe for the picking. Rachel introduced herself as Julia and barely broke a sweat roping in Colt, the best man.
A couple rounds of drinks in, Rachel had Colt begging her for her company’s services because so far he hadn’t planned shit for the bachelor party and it was two weeks away.
“That’s what I’m here for my friend. Relax, get drunk and call me day after tomorrow,” Rachel purred.
“Aw, man you’re a fuckin’ lifesaver, honey. But wait,” he said fighting to focus his eyes. “Are the bitches, sorry, la—ladies hot like you, and can I get any kind o’ girls?”
“Colt my man I’ve got white girls, black girls, Asians and more. I can get you big tits, small tits, real tits and fake ones. Naughty Girls has petit girls all the way up to plus- size. When you come in for a meeting we’ll go through the roster,” she said using a sports phrase she thought the sophomore jock would appreciate. “You won’t be disappointed, my friend.”
Colt swayed on his feet then stumbled in and gave Rachel a rib-crushing bear hug. She felt sorry for Colt’s opponents on the football field. Rachel slithered out of his grasp before the big dolt thought he had a shot with her. Later, when she met Sam in the bar’s lot she gave her head a shake at seeing the Vette with the vanity plate: CLT DAWG.
“Geez, I wonder whose car that is?” she said.
“Now let’s not go jumping to conclusions,” Sam said with a facetious grin. The Porsche door opened by him merely touching the door handle since the key was in his pocket.
“I could get used to this car,” Sam said climbing in.
“That day is around the corner, babe,” Rachel said, and slid into the passenger seat.
“Good morning,” Rachel said, rising from her seat. The burly college kid’s hair was disheveled. Cheap sunglasses covered his eyes. A giant coffee cup trembled slightly in his large hand.
“Oh dear, feeling a bit rough today, Colt?”
“You could say that. I swear this whole wedding is bullshit,” he said, plopping down heavily into the chair opposite Rachel’s. “I don’t know if it’s day three or four on this friggin’ bender. We’ve been balls to the wall twenty-four-sev’.”
“Well you’re here so let me brighten your day. If your coffee runs dry I’ve got more in the back.”
“Thanks Julia.”
“You got it.” Rachel said. She pulled up the fake Naughty Girls website and spun the laptop around for Colt to see. He took off his sunglasses, revealing deep red bloodshot watery eyes.
“Everything you could ever ask for,” Rachel said. “Take your time.”
Colt barely lasted ten seconds before asking for a bathroom. Rachel led him to it and immediately heard vomiting behind the door. She hoped he didn’t make too big a mess for Minerva and her ninos to clean up. When he returned, he whined again that he and Biff had been partying their asses off non-stop getting primed for the wedding. And for the life of him he couldn’t understand why Biff would want to walk away from the party life. Rachel strongly agreed and lied that she’d tried marriage once and would never do it again.
Colt sped through the site and picked eight girls.
“You’re in luck, Colt. These girls are all…oh hang on,” she paused. “Okay, Tiffany and let’s see, Brittney are booked on another event. So that means six of your girls are good to go but you’ll need to grab two others. Here,” she spun the laptop back around for the client. Colt quickly found two substitutes claiming they were hot enough—he supposed. Rachel complimented his choices and pressed on.
“And you wanted the three-hour booze cruise, yes?”
Rachel used her phone calculator to tally up the phony bill. For a moment Colt looked around the office with a knitted brow. “Didn’t you say you was in business for like six years or some shit? This place looks kinda—”
“We just opened this location,” she said. “Our fifteenth in the U.S., actually. Sorry about the mess.”
“No shit,” he said with eyebrows raised. He frowned into his coffee cup then knocked back the rest of the drink and followed it with a loud burp.
Rachel was done a minute later. “Ok we’ve got the cruise at twenty-five hundred. The booze will require a thousand-dollar deposit and you’ll be billed if you go over. Let’s see, eight girls at three hundred each is another twenty-four hundred and—”
“The boat seems kinda cheap,” Colt said, looking a little green. “I’m not renting a piece of shit tugboat for the Biff-man.”
Ooh this kid is funded…
“Well that’s because I haven’t added in the captain, crew and caterers,” she said thinking quickly on her feet.
“What’s that shit run?”
Rachel fake calculated on her phone while pulling the math from her head.
“Thirty-eight hundred,” she said finally.
“So what am I looking at all in? I need to get outta here. No offensive but I feel like shit.”
No offensive, but you look like it, too. Rachel thought fast. “We’re at ninety-seven hundred.”
“Deposit is—”
“And my fifteen per cent puts you at eleven thousand one hundred and fifty-five.”
Why not push it?
“I like you, Colt. Let’s call it eleven grand even. With sixty per cent down that’s sixty-six hundred. Okay, for sixty-five hundred cash now you can go enjoy the sunshine.” Rachel smiled, leaning close so he could drink in her perfume.
“Fuck the sunshine, I’m going back to bed.” He hauled out a fat roll of bills, smacked the money on the desk, and stood.
Rachel said, “Great, I just need an email address so I can send you the contract and receipt.”
With a heavy sigh, Colt spewed, “Coltdawgmoney69 and that’s a gmail account,” he said. “Oh and by the way dog is spelled d-a-w-g.”
“Like your sweet license plate,” Rachel said.
“You’re friggin’ sweet,” Colt beamed, shook Rachel’s hand and hurried out.
Rachel climbed into the Porsche and spanked the dash with the stack of hundreds. Sam gave her a big smile and a kiss.
“Let’s blow this joint, babe!” Rachel said. “We got our travel money.”
Click here to learn more about Travel Money by Jonathan Brown.
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The Down and Out Page 10