by Amy Brent
It was never a pleasant conversation in my experience.
Chapter Two
Devon
The financial aid’s words were ringing around in my brain like a fire alarm. “If you can’t pay for half of the semester by the final deadline in two weeks, you will not be studying this term.” Half of my semester’s tuition was sixteen thousand dollars. I hadn’t seen that kind of cash in any span of time shorter than six months. My receptionist job did not pay nearly enough for me to be paying for my own school.
I sighed and tried to meet the eye of the financial advisor sitting across from me at her cubicle. “There are no other resources I can use to try to cover some of the cost?” I asked, hearing the desperation dripping from my mouth. “I just really can’t be set back a semester, and I’ll be able to pay it all back. Putting the money down up front is just a lot, and—”
“Darling,” the advisor said, taking off her red-framed cat eye glasses and placing them on the desk between us, “I wish I didn’t have to tell you no. I know how hard it is. But at this point, there is nothing more the school can do for you. Now, our time is up, and I must meet with my next appointment. Good luck, Devon. Truly.” She gave me a tight-lipped smile, plucked her glasses up, and slid them back on her nose. Then, she attempted to look busy by straightening out the items on her desk, stapler, pen holder, nameplate, picture frame with an image of her on a cruise with someone I assumed was her husband wearing khaki pants, white running shoes, and a blue-striped polo shirt.
I stood up and gathered my book bag, purse, and denim jacket. “Thank you for your time,” I managed to say, even though I wasn’t thankful at all. I was doomed.
I left the financial aid department and made my way through the maze of hallways on the first level of New York University. I emerged in the foyer a few minutes later. The sunshine streaming in through the upper windows did nothing to brighten my mood. My dream of earning my Master’s of Business was seeming more and more unattainable.
Sixteen thousand dollars in two weeks. I couldn’t make two thousand dollars in two weeks with my current semester schedule and the hours I was working at the office. Not to mention, I had other priorities like rent, transportation, food, etc. I’d known New York wasn’t cheap, but up until now, there had been a big part of me that believed I could make it work. No matter what happened, I would find a way to graduate from New York University. After that, the world would be my oyster.
Now, the world felt too big, too daunting, and too cruel.
I cut across campus and up West Fourth, past the student housing and my own building. I kept my head down, determinedly not making eye contact with anyone on the busy sidewalks for fear of them knowing how much of a failure I was. I had one destination in mind as I walked my route without paying much mind to it. I had walked it so many times over the last few years.
I needed to see Heather. She was the only one who would be able to talk me out of calling it quits for real this time. I was scared that even she might not be able to see a light at the end of the tunnel this time.
Heather lived in a three-story, supremely skinny townhouse about a twenty-five-minute walk from NYU. I hurried up the concrete steps to her front door, praying she was home, and knocked anxiously. As I waited, I crammed my hands into my pockets to ward off the chill in the air. It was only five in the evening, but fall had arrived in New York and had brought with it a dry coldness that had already made most of the leaves on the trees dry up and turn yellow, red, and gold.
The door opened. Heather stood smiling at me, her dyed crimson hair pulled back in a sleek bun on top of her head. Her smile fell when the cold air hit her. “Holy smokes,” she muttered, stepping aside for me to come in. “You’ll freeze your nipples off out there. Get in here.”
I slipped inside, and she closed and locked the door behind me. “Thanks,” I said, waiting for her to invite me to stay for a while.
“Did you just finish class?” she asked.
“Yeah. Well, sort of. I had to skip the end of my last lecture to meet with the financial aid advisor.”
“Right,” Heather said, her expression tightening. She knew the odds I had been up against when it came to university and money. “How did it go?”
“About as bad as it possibly could have. I need to come up with sixteen grand in two weeks, or I’m not going to be able to take the next semester.”
Heather looked as bad as I felt. “I’m sorry, Dev,” she said, reaching out and rubbing my shoulder. “Want to stay for a while? I don’t have any plans for the night, but I was about to throw together a plate of nachos and have a glass of wine. There’s more than enough for two.”
“That would be great,” I said, shrugging out of my coat and stepping out of my boots. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
The main floor of Heather’s townhouse had a vintage sort of feel to it. The hardwood floors were the original ones put in the house when it was built over eighty years ago. Heather had finished it with a darker stain to conceal some of the wear and tear it had endured from previous residents, and the rich color gave the space a very romantic sort of feeling. The walls and most of her furniture were white but rustic. Everything looked like it belonged in a home decorating catalog.
In the kitchen, I helped prepare nachos. I grated cheese while Heather chopped onions, peppers, and jalapenos.
“So,” she said, “let’s use our brains to figure this pickle out. You’ve been in tight spots before. There’s always a solution.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never had to come up with that kind of cash so quickly.”
“There’s a first for everything,” she winked.
“Don’t get any shady ideas,” I scolded, pointing the half-grated brick of cheese at her accusingly.
“Not shady,” she said, shaking her head. “Practical. You need the money. I know ways that could get you that cash really quickly. No strings attached. But you might freak out a bit at first. Are you willing to hear me out?”
I resumed grating the cheese and shrugged one shoulder. “Listening couldn’t hurt.”
“Exactly,” she said, pouring nacho chips on a plate now. “I had a friend who was in a similar situation as you. She needed to come up with some quick cash in a short time frame. She did a bit of research and came across a site for cam girls. Do you know what cam girls are?”
I arched an eyebrow and stopped grating. “I do. I don’t think I should be—”
“You said you would listen,” Heather interrupted, “so listen. In one week, she made ten grand just like that! She was able to control what she wanted to show and what she didn’t. You’re a sexy girl, Dev. You have the kind of body people would be willing to pay for. Only if it’s something you’d be comfortable with. You don’t have to show it all, just enough to open the floodgates for the cash flow.”
“I don’t think I’m comfortable with that,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” Heather said, taking my cutting board away from me and scraping the grated cheese off it onto the nachos. She proceeded to decorate it with the rest of the toppings before popping it in the microwave. “Nobody is going to force you to do anything. But you and I both know how much you have wanted your MBA from NYU. It’s priority number one on your bucket list. If there’s a way to make that happen, why not at least try?”
It was hard not to see the logic of what Heather was saying.
“Forget I said anything,” Heather said as she peered at the timer on the microwave. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure there are other ways you can make money without having to take your clothes off or suck on your own fingers in front of a camera.”
I laughed and covered my mouth. Heather joined in, and we erupted in a fit of giggles at the prospect of me sitting on my bed at home with my fingers in my mouth.
The nachos were tasty, and we spent the rest of the evening talking about everything other than my current money situation. When we were finished filling up on carbs and cheese, we sipped our w
ine and put on a movie.
I left halfway through. I was so tired that I had dozed off while managing to stay completely upright. I caught the bus back to my campus apartment, took the stairs up the six flights to my floor—our elevator had been out of service for the last month—and let myself in.
It still smelled like the cinnamon bagel I had for breakfast that morning before I went to school. I dropped my book bag by the door and shuffled through my tiny kitchen and living room to the back of my apartment where my bedroom was. I cut through it, nearly tripping over some of my clothes strewn across the carpet, and went into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth with sleepy eyes and stared at my reflection.
A cam girl. What an interesting prospect. I had never, ever considered doing something like that. I was the girl who liked to wear long-sleeve shirts when I wore short skirts. I liked to have a nice balanced ratio of bare skin to covered skin. Looking at my reflection with toothpaste dribbling out of the corner of my mouth wasn’t helping.
I spat, rinsed, and drank a cup of cool water. Then, I stripped butt naked and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door.
I was, and always had been, quite physically fit. As somewhat of a type A personality, I couldn’t get through my day without squeezing in a workout of some sort. Presently, I liked running in the mornings. With the arrival of the cold weather, that was likely to change to something indoors. Perhaps I would start swimming lengths again.
There was a line down the middle of my stomach that, in the mornings, turned into the outline of four abs. My breasts were firm and perky but not overly large. My thighs were thick, and my ass was more than shapely. Buying pants had always been a struggle for me with my hips and small waist. I didn’t mind. I liked my body. I had worked to maintain it, and I treated it well.
Perhaps there were people out in the world who would be willing to pay a pretty penny for me to show a little bit more of myself. Maybe I could wear a mask. Maybe I could develop a persona.
The Silver Siren.
Lady Lillian.
Her Highness.
I shook my head, appalled at my own terrible ideas. I would have to work on that. Branding was important, I told myself.
Being sexy was also crucial, and that was not something I was good at. I felt like more of an athlete. Sexy was not a word I would ever choose to describe myself. Awkward, shy, smart, those all felt more fitting to me. But people didn’t sign on to watch smart cam girls, did they?
I highly doubted it. They wanted a girl who looked good while she pulled her thong down her legs and proceeded to twirl it in a circle while it hung from the heel of her stiletto.
I didn’t own any stilettos or panties I would be willing to spin around in front of a camera.
I sighed, gathered my clothes from the floor, and went to bed. I lay beneath the covers and stared at the ceiling until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. Then I drifted off into a restless sleep of being escorted off NYU campus in nothing but a very revealing black piece of lingerie that left little to the imagination.
My knees were skinned and burning from falling so many times while trying to walk in my six-inch heels.
Chapter Three
Ethan
“Mr. Garrison,” my financial advisor, Reginald, said slowly, “you are worth just over five and a half billion dollars. Based on your growth over the past six months, I would count on a healthy estimation that you will clear six billion by the first quarter of next year.”
I ran my hand through my hair and tried to digest what the white-haired, frail man in front of me was saying. Over five billion dollars to my name. How had that happened?
“I can’t believe it,” I said.
Reginald nodded with a wistful smile and used his index finger to push his silver-framed glasses farther up his very large nose. “It is a lot of money, sir. I know we have discussed the following quite thoroughly, but I feel compelled to bring it up again. It is crucial that you find yourself a successor, Mr. Garrison. This kind of money needs to be passed down. You need to protect you and your family.”
“I understand,” I said, already feeling bitter at the subject matter, “but I’m not ready to settle down yet. I’m twenty-nine. There’s time for such things later.”
“Time is relative,” Reginald said. “You don’t know how much of it you have left. If you aren’t willing to appoint the business to your sister or other relative, you must take the initiative to make other arrangements.”
“Other arrangements?” I asked skeptically.
“Indeed.” Reginald nodded, closing his book in front of him and leaning back in the chair across from me. He pressed all of his fingertips together and stared at me over top of them. “Twenty-nine is plenty old enough to consider an heir, Mr. Garrison.”
“An heir?” I nearly scoffed. “What is this, the eighteen hundreds?”
“Hardly,” Reginald said. “It is preparedness. It is wisdom. If there is no one you’re willing to hand everything to, perhaps you need to start from scratch. A child is a wonderful thing. And I must say, as your friend, Ethan, you could do with something in your life that isn’t work. I think it would be good for you.”
Reginald had been working for me for nearly seven years. We met frequently to make sure all my finances were in order, despite me always knowing they were because I had a knack for numbers and math and was a little bit of a control freak, and conversation often drifted into the more personal aspects of life. I respected him, and his opinion held weight with me.
“You’re suggesting I have a child?” I clarified.
Reginald fished around in his jacket pocket and withdrew a black business card. He handed it to me. It was plain and simple with a thin gold border. The company name was printed in elegant letters and was raised from the cardstock, One Billion Fantasies. I arched an eyebrow and peered at Reginald. “Sounds … classy.”
“It’s practical for someone like you, believe it or not,” Reginald said. “I’ve referred clients to them before and have only heard good things. They specialize in fitting the needs of billionaires. Anything from escorts to dates, anything one might require. I do not know if they have a surrogacy program, but give them a call. If they can’t help you out, they’ll at least be able to point you in the right direction. You’ve put this off for far too long, Mr. Garrison. You must take action.”
Reginald stood, and I followed, reaching across my desk to shake his hand. He let himself out of my home office, and I buzzed the front door to let him out. I lived in a penthouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I had a dazzling view of the city out of my floor-to-ceiling windows that surrounded nearly every room. It was a place of luxury, and I liked it that way.
I sat staring at the business card for a full fifteen minutes before I called the number. A woman answered. She had a nasal voice and a slight English accent. “Thank you for calling One Billion Fantasies. This is Brooke.”
“Hi, Brooke,” I said, unsure of how I should phrase what I was calling for. “I’m not sure if you can help me or not. I suspect what I’m calling about might not be your company’s area of expertise.”
“Not to worry, sir. What is it you are in need of?”
“I was wondering if you had a surrogacy program.”
“Oh,” Brooke said cheerily, “not to worry at all, sir. We will put our feelers out there for you. I’m sure we can find something. Let me pencil you in for an appointment. Are you free on Wednesday morning at eight?”
“Uh, yes,” I said, a little surprised she had handled my request so quickly.
“Wonderful,” Brooke said. “I have you scheduled for eight. Do you have our address?”
“Yes, it’s on the card.”
“Perfect. What was your name, sir?”
“Ethan Garrison.”
“We will see you on Wednesday, Mr. Garrison. Have a fabulous evening.”
Brooke hung up the phone. I sat, stone-still, my mind rolling around the idea of fath
ering a child without a mother around. I had the money to make sure the child grew up happy, that was for certain, and I had always wanted to be a father when the time was right. Maybe the time was now. With my business, the odds of me ever settling down and marrying were slim. It was a sacrifice I had willingly made. This could potentially give me that family life I had been craving while also providing the opportunity to protect my business and my wealth and keep it in the family.
But the prospect of a child was daunting. It was unnerving. It was stressful.
I leaned back in my chair. The legs creaked. I stared up the ceiling and tried to think of something else.
It was impossible. I needed to relax. I needed something that would vanquish the tight little knot of nerves that had formed in my gut.
I wanted a girl, one like the blond bartender from the other night. She had been a fun way to de-stress, and she had seemed to enjoy it as much as I had. I thought of her pink pussy and her heavy eyes as she had watched my cock slide in and out of her.
But if I wanted to bang, I had to go out and find someone. I wasn’t feeling up to it. Tinder was always an option but not an appealing one tonight. I wanted to get off fast.
Fuck it.
I opened an incognito tab on my web browser and, within a few clicks, arrived at my favorite porn site. I scrolled through the first couple rows, searching for something that caught my eye, and paused at an image of a curvy brunette girl with her legs spread apart. She had a dildo in her hairless pussy and a vibrator pressed to her clit.
I undid my belt and unzipped my fly. Within moments, I was pulling myself free. Blood was rushing to my cock, and it was growing hard and long just at the thought of getting off. I leaned over and pulled open the bottom left drawer of my desk. I fished around for a while until I found a bottle of lube I had stored in there for this exact occasion. I struggled for a brief moment with the lid, cursing under my breath, until it finally unscrewed. I squeezed a dollop into my palm, dropped the lube back in the drawer, and kicked it closed.