I stood up, fighting to keep myself from crumbling. From the distraught look on his face, I was failing.
"Thanks, Professor," I said in a cheery voice. "Yeah, that makes sense."
I looked around the dank office, taking in the battered books and how tired he looked as if his job prematurely aged him.
“Jessica, wait!”
"Bye Professor!"
I pretended not to hear him as I dashed out of there. Pressure built up behind my eyes and I gasped for breath. I thought of the Golden Gate Bridge and saw my body leaping off the red bars to be swallowed by icy waters.
Everything will be okay.
I would go to the library and research.
I’ll spend the whole damn day there if I have to.
Once I entered the library, I felt better. It was my sanctuary. When I was young, I spent whole days away from home buried in books. It was easy to crack a book open and dive into the story for hours and escape. When it closed at five, I’d leave. I still remembered how my stomach would fill with dread when my feet brought me closer and closer to my foster parents.
Fuck that.
I slid into a chair and logged onto the computer. Someone left a Time magazine on the desk, and I pushed it aside. The monitor burned my eyes as I scoured every website I knew for editing jobs and found a few I overlooked before. I spent hours typing up cover letters and sent half a dozen emails. I also shot my resume to other non-editing jobs. Professor Lark was right; I couldn’t afford to keep waiting for my dream job.
I grabbed the mug of coffee I brought with me, which was now stone cold, and knocked over the magazine so that the cover landed face-up. A title caught my eye.
How I Became a Millionaire’s Sugar Baby
Intrigued, I flipped the pages to the article and read one of the enlarged quotes:
“I make about $5000 a month, which doubles when I travel with him.”
Holy shit.
The article was about sugar baby websites, where the world's richest men would hire young women to go on dates with them at the most exclusive restaurants, or as companions when they traveled for business. The woman in the article claimed she never had sex with her clients. She explained that women who became sugar babies were usually college-age. They needed to pay for their college tuition and their credit card debt.
This can’t be real.
I clicked on one website they mentioned and gasped as I scrolled through the list of "gentlemen" and saw their profile pictures, their net worth, and their location. Apparently, they did background checks on their tax records to make sure their income was legitimate.
Wow. Five thousand dollars a month. That’d pay for rent, easy.
The girls probably had sex with the millionaires, making them little more than prostitutes.
I imagined myself on the arm of a sixty-year-old man and my guts twisted. But really, who cared how old he was? I could go on a couple of dates. It’s not like I was signing a contract to go home with him.
This is a stupid idea.
I took the Time magazine with me, stuffing it into my bag. Like a zombie, I walked back to the shuttle and returned to the BART. I was so out of it I almost got off the wrong stop. A battle raged inside me as I took the BART home, wondering whether I should tell Natalie or not. I knew she would not approve.
Jessica, don't be stupid. This is just an escort site disguised as something else. Are you that desperate?
Yes. I needed a job. Retail didn’t pay enough. This seemed like such an easy thing. A couple dates a month for a fat paycheck. I could at least try it. If I was uncomfortable with the experience, I could just delete my profile and never do it again.
You’ve lost your damn mind.
I unlocked the door to my apartment and walked inside. It was a dirty, two-bedroom place in the East Bay I could barely afford. Though Natalie's parents were well off, they had the opinion that once you turned eighteen, you were on your own. We scrimped and saved for every beaten up piece of furniture in our place. A moth-eaten sofa that might have once been beige laid in the living room and a chipped, circular wooden table surrounded by fold-up chairs sat in the linoleum kitchen. That was it. We didn't even have a coffee table.
Natalie was in the kitchen, eating leftovers. I couldn’t believe how late it was. Almost suppertime. How many hours did I spend in the library researching?
“Hey. How’d it go?”
“So well I’m considering prostituting myself.”
Not far from the truth.
She stuck out her tongue at me, assuming I was joking.
I was dying to tell her about what I read in the magazine. The secret was burning a hole in my bag where I stashed it.
Five thousand fucking dollars a month. That’s a shitload of money.
It was a terrible idea. Forget it.
I turned the TV on and left it on the Entertainment Tonight channel, not caring about what I was watching. Natalie sat down next to me, a bottle of beer clutched in her hand.
“So did you run into anyone we know?”
“Not really. I applied to a bunch of jobs while I was at the library.”
“That’s good.”
There was a montage of a handsome, well-dressed man on the screen.
Natalie chuckled. “God, look at this guy.”
I snapped my attention to the program.
“Billionaire playboy Luke Pardini was spotted partying in San Francisco last night.”
The screen flashed a series of images of a young, twenty-something man stumbling out of a nightclub with tall, gorgeous women hanging on each arm.
"The troubled billionaire left Ruby Skye with two employees at 3 am and was seen entering a Pardini hotel in Union Square. Luke's father, Giacomo Pardini, is the owner of the multi-billion dollar hotel industry. Last year, he was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. The business magnate has had a reportedly strained relationship with his son, who is expected to take over Pardini Worldwide."
“He’s like Bruce Wayne.” Natalie sniggered as she took a swig of her bottle.
Yes, he was just like him: rich, famous, handsome, and a playboy.
What’s it like being filthy rich? I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I went to a five-star Michelin restaurant. Hell, I wouldn’t be able to navigate through the spread of silverware. Still, it’s fun to fantasize about dining at the most fabulous restaurants in the world, staying at expensive hotels and paying ridiculous amounts of money for bottles of vodka at the VIP section in clubs.
I remembered the whole sugar baby thing and wondered if Luke was on one of those websites.
No way. He’s too gorgeous.
I looked at Natalie's face and wondered if she'd be receptive toward my idea, but she looked back at me with a rather serious look, and I lost my nerve.
"Hey, listen. I don't want to rush you, but I need money for rent this month."
“I’m working on it, I promise.”
There’s no way in hell I’ll have the money for her in time.
Her quiet disappointment burrowed into my chest. I stood from the couch to head straight for my room. Natalie was the only family I had, and I hated myself for putting her in this awkward position. I sat in front of my computer and stared at the screen as my fingers typed in the website's address. My mouse hovered over the registration button to make my sugar baby profile.
Jesus. I’ve done nothing remotely resembling online dating. This is stupid. I should at least wait to see if anyone contacts me.
But there were only three weeks left in the month, and Natalie needed her half of the rent money. I looked around my room as my fingernails dug into my palms and tried to find something I could hawk. My closet consisted of clothes from the Salvation Army and some gifted from Natalie’s family. My old Super Nintendo system sat in the corner, but it would net me at the most a couple hundred dollars. The only real asset was my computer, and I couldn’t sell it. No one would bother buying my other possessions. Natalie usually gave me clothes
she would no longer wear. It was lucky that we had the same body type. Everything I owned was frayed and unwanted.
I’m so fucking poor. Helplessness suffocated my chest—I couldn’t deal with it.
Just wait a few days.
I clenched my fists as a tear rolled down my face. I bit my knuckles to keep myself from sobbing out loud. A voice screamed inside me, repeating the same question over and over—What am I going to do?
I waited in the dark, hoping that a brilliant idea from the back corner of my mind would scream out something I never considered. But all I came up with was—I don’t know.
2
I can’t believe I’m considering this.
Hell, I more than considered it. I went through the registration process to pimp myself out to unknown men. Two retail jobs and they were still not enough to make ends meet. Desperate times.
I paused over the username and weighed using a fake name.
Anastasia? Isabella?
Despite the thrill of going by something exotic, I decided to use my first name. The world was flooded with Jessicas. I entered my height and body type. Then I realized I would need a profile picture, and it needed to be good. I grabbed a black cocktail dress from Natalie’s closet and peeked into the hallway. The bathroom door was open. I rushed inside, closed it, and looked into the foggy mirror.
I was a mess.
My blonde hair looked like a bird’s nest. I attacked it with my brush, bemoaning the split ends I found. I lined my makeup on the sink like toy soldiers. These billionaires only cared about having a hot chick dangling on their arm.
All the tangles teased out of my hair made a noticeable improvement, but it still looked dry. I squirted some of that hair moisturizer in my hands and then tousled it to make it shine. Should I straighten my hair? Nah. I didn’t want to look too polished, and yet I wanted to stand out from all the blonde Barbie dolls listed on the website. My mascara and eyeliner were next, and then I added just a touch of lip-gloss.
I looked at the frightened, beautiful girl in the mirror.
Damn it. This will never work.
Then I walked out of the bathroom and bumped into Natalie.
“There you are! I was getting worried.” She paused in the midst of talking. “Wow, are you going out on a date or something?”
She knew I didn’t date. “No, I’m not.”
“Then why are you all dolled up?”
“Because I need to take a nice picture of myself. Can you help me?”
“Sure,” she smirked. “Is this for an online dating profile?”
I faltered as she dashed into her room to get her camera and wondered why she was so excited. "Uh—sorta."
“Well, I think that’s great,” she gushed. “It’s about time you dated.”
My insides squirmed at not revealing the whole truth. I would tell her soon enough, but I didn’t think she would approve. “It needs to be flattering.”
“Well, duh.” She dragged me around the house. “Here, lean against the wall and hold one of your arms. Look down.”
“Shouldn’t I look at the camera?”
“No! Models never smile for the camera.”
I rolled my eyes. Natalie took one photography class in college, and apparently that made her an expert.
“If I don’t smile I’ll look angry.”
“Stop talking.”
I laughed and was blinded by the flash of her camera. She took dozens of random photos, some of me sitting down on the couch, standing, drinking wine, and holding books.
“What’s the point of this?” I whined as I held several volumes.
She kept shaking her head at me as she snapped pictures. Am I doing something wrong?
“You’re so pretty. I always thought you should model.”
I choked out a laugh. “Me? Model? I don’t think so. I’m too short.”
She said nothing, but her face looked wistful as she snapped more photos. “Okay, I think that’s enough.”
“Could you send them over? I’m going to take this thing off.”
I walked back to my bedroom, stripped off the dress, and pulled my jeans and t-shirt back on with a sigh of relief before returning to my unfinished profile.
How much do I want?
It was tempting to put $20,000, but that was too crazy, so I clicked on the $5,000 - $10,000 per month tab and described myself as an aspiring writer with a Bachelor’s degree in English. I drew a blank at what else to write that would make me sound appealing.
Aquarius? Adept at juggling? Can make a mean French toast from stale bread?
“I sent them!” Natalie’s voice roared through the door.
Her pounding footsteps grew louder, and I half-lifted from the chair.
She flung open the door. “So, what is this dating site?”
Double crap.
I bit my lip hard.
“What is this?” She leaned over my chair. “Oh my God, is this an escort site? Jessica!”
The way she said my name made me feel like something under her shoe. “It’s a dating website f—for rich men.”
She stared at me as if she’d never seen me before. Natalie’s thin arms crossed her chest as she glowered at me. “It says here that you want five to ten thousand dollars a month. I mean, really, Jessica. What do you think they’ll want in exchange?”
"No," I said even louder. "That's not how it works. You go on dates with them, and they pay you. It's an eye-candy thing. I'm not fucking men for money."
Her eyes shined with pity. I hated that.
“Look, I get it. You’re desperate for money.”
"I don't think you get it," I said in a quiet voice. "I have two jobs, and they're still not enough."
“Then you search for a better job!”
“What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? Eating bonbons? I’ve been applying to every posting on craigslist. The few places that bother to email me back send a letter of rejection. I’m out of options.”
Natalie's face flushed an ugly shade of purple. "You don't have to do this! I'll pay your rent; you can pay me back later."
“No. I will not keep depending on you. It’s wrong.” I turned back toward the screen.
"You do not depend on me—"
"Yes, I do Natalie. There's no need to sugarcoat how much of a leech I am."
Or how I’ve failed at everything.
“Becoming a prostitute isn’t a solution to your problem.”
My cheeks burned. “I’m not becoming anything. Would you relax? I want to try this.”
"Why couldn't you try something normal? I mean out of all the jobs out there, you chose this? This is a terrible idea, Jess."
The horrible sound of her screaming rang in my ears.
"I'm sorry, Nat," I said in a tight voice. "But I am desperate, and I need this. I don't have a family to take care of me."
“I don’t feel good about this.”
It’s not like I have a choice.
It was this, or keep begging the manager at Chili’s for the hours he couldn’t give me.
“I can take care of myself.”
“No, you can’t, Jess,” she said in a softer voice. “Especially not with your history.”
His face blazed in my mind. The anger radiating from my body turned inward. I didn’t want to hear it. She tried to reach for me, but I turned toward the screen. A final furious sob and my bedroom door slammed shut. I clenched my fist on the desk and breathed deeply, listening to the sound of my heart hammering against my chest. I couldn’t remember the last time I thought about that jackass.
Why did she have to remind me of him now?
There was work to do. I wiped my eyes and continued the profile. I chose several pictures showing me smiling and others that made me look vulnerable.
How the hell am I supposed to know what a millionaire wants?
I blew out my cheeks as I posted the profile and drummed my fingertips on the table, refreshing the web page obsessively to see if I had any
responses.
I felt a swooping sensation as my email blinked.
Holy shit, that was fast.
Hello,
Just saw your profile pics, your gorgeous! I’m a wealthy married 60y/o man looking for a discrete, pretty young lady like yourself ;) Would you be willing to accept $3000/month? Check out my profile and email me back.
Sincerely,
Mr. Nice Guy
I shuddered, my skin clammy. His message had been innocuous enough, but I could detect an aura of sleaze radiating from Mr. Nice Guy. A sixty-year-old man was looking for a discrete woman less than half his age.
Gee, I wonder what he wants.
Feeling a bit sick as I deleted his email, I wondered if all the responses would be like his.
As I deleted the email, two more popped up. Wow.
Hiya!
You look like just what I’m looking for ;) Check out my profile.
-EnigmaMan248
I clicked on his profile and saw an aging, bald man with two buxom blondes in his arms, each kissing his cheeks. His “about me” line declared him as The Perpetual Partier.
More like the Perpetual D-bag.
I scrunched my face in disgust. Maybe Natalie was right about this website being a waste of my time. I clicked on the third, bracing myself.
Good Evening,
I am a businessman in my late twenties looking for someone to accompany me in my travels. While I cannot disclose exactly what I am looking for in an email, I believe that the arrangement I am seeking would be of great interest to you. I realize that my lack of information seems suspicious, but I would like to set up a meeting as soon as possible. I will give you $2000 to meet with me tomorrow night, so long as you sign a non-disclosure agreement upon arrival. Regardless of whether this arrangement pans out, you will receive the money. Please respond as soon as possible.
Sincerely,
-L
That piqued my interest. His profile displayed a man in a business suit with large sunglasses and dark, chocolate-brown hair. I couldn't discern anything from the low-quality picture; it seemed like he might be handsome. His pricing was negotiable, and his net worth was a staggering 1.6 billion.
Holy fucking shit.
My mind churned. Two thousand dollars just for showing up. I couldn't pass this up, no matter how sketchy his request sounded. The car would be paid for, and last month's rent, but it wouldn't be enough to get me back on my feet. He couldn't be a hoax; the website claimed to check each "gentleman's" bank and tax records. He was worth all that money.
The Secret Arrangement Page 38