Anything for Money
A sex-for-hire college romance
Lindsey Bedder
Contents
Copyright
Epigraph
Desperation And The Sexy Mechanic
1. A Girl in Need
2. The Sexy Mechanic
3. Inside with Jack the Ripper
4. Avoiding Jack
5. Bad Rebecca Peeks Out
First Photo Shoot
6. Time to Model
7. Our First Shoot
8. Playing to the Crowds
Secrets Revealed
9. Ripper Jack's Roommates
10. The Wake of Shame
11. Posing with Archibald
12. Coming Clean
13. Mouthwhore
14. We're Sooo Close!
15. RJ's Strange Game
16. Seth's Mouth
17. Borden the Organ
18. Anton Signs His Work
19. Collapse
Discovering Marylou
20. Borden Daze
21. Back in the Dating Pool
22. A Punch and a Slap
23. Intervention
24. Borden on the Highway
25. The Short-Term Girlfriend
26. The Frenchman
27. RJ Comes Clean
Show me love?
About the Author
Other books by Lindsey Bedder
Preview Chapter: Trapper and Emmeline
1. Emmeline to the Rescue (Day 1)
Copyright © 2016 by Lindsey Bedder
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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We went to the Greyhound bus station to try to persuade somebody to give us money… A college boy was sweating at the sight of luscious Marylou and trying to look unconcerned. Dean and I consulted but decided we weren’t pimps.
“On the Road,” by Jack Kerouac
Part I
Desperation And The Sexy Mechanic
A Girl in Need
When you have nothing, bet it all.
The guy behind the counter at the Ford dealership took a long moment before replying to me. He wasn’t thinking about the offer I’d just made, he was merely stunned into silence.
I held my smile and kept nodding while his mind was in that disarmed, hopefully receptive state. I have this theory, never proven, that if you nod at someone long enough, they will subconsciously agree, and start to nod with you. From there, it’s just a short jump for them to take your point of view.
It’s the same principle as yawning. Like, when you’re on a date and the guy yawns and stretches. Suddenly you yawn too, and want to sleep with him.
My mechanic didn’t nod. Instead, he furrowed his brow and did the worst possible thing. He repeated my offer aloud.
“You’re saying that if we fix your car, you’ll bring us a batch of brownies?”
“Yes!” I said brightly. “But not right away. Probably sometime next week.”
“You look like you could be in college—” he started.
I giggled for him. “I am!”
“You’re a college girl, and it’s the end of summer. Not that we’d accept brownies as payment, but we’d never see them anyway. Right after we fixed your car, you’d skip town and go back to school.”
This poor mechanic had obviously been hurt at some point. Damn my fellow students, making it harder on those of us who don’t freeload! I tried reasoning with him. “Jimmy, Jimmy, come on! I’m local. I go to school right here in town. And why would I avoid making a batch of brownies? Brownies are not such a huge commitment that I have to flee from the responsibility.”
“There’s the problem, young lady. There’s the problem, right there. You need a brake line in your car, to stay alive. You want to exchange that for brownies.”
“You haven’t tasted my brownies.”
He leaned forward, eyes on mine, and I finally stopped nodding. His guard was up and I wouldn’t mind-control him now. He’d survived his earlier confusion and was fully in the conversation, unfortunately. “Are your brownies filled with gold, young woman? Do they contain the cure for male pattern baldness?”
“They are filled with chocolate, and contain the cure for chocolate cravings.”
“Are ‘brownies’ a code word for some kind of sexual favor?” he frowned.
Honestly, I was a little offended by the disappointment in his tone.
“Jimmy, sir, when I say brownies, I mean brownies. I don’t fool around with brownies. Four inches thick, so moist you eat them with a spoon. Call the hospital, have them fluff up the pillows. You have a sugar coma coming.”
“I… ” He seemed confused again. “Are you… Are you trying this because you’re gorgeous, and you always get your way?”
“Gosh, no!” The minute men think you’re trading on your looks, they get a million times harder to manipulate. I pouted and fluttered my eyelashes at him. He didn’t notice, because his eyes had strayed, yet again, to my cleavage. Well, whatever worked.
“So what, then? You have a philosophical stand against money?”
“Jimmy, I’ll level with you. I’m broke. It’s the end of summer, and I just bought books for classes. I’m broke, desperate, and yes, gorgeous— your words. But mostly I’m broke.”
He crossed his arms and leaned on the counter. “Young lady,” he said, “go get yourself a job and come back with folding money.”
Time for the big guns. “Look, Jimmy. I have eighty thousand followers on Instagram. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Without another word, he turned back to his computer started typing. Interview over. My last, best shot at a safe driving experience had failed.
I turned on my 6-inch heel and wobbled to the door. The crowd of whispering mechanics, clustered by the window to the front office, watched me leave. I hoped they’d give Jimmy hell for letting me and my brownies get away.
And, yes, I’d dressed specially for this attempt. Best foot forward and all that.
I was disappointed in my little pink lycra dress. I’d thought the brownies would bed a sure thing, and the dress was supposed to knock it out of the park.
I mean, cleavage? Legs? Heels? A hemline that snapped up my ass like a broken window shade? At a frickin’ car dealership? A desperate young woman in lycra, promising brownies? To lusty mechanics? And it was fail?
Was the world crazy?
I paused outside the door, breathing hard, honestly at a loss. This was it: Rock bottom. Nobody tells you that rock bottom has spikes poking up. When you land, you don’t bounce. You stick.
“Hey, hot stuff,” someone whispered. “Pssst. Sexy lady.”
Usually it’s a voice in my head that says that, so it took me a moment to locate the voice in reality. It came from a dozen feet behind me.
“Hey sexy!”
I closed my eyes, searching inside myself. I usually dismiss this kind of attention on the street, because it never pans out. The guys turn all scared and nervous when I actually answer. This time, however, I was thinking, “Is this where I finally, finally turn to prostitution?”
I was only partly joking. Desperate times… and I already had the dress.
“I think the bitch is deaf,” the voice whispered. “She’s swayin’ back and forth with her eyes closed.”
“Here, wave this car freshener at her,” another voice whispered.
“Why the
fuck would I want to wave a car freshener?”
“If she’s deaf, she’s going to have a great sense of smell.”
No, I decided. This will not be where I finally turn to prostitution.
I turned to the voices and opened my eyes. They were two young Latino mechanics, wearing greasy overalls.
“Hi, boys. Something smells great! Is that lavender?”
The first boy said, “Girl, we heard about your brownies. You really want your car fixed?”
I nodded. His tone was so furtive that I added, “And by brownies, I mean brownies. And by car, I mean car.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m not into broke-down old chicks.”
“Me neither,” I said. “Wait, what did you call me?”
“I only date hotties my own age,” he clarified.
“I’m not trying to change your mind,” I said, “but I’m only twenty, and I’m a model, sort of. Someday.”
“I have an older cousin,” the boy went on. “He’s smart. He reads all the time. All the time. It’s what he does. And he fixes cars. He’s a little off. Don’t talk about cats or air conditioners. You interested?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“You’re interested. Here’s his address, back of this card. I wrote it with my phone number. I’m expecting those brownies you talked about. Tell him Angel sent you. Tell him you got no money, but you’ll work something out. You still interested?”
“I am. Wait—did you say interested or terrified?”
He frowned, another guy who didn’t get my jokes.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Angel.”
I shook my head. “No, you’re Angel. What’s his name?”
“It’s fucking Angel, like mine. Now take off. I’m not allowed to talk to customers.”
“I’m shocked about that.”
He turned toward the shop, not even polite enough to ogle me while I walked away. Then he swung back. “Remember: Don’t talk about air conditioners. Don’t talk about parrots.”
“I thought you said cats.”
“Don’t talk about cats either.”
“Thanks, Angel.” I jangled my car keys. “I’ll go over there right now, without stopping. Literally. Because I don’t have brakes on my car.”
Was I nervous? Yes. Was this shady? You betcha.
I went anyway. At the red lights, I slowed my car with low gears and what was left of the parking break.
When you have nothing, bet it all.
The Sexy Mechanic
I knew I’d found the right address because the yard was covered in rusted, torn-down automobiles. My Ford Escort wheezed with fright when I pulled in, like a dog realizing it was at the vet.
Because my brakes were well and truly gone, I let my car crunch slowly into a demolished Lincoln.
“Hey, hey, hey!”
It turned out the Lincoln had someone working on it, stooped into its engine block. He jerked straight when I hit, and at the same time the car’s hood snapped closed like an alligator’s mouth. It hit his skull and he spun out of sight.
Nice start, Rebecca, I thought. I’d been thinking about unzipping the front of my pink lycra dress an inch—‘desperate times, desperate measures’ was my new motto. Now it looked like I might need two inches, or maybe just lose the dress entirely… I pictured myself with nothing but six-inch heels, a hopeful smile, and palpable desperation. That, plus my nodding trick, would make this a home run. Not like the brownies. Fuck those brownies.
I leaned out the window and said, “Did you even feel that? That little bump? You must be so in tune with these cars. I bet you’re Angel, the amazing mechanic everybody tells me about.”
“My scalp is cut.”
“Angel, I’m not going to lie. I need a huge favor from you.”
“You drove your Escort up onto the trunk of my Lincoln! Your front wheels aren’t even touching the ground!”
“Oh, crap,” I said. “It’s one problem or another with this car.”
He came up beside my window. This man was tall, but not skinny-tall. He wore baggy jeans and a ribbed muscle-shirt that was transparent with sweat. I could read his tattoos through the fabric.
“Put your car in reverse and back off the Lincoln.”
I did so, and amazingly it worked. The Escort’s front wheels dug into the Lincoln’s trunk, and with one more sickening crunch, I bounced to the ground. I put it in park before it kept rolling.
“That was so easy!” I said brightly. “Thanks for your help, but that’s not the favor I need, Angel.”
He opened my door and held out his hand. Sure, that was a little menacing, but I took it without hesitation, a behavior I should really work on fixing. His hand was callused and grimy, big and hot. It closed over mine like a dirty George Foreman grill.
I swung my heels out. I was all legs and angles, deeply limited by my ultrashort skirt and the views it presented.
I risked a peek at his face. He was cute! Even better, he was watching me with very promising fascination. When we finally stood face to face on his lawn, he towered over me.
Then his face seemed to recede, because my heels sank into the earth and I tilted away from him.
He took my waist in his free hand and girl-walked me to the driveway.
“We met three minutes ago, Angel, and you’ve already saved my life twice.”
“Why are you calling me Angel?”
“I was told to see Angel the car mechanic.”
“I’m a mechanic, sure. Who told you my name was Angel?”
“Your cousin. A little guy in overalls at the dealership. He was also named Angel.”
Tall, handsome, and brusque shook his head. “He’s not Angel either. Tell me your name, and don’t say ‘Angel’ again.”
“Rebecca. I’m charmed to meet you.”
His frown finally quirked into something like humor. “Delighted, Rebecca.”
“You know, your scalp is bleeding.”
“Yes, I know it’s bleeding.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “I know how it goes. I’m clumsy too. What’s your real name?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t stumped, he just seemed to be searching inside himself. Eventually, he squared his shoulders and met my gaze. He had brilliant, slate-grey eyes that seemed to glow at me. “My name is Janice James Cardona.”
“Your name is Janice,” I said.
“That’s a man’s name. Don’t start. That’s a real man’s name.”
“Of course it is,” I said quickly. “But what do people call you? Because it’s not Janice.”
“Jack the Ripper,” he said. “Or Ripper Jack. Come into my house with me. I’m covered in blood.”
“Uh…”
He leaned down to me and smiled. He had an olive complexion that got a lot of sun. His white teeth leapt off that canvas like a party trick. Between his size, his crazy smile, and the blood draining over his face, I had a few reservations.
“You ran me over with your car,” he said softly.
“In one sense, yes I did.”
“Now I need your help to stop the bleeding.”
He had me there. “Why don’t you ask your girlfriend to stop the bleeding?” I asked smoothly.
The light went out of Ripper’s smile. “Because my girlfriend stole my parrot and ran off with the air conditioner repairman.”
“That’s horrible!” I was honestly surprised. What kind of girl runs away from a guy like this? And, should I be running too?
“Everybody loves air conditioning,” he said drily.
“Your little cousin, not-Angel, also told me not to mention cats to you.”
“Good idea.” He turned and walked to his house. “I fucking hate cats.”
For lack of any other option in the world, I followed him.
Inside with Jack the Ripper
“Take your shirt off,” I ordered.
He looked at me, maybe concerned about that catch in my thr
oat. I nodded at him, and slowly, he nodded too.
Yes! My trick was working, and just in time.
We were inside his utter shock of a house. Based on the front yard, and if you’d had a protected WASP upbringing where latinos always lived on the other side of town and your main exposure was through TV crime dramas, you’d have certain expectations about RJ’s house.
Instead, the interior was bare and austere. Doorless doorways disclosed hints of other rooms, all with polished floors and sunlight streaming through minimally dressed windows. His furniture, what there was of it, was heavy and archaic, what my college professors might call “pieces.” On the table where most people would have a TV, he had a three-foot-tall bonsai tree with roots that overflowed its detailed ceramic box.
And everywhere, covering every wall and leaning in haphazard piles like posters in a shop, were framed photographs. Pictures of the town, the campus, groups of friends he probably called his “boys,” and more than a few underdressed women. Most of the photographs were tasteful, even good, though I’m no expert. Some of the women’s photos were, shall we say, risqué.
It was all haphazard but somehow clean and neat, like RJ ran a museum but he hadn’t finished setting it up yet.
I turned back to him just in time to see the shirt come off. Hello. No water weight on this man. Ripper Jack was ripped. He handed me the shirt for some reason, and I clutched it, drinking him in, like if I kept my eyes on him I wouldn’t have to think of something to say.
Wide shoulders with detailed crevices and cable-like muscles leading to his neck. Broad chest; his pectorals were two flexing pads, the kind you rest your face in during a massage. His torso narrowed to an impossibly tight waist that was ringed and lined with muscle. All of it I wanted to explore like a new fashion boutique on opening day.
So his girlfriend had left him? That must have been one amazing air conditioner repair man.
Anything for Money: A Sex-For-Hire College Romance Page 1