Adrift

by Isabel Jolie

  Like probably most of her paying subscribers, I used a fake name and a free email account I didn’t think would ever get traced back to me. Still, I hadn’t yet messaged her. The whole never-anything-in-writing rule had been drilled into me, and sex requests definitely fell in that category. I believed her when she said she didn’t do more than post photos, but I had buddies with OnlyFans accounts in London, where prostitution was legal, and I knew for a fact some did more. I was damn curious to see how she’d respond to an in-person request.

  Each night, back in my apartment, I thumbed over to her account to check out any new post she’d made. I’d bet most of the men checking her out in lingerie weren’t thinking about her heading to a meeting for a business investment. But those men didn’t factor in the business head required to be successful in a highly competitive market. Poppy achieved success in one market and now sought to expand into additional industries. Of course, there was a chance she didn’t know jack about the restaurant industry and smoked a pipe dream. But my curiosity piqued. Business plans fell in the category of items I liked to evaluate.

  As I approached the front doors to our office building, a man in a suit blocked my path. I stepped around him, my focus on the screen in my hand, open to Poppy’s page.

  “Mr. Chesterton. Do you have a minute?”

  Poppy in a racy tank cut off right below her breasts downloaded, and the phone slipped from my hand and clattered onto the sidewalk. The stranger bent to pick it up, and I lunged forward, blocking him with my shoulder as I retrieved my phone. One swift side press and the image faded to black. I brushed away the specks of dirt that littered the screen.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I wondered if we could meet. Agent Connor, FBI.” He held out his hand. FBI was far preferable to the SEC.

  “What’s this concerning?” I ignored his hand. It felt too strange in post-Covid days for a stranger to walk up and ask for contact. “Where’s your badge?” He raised his right suit jacket and revealed a badge on his belt and a gun holster.

  “I’m a part of the team investigating the CROW5 scandal.”

  “Why not contact my office?”

  “I can do that if you prefer. I thought we might be able to talk outside of your office first.”

  A couple of colleagues in business suits stepped past us. A car horn blared, and a siren sounded in the distance.

  “I don’t know anything. Nothing that would help you.” I scanned the street for other colleagues.

  “Your fund invested in CROW5 and sold before the scandal broke.”

  “I’m good at what I do.” I’d halfway expected an SEC inquiry when I timed selling as well as I did, but the information I went on was publicly available. I studied the guy. He looked younger than me, maybe around my age. He met me on the street. And he was cordial, which meant he had nothing on me. No doubt the investigation would cover Belman, as we had been an underwriter for CROW5. I guessed he wanted info on some of my colleagues, but he would hit a wall of silence—from me and every single colleague in my firm.

  He slipped a business card out of his inner pocket and offered it, pinched between his index and middle finger. “We’re probably going to ask you to come into our offices and talk about some of Cyr Martin’s parties and the trips you’ve been on with him.”

  “Cyr Martin? You’re building a case against him?”

  “What else would we be doing, Mr. Chesterton?”

  I stepped away. I had nothing else to say without my lawyer present.

  Agent Connor called after me, “If you think of anything that could be useful, I’d appreciate a call.”

  I didn’t bother with a response. His reflection shone in the glass. He stood there, one hand in his pocket, watching me. A shiver crawled along my back and nestled between my shoulder blades.

  Fifteen or twenty suited businessmen and women gathered in front of the expansive elevator bank. I stood to the side, awaiting my turn.

  “Who was the guy talking to you out front?”

  Brent McGovern, a crony who brown-nosed the entire senior team, crowded near me, voice low enough others wouldn’t hear.

  “No one,” I answered, annoyed he’d ask me in front of others. Even if one spoke discreetly, this wasn’t the place to discuss anything at all of relevance. Brent should have known better, and I gave him a pointed look to shut it down.

  Brent didn’t work on my floor, but he got in my elevator and stepped out onto my floor. I ignored him as I briskly walked to my office. Last I’d heard, Brent had stepped into what might be more of an administrative role, supporting our managing director. He had some jacked title that said to me I didn’t need to waste time with him.

  The twerp followed me into my office. I checked the time. Twenty minutes before the analyst call, and I needed to review the latest earnings report. The weight of the phone in my trouser pocket reminded me Poppy also waited on a response, even if it qualified as a cheerleader shout of support.

  “What is it, Brent?”

  “I hear you’re flying planes regularly these days.”

  “You’re into flying?” I asked as I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair, then smoothed my tie.

  “I find it interesting. What’s the likelihood of a small plane accident?”

  “Small. Automobiles are more dangerous.” He puffed out his chest, and the action struck me as odd.

  “Brent, I’m short on time. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Just curious. I hope you’re being careful.”

  “What exactly are you implying?”

  “Small planes scare me. You can afford a private jet, can’t you?”

  My desk phone rang, and on reflex I checked the number on the screen. He took the hint and pulled my office door closed as he exited.

  I didn’t recognize the number, so let it ring, knowing my assistant would pick it up and relay anything of importance. I combed through email, searching, then grinned at her ridiculous email address.

  * * *

  From: Pop4Joiz@gmail.com

  Thanks so much for reviewing!!!

  Xoxo,

  Poppy

  * * *

  I clicked on the attachment and flipped through the blindingly yellow pages. One thing I’d give her, the black font on a yellow background stood out. She wanted to open a generic restaurant with a bar. The only point of differentiation I could see was that she wanted to offer healthier fare than currently existed on that tiny-ass island. Based on this deck, she had fifteen years’ experience in the restaurant industry and eight years of that in management and four of that bartending. At only twenty-five years old, those numbers didn’t jive. Nothing in the deck told her age, but her birth date would be on the loan application. I scratched my chin, reading over her bio. At her age, the absence of any academic mentions would probably raise questions from investors.

  She’d already found an experienced chef who would act as a business partner. I didn’t know enough about the restaurant industry to know if her income projections were realistic or not, but even if she hit her targets, which new businesses rarely did, she’d be smart not to give up her OnlyFans income. Her projections didn’t have them breaking even until year ten.

  Her business plan needed more than I could put together in five minutes. However, confidence did wonders, especially in meetings with small town bankers. So, I replied to her email.

  * * *

  Knock ’em dead. Call me tonight and let me know how it goes.

  * * *

  My finger hovered over the trackpad, floored with the temptation to click on my incognito browser for one quick visit to her page. I shook it off. I’d played the “porn between meetings” game before. Not that her photos constituted porn. But there was no point, no release given, and if anything, it dulled my senses. My thumb pressed down, and the analyst report filled my screen.

  Chapter 6

  Poppy

  * * *

  I parked in front of Sun and Ocean Bank twen
ty minutes early. After lifting my suit jacket from the back seat and double-checking my reflection in the facing window, I paced the sidewalk to kill time.

  The white wooden structure reminded me of a beach cottage. Perky blue plantation shutters hung over large windows like low hanging awnings, and combined with the nearby palm trees, the entire building offered a laidback Floridian vibe. Instead of pina coladas with tiny paper umbrellas, I anticipated the glass plate separating me from the tellers, void expressions, and barely-there smiles. I breathed deeply as I paced. No one in there will know me. No one’s going to laugh me out. And if they say no, it doesn’t mean anything. Twenty-five rejections before I re-evaluate.

  Five minutes early, I pulled on the stainless steel handle of the heavy glass door. Women dressed in business attire sat behind glass, frosty but polite. Uncomfortable waiting areas dotted the middle of the room. A barely discernible jazz melody floated through the air. I sat on the edge of a chair, thighs together, spine straight, briefcase in my lap, and listened to the high-pitched clicking on keyboards and the crack of an occasional door closing.

  “Ms. Smith?” The older gentleman before me reminded me of my uncle. Pudgy, not much hair, and what he had was combed over to the side in strings. His suit fit well enough, but the tips of his shoes could have used a good polishing.

  “Yes, sir.” As the only person waiting, no great powers of discernment were required to pick me out.

  “Let’s meet in my office.”

  I followed him to the back, down a long hall, then up a narrow flight of stairs. He pushed open a door into a room filled with light. The window faced onto the palm trees across the street. Two framed photos sat on his desk facing him. The artwork on his office walls shared the same style as the beachy prints that lined the walls downstairs. I’d read that I should find something to bond with him over, to make him see me as a human being and not a loan application, but I had nothing.

  His leather desk chair squeaked. He picked up a stack of papers I presumed were my submitted application.

  “Thank you for coming in. I found your application to be most interesting.”

  I smiled, crossed my legs, and pushed my shoulders back to ensure a professional posture.

  “You know, the restaurant business is most challenging.”

  I smiled, but inside uncertainty reigned. Was that a question? Should I say something?

  “Now, according to your loan application, you currently have a sizable income from a current business. An online business.” He peered over the pages and rolled his chair closer. Nausea simmered, but I squashed it down.

  “Yes, I am a successful business owner.”

  “And would this business income continue when you started the restaurant?”

  Fair question. I swallowed, breathed deeply, and began my prepared response. “Yes, my business runs on a subscription model. Like many businesses, the income is not guaranteed, and I would likely see a gradual decline as my time and energy focused on the restaurant. But, as you can see from the business plan, restaurant income will cover a salary.”

  “I did some research into your current business. The business model seems solid. Are your sources of income solely from subscribers?”

  “Yes, for the most part, yes.”

  “I’ve read that additional income can be derived from individual requests. What percentage of your income would you estimate comes from these kinds of arrangements?”

  Heat radiated all around me. I’d expected questions about my current income, but I’d thought he’d focus more on my restaurant business plan.

  “A small percentage.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  I thought through the special random requests. Photos of me in specific costumes. Answering messages. A hundred bucks here and there. I ballparked my answer. “Less than twenty percent.”

  He stood up and walked around the desk to sit in the chair beside me. I wore a slimming black dress with a suit jacket. His gaze fell pointedly to my exposed knee, then traveled up.

  Confusion circled. I uncrossed my legs and placed my leather portfolio flat on my thighs. His vacated desk chair taunted me. He leaned against his desk and rested his hands on the edge.

  “Do you have questions regarding my business plan?”

  “No. To be frank, Ms. Smith, your plan needs some additional work. It’s rare for a bank to invest in a restaurant, especially one started by someone without restaurant experience and no college degree.”

  “I have experience. I practically ran Jules for years.”

  “Ms. Smith, there is a difference between practically and ran. But I believe with some work, we can get your application to a point where this bank, or maybe another bank, would be willing to make a small business loan. I find a woman with your entrepreneurial spirit to be intriguing, and I’d be willing to help you.”

  “You would?”

  “Potentially, yes.” His gaze fell to my lap. “The Holiday Inn on Market Street has a nice bar. Are you familiar with it?”

  It took me a minute to process exactly what he was saying. I looked him over, hoping I heard him wrong. He had to be in his fifties. But in a quick minute, I comprehended the situation. What an asshole.

  I stood and leaned over his desk. As expected, a family photograph of himself, wife, and three kids filled the larger frame. Two awkward middle-school-aged kids, one in braces, completed the smaller frame. I straightened and looked him in the face, not that he’d know that because his gaze fell to my chest. “Thank you for your time.”

  With two steps he blocked my easy exit. He reached forward, and I stepped back, ready to scream like a banshee, but he didn’t touch me. He offered me a business card.

  “If you decide you’d like to meet, here’s my contact information. Your application isn’t quite where it needs to be, but with some coaching, you could get it there. I’d be happy to help you. I’ve been mentoring young entrepreneurs for the better part of two decades.”

  I mumbled a thank you and rushed out of the building. I drove to the nearest Starbucks and ordered a salted caramel mocha creme Frappuccino.

  “Would you like whipped cream on that?”

  “As much as possible.” The barista smiled, a warm, normal smile. A heavy weight replaced the mild shock of a loan officer offering to meet at a Holiday Inn for a coaching session.

  I sat in a chair by the window and replayed the meeting. Had I read between the lines? Jumped to conclusions? He didn’t actually say anything out of line. Was I too sensitive? Paranoid? Maybe he did only want to coach me. I needed it.

  By the time I’d eaten every last bit of whipped cream, I determined that no, I hadn’t jumped to conclusions. I’d reacted with my gut, and I’d been damn smart to get out of that office. He wasn’t my only chance. I had a list of other banks.

  In under five minutes, he brought up my lack of a college degree. I worried that would be an ongoing issue. I tapped my fingers, evaluating what happened and what I learned. I’d been completely honest on the loan application. Next time, I could reposition my OnlyFans business. Perhaps list it as a photography business. One Google search and people could come away with all kinds of perceptions.

  My phone lit up. An image of Scarlet and her cat filled the screen. Scarlet and I joined OnlyFans around the same time and became fast friends after sharing comments on the same post in a private Facebook group for content creators.

  “Hey.” I pressed the phone against my ear and stared out the window.

  “Whoa. What’s wrong?”

  I sighed long and hard. “I had that meeting with the banker.”

  “Oh, snap.”

  “Yep. I expected rejections. Still sucks. I’m drowning my sorrows in hot java and whipped cream.”

  “Why are you even trying to get a loan? I swear, right there in Wilmington is a very successful studio. You could work with them for a couple of months and pay cash.”

  “Scarlet. That’s not for me.”

  “It�
��s just sex. I mean, if it’s not for you, it’s not for you. No judgment. But think about it. Yeah, it’s filmed. But you can make so much money. And they do the marketing. You get paid up front. It doesn’t have to be your career, but it could get you that jump-start you need. I mean, you have sex anyway, right?”

  “Right,” I mumbled. Wrong, actually. My one and only shattered my big, fat heart into a gazillion smashed pieces. The next time I had sex with someone, it wouldn’t be easy, and it wouldn’t be something I wanted on film.

  Since entering the OnlyFans world, I’d met men and women with a different world view. I didn’t hold it against them. We all survived hard times in our own way. And, actually, some of the performers I’d become friends with had pride in their work. And why not? The porn industry remained the most profitable internet segment, as had been pointed out in more than one post in our private group. That meant an awful lot of someones were participating. But I had to be true to myself, and the porn life wouldn’t be good for me. I got red-cheeked at the thought of people who knew me in the flesh finding out about my account—and I didn’t even do nudes.

  Scarlet carried on, telling me about a date she’d gone on. Then she told me about a fight she’d had with her sister. I listened to my friend and gave her as much of a rah-rah pick-me-up as I could muster.

  “That guy sounds undesirable. You absolutely do not need him. And your sister doesn’t understand. She will one day.”

  Scarlet lived in London, so her OnlyFans world bore some distinct differences to mine. For one, prostitution was legal for her. And she didn’t have an issue with it, although she’d only accepted those gigs a few times. From her perspective, it was a temporary means to an end. Sometimes that end was food, sometimes rent, and once a new pair of boots. Her long-term objective was the more lucrative income film offered.