"Exactly. And it's New York. I'll never get any of it back."
I get up and grab my phone off the counter. The room tilts as I return to the couch, and I lose my balance, hitting the floor with a thud.
Natalie laughs hard and the jumps up, holding her crotch.
"I’m going to pee my pants!" She runs from the living room with her knees locked together.
A few minutes later, she's back, and I'm still on the floor dying.
"Do you have your weed pen? The only way I'm gonna get rid of this headache is with weed." When she doesn’t respond I look up at her, and ask, "What?"
"Why didn't I think of that?"
Natalie retrieves the pen from a drawer in the kitchen and inhales deeply before handing it to me. I take a few hits and pass it back.
"You have the worst pair of racoon eyes I've ever seen." The black smeared makeup around her eyes makes her look like it was done by a toddler in the dark.
"You don't look so hot either, Felicia."
I giggle. At least she remembers that. I flip the screen on my camera app to look at my reflection.
"Jesus Christ." My eyes widen. "I look like I had an exorcism."
Natalie takes another hit and holds it for a second, then exhales, a dense cloud of smoke forming in front of her face. "Nah, you just look like you got some good D.”
I purse my lips and nod. "It's true."
"We seriously need our own reality show," she announces, handing me back the odorless pen. "Wicked senses of humor. Check. Dirty minds. Check. New York City is our playground. Check. Shamelessly hot. Check. Epic bitches with low principles…" She looks at me and raises a brow. "Double check. What's not to love and want? We can't be epically fucking amazing without all of that."
All I can do is shake my head and inhale one last time. That's all I really need. Once it kicks in, I'll be good to go and the pain will be gone.
"I think he had the biggest dick I've ever seen in my life," I say.
She chokes, then the coughing comes, and I throw her a water bottle that's been sitting on the table for a week. She misses and it hits her head. Another round of giggles escapes me, which makes her laugh in return even harder, which then leads to coughing again. She can't even sip the water because she's coughing so hard.
"You don't even know, Nat, he fucking rammed that shit into me. Thank God I was flying high and loose as a goose so it wasn't bad. I can't imagine banging him on the regular. I wouldn't be able to walk after."
She drinks half the bottle, and exhales a huge breath like she just came up for air.
"They don't call it the Meatpacking District for nothing."
I shake my head and smile. "No, they don't."
"Lucky you. My rando was thick, but he was so short. A chode."
Frowning, I look at her. "Did you just make that word up?"
She gawks. "You've never heard of a chode?"
I shake my head and it's already feeling lighter. "No. What the hell is it?"
"A chode is a short but fat dick."
Oh God. The giggles kick in and I can't stop laughing. She follows suit.
We're so lame.
"You're a chode," I say, grinning from ear to ear. We’re both hysterical over the word.
"Okay, Ram Jam."
"What the fuck?" I laugh harder.
We recount the night and then crash for a couple of hours. I wake up and stretch my arms above my head and yawn. It’s dark outside, but I'm feeling a million times better. A little smoke always helps ease the tension and stress, and it's the best hangover cure.
My stomach growls obnoxiously loud and I realize I hadn’t eaten anything today. I'm suddenly craving greasy, fatty food, but I don't feel like going anywhere alone. Sitting up, I reach for my phone to check the time. It's only a little after seven. I decide that since Natalie took me out last night I would return the favor and treat her. Neither one of us left the apartment today, but that's because we were too incapacitated to leave.
"I’m seriously not looking forward to tomorrow," I say an hour later. I’m dreading school. I need a week's worth of sleep at this point.
We're at some tiny diner a couple of blocks away. I typically hate the smell of diners. They remind me of old people and baby powder, but every so often we find a little hole in the wall diner and it's fucking amazing. Like the one we're at now. It doesn't smell bad, and all the dishes around us look appetizing. Our food is brought out and placed in front of us. My stomach is still a mess but at least my head is fine. Natalie, on the other hand, looks torn up.
"Aubs, no one looks forward to Mondays," she says, and stuffs three tater tots into her mouth.
I stare at her in morbid fascination as she mixes up a disgusting concoction of mustard, ketchup, and a ton of black pepper. "You're so gross."
She dips a tot into the sauce and holds it out to me. "Try it."
I pull back and grimace. "No fucking thank you. Where did you come up with that idea anyway?"
"When I was high."
A chuckle rolls off my lips. As hard as Natalie parties, she’s on top of her shit. She holds down a job and is in the top of her class, not that she has much of a choice in regard to school. Her parents would rain down on her if she got anything less than a B+ in any of her classes.
"Remember that time I had buttery, salty popcorn with flan frozen yogurt? How I dipped each piece of popcorn into the yogurt and I acted like it was better than sex?"
"I can't erase the memory from my mind, even if I wanted to. It’s seared into my head for my next ten lives. You were so into it. Flaaaannnnnn." I drag out the word the way she did.
She looks like she's ready to choke me over my reenactment. Her expression kills me and I start laughing. I love being around her. All we do is laugh and have fun and live in the moment. Natalie doesn't give two shits and I find it encouraging. For the most part, I feel like I'm like that too, but I do have those few moments when I hesitate. She never does though. Once her mind is made up, that's it.
"I really don’t want to fold clothes tomorrow. Then deal with screaming babies Friday night. Ugh. Kill me now."
"Why do you do it?"
"I may hate the job at the laundromat, and being a nanny, but I have bills I have to pay. Beggars can't be choosers."
"Where I work, you could easily quadruple your week's pay in one night. I'm pretty sure I can get you a job. You'll make a ton of cash there, Aub." She hesitates. "You just have to be really open-minded before you go in, and not overthink where the money is coming from or what you're doing to get it."
"Why do I feel like there's more to your job than what you're telling me?"
She finishes the last bite of her burger and crumbles up her napkin, then throws it on her plate.
"Welcome to the real world, where everyone is hiding something just to get ahead, even if it means being devious or fucking people over. A stock trader on Wall Street isn't going to tell you his moneymaking secret. He's going to take it to the grave because he doesn’t want anyone else to have what he does, even if it is devious and he's fucking people over. Money makes the world go round."
I consider her words. She has a point.
"But how does one live with themselves lying and cheating to get ahead?"
Natalie finishes off her gross dipping sauce and then pulls her nappy hair into a messy bun. She sighs before turning toward me and looking me square in the eye.
"Listen. You want to make it? Sometimes you have to lie to Paul to steal from Pete. And if you really want to be a cut above the rest, you have to cheat on Pat and fuck his friend, Paco."
"I think it's rob Peter to pay Paul, and I don't remember anything about fucking friends."
She rolls her eyes, but smiles. "Okay, Ram Jam. Same difference. Why do you have to be a smarty pants?" She throws a tot at me. "Dirty money is still money, and I want it all."
I nod in agreement. I want it too.
"Pot calling the kettle black. You get better grades than I do," I say.
"Sometimes I wonder if my parents pay the school."
My eyes widen. "Is that possible?"
She shrugs. "Anything is possible, Aubrey," she says, drawing out my name.
I pay the bill and we both get up to leave. I'm stuffed and I know I'm going to sleep like the dead tonight, which is what I need in order to be prepared for school tomorrow. The fresh air helps revive us just a little as we walk back to our apartment.
At one of the street corners, there's a young man standing with a cardboard sign in one hand and a Styrofoam cup in the other. It's hard to read the chunky block writing, but I get the gist of it. I reach into my pocket and pull out whatever’s left and drop it in his cup.
"My stomach is so full," I say, holding myself when we round the corner.
"I look like I'm about to give birth," Nat says.
I chuckle and look at her. She's my height and just as thin, but she does look ready to pop after eating so much.
"I can't wait to pass out. This week is going to be long." I pause. "Thanks, Natalie, for last night."
"Will you stop thanking me," she says, but I can't help it. I need her to know I appreciated it.
"I'm sorry, but I had so much fun and I just want you to know that. It helped me let loose, like I didn't have to stress about things for once."
She's quiet for a moment. "You know, you could party like that all the time and rarely ever have to spend money. You could give up your laundromat and nanny jobs."
I shoot her a glance. "The nanny job pays really well. I can't give that up."
"Not better than what I make, I can tell you that right now."
"A shot girl?" I ask, not bothering to hide my skepticism. "Where are you serving shots to get the kind of money you bring home? And how much are these shots?"
"If I tell you, you have to promise me you won't judge me."
"For being a shot girl?"
She rolls her eyes. "Let's pretend I never said shot girl." A devious smile curves her injected lips.
Seven
We get back to our place, shower, and get ready for bed. The day was a complete waste, but I shouldn’t feel guilty about it. I need to remember going out like I did last night and living the VIP life is something I never do, and probably won't be doing again anytime soon.
Easier said than done.
I scoot under Natalie’s comforter and wait for her to finish getting ready. I’m curious about this job offer she has. A shot girl job that isn’t a shot girl job, and it pays better than both my jobs combined. Sign me the hell up! The wealth in New York City is astounding and I am a total—shameless—paper chaser.
"Listen," Natalie says as she climbs in next to me, "if I tell you about my job, I don't want you to shoot me down. I want you to take time to consider it, then give me your answer. It's not for the delicate Debras of the world, but you won't make money like this anywhere else. I think you could handle it. It's a mind-over-matter job, so to speak. It requires the utmost discretion too. You don't talk about it. Kind of like Fight Club."
I frown. "Is it legal?"
She shrugs her shoulders like she isn't sure. Her mouth bunches up and I already have my answer. I’ll take that as a no.
"Depends on who you ask. I have a license for it," she says, but her voice is raised, and she's clearly not completely sold on her response. I give her a droll stare.
"Okay. Illegal. Got it. Next."
"It's not illegal, though, like strippers use it." She worries her lip.
My brows bunch together. I just stare because I have no damn clue where she's going with this.
"Are you a secret stripper? A street walker? It would make sense with all that money."
New York strippers get paid big bucks, but only if they're good. Some even travel to put on shows.
"No," she says, sitting up and crossing her legs. Oh shit. She's about to get serious.
"Don't tell me your nighttime secret name is Stardust, or Muffin, or Destiny, or Trixie."
Her head falls back and she's hysterically laughing.
"I'm serious! They always have funny names. Have you ever met a stripper named Betty? Only the classy ones are called…" I hesitate as I try to think of a tasteful flower. "Magnolias. They're called magnolias. Like it's a step above carnation or something."
She can't stop giggling. Probably because she knows I'm right.
"Have you ever been in a strip club?"
"I grew up in Queens. How sheltered do you think I am?"
"Good point." She pauses and blows out a heavy breath. "I want to tell you this, but I don't want you to think any less of me, and this definitely could make someone second-guess a person's morals."
"Nat." Whatever she has to say must be hard for her to voice, so I immediately get serious with her. "I swear I won't view you any differently. You're my best friend and there are very few things that could ruin that. Your job would never be a reason to make me look at you in any type of negative way, I promise. You don't do anything without reason, so whatever you’re doing, I'm sure you have a reasonable excuse. Unless it's like murder or something."
She kind of offers me a smile, kind of doesn't. At least I know it's not murder and I feel a little better about that. She rubs her eyes with the heel of her hands and releases a jagged breath. The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt her with judgement.
"Nat, tell me."
Like the true Manhattanite that she is, she starts talking a mile a minute, like she’s had twelve shots of espresso and a bump of cocaine in the bathroom.
"So what I have is an Adult Entertainment License. It's a requirement to work in adult clubs, but I don't strip. I mean, I could if I wanted to, but I don't have the strength to hold myself up on the pole the way strippers do. I've tried it. It’s so much harder than it looks. I had bruises everywhere and I was sore for days. Plus, I just don't have the grace most strippers have."
"When the hell did you do that?"
"About two years ago."
My brows shoot up to my hairline. Eyes wide, I'm flabbergasted. "Two years ago? Where was I?"
She shrugs. "Not important."
I put my hand up. "Um, excuse me, but I would've liked to know when my friend tried working the pole and I didn't get to laugh while watching her."
This time she smiles so big that I end up smiling too. I was being serious. I would've totally watched her.
"Girl. It's so hard. One day we should take a pole dancing class together just so you can see."
The idea intrigues me. "That actually sounds fun. Wait. So you went to a strip club?"
She shifts uncomfortably. "Not necessarily. I went to a club called Sanctuary Cove and tried it there."
My face twists in confusion as I try to think if I've ever heard of it. Despite Manhattan being one of the most densely populated cities in the world, it's actually really small.
"I've never heard of that place."
She shakes her head, a few blonde strands fall in her face and she brushes them behind her ear. "You wouldn't have. It's extremely discreet, for the filthy rich and powerful. The elite of Manhattan, the cream of the crop. You have to be invited to join. It's very hush, hush. I had to sign a nondisclosure agreement. The only reason I'm telling you is because I think you would be a good fit. Kind of. I guess we'll see."
I frown. "Nat, what are you involved in?"
She licks her lips then bites down on one side. "What if I told you that you could easily make about eight grand in three hours? Over ten thousand in one weekend? That in one month you could walk away with fifty thousand dollars."
"I'd say you're full of shit but sign me the fuck up." There's a flicker of light in her eyes. "What aren’t you telling me?"
"What I do is… Basically I…" She stalls, then exhales a slow breath. "I fulfill men's every desire. Women too, if they swing that way. Sometimes a spouse is involved, but only through clearance first."
The urge to giggle is strong but judging by the serious look on her face
, it's probably not the best time. "At Sanctuary Cove?"
"Or wherever they want to meet. I’m told where to go based on what the client wants. It can be a bit more inconspicuous that way."
What she’s describing sounds like an underground club, and I'm curious about it. I also know most underground happenings are usually illegal and eventually get busted. But being told I could make a minimum of eight thousand dollars in three hours is hard for anyone to turn away. I shouldn't be intrigued, but I am, and I want to know more.
Glancing around her room, I take in the wall she recently redecorated. White lights are strung from corner to corner, pictures of friends—no family—hang on clothespins, and there's a minibar with a tall lingerie dresser next to it. She loves to paint, so her artwork hangs in the empty spaces. It's all very shabby chic and gives nothing away to this mystery life I never knew she apparently had.
"Who's they? Who tells you where to go? I'm so confused right now. How do you meet these men or women?"
"A woman named Christine."
"And what does Christine do?" I ask, enunciating every word like I do when the toddlers I nanny cause trouble.
"She sells your dignity."
My head angles to the side and I give her a smirk. "I'm serious."
"She sells a good time with happy endings," Natalie says, and her face lights up.
I laugh because that isn’t what I expected.
"Oh God, you give massages? What's so hush, hush about that? Honestly, that's lame, Nat."
Her eyes lift to the ceiling and her lips pucker to the side. "I guess you could say I go the extra mile."
I sigh, getting peeved with playing twenty questions and getting one-word answers.
"Can you just be out with it already? You're killing me here."
She averts her gaze to the ugly wood floor covered in her clothes. She has to know by now that I wouldn’t judge her, if that's what she's still worried about. Her head falls into her hands. I watch, wondering how I can ease her stress, because now I feel bad about how she feels.
"I've never said this out loud." Her voice is muffled as she sits staring at her crossed legs. "I didn't think it would be this hard, and now I wish I hadn't even brought it up."
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