by Mia Asher
Is this everything I’m worth—a body and a face?
A voice inside my head tells me that things could be different if only I’d allow it, but I ignore it. Instead, I take one last glance at my naked body and walk toward my closet, looking for an outfit to wear tonight.
It’s been five years since I moved to New York City and in those years I’ve managed to live a life full of clichés. I’ve become a walking cliché, but I don’t mind because at least I can say that I’m living and experiencing life. I’ve been a waitress, a receptionist, a sales representative in a department store … I even tried acting school for the hell of it. And through it all, I’ve managed to keep my heart intact and my feelings at bay.
Looking around at my expensively furnished apartment—my borrowed dream—I’m surrounded by glamour and false security. A white bedspread and headboard, a white rug, a white night table, white candles, white lamps, and blocks of white canvas as the only thing adorning my lavender walls. White. White. White. I breathe white. I breathe the color of innocence. Yet this place couldn’t be more soiled than the color black.
I shake my head and focus on getting ready for my date tonight with Walker.
Walker Woodsmith Jr.—the name alone drips with money. With his blond hair, sky blue eyes, body of an Olympic swimmer, a pedigree similar to the Kennedys, and the swagger of Jay-Z—he is God reincarnated. And he fucks like one too. It feels as though he brings me closer to God every time he plays my body like a perfectly tuned instrument.
Just thinking about him makes my heart rate rise. With Walker, everything is always fast, angry, hard, painful.
And I love it.
Once I finish applying the last coat of dark red to my lips, I take two steps away from the bathroom counter so I can take a better look at myself. I smile at my flawless reflection in the mirror. Rivers of straight black hair, skin that has never been kissed by the sun, eyes the color of bluebells, and an hourglass figure. This Blaire won’t be bullied by the cool kids in school. This Blaire won’t be ignored.
This Blaire will shine.
Satisfied with the way the little black lacy, see-through dress I’m wearing molds to my curves, the thin layer of lace showing the paleness of my skin, I decide this will do. I look sinful. I look like sex—and that’s what I’m selling. I want men to want me. I want women to be jealous of me. I need to feel desired.
After slipping my feet into a killer pair of black Miu Miu stilettos (and by killer I mean they are as gorgeous as they are painful), I grab a sparkly clutch encrusted with crystals and head out the door.
Standing on the corner outside my building, relishing in the attention I seem to be attracting, I lift an arm, feeling the golden bangles I’m wearing slide down my wrist, and flag a cab. As I wait for one to stop, I look around me, admiring the way the city comes alive when darkness has fallen upon us. It’s not like it doesn’t feel the same way during the day—it’s different—better. As night takes over, there’s a wild frenzy of excitement and licentious behavior that runs deep through the streets of Manhattan, swiping away with it all of its inhabitants. And as I swim in those turbulent waters, my body packed with energy, I’ve never felt freer.
I’m watching a couple hold hands as they walk their dog across the street when I hear my phone ring. I open my small clutch and reach for the white rectangle that holds my entire life in its minuscule memory chip. I smile when I see the picture of my best friend—the only person who knows the real me.
“Yo,” I answer. We like to pretend that we can talk all cool, but we’re pretty lame at it if we’re being honest with ourselves.
“Sup, lady?” she answers.
A cab finally stops in front of me. “One sec, Elly.” I grab the handle and pull the door open. Once I glide to the middle of the backseat, feeling the coolness of the leather underneath me rub against my bare skin, I give the address to the cab driver and go back to my conversation.
“Back, sorry about that. Anyway, how are you, stranger? I feel like I haven’t spoken to you in ages.”
Elly laughs. “That’s because you’ve been too busy sucking Walker and his wallet dry.”
I smile. “You’re correct … on both accounts.”
My answer makes her laugh once more. “You’re shameless, Blaire, but that’s why I love you. And as long as he treats my girl right, I don’t care if he’s a pompous ass.”
“You know he does, and I thought he grew on you?” I want to add that even if he didn't treat me right, I'd stay with him by choice, but I don't.
I’m very attracted to Walker—his cock is a religious experience, and he’s the kind of guy who men respect and women dream about. He’s filthy rich, and we have a lot of fun and wild times together. But here's the thing ... as horrible as it sounds, I wouldn’t give him the time of day if I knew he was broke and a nobody. I may not believe in love, but I do believe in practicality and goals. I don’t want to live comfortably—I want luxury. I want an easy life. And a broke guy would never be able to offer all those expensive things to me.
It all comes down to priorities. And a faux happy marriage to the man I love, two point five kids, with a moderately sized Victorian house in the suburbs doesn’t make the top of my list. Because what they fail to show you in the catalog of life is that behind those walls, the couple will eventually fall out of love and become strangers. The mom will grow tired of taking care of her kids and of her mundane life, growing anxious as she wonders if looking at a pile of folded clothes is all the excitement left in her life. The father will grow bored of fucking the same woman over and over again. Maybe he’ll grow frustrated and dissatisfied with his life and turn to alcohol instead of another woman. Or maybe he'll grow resentful of what he has to give up in order to provide for his family. And what about those two point five kids who look so happy in the glossy pages of said catalog? Behind those pretty smiles are hidden tears of neglect, laughless hearts, and days upon days of loneliness.
And that is not my dream.
So am I calculating? Yes, completely. I’m a gold digger, but I’m also smart. Love fades … or it’s selfish … or unkind … but a diamond? A diamond will last forever.
And because I’m a cynical bitch, I’m very aware that I need to capitalize on my looks while I still have them because those will fade as well.
“I guess I still don’t trust him fully,” I hear Elly say. “I wish you could just settle with a nice guy who loves you for who you are and not what you look like.”
I laugh as I stare out the window, watching the cab picking up speed, people and street lights blending together. “If they knew the real me, they would run for the hills, Elly. Come on, let’s be honest here.”
After a moment of silence, she replies, “Not if they knew the real you. The one you try so hard to hide. May I remind you what you did for me?”
“Blah, stop it. But seriously, I can’t believe you’re still iffy about Walker. We’re good together. Anyway, tell me, how was your vacation?” Elly was away for two weeks visiting family in California.
She huffs. “Don’t go changing the subject on me, Blaire. And I don’t know … there’s just something about Walker that throws me off.”
“I think you’re thinking too much into it. We’re just having fun.”
And we are.
I was the pretty hostess of Homme, an upscale restaurant in Midtown that Walker and his friends used to frequent around lunch hour when we met. At first, he only saw me as a nice piece of ass to spend a couple of hours with whenever he felt like it (and maybe he still does—who knows). I saw the expensive suit, the even more expensive watch, and when I heard his last name, my panties almost fell down to the ground. He was like the long lost City of Atlantis for girls like me.
The click and clack of utensils and the buzz of chatter filled my ears as I stood in my booth by the front of the restaurant, I preened like a peacock for Walker.
First stolen glance.
I felt my skin tingle.
; Second stolen glance.
I felt my skin grow hot.
Third stolen glance.
I was burning.
Our eyes continued to connect over and over again—we couldn’t stop.
By the time his bill was paid, I’d thought he was going to stop by the front and ask me for my number like so many other men before him had. But he hadn’t. As a matter of fact, as he crossed the small space between the metal booth where I was standing and the large glass doors, he didn’t even glance my way. I watched his perfectly combed blond hair shine like burnt gold in the sun as he stepped into the street. When I heard the roar of his laughter at something his friend must have said, I felt it vibrate in my bones.
And then he was gone.
I wish I could say that I didn’t care and that the moment he walked out the door he walked out of my mind. But it would be a lie. He remained in my thoughts for the rest of the day. When my shift was over, I kissed my coworkers on the cheek goodbye, grabbed my coat and headed out the door.
I felt my heart stop beating as soon as I saw him.
Walker.
Reclined against his black BMW parked across the street from the restaurant staring straight at me. His sleek hair parted to the side in a way that should have been obnoxious, but on him it totally worked. A confident smile graced his face. It was the kind of smile that only those born in privilege and to whom the word “no” is nonexistent have. He looked gorgeous. And the slut in me instantly wondered what it would feel like to run my hands through his long hair as I rode him like a mechanical bull.
I watched him cross the street, walking in my direction. When he was standing in front of me, he simply said, “Go out with me.”
I wanted to say yes.
But I knew that if I wanted him to treat me differently, to give me everything I wanted and to want me more than any other pretty face he could have, I needed to make him work for it. I needed to make him work for my attention. Isn’t the chase always better than the catch? Guys like him thrive on it.
So I gave him my best smile—a smile that said yes with the eyes but no with the tongue. “No, I’m sorry but I’m busy tonight and I don’t even know you.”
He grinned, his eyes sparkling with a devious light. “Somehow I had the feeling that you were going to say no.”
I ran a hand through my long hair seductively, watching him follow my movements. “Smart man. Anyway, I’ve got to go—”
“Walker. The name is Walker.”
I turned around and started to walk away. “See you around, Walker.”
I was almost halfway down the street when I heard him yell after me, “I won’t take no for an answer, you know.”
I stopped and turned around to face him, my hands on my hips. “Oh really?” I felt my toes curl inside my expensive Mary Jane pumps and my heart rate accelerate as I waited for his answer. See … the chase is always so much better.
An easy and slow smile appeared on his face, making him look like the cocky bastard that he was, but I loved it. “You’ll give me another chance. You’ll see. And then …”
“And then what?”
“I guess you’ll just have to find out.”
And that was it. He turned around, waited until there was a clear gap in the traffic, then crossed the street, got in his car and drove away. I watched him speed into the sunset as people walked past me.
I said “no” several times after that, but Walker never gave up. Never. If anything, he’d pursued me more aggressively and single-mindedly than ever before. As with all good things in life, he knew I was worth it. And somehow he also knew that the way to my heart was money—gifts, expensive dinners, a better apartment …
He gave me everything.
WITH CHAMPAGNE AND CAVIAR INUNDATING my every sense, I slither through the light wooden floors of the Lila Acheson Wallace Wing in The Met. As I walk, I pretend to admire the expensive jewelry being showcased tonight by a famous designer whose name I can’t remember. A multicolored diamond butterfly sparkles to my left and a cobra made out of black stones glistens to my right. Rows upon rows of precious gems twinkle under the soft lights of the room, flooding the space between the walls with the glow of a thousand stars. Furtive glances. Secrets gossiped. Beauty criticized. Lofty music fills the atmosphere as the über rich mingle and pretend to like each other, yet you can almost taste their conceit and derision for one another in the air.
This is Walker’s world, and I love it.
Standing across the room, where the crowd is thinner and the music fainter, I spot Walker’s blond head in the corner of the room, talking to a group of his colleagues and their wives. He looks polished and worth every penny of his trust fund in his sleek black tuxedo, perfectly starched white shirt and black bowtie. His long golden hair parted to the side shines like the sun. He is truly flawless.
I smile because it’s hard to picture that this is the same guy who likes to snort coke off my tits as he fucks me while hardcore porn plays in the background. He looks untouchable and so cool, but his searching eyes, scanning the crowd for me give him up. He’s wondering where I am. He did tell me not to go too far, after all. Soon after we arrived at the party, I gave him some space to talk to his friends and do his thing while I did mine. I hate clingy people, so I avoid being one.
I grab a third flute of champagne from a passing waiter, and try to decide which of the different displays to check out first when my eyes land on a spectacular piece of jewelry. On a bed of black silk, similar to my hair color, lies an extravagant necklace made of diamonds and rubies—a small heaven within one’s reach as long as you can afford the price.
I bridge the space between the glass protecting the necklace and me until it’s within my reach, fighting the urge to touch the cool surface. As if under a spell, I observe how the rows of diamonds embedded in platinum form leaves and thorns. At its center is a rose made out of red diamonds almost as big as my palm.
I feel someone walk up and stand next to me, but I don’t give him or her a second thought as I continue to admire the way the light hits the gems, making them shine.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
His voice is smooth and commanding, dripping absolute power. I keep my eyes locked on the display. Call it sixth sense, but somehow I know that under no circumstance should I make eye contact with the stranger who speaks like the ruler of the world.
“Yes,” I say simply.
“I wonder how much it is?” the man asks.
“I don’t think it matters … I highly doubt anyone can afford it.”
He chuckles, and the sound is more delicious than his voice. Lusher. “Oh, but I can.”
I smile at his self-assurance. I love cocky assholes. “I still doubt it.”
“You shouldn’t. I only speak the truth,” he retorts coolly. His voice is nonchalant yet his words leave no room for disbelief—a demand and a statement all in one.
Suddenly, the noises of the room become distant. People talking and laughing amongst friends and the orchestra playing all fade away until all I hear is him speaking.
And at this moment, that is all that matters.
“The truth is very subjective, sir.”
“The truth may be subjective but money isn’t. Money can buy anything.”
His answer is like an electroshock, jumpstarting my brain from a champagne-induced haze. My pulse begins to accelerate, excitement making it hard to take a deep breath. Don’t look at him … don’t.
“Oh really,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. He’s right, though.
“Of course. I believe everything,” he pauses, “and everyone has a price.”
Curiosity winning the battle against curiosity, I turn to face him, and what a fucking big mistake that is. When our eyes meet, I feel incapacitated of all sense and movement. The sight of him takes my breath away. This man gives the term “lust at first sight” a whole new meaning.
In my short twenty-three years, I’ve been with extremely handsome men, perf
ect even, but to classify the man standing next to me in any kind of category would be a disservice to him, and not really fair to the others. Longish, light brown hair wildly framing his face, vacant eyes the color of dollar bills, a slightly crooked nose, and a mouth that begs to be buried deep within your thighs. His beauty is as harsh as it is stunningly perfect. Dressed in a simple black tuxedo and unbuttoned white shirt, the man exudes innate virility and grace, reminding me of a black panther stalking his prey. And just like a panther, it’s the pure raw and powerful energy emanating from within him that I find most attractive. Because just by standing next to him, I get the sense that his word is always the last spoken and his wishes the first ones to be fulfilled. He doesn’t ask, he demands. He doesn’t hope, he expects.
He’s quiet for a moment; his uncanny eyes hold me captive as though they are baring my soul to him and I hate it. I tighten my hold on the crystal flute. I want to look away, but I can’t. The way he’s staring at me makes me want to squirm.
“I wonder … do you have one?” he asks softly before turning to examine the piece of jewelry once more.
“A what?” I ask, momentarily stunned.
He smiles. “A price.”
“For the right amount … I just might,” I say quietly, my heart beating so fast it feels as though it wants out of my chest. As soon as the words leave my mouth, there’s no shock coursing down my body, no rolling waves of shame pulling me down for having said that to a complete stranger—nothing.
And why should there be? I am who I am.
I’m staring at his profile, waiting for him to acknowledge my answer, when a breeze of cool air floats past us, making me shiver. About to chase the goose bumps on my arm with my hand, I watch as he slowly turns to look at me, catching me staring at him. Time stands still as I watch him raise his large tanned hand and touch my bare shoulder, his fingertips lightly grazing the temporary small bumps covering it. Then he smiles as if he knows that my skin is tingling from his scalding touch, and looks away.
