by Ana Sparks
“Still no sign of him?” Veronica asked, peering around the booth at me, her gaze stopping on the brownie in my hand.
I glared at her and she pouted as though she felt bad for me, and then sauntered off to join her giggling friends. I looked away, popped another brownie in my mouth. Yeah, tonight was the night, all right. The worst night of my life.
“Hey, Kristin.”
I looked up to see Claude flopped in the booth across from me, his shaggy dark hair not quite obscuring his scowling face. Just as I was about to ask him how he was doing, he started to sing:
“Maybe you should’ve been more smart, and gone with me instead of Clark. Then you wouldn’t be alone here in the dark, with brownies….”
As I gaped at him, he continued, “Because brownies are no date, and maybe if you had chosen me this wouldn’t be your fate, but now it’s too late and here you are with brownies…”
With one last annoyed glare at Claude, I rose from my seat and raced to the bathroom. Locked in the stall, I checked my phone: 8:55. Clark had five minutes. Five minutes to fix this.
I texted him: How close are you?
Then, I called him.
“Clark?”
“Kristin? God, I’m so sorry. I’ll explain when I get there. I’m like one minute away and about to park. See you soon!” Before I could protest, he hung up.
Dully, I got out of the stall and peered around the door. Did I dare go back out and risk Clark not showing up? I would be humiliated.
I took a deep breath, then looked in the mirror. Yes, I would go out. Tonight was the night, I could feel it.
So, as Gabby and Philip, two members of the student council, sauntered up to the microphone, I strode to the middle of the dance floor. Clark had said he was a minute away. He was going to make it on time; tonight was the night.
“Okay! So!” Gabby was saying, her bobbed hair bouncing above her shoulders, “We’ve got a lotta votes here! A lotta really good candidates and aren’t these decorations just fab?”
The room cheered dutifully; even I joined in a little.
“Now,” Philip was saying, “On this very important night, we made sure to count the votes twice to make sure there would be no mistakes.”
I checked my phone. It was 8:58, and still no Clark.
Some of my classmates were on the stage, clearly I’d missed being called to the stage while I was in the bathroom.
“So, we’ve already introduced you to our candidates, and we’re going to read out the winners now!”
My phone was calling Clark’s but it was just ringing and ringing and ringing. I dialed again.
“The winners—your prom king and queen are: Clark Denton and Kristin Blair!”
A stunned silence, while the spotlight zoomed over to me, showcasing my phone-holding form.
A broken applause started and Gabby said, “Okay now we just have to find Clark, our victorious king! Clark, Clark has anyone seen Clark?!”
The spotlight flicked back to me. I stepped out of it and tried to make a gesture of apology.
“What’s that?” Gabby shouted into the microphone, “He’s not here?”
The whole room exploded into laughter and I didn’t wait, I ran.
I ran past my laughing classmates, through the hall, but I couldn’t run fast enough. The laughter was everywhere, echoing through the room, swallowing me. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me. Past Gary and his guffawing buddies. Past Veronica and her gleeful bitchy friends. Past the metallic walls, highlighting different angles of my tear-streaked face.
Out of the hall, outside, I didn’t stop running because the laughter didn’t stop. It followed me as I ran until the heel of my shoe broke, until I could only stumble along the sidewalk. And even then, the laughter continued. My phone was ringing but I chucked it on the ground, and yelled into the sky. And then, in a tear-stained heap, I flopped onto the sidewalk.
Yes, tonight was, by far, the worst night of my life. And, whatever happened now, one thing was for sure: never, in my entire life, would I forgive Clark Denton for this. Never.
Chapter One
Kristin
Well, why not?
As I walked with my coworkers towards Cooper’s, I repeated the question to myself to combat the other voice in my head—the one that was urging me to go home and curl up with my cats, Romeo and Juliet.
Because, really ‘Why not’ was right. It wasn’t as though I had anything better to do on a Friday night, other than watch some TV reruns and flip through some dating apps.
“What do you think, Kristin? Think we’ll get a spot?” Harmony asked, and I shrugged.
We had been to Cooper’s a fair few times, but every time had been different: one night you could have good service, the next, bad service; the place could be crowded like standing sardines, or empty as a tomb. We were almost at the familiar green-bordered door and it was too late to turn back now.
Inside, a bartender I vaguely recognized smiled broadly at the sight of our group.
“Think he likes you,” Gillian said, nudging me as we wove our way to a free table at the back.
I said nothing, hoping she’d let the matter drop. No matter how many times I’d told the girls that I didn’t want to be set up with anyone, they persisted in trying to foist any man between the ages of 20 and 50 on me. Clearly, they didn’t understand that single was not the same as single and ready to mingle with any warm-blooded male.
No sooner had we flopped down, a buxom blonde appeared at our table. “Anyone interested in drinks or the specials?”
“Yes, a bottle of merlot please,” Harmony said and the girl bobbed off.
I smiled. That was what I liked about Cooper’s; they got right down to business. As we waited for our drinks and chatted, Gillian began lamenting about the shortcomings of her husband, Paul.
“Seriously, he eats so much! I always have to buy way more groceries, and they only last about two days, when they’re supposed to last a week. And then there’s the beer…”
I stared off at the brick wall, imagining what I would be doing right now if I were at home. Probably flopped on my beanbag with my cats, them licking at each other and ignoring me completely, allowing me bask in the true love they shared—something that I, clearly, did not have. Or maybe I would have to endure one of Veronica’s perennial brag-worthy phone calls, during which she subjected me to an hour-long marathon of complaining about a husband, kids and worries that she knew I would love to have. Yes, being here at Cooper’s with the creepy staring men and my inconsiderate but well-meaning friends wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.
“You gonna drink that, Kir?”
I glanced up to see Harmony holding a wine glass that was already half-empty, eyeing mine. I nodded and downed the whole thing in one gulp.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Whooee, you are fine!” exclaimed Gillian, eyeing me approvingly, “We better get you another!”
And so the night progressed, me downing glass after glass of wine, with a few chicken wings in between. The talk went from men to vacations, before finally returning to men.
“Paul really tries, he really does,” Gillian said, referring to Paul’s lack of sexual prowess, “I just think, maybe, I’ve just had too much experience.”
Harmony shook her head.
“I don’t know. I think if you both are dedicated to each other, then you can work through just about anything. Besides, the best sex I’ve had has been with the men I’ve loved the most, not the ones who are the more…technically skilled.”
She turned to me. “What about you, Kir?”
I stared at her blankly as different lies flickered in my head: “Same here.” “No, I’m all for a good fucking, baby, doesn’t matter who’s doing it.” Until, finally, the truth slipped out.
“I wouldn’t know.”
A shocked silence followed.
“What?” Gillian said, in a tone that implied that-can’t-mean-what-I-think-it-means.
&n
bsp; I nodded and downed the rest of my wine.
“I’ve never done it, I mean. I’ve come close, gotten naked and stuff, I just…” I took a swig of Harmony’s wine, wiping away the tears that came to my eyes. “I just missed the boat, I guess. I’m 28 years old, guys. No man wants that kind of responsibility when they’re 28.”
There was an excruciating silence, during which I finished Harmony’s drink and Gillian patted me on the arm like I had a terminal illness and was seconds away from death.
“Well,” Harmony said, sliding me Gillian’s glass of wine, “It’s not all that bad. It could even be lucrative. I mean, I’ve heard of some girl who auctioned off her virginity…”
Immediately, Gillian and I scoffed, scrunching our noses with the heinousness of the thought. Waving her hand, in a quiet voice Harmony added “…for fifty thousand dollars.”
Silence.
“What?!” Gillian exclaimed and Harmony nodded. Getting out her phone, she typed something then held it out for us to see.
It was a news article. “20-year-old Sells Virginity for $50,000” the headline read.
Taking the phone, I scanned through the story, which described the girl who had made the very practical decision in order to afford schooling and help out her family. The picture on the article showed a pretty, happy girl. I wonder if it had been taken before or after her part of the bargain.
As I returned the phone to Harmony, Gillian gave out a low whistle.
“Well, 50K is a nice bit of change. Can’t say I wouldn’t go for that if I still had my V-card myself.”
Both of their glances flicked to me, but I shook my head.
“I’m not sure I could. I…” I shrugged. “I mean I could do the whole thing until the end, I think. I’m not sure that I could go through with it, with someone I didn’t love.”
Gillian and Harmony nodded understandingly.
“You big sensitive soul you,” Gillian said, though there was a note of pity in her voice.
We sat there drinking for a bit longer, but my embarrassing revelation was there like a dark cloud, hanging over everything. Gillian and Harmony had to go home to their spouses, leaving me with one final glass of wine.
I drank it slowly, savoring it, and not especially wanting to go home just yet. After my little confession, I felt the ridiculousness of my situation even more keenly. And yet, the longer I sat there, the more couples that glided by my table, the more men that gathered at the bar, eyeing me like piranhas, the worse I felt.
Finally, I waved the waitress over, paid the bill and staggered out the door. Cooper’s wasn’t far from my apartment, but I hailed a taxi anyway. I was in no mood to spend extended time with my gloomy thoughts.
I paid the taxi driver and stumbled into my apartment building. Waiting for the elevator took time, but that was because I was living in one of Midtown Sacramento’s cheapest apartment buildings. When I finally did get into the creaky metal elevator car, it stank of stale sweat and cat pee, but luckily it was just a quick trip up to the sixth floor. Then, one long stumble to the end of the hallway, one twist of the key in the door of number 604 and I was in.
Sure enough, curled together on the beanbag with their tails entwined, were Romeo and Juliet, my hopelessly in love cats. As I wobbled in the door, they took one requisite look at me before closing their eyes and snuggling back with each other.
It was ridiculous, seeing them together almost brought me to tears. I had gotten cats to be less lonely, not to be reminded of my loneliness every time I walked through the door. I wavered for a minute in the middle of the room, before making for the window.
Opening it was easy, climbing through it less so, although I managed, flopping my legs over the sill. My window had never had a screen, and for some reason it had become my favorite sitting spot. From the windowsill, I looked out over the forest. Even in the dark, I could see the black sea of trees, with the far-off glimmer of city lights beyond. I looked out into the dark, the expanse that I was just a speck in, and I felt my loneliness even more keenly.
Who would have thought it would come to this? Ten years ago, I had been at the top of my game. I had been accepted to Brown University, I was about to go to prom with the hottest, most popular guy in school, and I was about to have the best night of my life. And what had happened since? Nothing but a free-fall into disappointment: the worst night of my life—no prom date, complete humiliation. Four years of college that nearly bankrupted my parents despite me working two jobs throughout, before graduating into a depressed, saturated job market. And now, here I was: 28, and a dead broke, lonely virgin. One who was actually considering selling her virginity, humiliating herself for a pile of easy cash.
If I did auction off my virginity, it didn’t mean I would have to humiliate myself. I could do it anonymously, invisibly. It could be a secret, seamless transaction—one meeting, one night, one huge deposit of cash and nothing more. After all, hadn’t I suffered enough? Wouldn’t this solve all my problems, my perpetual running from bills that just kept building up, scaring away potential boyfriends when I admitted the truth of my virginity to them?
I took one last look outside, took a breath of fresh air, and then shook my head. No. No matter how auctioning off my virginity would help me; I couldn’t bear to actually do it.
As I hopped off the windowsill, Gillian’s voice echoed in my head: “You big sensitive soul you”.
I froze. Then, in one fluid motion I slammed the window shut. Romeo and Juliet jumped off the beanbag and fled to hide under my bed. In the dark window, I gazed at my reflection.
I was tired of being a big sensitive soul, of letting the world hurt me while I sat around and did nothing. Yes, I was ready to do something—something rash and stupid that would maybe hurt me too—but at least I’d be getting hurt on my own terms.
I marched to the kitchen to get out another bottle of wine. If I was really going to do this, I was going to need to be drunker.
In the bathroom, I tied my ponytail high and got to work with some makeup. My hand moved so fast it was a blur: slashes of black eyeliner, gobs of black mascara and slaps of red lipstick. Black and black and red. It was ironic, these smears of chemicals I had saved for the special occasions that never came, the date with the special someone I’d never gotten around to meeting. The dress was the same, a sad hope, a come-in-handy-later. Well, now, yes now, this tight red fuck-me dress would come in really handy. A pose with my finger between my red lips, hips out, ass up.
I took out my phone and gazed at the image on the camera, the image of red-dress-me in the mirror.
It wasn’t bad—maybe this would work. A snap here, a snap there, no flash. I could do this. I paused, looked at the photos I had taken, and sighed. This was not going to work.
I changed my pose: hands on hips for the next one. I got more wine, took more photos. Red wine and red lips and this dress, this dress that was going to make me thousands of dollars. This dress was going to save my life. Because this was all Clark Denton’s fault, really. He was the one who ruined my life, who made me the laughingstock of the prom and scarred me for all my future relationships. He’d ruined my life, but tonight, I was going to save it.
Another few poses, and I was good to go.
Next was the easy part; making websites was part of what I did for a living. A black background was obvious, what font to use less so. Red would be too much, especially with the dress. White would do just fine.
I took another swig of wine and began coding. Website after website after program I flicked through. My hands were fused with the keyboard, and the page was growing by the second. I had planted the seed, watered it and fed it all at once. It was growing now—the black background, the white font, the red-dress pictures—just those red lips of mine visible, the rest of my face cropped out. The words I typed in a mad frenzy, as they rose from someone else, saucy and devil-may-care:
You don’t know me. But you could.
This is how I look; this is what you could ge
t…if you dare. I’m untouched material, unbroken ground. You could be my first. The only question is, what can you do for me?
Then, the form at the bottom, where buyers would enter in their bids.
I took a last swig of wine; somehow, I’d finished the bottle. Through bleary eyes, I surveyed my creation victoriously. This was the best website I’d ever created, the bravest, most out-of-character thing I’ve ever done. This, right here, this sexy come-hither finger of a website, was going to change my life.
Chapter Two
Clark
I woke up at dawn, when my workday began. When did it end? When my head hit the pillow. That was the price of success. That was the price of this life I led.
I reminded myself of that as I ate my protein-bar breakfast in the car that was taking me to my office. Denton Tower was a recent purchase, one that was, unquestionably, my best one yet. Seeing the hulking tower marked with my logo as my car glided its way through downtown Sacramento’s near-empty streets was the best start to my day that I could ask for.
I was early enough this morning that even Carla wasn’t at the front desk yet. I shook my head. I knew I shouldn’t have slept with the old girl—Jules, wasn’t it? She had been good at her job. Good in bed, too, but not so good that it was worth losing a secretary over.
I let myself in and flopped into my ergonomic desk chair. I wheeled myself to the window that made up one whole wall of my office. Another day, another set of challenges I would have to rise above. That was what business was about: seeing the obstacle, and learning how to beat it. That’s all there was to it.
I glided back to the hardwood desk, turned on my computer and got to work. Decisions and calls, little meetings and big memos filled my day until it was bursting at the seams.
“Sandra wants to know if you are still on for tonight.” Carla buzzed me to ask, a note of judgement in her voice. At this point, she’d fielded texts from Sandra, Rain, Cassidy and God-knows-who-else.
