No Excuses

by Nikky Kaye

“Oh my god, that’s awesome.”

  As if this wasn’t embarrassing enough. I had not had enough wine for this. I shoved her away with my shoulder. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I have a lot of experience with this.”

  “That’s the point, Evie.” Sobering briefly, she rested her hip against the table and crossed her arms. “Are you sure about this, kiddo? It’s kind of… important.”

  “The ends justify the means, Annie. Besides, it’s a hymen, not a retirement fund. Most people don’t save it for a rainy day. I gotta lose it sometime. It might as well be for a good cause.”

  “You know I’d help you if I could.” She made her way back to the couch and sat down with a sad sigh.

  I turned to look at her, resting my chin on my arms on the back of the ugly wooden chair, my dirty blonde hair curling where it hit my shrugged shoulders. “Waitresses don’t make that much money, Annie. I know.”

  Annie was funny, sweet, and as broke as I was. She had ten years of life experience on me, but at least she didn’t have close to a hundred thousand dollars in debt hanging over her head. The interest alone was killing me.

  I’d spent enough of the last year plagued by fear and anxiety, nightmares and cold sweats.

  My fancy degree was utterly useless in today’s economy. I’d gone with my heart, not my head, when I chose to major in comparative literature. And while I got into my first choice college, my grades weren’t quite good enough to get me scholarships.

  I hadn’t known that my parents had taken out a second mortgage to leverage my student loans until they died. Ironically, it was the house that killed them, with carbon monoxide. It all, well… it sucked.

  The threat of yet more tears pricked at my nose, and I swiveled back to stare at my computer screen. I kept thinking I was all cried out, until…

  “What about a picture?” Annie asked. “You need a photo of the goods, Evie.”

  “What? You want me to take a selfie of my hooha?”

  “I think a bra and panties shot will do it. And you might not want to call it your hooha in the ad, Miss Priss.” She tilted her head. “Actually, go ahead. You might get more bids from creepy old men looking to play Daddy.”

  She was joking, but I squirmed in my chair. I didn’t want to admit it, but the idea of letting someone take care of me made my skimpy sleep shorts a little damp. It shouldn’t have made me hot, but neither should have all the smutty fan fiction I’d been reading as of late.

  Maybe it was because I missed having human contact. Annie was great, but she wasn’t the touchy feely type. I’d moved to a cheaper city, hoping to save more money, but that meant leaving everyone I knew behind. At the time, I’d told myself that I was starting over, but I realized too late that it was an escape, and a bad one at that.

  Now I had to hug myself, touch myself when I felt… ornery, and it just left me feeling lonelier. I missed having people, having a family. Being an orphan only child of only children was sad, to say the least. Being a broke orphan was… desperate.

  “I should add ‘looking for Daddy Warbucks’ while I’m at it,” I muttered. “How pathetic.”

  Self-pity wasn’t going to get me anywhere, but sometimes it was a tempting rabbit hole to fall into. I stared into space, lost in a dreamland somewhere between sexual fantasy and sad memories.

  It wasn’t until I heard the door slam that I realized Annie had gone next door to her apartment and returned. I blinked at her.

  “Reinforcements.” She brandished another bottle of wine and an evil grin.

  Oh, dear god.

  I woke up Saturday morning, feeling like ass. Thank god I shoved my narrow bed against the wall, to use as a second couch. The way my head was spinning, there was a better than even chance I’d fall off. My mind swirled at the same rate as my stomach as I tried to remember where Annie and I had left off last night.

  Shit.

  My heart whumped in my chest as I saw that my laptop wasn’t on the table anymore. It was on the couch, as closed and secretive as my hooha.

  About the same time, my brain registered that I wasn’t wearing my sleep shorts and tank top anymore. Somehow, I had managed to pass out in the most uncomfortable, sexiest bra and panty set I didn’t own.

  A vague memory came back to me of Annie bringing over a selection of lingerie, claiming we were “around the same size.” Not true, judging by the way my ample curves were spilling out of the white lacy push-up bra. But why—oh! Pictures!

  Shit, pictures!

  I jumped off the bed, and lurched toward the computer. Wriggled a little. I sat on the couch and opened it on my lap. Wriggled more.

  How the eff did Annie wear thongs like this? I wondered. The laptop was taking its time waking up, and I found myself praying to the god of small mercies that we hadn’t actually—

  Your profile has been completed! Please check your inbox for the confirmation email.

  What was I expecting? The gods had never been kind to me—why would they start now?

  My chest hurt as I tried to hold my panic in. I bit my lip—hard—as the computer’s battery warmed my bare thighs. Nope, it was going to have to come out.

  “Fuck!”

  Chest heaving and stomach dropping, I clicked through to my inbox, where the confirmation taunted me. Then I went back to the web profile, horrified to discover messages in that inbox as the page refreshed.

  It was still loading.

  Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

  154 messages. I gaped at the screen in shock. Were virgins so thin on the ground these days that a brief bio and a boob shot constituted the Second Coming? Apparently so, I thought, until I checked on my “brief bio and boob shot.”

  My lips made the shape of the words and my throat formed the sounds, but my brain still had trouble processing the editorial changes that Annie had made.

  “Prestigious college… saved my cherry for you… innocent and eager to please… just want to be loved?”

  Annie! Fuckadoodle ding dong.

  After reading that, I almost didn’t want to see what pictures she’d posted of me. I don’t remember being that far into our “photo shoot” before I crashed. That second bottle of wine had been a bad, bad idea.

  Sure enough, the thumbnail I clicked on revealed me sprawled seductively on the tiny couch, my D-cups falling out of Annie’s B-cup bra and my arms up near my head, like I was combing my hair with my fingers. At least my thick thighs were closed, and all you could see of the lily-white thong was the lacy string digging into the fleshy padding at my hip.

  I looked sexy; I couldn’t deny it. Looking at the picture even made me feel sexy for once. Being curvy in a culture that valued lollipop-head girls had certainly contributed to my virginal status. Sexy. Me. Two words I’d never put together, until now. I almost wanted to prance around like a plus-size supermodel, except for the fact that Annie’s thong was so damn uncomfortable.

  However I felt about doing this, it had been done. The Internet allowed for lots of regret but little recourse, especially with something like this.

  Morbid curiosity compelled me to read the emails. It was like the human urge to slow down and rubberneck as you drive past a car crash. Some messages were filthy, while others were just raunchy. Most were surprisingly short and to the point.

  The vast majority of them had dick pics attached. Seriously? Who does that? Reflexively, I glanced around, like someone was watching me. I felt weird just looking at someone’s junk on my computer screen. This is why you’re still a virgin, Evie.

  I hadn’t realized private parts were so… public. Personal. They were all so different, at least until they started to blur together. I took a deep breath. Then another. A woozy feeling came over me, which I hoped was just a hangover.

  If seeing naked boy parts nauseated me, then the whole “selling my virginity” thing was not going to go well. I was going to have to get over this. I had no problems reading smutty fiction, so why did pictures make me nervous?

  Another deep, cleansing br
eath later, I opened up Tumblr in another tab. Within a minute I found more nudity than I’d ever seen in one place—mostly genuinely sexy, not icky pornographic. Satisfied that I was adequately desensitized, I went back to the emails still coming in.

  I skimmed through some offers, my eyes widening as I realized how valuable my innocence was. Sure, some bids would barely buy me dinner at a nice restaurant, but others would pay my rent, even buy me a car—and not a shitty one.

  There was one email, however, that made me sit back, my fingers trembling on the track pad.

  It was polite but suggestive, articulate but not stuffy. In fact, it was a shockingly formal proposition, almost like a job offer. With a lot of zeros. And no dick pics.

  It couldn’t hurt to email back, right?

  Slowly, I pecked out a response, asking some pertinent questions. I was polite, however, and avoided the obvious one of “why the hell are you bidding on a girl’s virginity online?” When I was done, I closed my eyes as I clicked on send before parking my laptop on the couch beside me.

  Then I went to throw up.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EVIE

  Now this was the craziest thing I’d ever done. No, the stupidest, I thought to myself as I walked through the lobby of the gleaming skyscraper.

  I was here to meet with Dominic Stone—Mister Whole-Lotta-Zeros. We’d emailed back and forth to discuss the terms of my “deflowering.” He’d encouraged me to do an Internet search on him, which provided me with a visual of my potential, uh, “gardener”—a smoking hot one.

  Dark hair, dark eyes, dark look. There were pictures of him at charity events, in business magazine profiles, and occasionally a paparazzi shot of him coming out of the gym. Dominic Stone looked good in gym clothes. And suits. And tuxedos.

  There weren’t a lot of pictures of him with dates, though. Maybe he was gay? I thought that might have been the case when I saw another ridiculously attractive specimen beside him in a lot of the pictures, but that turned out to be his brother Jacob.

  I didn’t get it. Neither of these men needed to buy a virgin online. They were, quite literally, panty-droppers. If their square jaws and bedroom eyes didn’t do it for the ladies, then their suggestive grins certainly would.

  It did for me, anyhow.

  I’d spent a long time looking at the pictures. Even in thumbnail size, his power and magnetism practically radiated off the screen. Would he be the one? The idea made my body heat up and my nipples tighten. My breath shortened and a curling, pulsing sensation built low in my belly.

  Okay, I wished he had sent a dick pic.

  After a lot of back and forth, I’d agreed to meet Dominic here at his office. It was actually his building, I realized as I saw the signs in the lobby. Dominic and Jacob Stone ran one of the biggest retail conglomerates in the country. It owned a boutique department store, a chain of high-end media stores, a ubiquitous box store, and god only knew what else. The zeros he’d offered in his email were totally legit.

  I once promised myself that I’d never work in retail. That could change.

  As instructed, I told the man at the security desk that I was there to see Mister Stone.

  He didn’t even take his eyes off his magazine. “You can go up to the twelfth floor, ma’am. They’ll help you there.”

  I smiled. “He said he’d come down to meet me.” Ma’am? Really? I was twenty-two, not twice that!

  Mister Stone—Dominic—had insisted we meet first in the lobby, as a kind of show of good faith and safety. Meeting in a public place, he’d written, was a good idea for all parties concerned in this potential transaction. With dozens of people floating in and out of the elevators of the thirty-story building, it couldn’t be much more public.

  With a sigh, the guard reached for the phone. “Have a seat.” He gestured towards a leather bench.

  No, thank you. I needed to stand. I needed to move. My nerves were getting the better of me, my hands cold and a little shaky despite the summer heat. If I stood, my sleeveless red sheath dress wouldn’t wrinkle. When I got up that morning, I had no idea what one wore to an interview as a… what? Mistress? No—that sounded too committed. Hymen vendor? Ugh. In the end, I decided to dress as though going to work, which was kind of true.

  My heels clicked on the polished stone floor as I walked over to an abstract metal sculpture on display. It stretched nearly twenty feet in the air, shining in the morning sun bending through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “What do you think?” a man asked behind me.

  It was a beautiful piece. “Kind of delicate.” It looked like it could fall over any minute, like metal pick-up sticks piled up dangerously high.

  “There’s over a thousand wire coat hangers there.”

  I looked closer. “Huh.” So there was.

  “You’re Evie, correct?”

  Swallowing hard, I turned to the voice. And looked up.

  Dominic Stone stood before me, his tall, dark and handsome figure like a shadow in the sunlit lobby.

  He was even hotter in person. Even if his charcoal suit came from a discount store—which it clearly didn’t—his attitude would be enough to command my attention. All those fanciful words, like charismatic, magnetic, and imposing, were all very appropriate when describing Dominic Stone.

  My three-inch heels barely took me to his shoulders, and I wobbled a little as his gaze ran over me. Just when I was about to turn my ankle, his hand shot out. The feel of his muscular forearm under my fingers had the exact opposite effect of steadying me.

  “Thanks.” My face burned, but I forced myself to look him in the eye. His eyes were rich, dark brown, as heady as strong coffee and gave me a similar jolt. When he tilted his head and his lips curved at the edges, I couldn’t tell if I amused him or he was just being polite.

  “You are Evie, right?” His eyebrows came together in a frown.

  “Yes!” I squeezed his arm, like subconsciously I thought he’d run away. But instead of shrugging me off, he used his other hand to tug my fingers down his wrist to end in a warm, tingling handshake. Both his hands were around mine, and he didn’t let go. I didn’t mind.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said smoothly. “Shall we?”

  Shall we what? I blinked at him.

  “Go up to my office?” He nodded toward the elevator bank. “Unless you’d feel better staying here? Or we could go get a coffee or something.”

  I stared at him, the absurdity of this situation dawning on me. And then my big smart mouth got ahead of my brain. “Coffee? Does my virginity come with an espresso and a muffin?”

  His laugh sounded like a sharp bark, echoing off the stone floor. My face probably matched the crimson of my dress by then. With his hands still wrapped around mine, he pulled me closer. I shivered as his warm breath caressed my bare shoulders.

  “No, Evie, I’ll pay extra for the coffee. But I like it sweet and milky, not dark and bitter.”

  What was I supposed to say to that? My brain hadn’t gotten beyond processing the sensation of his hard fingers brushing over the veins at the inside of my wrist, or his light, crisp scent. In contrast to his dark good looks, he smelled like… the beach.

  This time, when I swayed toward him, I couldn’t blame my stilettos.

  “Your office is fine,” I said faintly.

  “Excellent.”

  I let him guide me to the elevators, past the smirking security guard. We ascended so quickly that my insides felt weightless when we stopped.

  He still held my hand in one of his, as though afraid to lose me. Wordlessly, he led me past a small forest of cubicle-dwellers, down a hallway, and into a large corner office. He gestured to a seating area on one side of the room, with a modern-looking brown leather couch and a couple of matching chairs.

  “Would you prefer that I leave the door open?”

  “That’s okay. I’d rather have the privacy, if it’s all the same to you.”

  What did he think I was afraid of? That he’d as
sault me? Pin me down to his desk and take advantage of me? Wasn’t that kind of the whole point of this? Well, let’s get to it, then, and get out your checkbook. All this went through my head in the few seconds it took him to close the door.

  He strode over to his massive wooden desk with purpose, jiggling his mouse to wake up his computer. My knee was bumping up and down nervously as he threw me a smile.

  “This will just take a second,” he assured me, before tapping something out on the keyboard.

  The suspense was killing me.

  Click clackety click.

  Now both my knees were shaking, and I spread my palms over them to try to keep them still. The narrow skirt of the dress I wore ensured that my seated pose on the brown leather couch remained ladylike, with my legs pressed together and my ankles crossed demurely.

  As Dominic Stone walked back over to me our gazes met. I’d always thought the term “eye fucking” was a little over the top—until now. His expression was frankly admiring and would have made me nervous, if it didn’t instead make me feel like a million dollars. Which reminded me…

  “Um, Mister Stone—”

  “Dom.” He stood in front of me where I sat on the couch, his belt buckle squarely in my line of sight.

  Dom? He was a Dom? My hand flew to my mouth to hide my shocked giggle. I may have been a virgin, but I read. A lot. Kinky stuff, sometimes. Was I supposed to call him Master now? Oh, wait. Dom was short for Dominic.

  I was officially a clueless idiot. Damn, this virgin thing was spreading to my brain.

  “About my profile,” I began again, “it isn’t exactly, totally, one hundred percent accurate.”

  “You’re not a virgin?”

  “No, that’s correct.”

  His frown eased as his hands went to his hips, drawing my eyes to his crotch again. I looked down at my own lap.

  “I mean—I am a virgin.” And about to die of embarrassment. “But the other stuff… well, I didn’t write it. My friend did.”

  His eyes narrowed as he sat down in the armchair placed at a ninety-degree angle to the couch I was perched on. “You went to a good school? You have a degree?”