I lower my voice to a more sympathetic tone. Whatever she's about to tell me is big and I want her to know her secret is safe with me.
"Said what?"
"What I do for the money I get. No one knows, Aub. It’s definitely nothing to be proud of, but it has to stay a secret, even if you decide what I do isn't for you. Promise me."
I feel like I can hear her heart beating, so I try to lighten the mood.
"Fine. Deal. Scout’s honor. Be out with it already. You know I'm good for it," I say.
Natalie picks up her head and looks straight into my eyes. She takes one deep breath, then slowly exhales. "I sleep with men for money, and I'm good at it. Really good at it."
I blink and debate with myself how I'm supposed to receive her words. Naturally, I spit out a joke.
"Nat, are you trying to tell me you're a rent-a-hoe?"
Eight
Her mouth twitches as she tries not to laugh, but she does in the end. I know I did the right thing, even though I'm stunned as fuck.
"Yes, I guess I am."
Lines crease my forehead. "For real, though? You really sleep with men for money? Like have sex?"
"Well, I sure as fuck don't cuddle or give foot rubs, but name your price and I just might."
I stare at her, lost somewhere between speechless and stunned because it's almost too crazy to fathom that what my best friend just told me is real.
I take her in, really look at her. From the outside, she's a Manhattan princess. Flawless, milky skin; big round midnight blue eyes; legs for days; wears all the top-notch fashion designers; and has a hefty trust fund. She has the perfect life and will never want for anything. In a sense she is royalty, after what she told me about her wealthy family, so I'm even more dumbstruck as to why she sells her body for money.
What's even more mind-blowing is that she thinks I’m a good fit for something like this. I mean, I have nothing against it—sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do—but I don't know why she would think I could.
"Say something," she says, her voice low and cracking.
"You're a dirty little freak," I joke. "For real, Nat, how the hell did you get involved in that? Do you have a pimp?"
"No, no pimp, but there is a house mom—a madam. Madam Christine. She owns and runs Sanctuary Cove."
I burst out laughing because she can't be serious right now. She has a madam? No way. She comes from an insanely wealthy family.
"This is starting to resemble a Lifetime movie with a bombshell twist," I say, which makes me laugh even more. "I can already see the tag line for the commercial—Manhattan princess by day, seductress hooker by night." I can't help it, it's too funny, and now I know she's making this up.
Except she jumps from her bed and marches over to her tiny closet in her pajamas. Natalie looks mad, but I know she's not. She's about to prove a point.
Bending over, Natalie digs into the back of the closet and pulls out a tattered black suitcase and drops it to the floor. She unzips it in a flurry, throwing the top back, then unzips a smaller suitcase stashed inside. She reaches in and takes out an ugly ass, bright green and orange stuffed dragon. It looks like something she won at a fair.
I’m appalled at her savagery when she rips the head off then looks up to meet my stare. I hold my breath as all humor between us fades, being replaced by a somber feel.
Natalie turns the dragon over and money falls out of its neck onto my lap. My jaw drops. There has to be at least ten stacks of fifty and hundred dollar bills, and they're all tightly wrapped in one-inch bands. The bills are clean and crisp, not crumpled together. I start counting in my head. There has to be somewhere around fifty to eighty thousand dollars here.
"This can't all be from giving a few blow jobs." I finger the money, fanning it in front of me in awe. This isn't the money she stuffed into the fake book either since I know she deposited it already. This is a lot of money to hide in an apartment, let alone for a college student to have.
Natalie crawls onto the bed next to me and sits close.
"I'm an escort for the rich. A high-end escort." She leans her head on my shoulder. Natalie rarely opens up about personal stuff, but then again, I guess I rarely do either.
"What does that mean? You're a prostitute?"
"It means I really am paid for a good time. Whether it's sex or acting as just a companion, an hour for a quickie, a whole weekend under someone's control, arm candy at a Saturday brunch event, I get paid for it. I do whatever they want. I have my limits, and I only do what I’m comfortable with."
"You're a classy Vivian. Julia Roberts would be so proud." I kid, not knowing what else to say. "Where do you find these men?" My voice is a low whisper, as if we're going to get caught.
"I don't. Madam Christine finds them for us."
"You weren't kidding about her?"
"No. Every transaction goes through her. She sets it up based on what the client wants and what her girls can do and when. We're paid in cash at either the end of every job, or at the end of the week. All this"—she nods toward the cash in my lap—"is from last month. I've been trying to open an account offshore to deposit it into."
Eyes wide, my mind is spinning with so many questions. I don't know where to start. Mainly I want to know why.
"But where does she find them?" I ask.
Natalie picks her head up and looks at me. Her eyes are like an open book, revealing sheer honesty, and all I can do is stare for a moment because this is a huge pill for anyone to swallow.
"They're all members of Sanctuary Cove. Doctors, lawyers, real estate moguls, businessmen—they’re the elite of New York City and surrounding areas. Some come from old money, some work for the government. Most of the time the clients just want a few hours away from their hectic lives."
I just stare in astonishment, trying to process her words.
"Okay, so it is like prostitution, but it's not. As you can see it's not about a twenty-dollar blow job," she says and gestures toward the money. "These men, ninety percent of them are married and not looking to have a romantic affair. They mostly want to have a no-strings-attached rendezvous while still being able to keep their families intact. They want gorgeous women who can dress up, not ones wearing plastic and clear high heels. I don't call it a hookup, and date is a far stretch from the truth. Depending on what my client wants, I give it to him, or her."
"Don't you feel bad, though?"
She shakes her head and the look in her eyes tells me she really doesn't.
"No, because we're not soliciting them, they're coming to us. The clients have already set their minds to it, and by coming to us, it gives them the reassurance of confidentiality they need."
I won't lie, this is all fascinating. I'm intrigued more than ever, but this kind of lifestyle isn't for everyone. I'm pretty positive it's not for me. Still, I'm curious.
"But why would someone pay this much money for sex?"
"Girl, look around. There's so much money in this city it's sickening. People will pay for anything if they want it bad enough. The girls at Sanctuary Cove go through a lot to work there, which the clients are aware of. It's not just walking in and applying. They're all screened and tested regularly."
"But don't the wives ask where the money is going?"
She laughs, but it's more of a mock. "No. These men have secret accounts they keep from their wives. They're sneaky as fuck and know how to play the game. Plus, the wives are set up so nicely that they're never going to question a thing. They get stipends every month and live in penthouses with butlers and chauffeurs."
"But why do you do it? You don't need to." I ask the one question I need answered most.
She falls back on the bed and drapes an arm over her forehead. "I knew you were going to ask that. It was by accident, really, and I'm not going to get into the logistics of it, but it happened after I had a huge argument with my parents. Even from a young age, my life was so controlled and planned by them. You know I'm at this school because of them, an
d you know I take the classes I do because of them, because they're setting up the future they want for me. They say one day I'll thank them, but I won't. I've always hated school."
"But you're twenty-two. Why do you even stay in school if you hate it?"
She rolls her eyes. "Because if I don't do what they say, I lose my trust fund. And you need a degree to do anything these days, so I figure it can't hurt to get one from an Ivy League school on my parents’ tab."
She has a point and I can't fault her for that one. "But from what I've seen this weekend, you have a lot of money to live on your own. Why don't you?"
"A hundred grand is nothing here. You see my taste. I love luxurious things. I wouldn’t even last six months." Another point proven. Welcome to New York. "All the money I make is socked away. I have another two hundred grand sitting in the bank in a personal account I opened, which is why I need the offshore one."
I gawk at her. That's a lot of money for having sex.
"Occasionally I withdraw money from my trust or just swipe my debit card to make it look like I'm using it."
"Two hundred grand," I repeat, my voice is a whisper as I glare at the sex money, because that's what it is. "How? How long did that take?"
Natalie sits up to face me, giving me a little shrug. "Just a little over a year. There's money to be made in this city, and once you start making it, it becomes addicting. Yeah, it's dirty money, but if you don't do it, someone else will."
I lie back trying to sort out my thoughts and process all the information Natalie just threw at me. My mind is stuck on the amount of money she’s talking about. There’s a lot I could afford without the stress of how I was going to get through the month. Forget the flat screen for Grammy and my simple luxuries, I could move her to SoHo and take her on a Pretty Woman-inspired shopping spree.
My head is still spinning when Nat says, "How much are you willing to sell yourself for?"
Nine
I tap my pen on my desk, staring in a daze at my white-haired professor. I should be focused on what he’s saying, but my thoughts keep going to my best friend’s surreptitious identity.
Who is Natalie at night? There's no chance in hell she uses her real name. We both rarely give out our real names when we go out for the night. So who is she? I know she's not a Betty, or a Trixie.
More importantly, how does she actually go through with the deed? A one-night stand is understandable because there's usually a mutual attraction—usually encouraged by liquor—so it works.
But this is something else. This is literally being paid to have sex.
I can't wrap my head around how someone just has sex for money if they're sober and normal. I mean I know it happens all the time, but I never really gave it much thought until now. Manhattan is a city riddled with unlawful activity on every block where everyone is trying to make a quick buck. How does anyone get turned on by that for it to work? I'm fairly certain I'd be as dry as the Sahara Desert if I was paired with an eighty-year-old man who had to take his dentures out to have sex. There's no way his wrinkly dick would just slide in.
There are so many questions I want to ask.
I'm shocked how in the dark I've been about this life she lives once the sun sets. I never thought to ask if there was more to what her job required. This is the city that never sleeps. Everyone hustles. Everyone is always on the go. Anything is possible here.
I move on to my last class of the day, which I find irony in. The study of deviance and how it is related to power and class actually makes me focus and think about what Natalie is offering me. Is she asking me to be a Vivian? I’m not sure I have the ability to relinquish my body like that, and I wonder why she thinks I could.
I glance down at my watch. There’s twenty minutes left of class. If I hurry back to our apartment fast enough, I might catch her before I have to leave for the laundromat. I groan inwardly, already not looking forward to going to work. That place smells like dirty jock straps, but it helps pay the bills so I try not to complain too much.
Class lets out and I quickly gather my belongings. When I step outside, I'm greeted by the mass of people and the scent of sewage lingering in the air that never seems to disappear. It's a little cooler, so the smell is not as bad as it is in the summer.
I dodge and swerve around the picture-taking tourists, and make it to our apartment pretty quickly. Not before dropping some change into a cup, though. What can I say, I have a bleeding heart. I take the stairs two at a time and speed down our floor to the end of the hall. Unlocking the door, I walk inside to see Natalie getting dressed.
"Hey, girl," she says casually, like she didn't just ask me if I’d be willing to sell my body for sex last night.
"Hey."
"What's up?"
I drop my books on the table and follow her into her room. I eye her. She's wearing a stunning nude cocktail dress. It’s glitzy and glamourous and screams money, with a sweetheart neckline and tons of flashy rhinestones. She looks amazing and pulls off the style like it was made for her. Teardrop dangly earrings with no necklace finishes off the attire. She looks like a goddamn supermodel.
"Going to work?" I ask.
She gives me a side smile and there's an impish look in her eyes. I almost think she likes it.
"I am, but it won't be a long night. I have to attend some ritzy dinner on the Upper East Side where the plates are about two thousand a person." She rolls her eyes. "Who pays that much for a dinner?"
"Do they donate it to charity? Usually that's why, like they'll donate half."
"I have no idea. Probably not. The richies I know rarely ever give back."
I make a little noise because she has a point.
"So there's no sex tonight?"
If I didn't have to have sex every night, then maybe I could consider it. "Maybe" being the operative word.
"I always expect sex. Any man, even if he isn't paying for sex, is going to expect it at the end. It's just the way it goes."
"I have to ask you something," I say, and she shoots me a fleeting glance. "What makes you think I can do what you do?"
"Because you love sex and you don't have an issue with one-night stands." Damn it, another point. "And you really need the money." Valid. "You wouldn’t have to stress about how you're going to pay for you or Grammy, and you wouldn't have to work so much. Depending on what your hard limits are, you could literally work one weekend a month, and even that would bring in way more than you’re making now. But I wouldn't expect that because Madam Christine demands we work a minimum of seven days a month. Seven days a month, Aubs, and you can live comfortably and stress-free."
But not morally free, and I'm not sure I'm okay with that. Selling my body for sex makes me feel a little dirty.
I watch as she takes out a long coat from the closet and places it carefully on her bed. Even the coat is top quality, and for a minute, I'm a little envious.
"How do you just lie back and take it, though? That's what I don't understand."
Doing what Natalie does takes a special breed of people who let modesty fly out the window. I like to consider myself sexually liberated, but now, I'm not so sure. But was it any different than a one-night stand? I've had plenty of those before and never felt ashamed. I always woke up with no regrets, unless it was one of those random mornings when I woke up to a face only a mother could love.
"It's how every girl does it. Alcohol."
I raise my brows. "You have to get drunk? How do you keep yourself from getting sloppy?"
"Not drunk," she says, putting a few condoms and her makeup compact into her cute clutch. I wonder if she has to bring a variety of sizes. She throws in lip gloss and a few cash bills. "Enough to take the edge off. I usually take half a Percocet too."
Now my eyes are huge. I have a feeling my body would not spread like oil when the time came to do the job and I'd be more like frozen butter.
While I see why she would need to have a drink or take a pill to get through the night, she works a
lot and it's easy to get addicted. That's not something I have time for, let alone want. Natalie sees my surprised look, then takes out her bottle of liquor.
"I don't take the pills all the time. Just two shots of vodka and that's enough to loosen me up. Just depends on what is planned for me. For instance, tonight I'll just take the shots. It's an easy night, even if it ends in sex. Probably limo sex."
"Where do you get the pills from?"
She gives me a deadpanned look. "Aubrey, this is New York. I can walk down any street and into a dark corner and find them. Even in a hippie vegan bread shop. But these I get from the lady of the house. That way I know they're not fucked with."
Why do I keep asking her questions I already know the answers to?
"Do you use a fake name?"
Natalie pauses, then pulls out the chair from the desk. She sits down and looks at me.
"There are three rules when you get into this line of work that you have to live by. One, you keep your personal life separate. Two, you never reveal your true identity. And three, don't get close to a client. You separate that shit, because all these men want is sex and money. That’s it. The client is never going to leave his wife, and if he does, it sure as hell isn't going to be for you." She pauses to lick her lips. "Everything is a lie and has to stay that way because some clients can get a little obsessive. I know a girl who fakes a New Zealand accent so well you would never think she's from the States. Yes, I use a fake name. I go by Natalia and they think it's exotic. Also, ignore the increasing number of men you sleep with. Do not count them, do not think about it. Just count your bills all the way to the bank and that's it. It's like a normal one-night stand, but you’re being paid for it. That’s how I see it."
"Do you get to pick your men?"
"No. They're paying, so they pick. I just go where I'm told."
I grimace. "I bet they're all old and ugly. I don't know if I can willingly fuck that, Nat. I need a little attraction." I hold my hand up and pinch my fingers together.
Hush, Hush Page 5
