I take a deep breath and chug half of my Davenport-Ridgeway water bottle, which makes the whole situation feel worse because I can’t even fulfill basic needs without Davis being shoved in my face.
Impulsively, I grab my phone and head down to the building’s lobby, where there’s a coffee cart and couches. For ten seconds, I stand in a small sea of comers and goers, dodging people in suits and sheath dresses as they enter the elevator that I’ve just vacated. The spanning ceilings and the turnstiles frame the scene: a world of corporate buzz that feels inherently foreign to me, like I may as well be in another country.
In a split-second decision, I buy myself a coffee, take a seat on a leather couch by the building’s entrance, and I call Charlie.
“Everything okay?” he says as soon as he answers.
“I’m fine,” I lie, exhaling gratefully now that he’s in my ear. “What about you?”
“Why’d you call?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
In the background, I can hear the sound of guys yelling at each other and laughing, and possibly the sound of a tv blaring over all of it.
Charlie’s pause draws out. “Liv, this sounds like the first in a series of conversations where you tell me that you’re dying of something terminal. Or am I dying of something terminal?”
“Neither of us is dying,” I reply, managing a laugh because this casual nihilism is so characteristic of my little brother. “I truly just wanted to check in on you. I know I haven’t called much since I started working.”
“It’s okay. I know you’re out there working your way up the corporate ladder. I’m sure you’ll be CEO by next Thursday, right?”
I’m grateful that Charlie has no idea just how much ladder I would have to climb to even break through the clouds to merely see the CEO. “Don’t worry about me. How are you doing? That’s why I called. You’re good on money? Good on whatever you need for the summer?”
“Yeah, pretty good,” he says, which I know better than to believe.
“Does that mean that you’re on a steady diet of Easy Mac and Chef Boyardee?”
“With some Honey Nut Cheerios in there—for balance, you know.”
I sigh hard. “Seriously? You need to eat better. Let me send you some cash.”
“I’m eating fine. I was messing with you.”
“You swear? You swear on my life, Charlie Nolan?”
Charlie lets out a groan. “Jeez. You couldn’t put my life on the line? You had to use yours? You know I wouldn’t risk you.”
“I’m sending you money,” I tell him. “Nothing crazy. A couple hundred for groceries. Promise me that you’ll use it to buy a vegetable—or maybe a piece of fruit. Something that needs soil and water to exist.”
“Thanks, Liv,” he says, and I hate the sincerity in his voice. “I’ll do that. I promise. But you need to promise me that you’re not sending every penny you have to me. It’s your first time in New York, and I don’t want you spending all summer siphoning money to me. How much do you even have right now?”
Two-hundred and thirty-seven dollars and fifty-one cents.
I don’t share that number with Charlie, but I know it down to the penny. Next week, when my first paycheck from D-R comes in, I’ll have to spend a huge chunk of it on my apartment back in Philadelphia, another chunk on Charlie’s summer apartment, and the small remainder will bring my total savings to three-hundred and fifteen dollars and sixty-three cents (not yet accounting for the hundred or so that I’ll be sending to Charlie for groceries).
“Don’t worry about my finances. Just take care of yourself. That’s the best thing you can do for both of us,” I practically instruct him.
We end the call shortly thereafter and I’m left sitting there in the lobby of the bustling building with a tight lump in my throat. Wearily, I take a drink of the coffee that I bought in a blind panic, wishing that I hadn’t just hemorrhaged another four dollars when there’s unlimited free coffee upstairs.
Ninety thousand dollars. Instant cash. Tax free. Mine.
Another sip. The coffee tastes delicious, but not delicious enough to warrant four dollars. I stare down at the cup, tracing over the brown drip of coffee that dots the white disposable top. My thumb swipes over it, wiping it clean. It’s as simple as that. Wipe it clean and it’s like there was never a dark spot there. Nobody would ever know.
It could be that simple with Davis and me. All I have to do is sleep with him nine times, finish out the summer, and wipe it clean.
Nobody would ever know.
On Saturday night, when I find myself standing outside of a door in the most luxurious apartment building I’ve ever seen in my life, adrenaline quakes through my body. My pulse resonates in my eardrums, somehow making me feel like the city is closing in on me, shrinking down with the force of a pinhead right into my chest. It wasn’t like this back in Amsterdam; Amsterdam was quaint and quiet and so far from home. New York is a different story. New York is never going to let me live this shit down. It’s going to remind me every time I look up at a skyscraper that I let a man buy my pussy—and that I barely put up a fight.
Davis doesn’t look surprised to see me, which pisses me off to no end. He looks downright smug, actually, as he opens the door to the penthouse apartment where he lives.
To my surprise, he’s wearing a solid black t-shirt and a pair of jeans, both of which look absurdly expensive despite the fact that he could easily walk into any Goodwill in the country and obtain that exact outfit for less than the cost of a tall coffee at Starbucks. Even more surprising is how good his body looks in this simple outfit: firm and toned and still quite big. I know his warmth well—the sensation of his arms wrapped around me and the heat of his bare chest pressed against mine. I try to expel the memory as soon as it arrives, but I don’t have time to clear my thoughts before Davis asks, “How long did you agonize over this?”
“Longer than I’ll admit,” I reply grimly, forcing myself to ignore the sexy timbre that underlies his tone as he speaks. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Without a word, he moves to the side to let me enter but he lingers close enough to the doorframe that I brush by him as I walk. His proximity is by design, I assume, because I feel his hand on my lower back as he guides me into the apartment’s entry. The brief touch shouldn’t incite tingles in my arms, but it does. White hot whispers dance over my skin until I turn around to face him and break contact.
Davis stays with his back to the door, surveying me from head to foot as he slants backwards with all the casual confidence in the world. No finger pulling, fidgeting, or anxious shifting. He’s just so different now.
He raises his hand to his lips and runs his palm over his mouth as he continues to drink me in, the interest patent in his expression. All at once, it dawns on me—the remnant of the Davis I met eight years ago: It’s that constant battle to suppress his smiles, the hint that lingers perpetually on his lips when he stares at me. Eight years ago, those smiles charmed me with ease. Now, they ground me and provide me with some much-needed stability as I try to hold my own.
“You look incredible,” he finally says, his voice low and heavy with want. It’s the tone of a man who is barely conveying what’s on his mind, like so much is still under lock and key. If he doesn’t know how hot that is, it’s important that nobody ever tells him. If he knew, he could use that tone as a deadly weapon.
I look down at the dress that I painstakingly picked out for tonight. I wasn’t sure what the appropriate wardrobe for a night of paid sex would be; I didn’t know eight years ago either. Before I came over, I waffled between the two most revealing outfits in my closet and settled on a two-piece matching set. It’s bright red with a fitted crop top and a tight skirt that hits me mid-thigh with two inches of stomach showing in between. A friend of mine lent it to me when I was a senior in college, and then I ended up making out with her cousin. As soon as she found out, she decided to gift it to me because apparently it was ruined. I figured, why not continue to wear this outfit on nights defined by questionable decision-making? This is now my fuck-dress, I guess. Or maybe it’s my fuck-up dress. Either way, I hope it passes muster tonight.
“Thanks, Davis.”
“Do you like my place?” he asks as he pushes away from the door and walks past me further into the apartment.
The question has to be rhetorical because there’s no way anyone could dislike this apartment. The place drips of elegant, polished academia. The walls are a deep teal with ornate wainscoting throughout and bronze sconces illuminating the main living area. Every inch of the place gives in to detail. The enormous fireplace with a marble base and an impressive wooden mantle perfectly matches the coffee table centered in the sitting area. There on the coffee table, an enormous bouquet of fresh flowers sits in an antique vase. All of that is situated atop a stack of hardcover books with spines that have famous photographers’ names on them. To finish, lofty ceilings host a chandelier that overlooks all of it.
“It’s—”