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.