"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.