“Well, duh.” She dragged me around the house. “Here, lean against the wall and hold one of your arms. Look down.”
“Shouldn’t I look at the camera?”
“No!” she said vehemently. “Models never smile for the camera.”
I rolled my eyes. Natalie had taken a photography class in college, and apparently that made her an expert.
“I just think that if I don’t smile it’ll make me look unfriendly.”
“Stop talking.”
I laughed and was blinded by the flash of her camera. She took dozens of photos, some of me sitting down on the couch, standing, drinking wine, and holding books.
“What’s the point of this?” I whined as I held several volumes.
She kept shaking her head at me as she took pictures. Am I doing something wrong?
“You’re so pretty. I always thought that you should model.”
I choked out a laugh. “Me? Model? I don’t think so. For one thing, I’m too short.”
She said nothing, but her face looked a bit wistful as she snapped more photos. “Okay, I think that’s enough.”
“Could you send them to me? I’m going to take this dress off.”
I walked back to my bedroom, stripped off the dress, and pulled my jeans and t-shirt back on before returning to my unfinished profile.
How much do I want?
It was tempting to put $20,000, but I knew that was too crazy, so I clicked on the $5,000 − $10,000 per month tab and described myself as an aspiring editor with a Bachelor’s degree in English. I drew a blank at what else to write that would make me sound appealing. Aquarius? Adept at juggling? Can make a mean French toast from stale bread?
“I sent them!” Natalie’s voice roared through the door.
Her pounding footsteps grew louder, and I half-lifted from the chair.
Crap.
She flung open the door. “So, what is this dating site? And why isn’t your car outside?”
Double crap.
I bit my lip hard. “I ran into some trouble. Someone broke into my car and I can’t use my credit card, so I had to leave it there.”
Her face fell. She squeezed my shoulder. “Ah, Jess. Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve taken care of it.”
My heart pounded against my chest as if she was yelling at me. I shook my head. “No. I’m not going to do that to you anymore.” I turned back to the screen and pinched my nose.
“What is this?” She leaned over my chair. “Oh my God, is this an escort site? Jessica!”
The way she said my name made me feel like something under her shoe. “No, it’s not. It’s a dating website f—for rich men.”
She stared at me as if she’d never seen me before. Natalie’s thin arms crossed her chest as she glowered at me. “It says here that you want $5000 to $10,000 dollars a month. I mean, really, Jessica. What do you think they’re going to want in exchange?”
“No,” I said even louder. “That’s not how it works. You go on dates with them and they pay you. It’s an eye-candy thing.”
Her eyes shined with pity. I hated that.
“Look, I get it. You’re desperate for money. But you don’t have to do this! I’ll pay for your car, you don’t even have to pay me back—I don’t care. But don’t become a prostitute, for Christ’s sake!”
My cheeks burned. “I’m not becoming a prostitute. I told you—I won’t do it. I just want to try this.”
“Why couldn’t you try something normal?” she bellowed. “I mean out of all the jobs out there, you chose this? Are you crazy?”
The horrible sound of her screaming rang in my ears. Everything she was dying to tell me blasted out of her mouth. She was frustrated with me—and had been for a while.
“I’m sorry, Nat, I really am,” I said in a tight voice. “But I am desperate—and I need this. I don’t have a family who will take care of me. I don’t have anyone but you. And I won’t keep doing this to you anymore. This is my fault.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “I don’t understand you, Jess. You had a whole year to find something, anything. You turned up your nose at every retail job because you thought you were above it. And then you decide to become a whore.”
She might have as well stabbed me. Her hands flew up to her mouth and tears welled in her eyes. I could see that she hadn’t meant it, but she had hurt me more than she could have ever possibly known.
“You had a whole year to find something.”
The raw honesty in her voice was a bit too real for me.
“You turned up your nose at every retail job.”
It was true.
The anger radiating from my body turned inward. I didn’t want to hear it.
“Just leave me alone.”
She tried to reach for me, but I turned towards the screen. A final furious sob and my bedroom door slammed shut. I clenched my fist on the desk and breathed deeply, listening to the sound of my heart hammering against my chest. I couldn’t remember the last time I fought with Natalie.
There was work to do. I wiped my eyes and continued the profile. I chose several pictures showing me smiling and others that made me look vulnerable. How the hell am I supposed to know what a millionaire wants? I blew out my cheeks as I posted the profile and drummed my fingertips on the table, refreshing the webpage obsessively to see if I had any responses.
I felt a swooping sensation as my email blinked.
That was fast.
Hello,
Just saw your profile pics, your gorgeous! I’m a wealthy married 60y/o man looking for a discrete, pretty young lady like yourself ;) Would you be willing to accept $3000/month? Check out my profile and email me back.
Sincerely,
Mr. Nice Guy
I shuddered and felt clammy all over. His message had been innocuous enough but I could detect an aura of sleaze radiating from Mr. Nice Guy. A sixty-year-old man looking for a discrete, pretty woman less than half his age. Gee, I wonder what he wants. Feeling a bit sick as I deleted his email, I wondered if all of the responses would be like his.
As I deleted the email, two more popped up. Wow.
Hiya!
You look like just what I’m looking for ;) Check out my profile.
-EnigmaMan248
I clicked on his profile and saw an aging, bald man with two pretty blonde women in his arms, each simultaneously kissing his cheeks. His “about me” line declared him as The Perpetual Partier.
More like the Perpetual D-bag. I scrunched my face in disgust. Maybe Natalie was absolutely right about this website being a waste of my time. I hesitantly clicked on the third, bracing myself.