Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
A Manhattan address and $3,000 a week for two months.
A guy could do worse.
I shifted in my seat and cleared my throat. “Is there, uh, any way to ensure safety by making sure the guy gets tested too?”
“Of course, Nicky.” The compassion in Tina’s crystal-blue eyes reminded me of the fact that she ran an ethical business based on choice and vetting. She didn’t headhunt sex workers; they had to come to her, and they—we—had to go through a selection process before she could, in good conscience, give us work.
Today I was an exception for her, and my answer would be an exception too.
It was with a good goddamn feeling that I walked into our favorite happy hour spot in Hell’s Kitchen the next day, where my two closest friends were waiting at the bar. The place was packed as usual.
“Guess who just temporarily moved to Manhattan?” I hollered over the music and widened my arms.
Chris lifted his brows, and Ruby’s mouth popped open in shock.
At long fucking last, I wouldn’t have to blow them off for a while because I couldn’t pay for my own drinks. Unlike my Armani-rocking buddy Chris, I hadn’t been able to afford to go to college, much less a prestigious one like Yale. Today, he worked on Wall Street, and he’d made partner at his firm before he turned thirty-five two years ago. And unlike Ruby, I wasn’t destined for a life in modeling. With her Peruvian and Nigerian ancestry, she’d spent approximately three weeks at Pratt before a modeling agency had snatched her up. These days, she walked the runways in Milan, London, and Paris, and she was making bank to the point where she’d just become a Manhattan homeowner. She’d legit bought her place here in Hell’s Kitchen.
“Wait.” She slid off her barstool and narrowed her eyes at me. “You had lunch with Tina yesterday.”
So she’d seen my Instagram post. “Guilty as charged.” I gave the bartender a nod and a two-finger wave. “It’s only a two-month stint.” I paused to order a beer and two more of whatever Chris and Ruby were drinking. Then I turned back to Ruby. “Three thousand bucks a week and my own studio, and some faceless millionaire will stop by every now and then to explore his sexuality. I think I can deal.” I smirked.
“Just be careful, buddy.” Chris took a swig of his new drink, and I snatched up my beer and handed over my credit card to the bartender.
“I don’t think I’ll have anything to worry about,” I replied. “There was a whole section in the contract about letting him set the pace, and it was written in a way that makes me believe he’s anxious or something. I don’t fucking know.” I shrugged and took a sip of my beer. “Like I said, it’s two months. Then I’ll be able to go into business with Anthony.”
My brother ran a successful music academy out in Park Slope, and he’d been trying to scrape together the money to expand for years. He wanted me with him, and I wanted the same, but he also knew I’d turn him down if he offered a partnership without my bringing any green to the table. But now, I’d get my shot at actually getting somewhere.
I’d landed the golden opportunity I’d hoped for.
Ruby still had concern brimming in her eyes, probably because I’d told her about the rock I’d had in my stomach before I quit being a sex worker last time. This was different, though. I wholeheartedly believed it.
“Quit worryin’, mami.” I draped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “I’m relieved. I feel good about my decision.”
She pursed her glossy lips and eyed me critically, but I could sense her thawing. She snaked an arm around my middle, then sighed and mustered a smile. “You’re the baby in our group, you know that. It’s my job to worry.”
She was, like, three years older than me, not three decades. She just turned thirty the other week.
“Fine,” she conceded eventually. “If you’re happy, I’m happy, and you deserve to be celebrated.”
I smacked another kiss to her cheek before I slid onto the middle stool. I was definitely in the mood for some celebrating.
Chris clapped me on my back and said the rest of the drinks were on him tonight.
“I knew it was true. Once you’re flush with cash, everything’s free.” I reached for a bowl of bar nuts and grabbed a handful.
“Gross, Nicky,” Ruby chided.
I ate them noisily, much to her displeasure.
“I need older friends,” Chris muttered into his glass.
“You wouldn’t dare abandon us,” I told him.
“Please,” Ruby snorted. “You’d get bored in a second.”
That was what was funny about Chris. In our little group of friends, he was the mellow, mature guy. Around his work buddies—the older ones, not the young weekend warriors who did more coke than Tony Montana—he was restless and reckless.