When the worst of it passes, I wipe my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt and take a shuddering breath. The room is darker now, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside my window and the blinking cursor of my laptop where my half-finished thesis waits.
My phone rings again, and I almost ignore it. But the name on the screen makes me answer.
"Hey, Jessie."
"Delilah! Thank god you picked up. You never answer anymore." My friend's voice is bright, slightly slurred. She's at a bar, from the sound of the background noise.
"Sorry, I've been busy with?—"
"Yeah, yeah, thesis and work and being a total hermit. Listen, I have an opportunity for you."
Something in her tone makes me wary. Jessie's "opportunities" have ranged from multi-level marketingschemes to dating her boyfriend's "totally nice" but actually creepy cousins.
"I'm not interested in selling essential oils again. That stuff gave me a rash."
She laughs. "No, this is different. This is—" She lowers her voice. "This is serious money, Del."
I should hang up. I should tell her I'm not interested. But the numbers from my budget book float before my eyes. Minus eighty-seven dollars and twenty-three cents. $3,842.15 in tuition. Two months' back rent.
"I'm listening," I say, and something cold and resolved settles in my stomach.
"Good! I'll pick you up tomorrow night at eight. Wear something hot. And for god's sake, do something with your hair." She pauses. "This could solve all your problems, Del. Trust me."
As I end the call, I stare at the eviction notice I've finally pulled from my bag and smoothed out on the coffee table. My fingers are numb, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as desperation.
two
. . .
I standin front of my bathroom mirror examining the black dress I've owned since undergrad—my one "nice" outfit, saved for job interviews and funerals. It hugs my curves in a way that might have been flattering three years and fifteen pounds ago. Now it just looks desperate. Fitting, I suppose, since desperate is exactly what I am.
My hair refuses to cooperate, falling in limp waves around my shoulders despite my best efforts with my ancient curling iron. I've attempted makeup, too—drugstore mascara and a lipstick Jessie left here months ago. The overall effect is like watching a child play dress-up in her mother's clothes. Not quite right. Not quite enough.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jessie:
Outside. Hurry up, we're already late!!
I grab my only purse—a small clutch with a broken clasp—and take one last look at my apartment. The eviction notice still sits on the coffee table, a yellow reminder of what's at stake. Whatever Jessie has planned, it has to be better than homelessness. Right?
When I step outside, Jessie is leaning against a sleek black car that definitely isn't hers. She whistles low when she sees me.
"Well, you tried," she says, giving me a critical once-over. She looks like she's stepped out of a magazine in her red slip dress and stilettos that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Her dark hair is swept into an elegant updo, and diamonds glitter at her ears and throat. "We'll have to work with what we've got."
"Hello to you too," I mutter, sliding into the passenger seat. "Whose car is this?"
"Marcus's." She slips into the driver's side. "He's in Dubai this week."
Marcus is Jessie's latest boyfriend—a hedge fund something-or-other who travels constantly and showers her with gifts in his absence. I've met him exactly once, and he spent the entire dinner on his phone.
"So are you going to tell me where we're going?" I ask as she pulls away from the curb.
"The Obsidian." She says it like I should recognize the name. When I don't respond, she sighs dramatically. "God, Del, do you live under a rock? It's only the most exclusive club in the city. Members only, by invitation, and it costs like fifty grand just to apply."
My stomach sinks. "And we're going there... why?"
Jessie flashes me a sly smile. "Because it's where rich, powerful men go to find... companionship."
The way she says "companionship" makes my skin crawl. "You're taking me to what, a high-end brothel?"
