“And how do you plan on finding that?”
“Well, there are options,” she says as she taps her chin.
“What kind of options?”
She glances down at my legs, huffing. “Well, if your feet weren’t so…gnarly, we could sell feet pics.”
“My feet aren’t gnarly,” I say, glancing down at them as well.
“Your first four toes are all the same size while your pinky is half the size. It’s oddly unsettling to look at.” I curl my toes under, because she’s not wrong about that. “Feet are out.” She slashes her hand through the air. “Which brings us to the rest of your body. How do you feel about selling it for twenty thousand dollars?”
“Not great!” I yell. “Jesus, Aunt Kitty.”
“Okay, okay, sheesh. Just exploring our options. You know I’d sell my body if it wasn’t for my celebrity personality. I needto stay loyal to my fans and out of trouble. I promised I wouldn’t sell myself out, so I’m unable to help you in a sexual way.”
“Can you not say it like that? We are not doing anything sexual to get money.”
“Shame, there’s some real money in that field. Oh, you know, I’ve been in contact with some men from foreign countries who have sent me DMs asking if I’m looking for a sugar daddy. Want me to write them back?”
“Those are scams.”
“Perhaps one of them is not; we could be ignoring a golden opportunity.”
“No, Aunt Kitty, we are not contacting random thirsty strangers from your DMs.” I slouch further into the couch and let out a defeated sigh. “Just admit it, we failed before we could even try.”
“Oh stop that.” She waves her hand at me in dismissal. “We haven’t failed, we just need…we need someone to give us money.”
“Yeah, and where do you think we will find this person?”
She sways to the side, tipping back the rest of her drink before she reaches for her tablet on the coffee table. The screen is cracked so badly that it looks like a spider web took up permanent residence. How she can see on that thing, I will never know, but she refuses to get a new one. Something about loyalty. I try not to question too much. “There’s got to be something. What about a financier? Perhaps Mark Cuban is interested?”
“Oh yeah, I read an article the other day about how Mark Cuban was interested in investing in a small-town sweets shop.” I roll my eyes and finish my drink as well, letting the alcohol seep into my brain, making everything fuzzy.
“And where did you see this article? Maybe there is an attached email address where we can inquire.”
My expression falls flat. “I was being sarcastic.”
“I’m not. I’m dead serious. Let’s see here.” She opens up her internet search and starts typing. “Mark Cuban’s email.”
“You are not going to find his email online.”
“Ah-ha!” she sing-songs. “Right here. Mark Cuban at get fucked dot com.” Her nose scrunches up. “Seems a bit crude for a serious businessman. But we can try it.”
“That’s not his real email,” I say, grabbing the tablet from her before she can email a scammer.
“How do you know?”
“Because Mark Cuban is not going to tell his correspondents to get fucked.”
“You don’t know him personally. Maybe he has a dark side to him. All billionaires do.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mumble. “Can you drop the idea of Mark Cuban? He’s not going to finance the candy store.”
“What about Barbara Corcoran?”
“No one fromShark Tank!” I shout.
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes and then takes the tablet back. “Then we need to search for a financier.” She purses her lips for a moment and then her eyes light up as she starts typing.
