I tried to do the math. I generally booked three-hour minimums at one thousand an hour. Twenty-four hours a day, thirty days…I supposed he was getting quite the discount from buying in bulk.
Then I understood the catch. Uneasiness spread through me.
“Being at sea, though? Doesn’t that seem…” I twisted my fingers. Sex workers made for vulnerable targets. And being in the ocean with no one around…
She supplied the name and a handful of details. I didn’t have to google him, as I was wildly familiar with the crypto tycoon. Still, I wanted to look into the face of the man I was about to sign away thirty days of my life to.
“Is he nice?”
She made an apologetic face. “He’s…entitled.”
“He sucks,” I supplied, knowing Ivy well enough to understand that she wasn’t going to badmouth her former client, even if he deserved it.
She did her best to salvage the pitch. “He just wants someone pretty to pretend to listen to him for a few weeks. He’s smart, but not as smart as he thinks he is. I’m confident you’ll be bored stiff. I’ve already texted him your pictures. He thinks you’re gorgeous, which, of course you are. You’re exactly his type.”
“Fine,” I said, still twisting the fabric between my fingers. As uncomfortable as I was, dollar signs danced before my eyes.
“Oh, good! Thank you, you absolute sparkle cupcakegoddess sunshine flower.”
Ivy remained in contact over the next few days as I shopped and packed for the trip. She answered any questions I had, sent voice clips of pep talks, and remained available right up until I stepped onto the private jet he’d sent to get me on the eleven-hour flight from the States to Morocco. I’d been writing for several months, but I had hit a roadblock with the main character’s climax. I’d used the trip to outline several possible outcomes, pounding away at the keyboard as I threw back as many champagne flutes as the attendants would give me. As it turned out, the limit did not exist.
I was dragged from the flashback of the choices that had led me to this moment. She was so much more than a crewmember—she was a speck of joy in a flat horizon of deep, dark blue. The rising sun carved a harsh path across the rolling waves directly to the ship, illuminating her in early shades of ginger and salmon. She offered a smile.
“Is this how you take it? If so, I can ensure there’s a honey pot with the French press every morning.”
I smiled. “Hey, could you sit with me?”
She looked around uncertainly. “I’m not really supposed to. I’m on the clock.”
I lifted a shoulder sympathetically. “So am I.”
And maybe it was the honesty, or maybe she was every bit as miserable trapped on a ship surrounded by sycophants and a member of the pretentious elite, but she sat. Her name, I learned, was Erin. She was a few inches shorter than me and had light brown hair and the most dazzling smile. She shared my coffee that morning. I learned that she was from Alberta. She’d dropped out of college after her first year. She’d applied to numerous modeling agencies. A friend had recruited her to the yacht circles. But more importantly, I learned that she was allergic to bees. That she had a younger brother. That she devoured thrillers and hated seafood, which made eating on the ship exceptionally challenging.
Erin listened to my pitch for my novel, asked severalquestions about South America, and squeezed my hand sympathetically when I talked about my childhood.
“Is he…okay? To be around?” she asked of our shared employer.
I laughed. “He’s exactly like you think he is. The worst part is that he’s a cuddler. I know that men need intimacy, and I know I provide something important to the human experience by offering touch and hugs and those moments of comfort, but I do not want to be touched when I’m sleeping. I want it to be as distant as the North Pole and Antarctica. It’s really hard for me to fall asleep when someone else is touching me.”
“Have you tried sleeping pills?”
My eyes flared. “No matter how safe a client is, you don’t take sleeping pills on the job. I need to be a light sleeper. I need to wake up as fast as possible and be quick on my feet in overnight jobs. I know everything has been vetted, but…we’re at sea. No one is going to look for me.”
The waves licked at the side of the boat as the sun grew warm enough for me to stop needing the blanket. I realized she’d never removed her hand from mine as her thumb moved over my wrist. “I will.”
She kissed me in the galley after the crew was asleep. She knew the dark spots where security cameras didn’t reach, led me into the shadowy corners after my client had drunk himself into a stupor and fallen soundly asleep. She took charge, eliminating my need to think, to worry, and giving me a reason to be present. She clasped a palm firmly over my mouth to cover my moans, keeping my job and reputation secure while providing me with some of my only escapes that month.
She knew I certainly wasn’t finishing with the boss. But she was happy to tip the orgasm quota in my favor. Erin made the month bearable. We exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch after we docked. I spent the entire flight home in a burst of inspiration, and by the time Ilanded, I’d finished the novel.
A Night of Runeswas dedicated to Taylor, Ivy, and Erin. When it hit, it took the world by storm. I was asked about my mysterious dedication in numerous interviews but gave the same canned response each time. They were three women whose domino effect had led to my life as an author. It was vague, but people seemed to like a mystery, and I wasn’t about to tell the general population that I’d saved up enough money from sex work to pay my bills, pad my bank account, and float me while I queried and became an author.
Many things had changed, but one truth remained.
I could not fall asleep with people touching me.
As the years went on, I did my best to go back to their place when I wanted to get laid so that I could sneak out and call a car to get home. If I was seeing someone for an extended period of time, we’d eventually have the talk where I’d explain my issues with sleep and describe why I had to build a pillow fort around me so that their foot didn’t accidentally touch me in the night and send me into a panic attack. Most partners were understanding, particularly when I dated women.
My wash, rinse, and repeat cycle of ending anything serious before the three-month mark continued.
