Anything for Money: A Sex-For-Hire College Romance (2 page)

I
knew
I’d found the right address because the yard was covered in rusted, torn-down automobiles. My Ford Escort wheezed with fright when I pulled in, like a dog realizing it was at the vet.

Because my brakes were well and truly gone, I let my car crunch slowly into a demolished Lincoln.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

It turned out the Lincoln had someone working on it, stooped into its engine block. He jerked straight when I hit, and at the same time the car’s hood snapped closed like an alligator’s mouth. It hit his skull and he spun out of sight.

Nice start, Rebecca,
I thought. I’d been thinking about unzipping the front of my pink lycra dress an inch—‘
desperate times, desperate measures’
was my new motto. Now it looked like I might need two inches, or maybe just lose the dress entirely… I pictured myself with nothing but six-inch heels, a hopeful smile, and palpable desperation. That, plus my nodding trick, would make this a home run. Not like the brownies. Fuck those brownies.

I leaned out the window and said, “Did you even feel that? That little bump? You must be so in tune with these cars. I bet you’re Angel, the amazing mechanic everybody tells me about.”

“My scalp is cut.”

“Angel, I’m not going to lie. I need a huge favor from you.”

“You drove your Escort up onto the trunk of my Lincoln! Your front wheels aren’t even touching the ground!”

“Oh, crap,” I said. “It’s one problem or another with this car.”

He came up beside my window. This man was tall, but not skinny-tall. He wore baggy jeans and a ribbed muscle-shirt that was transparent with sweat. I could read his tattoos through the fabric.

“Put your car in reverse and back off the Lincoln.”

I did so, and amazingly it worked. The Escort’s front wheels dug into the Lincoln’s trunk, and with one more sickening crunch, I bounced to the ground. I put it in park before it kept rolling.

“That was so easy!” I said brightly. “Thanks for your help, but that’s not the favor I need, Angel.”

He opened my door and held out his hand. Sure, that was a little menacing, but I took it without hesitation, a behavior I should really work on fixing. His hand was callused and grimy, big and hot. It closed over mine like a dirty George Foreman grill.

I swung my heels out. I was all legs and angles, deeply limited by my ultrashort skirt and the views it presented.

I risked a peek at his face.
He was cute!
Even better, he was watching me with very promising fascination. When we finally stood face to face on his lawn, he towered over me.

Then his face seemed to recede, because my heels sank into the earth and I tilted away from him.

He took my waist in his free hand and girl-walked me to the driveway.

“We met three minutes ago, Angel, and you’ve already saved my life twice.”

“Why are you calling me Angel?”

“I was told to see Angel the car mechanic.”

“I’m a mechanic, sure. Who told you my name was Angel?”

“Your cousin. A little guy in overalls at the dealership. He was
also
named Angel.”

Tall, handsome, and brusque shook his head. “He’s not Angel either. Tell me your name, and don’t say ‘Angel’ again.”

“Rebecca. I’m charmed to meet you.”

His frown finally quirked into something like humor. “Delighted, Rebecca.”

“You know, your scalp is bleeding.”

“Yes, I know it’s bleeding.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “I know how it goes. I’m clumsy too. What’s your real name?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t stumped, he just seemed to be searching inside himself. Eventually, he squared his shoulders and met my gaze. He had brilliant, slate-grey eyes that seemed to glow at me. “My name is Janice James Cardona.”

“Your name is
Janice,”
I said.

“That’s a man’s name. Don’t start. That’s a real man’s name.”

“Of course it is,” I said quickly. “But what do people call you? Because it’s not Janice.”

“Jack the Ripper,” he said. “Or Ripper Jack. Come into my house with me. I’m covered in blood.”

“Uh…”

He leaned down to me and smiled. He had an olive complexion that got a lot of sun. His white teeth leapt off that canvas like a party trick. Between his size, his crazy smile, and the blood draining over his face, I had a few reservations.

“You ran me over with your car,” he said softly.

“In one sense, yes I did.”

“Now I need your help to stop the bleeding.”

He had me there. “Why don’t you ask your girlfriend to stop the bleeding?” I asked smoothly.

The light went out of Ripper’s smile. “Because my girlfriend stole my parrot and ran off with the air conditioner repairman.”

“That’s horrible!” I was honestly surprised. What kind of girl runs away from a guy like this? And, should I be running too?

“Everybody loves air conditioning,” he said drily.

“Your little cousin, not-Angel, also told me not to mention cats to you.”

“Good idea.” He turned and walked to his house. “I fucking hate cats.”

For lack of any other option in the world, I followed him.

“
T
ake your shirt off
,” I ordered.

He looked at me, maybe concerned about that catch in my throat. I nodded at him, and slowly, he nodded too.

Yes!
My trick was working, and just in time.

We were inside his utter shock of a house. Based on the front yard, and if you’d had a protected WASP upbringing where latinos always lived on the other side of town and your main exposure was through TV crime dramas, you’d have certain expectations about RJ’s house.

Instead, the interior was bare and austere. Doorless doorways disclosed hints of other rooms, all with polished floors and sunlight streaming through minimally dressed windows. His furniture, what there was of it, was heavy and archaic, what my college professors might call “pieces.” On the table where most people would have a TV, he had a three-foot-tall bonsai tree with roots that overflowed its detailed ceramic box.

And everywhere, covering every wall and leaning in haphazard piles like posters in a shop, were framed photographs. Pictures of the town, the campus, groups of friends he probably called his “boys,” and more than a few underdressed women. Most of the photographs were tasteful, even good, though I’m no expert. Some of the women’s photos were, shall we say,
risqué.

It was all haphazard but somehow clean and neat, like RJ ran a museum but he hadn’t finished setting it up yet.

I turned back to him just in time to see the shirt come off.
Hello.
No water weight on this man. Ripper Jack was ripped. He handed me the shirt for some reason, and I clutched it, drinking him in, like if I kept my eyes on him I wouldn’t have to think of something to say.

Wide shoulders with detailed crevices and cable-like muscles leading to his neck. Broad chest; his pectorals were two flexing pads, the kind you rest your face in during a massage. His torso narrowed to an impossibly tight waist that was ringed and lined with muscle. All of it I wanted to explore like a new fashion boutique on opening day.

So his girlfriend had left him? That must have been one amazing air conditioner repair man.

“You look terrible,” I said. I put a hand flat on his chest and pushed him backward onto a restored church pew right behind the door. He moved responsively to my touch, which was a little thrilling. He was also unselfconscious about being shirtless, like most men are who have an amazing torso.

He looked up and quirked a brow. To get away from his striking eyes, I pressed his wadded-up shirt into the cut on his scalp.

“Why did you want my shirt off?”

“It was going to get blood all over it,” I said. “And yes, I realize what I’m doing right now.”

“I don’t care. It’s an old work-shirt.”

My gaze slid back down his chest. My eyes vibrated with each bump and bulge.

“Where do you keep your first aid box?” I was proud of how in-control my voice sounded. Then I added, “I want to treat you.”

I turned away quickly, ostensibly to scan his rooms, but he caught my hips—he caught my hips in
both hands
and turned me back. “Stay with me a moment.”

“You won’t bleed to death if I leave for a second.”

“I know. You just feel good.”

His hands didn’t leave my hips. I was standing between his legs, my arms wrapped around his head. He sighed and the air hit my cleavage. My knees shook, and I had to shift my weight. You can’t do that in 6-inch heels, on hardwood floors, without making a lot of obvious noise. I shuffled like an epileptic drummer until the sound became more awkward than our silence. I said, “Lucky I was here, huh? What would you have done without me?”

“Not lacerated my scalp, for one thing. How does it look?”

I peeled away his shirt and peeked at the wound.

It looked insignificant, except when the pressure was off. Blood welled out of it quickly.

“Small but deep, and prone to bleeding,” I told him. “Like a girl I could mention.”

“Keep the pressure on. Scalp wounds generate a lot of blood.”

“You’re lucky I like blood. That didn’t come out right.”

“Shhh,” he said. And I
shhh’ed,
because his hands slid up my flanks to my waist. I clattered my heels with another balance adjustment, this time moving my feet further apart. For stability.

I couldn’t see all of his face past my chest. Either my breasts had quietly exploded in size, or his chiseled chin and wide lips were now very close to my torso. I tried not to feel awkward. Situations like this probably happen all the time to caregivers.

I took stock of what I knew so far. I knew I was close to him. I knew his hands were on me. I knew his shirt was off and I was standing between his legs. I knew my lycra dress was bunching up to my ass with each tiny step I took—though still not fast enough, according to my split personality, Bad Rebecca.

Yes… my LPD (little pink dress) was about three minutes overdue for one of those thumb-hook-hem, squirm-pull-down, bouncy-chest moves that look like a Zumba workout for club girls.

Oh, no,
I thought. I had gone and gotten gotten myself turned on.

“Jack,” I sighed.

His hands slid higher, up my ribs. The insides of his wrists bracketed my breasts, making me feel big and overflowing.

He whispered, “I told you,
shhh.”

“But what if I want to narrate?”

“You’re exactly what I need,” he whispered.

Those words, with just a trace of an accent:
wow.
His forearms rippled when he moved his fingers. He was exactly what I needed, too. In the sense that we’d just met but he needed me.

When I make mistakes, I make them big. I have to watch out for myself. I put myself in situations… situations exactly like this… and then wonder how the situations spiral out of control.

I’m different from most other college girls, you see. There’s a furtive, needy little version of myself that sometimes peeks out, usually when I drink. Okay, maybe I’m not that different.

Even though I wasn’t drinking right now, there she was, that sleazy version of myself. She was peeking out from under my hemline, right at the nape of RJ’s neck, where beads of sweat were collecting. I call this mini-me
Bad Rebecca.
She likes meeting new people.

For sanity, for all that was good and pure, I had to keep Bad Rebecca under control.

“Uh, Jack—” I said reluctantly.

He stopped there. His hands slid back down to my waist.

“I need you too,” I said. “My car, you see… ”

His hands slid back down my thighs, and then off me entirely. I waited for him to try another sexy move. When he didn’t, I cursed myself for being so compelling.

“You’re right.” He sighed. “I’m not thinking. I must have hit my head harder than I thought.”

“It’s not that. It’s just—” I couldn’t find the right words. “There are appearances. I totally get it, though. I mean, I’m totally hot—”

“I bet this always happens when you run a man over.” He forced a grin, and took over holding his t-shirt against his cut.

Then a moment later he stood, and we were strangers again.

“By the way,” he added, “I want to shoot you.”

“You need to work on how you take rejection, Jack.”

“I mean photograph you.” He gestured at the pictures that filled his stark house. “I’m a photographer. Or, I
will
be one. I’m starting at the university next week. I’d like to add you to my portfolio.”

“Now you sound like my dad’s friends.”

That one landed as flat as my other jokes. Rather than answering, he simply loomed over me for a moment. I couldn’t help but feel fragile next to him, like a fawn trembling as a lion stalked nearby.

Bad Rebecca sang in my head, telling me exactly how I could wrest control of the situation. My better half, Good Rebecca, struggled to remember our core mission:
Fix the car so I won’t die in it.

He said, “I don’t have any money to pay a model. Do you think we could work something out?”

I said, “Why, yes, RJ. I think we can work out a deal.”

His face opened in a smile, and my heart melted into hot wax.

So, that was the day I didn’t accidentally seduce a swole latino photographer. On the other hand, I did get a kind of business partner I hopelessly craved, and working brakes for my Ford Escort.

I
called
him ‘RJ’ or just ‘Jack,’ because I couldn’t bear to hear myself saying ‘Ripper Jack’ out loud. During the last week before school, our wires crossed and we didn’t meet for that photography session. I swear I wasn’t dodging him, not after he’d done such a good job on my Escort. In fact, I was strongly curious to see how I’d look in one of those big framed photographs in his house.

So I wasn’t avoiding him. The restaurant where I worked simply got busy, with the town’s business picking up. Then I got distracted by the kitchen staff. They were older men, mostly, and utterly shameless when it came to flirting with the hostesses. Obviously, I flirted back, as was only polite. Then classes started, and everything got even busier.

By the first week of classes, RJ and I still hadn’t met. I felt a little guilty, but also a little proud of myself. I knew what I’d end up doing when RJ’s capable mechanic-hands and rippling forearms started posing me in edgy, sexy positions.

I absolutely wasn’t going down that road, probably. This was my sophomore year. The failures and transgressions of my freshman year, along with my reputation hopefully, were in my forgotten past. This year, I would focus less on boys, and more on classes and myself. The new, re-invented me would resist all temptation.

Instead, I sublimated all my energy into fashion. Which, lucky for me, is also my major in college. I am dead set on becoming a fashion model, or something else fashion-y, because I love clothes. Admire my willpower, then, that I didn’t simply dive in front of RJ’s camera.

With fashion majors who want to fashion model, their canvas is their wardrobe. I made it my mission to go 100% every day. The university would be my Paris, and the paths between buildings would be my catwalk.

I applied everything I’d learned about fashion over the summer from Pinterest. Based on some of the looks I got, I probably scored closer to Tumblr than Pinterest. Weak, biddable Bad Rebecca received continuous positive feedback. Boys snapped pictures with their phones when I walked past. In every class, at least a few guys asked for my Snapchat, sometimes without making small-talk first. They seemed disappointed to only get my Instagram account. This probably meant I’d missed some subtle cultural shift over the summer. College can be a heady, confusing experience for a girl who can only afford a flip-top phone.

My Fashion Marketing class was in the arts building, where the photographers also meet. On my way down the hall, I saw the word ‘Ripper’ on the bulletin board and stopped. Ripper Jack, or just ‘Jack’ to girls he groped during medical emergencies, had posted a flyer looking for models.

Oh, my poor mechanic!

He was in over his pretty, lacerated head. His flyer was already covered by other, similar flyers for other students. Some of those flyers offered actual money for the models, and the photographers didn’t have “Ripper” in their names. As the photography students built their portfolios from class to class and year to year, they all competed for girls who would pose. They fought, sometimes viciously, for the girls who would pose “artistically.” Female photographers had an easier time cultivating a trusting stable of models, and RJ should really have gone with his actual name, Janice.

RJ was in my world now, and these people would gut him like one of those cars in his front yard. I owed it to him to take care of him. I tore his flyer off the bulletin board and stuffed it in my bag.

But I still didn’t call him.