Anything for Money: A Sex-For-Hire College Romance (3 page)

W
hen
I finally met RJ again, I had a lot of explaining to do.

It was at a dorm party, a welcome-back-to-school thing. Since these parties were intrinsically uncool, nobody went except the new, gullible freshmen. However, I had a new outfit I needed to road-test for a class, so there I was.

My class project was a sparkly club dress. I always ended up with club dresses, because fabric is so expensive and the less I need, the better. This one had a plunge neck that hung below my belly button, showed a lot of side-boob, and left my back complete bare. The less sewing the better, too! With the last scrap, I’d engineered a tiny micro-skirt that hugged my ass, and hopefully wouldn’t explode at the seams like a broken rubber band. That had been known to happen with my other creations.

The drape of the club dress was supposed to show off the glittery fabric, which shimmered like fish scales and even changed colors at different angles. It also, I saw, showed
me
off in the extreme…

Nervous thrill as I looked in the mirror. My dress showed
a lot
. I’d have to be careful bending over, not just from the back of the skirt, but from the plunging front too. Boob tape is for fakers and tourists. Real models don’t tape their daring tops to their bodies, just look at a million Youtube videos on the subject.

This time I
would
wear panties. It didn’t matter how daring a model was supposed to be. This stupid outfit barely hid anything, so perforce the panties had to be color-coordinated with the rest.

That done, I added 6-inch high heels, so that I would tower over the all other girls and loom in the vision of all the boys. Make-up and hair perfect, I blew a kiss to the mirror, and clomped out of my dorm room to the elevators.

To say I made an impact at the party would not do it justice. I stood out like a disco ball in an Amish cemetery. Conversation stopped, people turned. Everything but that
scrrritch
sound effect.

I strode in, hiding my embarrassment. I suppressed my reservations by shouting “Fashion, bitches!” in my head, and moving like I owned the place. After all, I could have worn a pair of torn jeans and a t-shirt, like every single other girl. But then, what would have been the point of coming?

At a table full of soda bottles, I poured myself a Coke and glanced at the student next to me. He was cute enough, and, added bonus, he couldn’t tear his eyes off my dress.

“Looks like nobody takes care of themselves, these days,” I said in my best haughty voice. “They could’ve dressed for this.”

“It’s just a dorm party,” he replied.

“A first impression is a lasting impression,” I said.

“Your nipple is showing.”

“I know,” I said. I quickly covered it. “That’s fashion.”

“I think I like fashion,” the boy said, with a sly little grin.

I was proud of him for that. I also felt on firmer footing, now that the conversation shifted into the regular student introduction framework. “Me too! I’m a fashion major. What do you like about fashion?”

I guided him gently through the conversation, which he said was his first with a “real hottie.” Along the way, I laid some excellent fashion knowledge on him, and eventually he summoned the nerve to ask me on a date.

“No, Richie, but thank you,” I smiled up at him. “I’m trying to change my reputation, you see. It’s enough that you simply asked. Now let’s split up and meet some other people.”

The party was a mixer, so I spread myself around. The atmosphere slowly relaxed as everybody, myself included, acclimated to my club dress, and each other too, maybe. As I’d hoped, and as any designer likes to hear, my dress was the frequent topic of conversation. It also helped that someone mixed bourbon directly into several of the soda bottles. I accrued a string of boys who were happy to refill my cup whenever I wanted.

I think I knew what was happening. Or rather, Bad Rebecca knew, and that version of me was cheering us on. The regular, disciplined part of me was largely oblivious, because in short order, everything got so blurry and distracting!

At one point I wandered over to a cluster of boys who weren’t mixing with the rest, though I’d seen them eyeing me and a few other girls with unslaked longing. I introduced myself, holding a hand out. The most nervous of the boys leaned over to kiss it! He only stopped when his buddy slapped the back of his head.

I prattled through the regular where-you-from and yes-I’m-single stuff that was the main topic that night. I modeled my club dress for them, and they said they liked it, like everybody else had. Clearly, this was going to be an A+ project for my class!

But I had one more trick up my non-existent sleeve, and I’d finally drunk enough to share it.

“Are you ready for the big surprise?” I asked, grasping the fabric that draped, for the most part, over my chest.

They didn’t answer, except to nod with owlish stares.

“Watch closely!” They leaned closer. I ran my hand down the shimmering fabric—and it changed colors! The glittery miniature scales on the fabric had three sides, each with a different color. When you roughed them up, or brushed them a certain way, they flipped over and stuck. In seconds, I’d changed the fabric around my plunge-neck from crystal blue to crimson, and then to purple.

They were honestly astonished, and forgot their shyness.

“Can I?” asked one of them, reaching for me.

“Me too!”

Before I could do anything but giggle, they were switching the colors all over my dress. It was hilarious! The dress was a fascinating plaything to them, and I spun around with my arms above my head. If I didn’t make it as a model—perish the thought!—I could make
psycho
cash selling this club dress to attention-loving college girls. I could sell it with a guarantee that it would break every personal distance barrier with any guy they were crushing on. And all of the other guys, too.

One of them suddenly yanked his hand back, as if burned.

“Whups! My fault!” I laughed, covering my breast again.

“I… It was… I’m so… ”

Jeez, tongue-tied college boys are so cute! I almost wanted to engineer another wardrobe malfunction, just to get them to turn the same shade of crimson.

“Don’t worry, cutie.” I swooped in to kiss his cheek. “That’s what happens with risqué fashion. I learned to own it a long time ago.”

Then they all wanted to give me their number.

“Shh-yeah, right,” I said. “I’m too tipsy to keep track of all that.”

“But how can we hang out with you again?” the first guy asked.

The next guy gave a compelling argument: “You’re amazing, Rebecca.”

The third just looked sad, saying, “You’re the first girl to be nice to us since we got here.”

Then they wanted to change my dress back to crystal blue. I finally disengaged by telling them my room number in the dorm.

Warning bells in my ears. Bad Rebecca was raising her disreputable head again. Passing out my room number to random guys was so last year. Thanks to the bourbon, I didn’t worry for too long. I could always just not answer the door, if I wasn’t in the mood for a cute, inept ego boost.

The next group of guys had seen the trick with the fabric, and it was a repeat performance. Same with the next guys after that. I started to notice that I was only surrounded by guys. The girls either stayed with other girls, like this was high school, or they evaporated when I showed up. I couldn’t feel too sorry for them. I’d disappear too, if I was dressed like a midwestern wife on laundry day, and then
I
showed up to captivate their men.

Early in the evening, my escaping nipples were a frequent theme of conversation. The boys learned that pointing them out was the quickest way to make me giggle. As the evening wore on, though, they pointed out my slip-ups less and less. That probably meant I doing better, even as I got more tipsy. A model has to be a quick, adaptable learner, for every kind of garment.

Another cup of bourbon spiked soda appeared in my hand. I’d lost count by that point.

“Thank you! But this is the last one,” I said. “This time I mean it!”

The guys had me closely surrounded, partly because it was noisy in the common room, and partly so they could see the fabric change colors as their hands wandered over it. It was hard to tell where one boy left off, and the next began. I belatedly realized that some of the hands weren’t moving all that much. Two, maybe three hands simply rested on my ass, and their fingers brushed my bare legs where my micro-dress stopped.

A girl likes to be appreciated, but there was my whole “not like freshman year” promise to myself. When yet another hand slid around my bare waist, I tried to remember what was so bad about freshman year.

Rebecca, you’re drunk,
I told myself.

But look at all these guys,
Bad Rebecca answered,
They’re like a sample platter!

I was rattling on the rails, about to switch tracks into something I’d regret later. I knew that feeling. I needed to get back to my dorm room. These delicious boys would still be around tomorrow, when I could make better decisions. Heck, they’d be around for the rest of the semester. I’d given out my room number and my Instagram so many times, there’d probably be a boy camped outside my door when I opened it in the morning. Stranger things had happened, freshman year.

In the dizzying blur of trying to keep track of the hands, trying to pay attention to three guys asking me out at once, trying to answer everybody charmingly, and trying to make sure none of the boys felt left out, I saw Ripper Jack.

RJ? At this dull party? While I swanned around in a falling-off, touch-me club dress?

I looked again. I wasn’t imagining it.

It
was
him. He loomed on the other side of the common room. My throat caught when I saw him, and I almost squeaked. It was like driving on the highway, glancing up, and seeing a giant Mack Truck that suddenly fills your rearview mirror.

R
ipper Jack was leaning
, half sitting, on the table with the spiked soda. He fiddled with a big, complicated camera in his hands, but his eyes were on me. A knowing and slightly indecent smile occupied those full lips of his.

I wasn’t sure I approved of a smile that wicked. I wanted to march right over to him and demand to hear what he was thinking.

My crowd of boys noticed my stare.

“Whoah, who is that?” one of them said.

“A guy I know,” I said.

In an instant, the boys released me. All that social distance, which my club dress had proven so useful at bridging, came smashing back down. I suddenly had two feet of cold, empty air around me.

“Hey!” I said, pretending to be piqued. “You can’t leave me like this! I’m three different colors, here.”

But they had reverted back to worried teenagers. They shuffled their feet, and waited for someone else to take the lead.
Boys! So skittish!
Just when you think they’ve started to relax, they scramble away to safety.

Then, they
literally
backed away, staring over my shoulder.

RJ came up and hugged me from behind. After all the nervous freshman meet-and-greet, it felt like the grown-ups had come home. It felt like being hugged by a wall—a warm wall with a big, cold belt buckle that dug into the small of my back. His arms encircled me in a gentle but unbudging cage. I latched on to those muscles with the female rooting reflex. His scruffy cheek brushed my temple, and then he kissed my cheekbone so close to my ear that I got shivers from his breath.

I racked my brain, trying to remember how we had left things. As far as I remembered, we were still playing the roles of mechanic and hot girl in need. We weren’t nearly this intimate, certainly not after I’d dodged his calls for three weeks.

But I didn’t object. In principle, I objected to nothing he was doing. I also liked the longing and jealousy which the other guys zapped at me from their defensive cluster.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he murmured in my ear.

“You frightened off my whole collection of boys. It took me all night to break them in. Now I’ll have to start over.”

“Huh?” He looked up, seeming to notice them for the first time. “What’s so frightening about me?”

“For reals? You’re big. You’re cut like a music video. You’re covered in prison tattoos. You dress like a gangster, and you smell like a mechanic. You have a giant, livid red scar on your forehead. Stop digging for compliments.”

He laughed, and I felt it chug through his body into mine.
Jeez,
I thought, shivering again.
He’s already inside me…

“This is me trying to rescue you, Rebecca. They were all over you. It was getting ridiculous.”

“So you were jealous?” I raised an eyebrow at him, daring to hope.

Another laugh. How nice he was finally appreciating my sense of humor… Then he said the worst thing he could have said.

“Don’t be silly, Rebecca. I know when I’ve been friend-zoned. You’re my bud! I’m just looking out for you.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.
Friend-zoned?
Friend-zoned! How even—? So, all you do is use someone for his mechanic skills, then don’t return his calls for three weeks, then flirt with every other guy at a party—and suddenly you’ve friend-zoned him?

Why can’t men just read minds, like they’re supposed to?

“What, am I wrong?” he asked, because I’d been silent too long.

“No, no. We’re buds. I knew that. I knew that all along, Jack.”

But, you see, that’s what I
had
to say, even if I hadn’t yet decided how I really felt. If I didn’t agree with his friend-zone, then I’d be the one who had to risk an inappropriate, rebuffed advance. That’s painful enough for a guy, and they get rejected ten times a day. For me, it would be worse. I mean, have I
ever
done anything in my life that would cause someone to believe I could accept less than unconditional positive regard? The answer is,
I hope not.

“So what do
buddies
do for each other?” he prompted.

Now that I knew he was hugging me platonically, as a favor, and being territorial simply to scare the other boys, it felt… well, it felt just as good as before.

“The buddies kiss, don’t they?” I guessed.

“You’re hot
and
funny,” he grinned.

“Yep. That’s me.”

“I was going to say, they exchange favors. You owe me a favor.”

Done and done!
I tried to spin in his grasp, but he held me tight.

“You’re feisty when you drink, Rebecca.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“I’m saying I want my photo session. The session you promised.”

I stopped writhing and tried to think clearly. “You still want to take my picture?”

“No. I want to take hundreds of pictures. Thousands.”

“What kind of pictures?”

He rocked me for a moment without answering. The eyes of the watching boys followed as I throbbed back and forth in his arms. “Oh, you know.”

“That
kind, huh?”

“All kinds,” he said. “Not just that kind.”

Though I was playing dumb, I knew exactly what he was after. After all, I’d torn his flyer off the bulletin board.

I’d read it a dozen times, not that I was obsessed or anything.

RJ’s capstone project stood out from all the others. It wasn’t the usual college-age, wanna-be artiste venture. He sought an “avant garde” model for “edgy” pictures. Like a proper, respectful photographer, he listed the project parameters. Street shots, clothes falling off,
vérité
photos that involved strangers who were unaware of the camera. The model had to be sexy. There would be close contact. The subject was female sexuality. The tone would be “a faux-natural (but actually sensationalized) re-imagining of themes and prototypes common in pornography.”

Oh yes, I’d read that very closely. I’d parsed through it like a lawyer looking for the exit clause.

Small wonder that I still hadn’t called RJ, even after finding his flyer. Even Bad Rebecca got butterflies when she read it.

Sure, I could back out. The photographer wanted a lot for what the mechanic had done. But if I backed out… how would I see him? How would we spend time together? What would my pretext be?

“Well?” he urged. “This is my last try. I won’t be overbearing. If you say no this time, I’ll get the message, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Girl 101, never give ultimatums. Girl 101, corollary, it’s nice to know the parameters.

“RJ, do you really promise that? If I say no, you’ll leave me alone forever?”

It was a long moment, but then he nodded. “I will. And I always keep my word.”

“In that case, yes.”

He nodded and released me. “I understand. I know I was asking a lot, and I’ll…
hold on.”

I got to see his brilliant teeth again, as his tough-guy face cracked open with a disbelieving smile. It was so cute. He was like a little boy with a new dinosaur book. I had to smile too.

“You’re amazing, Rebecca,” he said, and I completely agreed.

“When do we start?” I asked.

“Right now.”

“Now?”

RJ was back to fiddling with his camera. He later told me he was deleting the pictures he’d taken that day, to get more room on the memory disk.

“Right fucking now,” he said. “Your make-up is perfect, your hair is wild, and you’re dressed like a college sex bunny. You’re a walking libido-bomb, Rebecca. You fit right into my project theme, and you have since the day you ran me over in your Escort.”

Whoah.
That was a lot of male confirmation. Almost, but not quite, too much for me to digest all at once. Still, I struggled for an appropriate response. “You know, I drive a Ford Escort, and an Escort is another word for prostitute.”

He paused. “How much did you drink?”

“A
leetle
too much?” I guessed.

“Then it’s just the right amount. I won’t have to loosen you up, or get you comfortable.”

“Yeah, I’m good to go.”

“The thing I want you to remember, gorgeous, is this.” He transfixed me again with those slate-gray eyes. “Are you listening?”

I went still like a sex bunny in the middle of the highway. How did he do that? With his light eyes and dark skin, he was almost otherworldly. It made me want to do any wicked thing he asked.

“You wouldn’t believe how much I’m listening,” I said.

“People tell me I get intense when I work. Don’t be afraid of me, Rebecca, and never be offended. I’m just chasing a very specific vision, and I can’t be polite at the same time. Don’t take anything personally. You’re still my girl, okay?”

I kept nodding, and he nodded with me. I asked, “Are you saying you’re a tortured artist?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Then I totally forgive you. I’m all about intensity too.” I could feel Bad Rebecca taking over my mouth, or maybe it was just the alcohol. We college girls always over-emote and over-explain when someone gets us drunk and horny. We also overgeneralize. “You see, Jack, I’m going to be a model. I need you to
squeeze
the best work out of me that you can. Be demanding. Work me
hard.
Be as intense as you want. I want you to find my boundaries, and push me outside them. I want to make a rule for myself. With your eyes, nothing is off limits.”

“With my eyes?”

“Yes,” I said. Then: “No! I meant, with your camera’s eyes, of course.”

I maintained my own intensity, to show him how serious I was. I stared so hard I forgot to blink, and my eyes teared up.

I would absolutely not be able to explain my tears, so I let Bad Rebecca make something up. “Oh, gosh, Jack. Look at me. I’m almost crying I’m so serious.”

“Can you cry on demand?” he asked alertly.

“Of course,” Bad Rebecca said. “I’m basically a professional model.”

He wasn’t following as closely as I thought he should. I started to explain everything again, but then wondered if it was the alcohol that wanted me to talk so much. In the end analysis, it didn’t matter how much he understood. Actions would speak louder than words, and without slurring everything. I settled for my most serious, professional look, the one I used for professors and the highway patrol, and said,
“Capiche?”

Bless this man, he didn’t laugh at me. He simply said, “I think we understand each other.”

“Good. Remind me of this conversation tomorrow, when I sober up.”

“Will do.” He leaned forward minutely, and for just one dizzy second, I thought he was going to kiss me. The moment passed, though. He caught himself and straightened again, leaving me with a half-open mouth and dilated eyes.

This boy had one very strong friend zone. For my part, I promised myself that someday RJ and I would be the kind of platonic buddies who could trade sloppy mouth kisses when we agreed on something.

“Let’s find a place to shoot,” RJ said, now back to fiddling with his camera. “Grab one of those guys and bring him along.”

“Capiche,”
I said. I was three steps toward the cluster of guys when I stopped and came back. “Did you just say that?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do
you
mean, Jack, when you say, ‘grab one of those guys’?”

“The guy you’re hooking up with.”

“I, uh, wasn’t planning on hooking up tonight. I just met those guys, and I don’t really do that anymore. I made a resolution. I said it aloud, I had a lit candle.”

For the first time, a touch of impatience lit his eyes. “He’s not for you, he’s for the shoot, Rebecca. You need someone to make out with. Think of him like a prop.”

“So I need a prop?”

A wicked gleam in his eye. “Every girl needs a prop. Be quick about it. We’ll lose the angle of the light through the window, the sky’s almost dark.”

“Uh…” I know I said I wanted to be a serious model, but could I simply grab a guy and make out with him?

“Think of it this way.” RJ shrugged. “I’m pushing your first boundary. Just walk up to one, take his hand, and pull him out of the room. I’ll wait in the hall, because you said they were scared of me.”

“I can pick any of them?”

I thought I saw the hint of a smile. “To make it easy, pick one of the guys you were teasing. Less to explain that way. It doesn’t matter which one. They’re all eye-fucking you. No, wait, hold on…”

He scanned them like a hawk. I looked too. Where RJ’s gaze touched them, they seemed to wilt like flowers under a blow-torch.

“Him. The first guy who copped a feel on your chest—”

“That was accidental,” I said quickly. “There was fashion involved.”

“He has good, clear skin, like you.”

“He really does,” I agreed, looking close.

The guy glanced at us, gulped, and then glanced away.

“And he’s a little taller than you, for such a small guy. You’ll match up well in the pictures.”

Well, who was I to disagree with my photographer? It seemed like a foregone conclusion that I needed a prop, a prop with clear skin, and that I’d also be my own prop manager.

So, this was it…

I would walk over to the boy and take his hand. The less said the better. I’d let him get the wrong idea about my purpose, until we were safely through the door and RJ could trap him in the hall. Then, RJ would nail him with those hypnotic slate-gray eyes of his, and take care of the rest.

“I’m really doing this,” I said under my breath as I walked over.

The boy smiled and rested a hand on my waist. “Shit, Rebecca, that was one scary dude.”

“Oh, you mean Janice James Cardona, aka Jack the Ripper?”

“Jack the Ripper?”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s just my photographer. Did I tell you that I’m going to be a model, a serious model who—”

“You did,” he interrupted quickly. “You covered that.”

I took his hand and he froze. I held it in both of my own. His confused, then pleased, then suspicious look was…intoxicating to me. I felt drunk, which I was, but I also felt powerful and career-positive.

I was taking a tangible, professional step toward being a model. It was as simple as grabbing a stranger’s hand, staring into his eyes, and walking backward to the door. Simple is not necessarily easy, and I forgot to blink again, I was concentrating so hard.