Anything for Money: A Sex-For-Hire College Romance

C
opyright
© 2016 by Lindsey Bedder

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

W
hen you have nothing
, bet it all.

The guy behind the counter at the Ford dealership took a long moment before replying to me. He wasn’t thinking about the offer I’d just made, he was merely stunned into silence.

I held my smile and kept nodding while his mind was in that disarmed, hopefully receptive state. I have this theory, never proven, that if you nod at someone long enough, they will subconsciously agree, and start to nod with you. From there, it’s just a short jump for them to take your point of view.

It’s the same principle as yawning. Like, when you’re on a date and the guy yawns and stretches. Suddenly you yawn too, and want to sleep with him.

My mechanic didn’t nod. Instead, he furrowed his brow and did the worst possible thing. He repeated my offer aloud.

“You’re saying that if we fix your car, you’ll bring us a batch of brownies?”

“Yes!” I said brightly. “But not right away. Probably sometime next week.”

“You look like you could be in college—” he started.

I giggled for him. “I am!”

“You’re a college girl, and it’s the end of summer. Not that we’d accept brownies as payment, but we’d never see them anyway. Right after we fixed your car, you’d skip town and go back to school.”

This poor mechanic had obviously been hurt at some point. Damn my fellow students, making it harder on those of us who don’t freeload! I tried reasoning with him. “Jimmy, Jimmy, come on! I’m local. I go to school right here in town. And why would I avoid making a batch of brownies? Brownies are not such a huge commitment that I have to flee from the responsibility.”

“There’s the problem, young lady. There’s the problem, right there. You need a brake line in your car, to stay alive. You want to exchange that for brownies.”

“You haven’t tasted my brownies.”

He leaned forward, eyes on mine, and I finally stopped nodding. His guard was up and I wouldn’t mind-control him now. He’d survived his earlier confusion and was fully in the conversation, unfortunately. “Are your brownies filled with gold, young woman? Do they contain the cure for male pattern baldness?”

“They are filled with chocolate, and contain the cure for chocolate cravings.”

“Are ‘brownies’ a code word for some kind of sexual favor?” he frowned.

Honestly, I was a little offended by the disappointment in his tone.

“Jimmy, sir, when I say brownies, I mean brownies. I don’t fool around with brownies. Four inches thick, so moist you eat them with a spoon. Call the hospital, have them fluff up the pillows. You have a sugar coma coming.”

“I… ” He seemed confused again. “Are you… Are you trying this because you’re gorgeous, and you always get your way?”

“Gosh, no!” The minute men think you’re trading on your looks, they get a million times harder to manipulate. I pouted and fluttered my eyelashes at him. He didn’t notice, because his eyes had strayed, yet again, to my cleavage. Well, whatever worked.

“So what, then? You have a philosophical stand against money?”

“Jimmy, I’ll level with you. I’m broke. It’s the end of summer, and I just bought books for classes. I’m broke, desperate, and yes, gorgeous—
your
words. But mostly I’m broke.”

He crossed his arms and leaned on the counter. “Young lady,” he said, “go get yourself a job and come back with folding money.”

Time for the big guns. “Look, Jimmy. I have eighty thousand followers on Instagram. I’m
sure
we can work something out.”

Without another word, he turned back to his computer started typing. Interview over. My last, best shot at a safe driving experience had failed.

I turned on my 6-inch heel and wobbled to the door. The crowd of whispering mechanics, clustered by the window to the front office, watched me leave. I hoped they’d give Jimmy hell for letting me and my brownies get away.

And, yes, I’d dressed specially for this attempt. Best foot forward and all that.

I was disappointed in my little pink lycra dress. I’d thought the brownies would bed a sure thing, and the dress was supposed to knock it out of the park.

I mean, cleavage? Legs? Heels? A hemline that snapped up my ass like a broken window shade? At a frickin’ car dealership? A desperate young woman in lycra, promising brownies? To lusty mechanics? And it was
fail?

Was the world crazy?

I paused outside the door, breathing hard, honestly at a loss. This was it: Rock bottom. Nobody tells you that rock bottom has spikes poking up. When you land, you don’t bounce. You stick.

* * *

“
H
ey
, hot stuff,” someone whispered.
“Pssst.
Sexy lady.”

Usually it’s a voice in my head that says that, so it took me a moment to locate the voice in reality. It came from a dozen feet behind me.

“Hey sexy!”

I closed my eyes, searching inside myself. I usually dismiss this kind of attention on the street, because it never pans out. The guys turn all scared and nervous when I actually answer. This time, however, I was thinking, “Is this where I finally,
finally
turn to prostitution?”

I was only partly joking. Desperate times… and I already had the dress.

“I think the bitch is deaf,” the voice whispered. “She’s swayin’ back and forth with her eyes closed.”

“Here, wave this car freshener at her,” another voice whispered.

“Why the fuck would I want to wave a car freshener?”

“If she’s deaf, she’s going to have a great sense of smell.”

No,
I decided.
This will
not
be where I finally turn to prostitution.

I turned to the voices and opened my eyes. They were two young Latino mechanics, wearing greasy overalls.

“Hi, boys. Something smells great! Is that lavender?”

The first boy said, “Girl, we heard about your brownies. You really want your car fixed?”

I nodded. His tone was so furtive that I added, “And by brownies, I mean
brownies.
And by car, I mean
car.
”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m not into broke-down old chicks.”

“Me neither,” I said. “Wait,
what
did you call me?”

“I only date hotties my own age,” he clarified.

“I’m not trying to change your mind,” I said, “but I’m only twenty, and I’m a model, sort of. Someday.”

“I have an older cousin,” the boy went on. “He’s smart. He reads all the time.
All
the time. It’s what he
does.
And he fixes cars. He’s a little off. Don’t talk about cats or air conditioners. You interested?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“You’re interested. Here’s his address, back of this card. I wrote it with my phone number. I’m expecting those brownies you talked about. Tell him Angel sent you. Tell him you got no money, but you’ll work something out. You still interested?”

“I am. Wait—did you say interested or terrified?”

He frowned, another guy who didn’t get my jokes.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Angel.”

I shook my head. “No, you’re Angel. What’s
his
name?”

“It’s fucking Angel, like mine. Now take off. I’m not allowed to talk to customers.”

“I’m shocked about that.”

He turned toward the shop, not even polite enough to ogle me while I walked away. Then he swung back. “Remember: Don’t talk about air conditioners. Don’t talk about parrots.”

“I thought you said cats.”

“Don’t talk about cats either.”

“Thanks, Angel.” I jangled my car keys. “I’ll go over there right now, without stopping. Literally. Because I don’t have brakes on my car.”

Was I nervous?
Yes.
Was this shady?
You betcha.

I went anyway. At the red lights, I slowed my car with low gears and what was left of the parking break.

When you have nothing, bet it all.