Dirty Boy (6 page)

“I can’t agree to that,” Story protested. “You’d have the power to throw me out at any time.”

“I’d be paying the rent,” he reminded her. “When my generosity ends, so would your perks.”

She scowled at him. “Having a roof over my head isn’t a perk. It’s a necessity.”

“Take it or leave it, Story,” Jimmy said with impatience. “I can move you into my place, but the moment you displease me, you’re out. With your own place, if you annoy me, we can take time to cool off in our respective apartments.”

“Can I think about that?”

“I’ll expect an answer once I’m finished going over everything with you.” He flipped a page. “What do you do in your spare time? What’s the name of your salon?”

“Garnier,” she answered, although lately she’d used whatever cheap brand of shampoo and conditioner she came across.

“Garnier isn’t a salon. It’s a brand.”

“Yes, meaning I don’t go to a salon. I do all my beauty stuff at home.”

“Unacceptable.” He made a note then flipped another page. “Hobbies?”

This was worse than a job interview. Story felt as if she was being scrutinized from the inside out. “I read.”

A frown of displeasure marred his face. “What’s your favorite restaurant?”

“I have none.”

“Favorite drink?”

That was easy. “Armand de Brignac.”

“Really?”

His surprise pleased Story. She’d started to sound like a boring, old fuddy-duddy. “Yes. I love it.” She left off that she’d only had it once.

“What type of cars do you like?”

“The faster the better,” she replied.

That, too, seemed to impress him. He smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind when I purchase one for you.”

All of it sounded too good to be true, so it probably was. If she accepted this position without securing her future, she’d have a hard life ahead of her. Drawing in a deep breath, she decided to come clean. Failing grades led her down this road, so she couldn’t turn her back on the real reason she’d consider any of this. “I’d like a teaching degree.”

Jimmy glanced up from reading through his notes. Sudden displeasure tightened his mouth. “You may do better as a dancer. You’ll be able to do as you please with the money you earn.”

“Wouldn’t the money I earn with you be mine? I wouldn’t allow my studying to interfere with my obligation to you.”

“The money would be yours. Any jewelry I gave to you. The car. All yours. I’m telling you what I expect and a student isn’t it.”

Determined to stay on her course, Story looked around to the mirrored ceiling, the low lighting, and the red and gold décor. Either as Jimmy’s Sugar Baby or as a dancer, she’d have free time. She could always sneak and complete her lessons. Take some online courses. He wouldn’t be with her every waking hour. However, if he discovered she disobeyed him, she knew he’d cut her loose in a minute. For him, this was a business transaction and she was expendable.

Stripping presented its own problems. She wasn’t sure if giving out random blow jobs or dancing in front of strangers was the worst. No. One was just as bad as the other.

“I might as well do adult films if I’m going to suck off any man who requests it of me.”

He gave her the once over. “You’d do well. Keep this in mind. The most well-known actresses are also dancers.”

Story hadn’t known that.

“If you’re really popular, you can pick and choose your co-star,” Jimmy added.

The door opened and Babs returned without drinks.

“The drinks are coming,” she announced, correctly reading Story’s glare. She smiled between them. “How are things going?”

“I’m willing to hire her as a dancer, Babs. She won’t work as my private girl.”

Story’s heart sank as Babs’ face fell. “Let me talk to her,” her mom wheedled.

The delivery of the drinks prevented his answer.

“I’m willing to take her,” Jimmy started, the moment they were alone again. “But she wants to go to school.”

Oh, oh. Busted. Story hadn’t wanted her mom to discover what she’d said. Not yet, anyway.

“In that case, dancing is her next best option,” Babs said tightly, her entire body rigid. “I have a stage name I think would work well. Flossie Dick.”

Story choked. “You have a stripper moniker picked out for me?”

“It just came to me,” Babs said with a sniff.

“I like it,” Jimmy said.

“My daughter won’t work for you. You hire your girls out.”

“A lot of clubs do,” he said without remorse. “Some of the girls
are
independent contractors, but mine aren’t.”

“Not all dancers are, um, escorts, right?” Story asked, nervously taking her glass of wine from the table and sipping.

“A lot of the highest paid ones do whore themselves out,” Jimmy explained. “You can earn a grand or two a week.”

She hadn’t had time to research the adult film industry but the pay had to be comparable.

The disappointment that she’d ruined her Sugar Baby chances surprised Story. She knew her mom was furious, but she’d never lied to Babs about how important school was to her. It had taken her days of calling to get Babs to answer. More than likely, Babs would make her wait even longer this time around.

But once her mom calmed down, Story would ask her if she had any other ideas.

On the ride home, she didn’t attempt conversation, not wanting to stoke the fire of her disappointment and annoyance. In her apartment, she removed her makeup, took the elastic band out of her hair, and then crawled into bed. It was almost four in the morning. She only had two hours to sleep.

That would have to suffice.

The next afternoon, Story lay on her sofa, knowing she’d failed her math final. She should’ve listened to Babs and not bothered to go. Math had never been her strong suit and she hadn’t put in the hours to study as she should have.
Hide A Body
ringtone blasted into the silence, announcing her mother calling. She almost didn’t answer. This morning, after the failed meeting with Jimmy, Babs had given Story the silent treatment,

Today would be a lecture. Story knew her mother’s patterns. Knowing it was best to get it over with, she answered. “Hey, Mom.”

“If I can’t change how romantic-at-heart you are we’ll scratch the Sugar Daddy,” Babs said by way of greeting. “Here’s a job that requires no emotion. Just sex. I heard through the grapevine they’re casting at Dirty Boys.”

The statement made Story sit up. “Excuse me?”

“Story, love, dreams have no place in the real world. Not fashion designer dreams. Or teaching goals. You’re a beautiful, beautiful girl. Use your looks and your body. You’ll be happier.”

The dreams she’d had of becoming a fashion designer were locked away in the lone closet in the apartment, in the form of her drawing pad with all her sketches. Her future as a teacher was all but lost for the time being if she didn’t find the money to pay next semester’s tuition.

“Think about it. I’ll text you Ryker’s contact information. He’s in charge of production and casting for the company.”

“So you’re telling me to get into porn?”

“Yes,” Babs answered without apology. “You already have a name. Flossie Dick.”

Story had a dead father and a lunatic for a mother. “Bye, Mom.”

Without waiting for her mother’s response, she ended the call and moaned in frustration.

Vague images of Babs holding on tight to Story while they foraged through restaurant dumpsters for food and found nighttime shelter wherever they could, still haunted her. Somehow, Babs had gotten them out of that situation and found a wealthy man to marry. From the age of three, Story had suffered through the revolving door of Barbra Thornton, right along with her mother. The man she married two days after Story’s third birthday stayed around for eight months. By Story’s seventh birthday, she was on her fourth stepfather. When Winston married her mom, stepfather number ten had already walked away. Including Winston and her dad, her mother had been married
twelve
times.

Babs’s thirteenth husband would appear as soon as she divorced Winston.
Whenever that happened.
Neither of them seemed in a rush.

Story’s phone beeped, and she glanced at the screen. True to her word, Babs had sent a phone number and email address for Ryker Sherwood, with the message:
Contact him immediately.

The battery operated clock ticked in the silence of the rundown efficiency apartment. The drip-drip-drip of the leaky kitchen faucet captured her attention. For the months that Story had lived in this place, faulty plumbing had plagued her. Despite numerous complaints, the landlord never made an effort at repairs.

It was almost time for her to start her shift at the Burger Den. She needed to cook her Ramen noodles, change into her uniform, and get a move on if she didn’t want to be late.

Heading to her bedroom, she once again eyed the bills. Just for a moment, she’d considered the idea of becoming a stripper. Why not porn? It was just sex, and she needed the money like yesterday.

Before she changed her mind, she sat back down and typed out a message to Ryker. Hopefully by the time her shift ended he’d answer her.

Hi Ryker. This is Story, your stepsister. How are you?

This had to be the worst idea
ever
. Story wasn’t a stripper or porn star material or a Sugar Baby. She wasn’t—

Her phone beeped, and one word appeared.
Who?

Asshole.

Story:
Babs’s daughter

Ryker:
Yeah

Oh my God. What did that mean? Was it a question? A statement? He wasn’t up for small talk. She needed to get straight to the point.

Story:
Your company’s casting and I’m looking for work. What must I do to be considered?

Ryker:
You want to do a show?

Damn it, she needed to hear his voice to know the meaning behind the words. Was he asking in a rhetorical way? Or was he surprised?

Story:
May I call you? Texting doesn’t seem to be right for this.

Ryker:
No.

Chewing on her lip, Story stared at the screen and almost breathed a sigh of relief at the word. Her half-hearted attempt was laughable. If she wanted to have a roof over her head, food to eat, and a school to attend in the fall, she needed to put in more effort.

Ryker:
If you’re serious email me a headshot, an ass shot, and a full frontal nude.

Wow. Just like the ad. That must be standard requirements.

Story:
Okay. Do you need my age, weight, and height?

Ryker:
You’re 20. 5’2”. Most of ur weight in your tits and ass.

Story:
You know all this but you didn’t know my identity when I contacted you?

Ryker:
How many fucking chicks named Story do you know?

Story scowled at the screen.

Ryker:
Send the pics now and stop wasting my damn time.

Before she had time to think this through, she stripped, grabbed her phone again, and snapped three photos of herself. Headshot. Full frontal nude. And a shot of her ass, captured when she stood in front of her dingy bathroom mirror and clicked.

One by one, she sent the photos, staring at the phone in trepidation, praying for a quick response.

Five, torturous minutes passed before Ryker messaged her again.

I can get you a phone meeting with Max. I’ll let him make the final decision.

Max. Story’s biggest fantasy and worst nightmare. He’d tell her ‘no’ on GP.

Story:
I thought you made the final decision about casting.

Ryker:
Not where YOU are concerned.

They’d never liked Babs and whatever her mother had done to their father worsened their hostility.

Ryker:
We have three big productions coming up and we’re casting lead girls for each of them. I like what I see so far, so here’s what I’ll do. Fly you out as I would any other girl I’m considering. Let you have a face-to-face with my brother. If he agrees, we’ll take it from there.

Story:
Thank you, Ryker. I appreciate it. I’m desperate, on the verge of homelessness. This is a lifesaver.

Ryker:
Your situation isn’t my problem. You and your mother’s doing. These productions are my only concern.

Story:
Whatever happened between our parents, I had no involvement.

Ryker:
If you say so.

Story:
I do!

Ryker:
Convince Max of that.

The decision maker in this matter. She’d leave it alone for now since she still had other questions about these productions.

Story:
If I am chosen, how much do I earn? What’s the production schedule?

As a stripper, she had the potential to earn a couple of thousand a week.

Ryker:
Max will determine your pay based on your experience. Production is 14 days. A speaking part. In other words, some acting and not just fucking.

Story:
I have no experience in acting OR fucking.

Ryker:
Fucking on screen or at all?

Story:
At all.

Ryker:
Well, shit.

Story:
Please don’t let this change your mind. I’ll have it taken care of if it’s a problem.

She’d call Jimmy to help out.

Story:
My mother thinks this is a good opportunity for me.

Ryker:
What? Adult Entertainment?

Story:
Yes.

Ryker:
Are you shitting me?

Story:
No.

Ryker:
Well, fuck. Is she willing to star in some shows with you?

Story:
Ewww.

Ryker:
It’s happened. Google it. I know of at least two porn stars who did movies with their moms.

Story:
I’m desperate, not perverted.

No response.

Story:
What happens if I’m not chosen?

Ryker:
You leave and don’t bother us again.

Story:
My plane ticket will be round trip?

Ryker:
Yeah. Whatever. You and your mother in front of a camera would make Max’s day. Almost guarantee you’d get chosen.

Story:
Not happening. What else can I do to guarantee he’ll pick me?

Ryker:
Arrive here with proof that you’re clean. You’ll still have to get tested at our facility, but it’ll get Max’s attention.

Story:
I don’t have money for tests.

She had to go to Planned Parenthood for her monthly birth control pills.

Ryker:
Find out the cost and let me know. Repay me if you get the contract.

Story:
If I don’t get it?

Ryker:
We’ll figure it out.

Story hated not knowing the particulars, but he held the ball in his court, and she had no room to demand answers.

Ryker:
On second thought re: your virginity. Let Max decide what to do with that, too.

Story:
Okay. What now?

Ryker:
Once you send me the requested information, if you’re sure about this, we’ll take it from there.             

Meaning, he’d tossed the ball back in her court.