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Chapter 1
Aurora
“But why do I have to benude?” I ask, thoroughly confused.
Charlotte huffs. At least, she tries to. The sound comes out as more of a snort than anything thanks to her clogged sinuses and droopy nose. She sneezes into a tissue, shivering as she clutches her throw blanket.
“It’s performance art,” she says, her voice nasally. “The servers and the guests are supposed to be equal in order to show how we’re all human underneath it all.”
“Blow your nose, babe. I can hardly understand you.”
My roommate groans. “Pretty please? I already said I would go.”
“Call in sick.”
“The gig pays a thousand bucks. I need the cash or else I can’t make rent.”
I laugh softly, swooping in from the kitchen with a piping hot cup of ginger tea. I hand it to her and watch her attempt to breathe in the steam.
“Well, Idowant you to make rent,” I tease, earning myself a pointed, though tired, glare.
“Aurora, I swear to God—”
“I don’t know, Cee. This is… extreme, to say the least. Nude serving? I mean, come on.”
“Priscilla Kelp is a very famous performance artist. She’s eccentric, but her work is always tasteful. Besides, I don’t think it’snudenude. You’ll be clothed in lace and stuff. Clothes are optional, that’s all. Besides, the guest list is heavily vetted. You’re not gonna get any creeps in there, I promise. Nobody’s allowed to bring their phones, so you don’t have to worry about pictures and stuff.”
“I’m going to have to take your word for it.”
Charlotte squirms in her spot on the couch, her forehead shiny with sweat and matted red hair. I’ve already given her a few of my extra sweaters to toss on for warmth, but she still shivers like it’s zero below in our quaint, two-bedroom apartment. Charlotte is the only person I know who gets sick in the middle of summertime.
Our apartment is underwhelming in every sense of the word. Ugly popcorn ceilings, mute beige walls, creaking wooden floorboards. Most of our furniture is mismatched, discovered at the local consignment store or fortuitously swiped from the curbside. It’s cramped, not to mention stupidly overpriced. Then again, you’d be hard pressed to find a place in New York City that could be classified as affordable. Don’t get me wrong, we get by comfortably enough, but a lot of Charlotte’s money is the result of inconsistent modeling work, and some months the paltry sum I earn freelancing is next to non-existent.
In an ideal world, I would be in California working with the giants. Microsoft or Google, to be exact. It’s been my dream ever since writing my first line of code to work for some of the biggest tech giants in the world. The four years I spent dedicating my time to computer engineering at MIT should have made it easier to get my foot in the door.
Unfortunately, everyone and their mother with an MIT degree has the exact same line of thinking. Competition is stiff at the top, and while I’m exceedingly good at what I do, I didn’t quite make the cut. I made it through three stages of interviews only to receive a politely worded, clearly impersonal rejection letter.
Dear Aurora Foster, Thank you for your time, but after further consideration, yada yada yada…
I was thankfully able to land myself a paid internship elsewhere, but that brought me here, to arguably one of the most expensive cities in the world. There are worse things than working for CyberFort. It’s a reputable cybersecurity company with a quickly expanding clientele, and I’m confident my skillset will be of great use, but I’d be lying if I said it was my first choice. I’d never say that aloud, of course. Beggars can’t be choosers, and with the plans I’m saving up for, I really need every penny I can get my hands on.
“Everyone’s gonna wear masks and stuff,” Charlotte continues after a swallow of tea. Her voice comes out a bit clearer, steadier. The hot drink must be helping. “And if you’re really uncomfortable, you can just leave after you get paid…in cash.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Just ask Priscilla’s personal assistant for the money beforehand.”
“This sounds an awful lot like one of those creepy sex parties I read about the other day.” I anxiously spin my mother’s wedding ring around my finger, one of the only keepsakes I have left of hers.
“You need to spend less time on the internet, my friend,” Charlotte counters.
“I’m a programmer. The internet is my second home.”
“It’s obviously going to sound fucking ridiculous when you say it out loud like that.”
I inhale slowly. The more I think about it, the less weird it all seems. Maybe Charlotte’s finally rubbing off me.
The Big Apple is no stranger to eccentric artists. I don’t know the first thing about Priscilla Kelp, though I’ll admit the name does sound vaguely familiar.
Charlotte takes a deep breath. “I know this is a huge favor to ask—”
“Humongous,” I correct.
