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"When do you need the money?"
I cross my arms over my chest with a huff, fighting the urge to tell her it's not gonna matter because I'm not gonna get it so I may as well start figuring out what I need to live on the street. "End of the month."
"When was your last period?"
"Excuse me?" I gasp, rearing back, tightening my grip on my bag so I can bolt if the bus doesn't get here soon enough. Whatever she's wanting to buy, I ain't selling.
But then she looks at me, really looks, turning her body toward me and everything. There's nothing stunning about her features, nothing notable. She's got a nice face and good skin, friendly eyes and salon hair, but nothing memorable.
And yet she's captivating enough that I can't flee.
She takes my hand in hers. "I'm hosting an event in a couple weeks, and one of the women I'd scheduled for it just informed me she's already pregnant."
"Already?" Everything she just said tells me that clearly she's a high-end pimp, but that word catches me.
"That's right. Because she's already pregnant, the men at the event won't want her. It's a shame, too, because it's fifty-thousand dollars for forty-eight hours plus a two-week vacation at our beach house in the Keys. Any woman who gets pregnant – that's what the men are paying for – will be given free room and board and pretty much whatever she wants until she gives birth, when she'll be paid a million dollars to sign over all parental rights to the father."
I glance up and down the strip, half-expecting to see someone recording this from around the corner because clearly this is a prank. But no, all I see is Orlando in all its bleached concrete glory. It's just me and her and a homeless guy claiming he lost his sight in the war. I've seen him chase a kid down for stealing a fiver out of his cup, so I'm pretty sure that's a lie.
"With all due respect, ma'am, that's the dumbest fucking thing I've ever heard."
The smile on her face looks like she genuinely believed me when I saidwith all due respect. She gives me an understanding nod like she agrees with me and pulls a tablet from her briefcase. "Here, you'll want this when you look up our website. It has 5g, so you won't have to use a public WiFi or worry that the government will take your cell phone from you."
I don't bother asking how she knows I have a cell phone through a state program. And I know I should shut my mouth and roll with it, but I can't resist saying, "You know I'm just gonna hawk this thing, right? Like, I ain't giving it back now, but I'm telling you, you hand these out, people gonna throw them right on eBay."
She nods, no more fazed by this than anything else. "Yes, please do. These men are happy to pay over a million dollars for a weekend-long sex party and a baby, which both you and I know they could get at a far more reasonable cost by adopting or just poking holes in condoms. No one cares what happens to that tablet. Before you sell it, I only ask that you visit the website. Check out the other arrangements I facilitate. But trust me when I say this: the event next weekend is what suits your needs best."
I nearly tell her to fuck off. Again, this can't be real. But my eyes stray down to the tablet. If this is a scam, it's the most complicated scam ever. And what are they gonna get out of it? Worst case, I get banged by a bunch of dudes and then shafted on the money. If they don't pay the fifty grand and I get pregnant, I could just sell the baby. All of that is terrible, I absolutely do not want, but it's proof enough the pay-off doesn't seem worth it if it's a scam.
The tablet has one of those nice matte finishes to the back, the sort I'd love to doodle some tattoo designs on with my good acrylic pens. They were a gift from one of the many tattoo artists in the area who offered to apprentice me – for a cost I can't afford.
How the fuck am I supposed to eat if I have topayto work? It's probably the only thing I've ever wanted to do, be a tattoo artist, but it's just another impossible dream. But with fifty-thousand dollars? Would it be so impossible then?
I flip the tablet over when my fingertip catches on a different texture on the back of the tablet. I flip it and discover it looks just like the business card, matte black with embossed black letters and a gold border. It's way too much effort for anyone to go to for a weird sex scam.
I look back up to the woman, whose contented sigh makes her sound like she could spend all day with me, not a care in the world.
"What's BBHH?" I ask.
Only then does her smile turn the slightest bit devilish. "I'm so glad you asked."
Breeder Babes Happy Husbandry, Inc, pairs people who want babies but can't have them with people who can make those babies happen and will do so for money. No clue what being a husband has to do with that, but I didn't name the company.
Most of their services seem to be one-on-one. People who don't have partners and are looking for a kid or even a whole-ass family, like a twenty-first century mail-order bride. And I guess some dudes don't want babies, they're just such dickheads about condoms that they'll pay ridiculous child supports just to fuck women without any sort of birth control. One deal seems to be straight-up buying a human being who will do anything you tell them to do, including raising children.
People are fucking weird.
Not that I have room to talk, I guess. I'm signing the contract for the damn house orgy even though I've had sex with three men my entire life, only one of which was more than once, and only because he was a foster kid in the same house as me and it was convenient.
And it didn't do anything for me, not really. Same with the other two guys. Sex is kind of lame.
And now I'm letting ten masked strangers do whatever they want with me. The contract states that Icansay no, but they don't need me to say yes. From dusk til dawn, no matter where I am or what I'm doing, they can just hunt me down and have at it. The contract makes a point to remind me that with twice as many men as women, I can't expect them to wait their turn, either, and even though this is about making babies, their dicks are probably going to end up everywhere.
I haven't doneeverywhere, but there's a first time for everything.
For fifty thousand dollars.
After the weekend is over, the men will go home and the girls will get the two-week vacation that lady – Jane – bragged about while things brew up enough for a pregnancy test. I'll be hanging out at a beach house on Sugarloaf Key waiting to piss on a stick on my twenty-first birthday. The alternative is getting kicked out of my group home, so I can't complain. Instead, I pack up my shit, the entire duffel bag's worth, and head off to an airport before they can tell me to GTFO.
