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She laughs and turns her back to me to grab a bottle of water and a towel. “Yeah, you could do that…” She dabs the towel on her forehead and leaves it around her neck. “But then again, our security cameras probably have you walking inside this house. My witch of a stepmother talked to you, and,” she points at a camera in the corner of the room, “that one saw you, too. It’ll be a bit weird if I suddenly disappear, won’t it? Surely the cops’ first instinct will be to look at the gangbanger who visited me in the days prior to my death.”
I put my hands in my pockets and tilt my head to the side. “You’re a little bitch, aren’t you?” I observe casually.
“No, actually, I just know an opportunity when I see one.” She cocks a hip and takes a sip of her water.
“What the fuck would you need thirty grand for? Doesn’t your daddy buy you anything you wish for? Don’t you have an unlimited bank account or something?”
“God,” she snorts. “I know you guys on the North Shore probably have never heard of it, but see, there’s this thing called a trust fund. We usually don’t have access to them until a certain age. Mine is twenty-one, and I want to leave this shithole before then, so I need that kind of money now.”
“Shithole?” I choke. “You live in a fucking mansion on the south bank.”
“Gilded cages are still cages,” she spits with venom.
“Please, what could you possibly need 30k for?”
She comes face-to-face with me, her cheeks red. “I’m being married off to the first Stoneview douchebag they found since my fucking evil stepmother wants to climb up the social ladder. Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m using the money to join my girlfriend on the other side of the country, and I’m never coming back here.”
I lick my lips and let a chilling smile spread on my lips. “Ever met that girlfriend?”
“We’ve been talking online for years.”
“Yourgirlfriendcould be a fifty-year-old pervert. Did your parents never teach you about online safety?”
Her eyes narrow at me, and she retreats back. “Guess I’m staying in that MMA tournament, then.”
“Little bitch,” I say calmly, the tone of my voice showing that I respect her for standing up to me. “I’ll get you your fucking money. Just give me a week or two.”
“Take all the time you need. I’ll be here.”
The moment I’m back in my car, my mask falls. My heart accelerates and my hands turn clammy. I don’t have that kind of money, although I know exactly how to get my hands on it. I’d never done it before because I still had some self-respect left in me, but I don’t fucking care about myself anymore. I just want Billie to reach her full potential. Nolan tried to take that away from her, and I can’t accept it. Killing him wasn’t enough. I also need to get her back on track to leave our hellhole.
In the three weeks following our date, Billie and I have become inseparable. So much that we both sneaked out of our respective parties to spend New Year’s Eve together.
In the new year, I convinced her to get back to the boxing gym. I drive her every morning after her run. She didn’t go back to college, but she did cut her waitressing job to part-time.
And me? I stopped ‘tutoring’. Meaning I also stopped seeing the Stoneview moms who use my body for themselves. Over the last year, they’ve offered me to participate in the parties organized by one of the Stoneview couples. Rich people exchanging partners and wanting a young man desperate for money to participate...how bad can it get? The money is big—twenty-five grand. I can add five thousand of my own savings to that, and Carla will let Billie back into the competition.
Grabbing my phone, I call a couple I’ve never actually had sex with but that I know organizes those parties.
“You’ve reached Gerald Baker,” a man says as he picks up.
“My name’s Caden King. I know Chantale Malone well. She told me about your parties.”
The mic on the other side scratches before I hear a door, and then he talks again.
“Who sent you?”
“I told you, Chantale Malone. She said your parties pay well.”
I can hear a smile in his voice when he finally understands I would be part of the entertainment, not of the participating audience. “I see. How old are you?”
“How old do you want me to be?” I try to say as calmly as possible. I fucking hate these people.
“That’s what I love to hear,” he cackles loudly on the other side.
“How much?” I ask to double-check.
“Twenty-five thousand for the whole night. Eight p.m. to six a.m. You’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement. You see nothing, hear nothing. You’ll be there for our pleasures, and that only. No safe words, no backing out.”
