Camille

“Aw, you didn’t have to wait up.” I drop my keys in the dish by the front door as Araminta stretches on the sofa in front of a glowing TV.

“It’s okay,” she says with a yawn. “I don’t mind.”

She reaches for the side lamp and clicks it on.

“You look very Jackie O tonight,” she says. “Did he like?”

I shrug and take a seat next to her, kicking off my heels. I want to change and shower, but my body aches. Tonight he fucked me in positions I never knew existed, another sign that he’s very much on the younger side. I never knew flexibility could be such a turn-on for me.

“Couldn’t tell you,” I say. “How was your night? Did you see what’s his name?”

I snap my fingers as his name escapes me. Araminta doesn’t do exclusivity unless they’re willing to pay out the ass. Sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t. Most of the time, I think the men who fuck her get off on the fact that’s she’s the great-great-great-great granddaughter of Hollis Randall, one of the country’s first millionaires who made a fortune off his railroad monopoly during the Industrial Revolution.

Minty’s father would have a heart attack if he knew she was selling her body. In a way, I think she does this to retaliate for being financially cut off.

“Chip Dumont,” she says. “That soft drink chairman who gives millions to the candidate least likely to win every election . . . just because he can.”

“How was it?” I ask.

She shrugs. “He was just passing through town. Wanted a quickie before heading home to his wife in Georgia.”

Araminta’s moral compass points in a different direction than mine. Most men who want to buy my time are shocked when they learn I have morals.

And it is shocking. An escort with morals. It certainly narrows my pool of client candidates, but I don’t care.

I will not sleep with a married man.

“John gave me something tonight.” I pull my hair back and point at my pearl earrings.

“Nice.” She leans closer to examine them. “Classy. Good call with the Jackie O look tonight. I bet that’s what he’s into.”

“Minty, can I ask you something?”

“Um, of course.”

I slouch against the back of the sofa, tugging on a loose thread with a sigh. We paid way too much for this sofa to have pilling issues this soon.

“This has been bothering me the last few days, and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” I say.

She shifts away from the TV, her brows furrowing as she gives me her full attention.

“I know you would never put me in danger,” I say. “Not knowingly, anyway.”

“Never.”

This question has lingered on the tip of my tongue for days, only I was never quite sure how to frame it without offending her. I love my best friend more than anyone, but sometimes the littlest things set her off.

“This guy, this . . . John,” I begin. “He said he’s seen me before. He said he chose me.”

Her blue eyes roll and she laughs. “Oh, God. You had me so worried for a second. I thought you had, like, a legitimate issue you needed to talk to me about.”

I don’t laugh. “It is a legitimate issue.”

“I’m not following,” she says.

“If he knows who I am and what I do, and he went through your friend to get to you . . . to get to me . . .” I say. “Then who is this guy? I mean, that’s a pretty strategic move, don’t you think?”

“Are you weirded out by that?” she asks. “Because I think you should be flattered. This is a word of mouth business. We don’t have billboards. We have horny male clients who like to discuss their latest conquests over expensive shots of bourbon after a long day in the senate chamber.”

“Then why won’t you tell me the name of your friend who set this up?” I ask. “You’ve always told me everything.”

“I’m following strict orders.” Her palm lifts in protest. “They want the least amount of information exchanged as possible. It’s a precautionary measure. You’re thinking into it too much, and let me also remind you, um . . . one million dollars.”

“You don’t think any of this is worrisome?” I nibble my nail.

“I think this is Washington, and people are crazy and paranoid and rich and powerful. But mostly paranoid.”

“Right. Which is exactly what I’m afraid of.”

Araminta reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV before rising. She stretches on her toes and lifts her arms to the ceiling as she yawns. “Dahhhling, don’t you know by now? We’re not allowed to be afraid of anything. We survive on bravery and beauty. The rest is completely beyond our control.”