Copyright © 2017 by Juliana Conners; All Rights Reserved.

 

 

Chapter 1 – Celeste

 

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who looks the most elegant but is actually the sluttiest of them all?

I stare at myself a little too long in Rachel’s full length mirror, repeating this silly phrase I’ve just made up in my head and trying to remind myself that it’s really me in there.

Plain Jane Celeste Sheffield. Tomboy, nerd, misfit.

Except that right now I look like a knock out. Rachel’s been telling me that for the past hour, and it’s starting to sink in even though I don’t even recognize the girl staring back at me in the mirror.

From the looks of what I’m wearing you’d think I was going to a fancy party. All the details are in place.

I’ve donned a shiny black and silver evening gown accentuated with a tiny diamond necklace, which was a gift from my mom for my high school graduation.

My red fingernails feature dainty pink hearts that the nail stylist had painstakingly painted on earlier today.

The same stylist also did my hair: adding volume to my normally flat, thin blonde strands and piling them all up on top of my head with tightly- rolled curls spiraling down in a style reminiscent of my high school Prom.

Where I almost lost my virginity, but didn’t.

That’s still intact, although my pride was wounded if not completely broken that night. And now that I’m going to a dinner club where I’ll be auctioned off like cattle, there’s not much of my pride left of which to speak.

Rachel says that only my companionship is being auctioned off. Not my body, not my virginity. But it still feels wrong.

I can’t take my eyes off the mirror. My look is one that someone would wear to a luxurious ball. But I feel like I might as well be wearing a cheap dress that rides up my ass and shows too much cleavage.

“I still can’t believe you want to whore me out,” I tell Rachel, as I pick up my red satin clutch and rifle through it.

I’m making sure I have everything I might need. Even though I have no idea what I actually need for a gig like this. Except maybe a drink, which at nineteen years old, I’m too young to even legally purchase.

“And I can’t believe I’m going along with it,” I add.

Rachel shakes her head and laughs at me.

“Celeste, calm down,” she practically snorts. “I’m not whoring you out.”

She’s supposed to be my best friend— which is the whole reason I agreed to this gig— but right now I don’t appreciate her making light of a very serious situation.

“Well not really, anyway,” she says. “It’s not like you actually have to sleep with them. Some girls choose to, but many don’t. I don’t.”

She shrugs and says the last two words as if pronouncing herself Mother Teresa.

“So, what exactly are they… bidding on… then?”

I can’t even believe I’m asking this question. The whole concept still seems so surreal.

Sure, I already knew that Rachel has a crazy job working as an escort to rich, older men at an exclusive underground dinner club called The Exchange. I know everything about her. But I hadn’t exactly wanted to hear about all the details before.

This kind of job suits her a lot better than it would me. We’ve been friends since we were young girls who met in church Sunday School, and she’s always been the adventurous, rebellious one. I’m usually the one observing from the corner, taking notes and writing about it all later.

“Oh, come on, Celeste,” Rachel says.

She looks annoyed now, which is rich, since I’m the one doing her a big favor tonight.

“You know that there are a lot of guys in Phoenix looking for female ‘friends’ for different reasons.”

“That’s for sure,” I agree. “There are as many rich lonely men here in Phoenix as there are tumbleweeds.”

Celeste laughs genuinely now.

“You and your… what are they called? Similes?” she asks me, shaking her head.

“Metaphors,” I answer.

“Yeah, those. Well, anyway,” she continues. “Sure, some of these guys want sex. But others might be completely impotent and need to keep that fact a secret in their social circle. Some might just want arm candy for whatever reason. Or companionship. Or to keep up with their boss or business partner by bringing someone even more attractive than whomever the other guys is dating to the company party or dinner event.”

“Okay,” I tell her, still feeling hesitant.

“I do need to warn you about something, but don’t worry,” she says, which immediately causes me to worry. “Some guys will bid up to the amount required to take you to dinner— which is all you have to do— but they like to view it as a challenge: they might try to get you to go out with them again or sleep with them, when they’ve only paid for the dinner escort option.”

“How much is the… ‘sleep with me option?’” I ask, my stomach turning into knots.

“A lot more than the dinner option,” she says. “And it just depends on how high the bidding goes.”

“I see,” I tell her, although it’s clear as mud.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Because you don’t have to sleep with them. There are different levels and the one that I do— the one you’re filling my spot for tonight— is just the dinner escort one.”

But what if it’s not?

The question runs through my mind and I don’t know whether to feel terrified or excited. I just know that ready or not, here I come, to fill Rachel’s slot in some strange kind of job where young girls are auctioned off as “companions,” or more, to billionaires.