Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

Paul is accepted into the fancy art school up north. And damn if he isn’t beyond pumped. He’s like a whole new kid.

And that warms my heart.

I haven’t seen my brother this happy since before our dad died. We never had that much money, but we always had a lot of love.

“Sis, this is so lit,” he says when we sit down to talk about his getting in and what comes next.

“It is,” I agree. “You’ve wanted this since May.”

“I know. But it sure took them long enough to get back to me, right?”

“It’s only July,” I remind him. “Two months for a response isn’t that bad, Paul.”

“I guess not, especially since I did get in.” He pumps his fist in the air, hissing out a definitive, “Yes!”

He is freaking beaming. And I’m amped for him. His enthusiasm is contagious.

But I’m also feeling a little sick because, well, money. Even with financial aid, it’s going to be tight, really tight.

Paul received the max aid package, just as the principal promised, but we still need to come up with more than what I currently have saved.

Cue the heartburn, since it’s also more than I can ever hope to earn working at the diner. Even if I pick up more shifts and a second job, which I totally plan to do, we’re going to run short.

I swallow the lump forming in my throat and plaster on a fake smile. I can’t let Paul know I may not be able to come up with enough money for him to follow his dream.

What am I going to do?

My credit sucks, so a loan isn’t an option. And I can’t make money appear out of thin air.

Crap.

If I share all this with my brother, he just won’t go. But I’ll be damned if I let it come to that.

Look at the kid. He’s loving life.

I cannot fail him. He deserves more than to live in squalor.

I glance around our tiny apartment, where we’re seated on a broken-down sofa that we garbage-picked eight months ago. It takes up most of the living room, which is just a cordoned-off section of our cramped efficiency.

“I got in, Eden,” Paul says, amazement in his tone, like he can hardly believe it himself that something so good happened. “You know what this means, right?”

I play along, even though I feel ill. “No, what’s it mean?”

“It means I have a chance of making something of myself. I’ll be able to paint and draw and create real fucking art. I’ll learn so much too. Best of all, I’ll have access to great materials, like real canvases, good paint, fucking everything.”

“Hey, language,” I chastise, though it’s only half-heartedly.

He can swear if he wants. This is his day.

With a mischievous grin, he says, “Okay, I’ll fucking behave.”

“You are so bad.” I toss a flimsy pillow at him.

It’s one of mine. I’ve been sleeping in the living room lately, as it’s been way too hot in my closet-sized bedroom. Paul has the bigger room, and it’s not as bad in there. Oh, and I gave him our one and only fan.

What we really need is an air conditioner in this place.

Add that to the ever-growing list.

I swear the expenses never end. The water bill, the light bill, my cell, Paul’s cell—it just goes on and on.

I have to figure something out.

Later that night, when Paul’s in his room, and I’m trying to fall asleep on the sofa, I’m consumed with concern that if my brother stays here his life will fall apart.

“I will not let that happen,” I vow.

And that’s when I decide, then and there, that I absolutely must not fail my brother.

At the diner the next day, as I’m working a double shift, I’m still thinking of how I can get Paul into that school and keep us afloat.

Already, almost every cent I earned last month, plus what I have stowed away, is slated to go toward the fancy art school.

But it’s still not enough.

Paul may have received significant financial aid, but there’s only so much that’s covered. One of the things not, and the one I worry most about, are everyday living expenses.

Paul’s dorm room and meals are covered, but he’s going to need money to live on. And he’ll need additional art supplies. Practice materials aren’t included at all.

So, yeah, I’m in a real bind.

But again, I can’t tell Paul. It’s imperative he not bail on his dream in order to save me.

“No fucking way,” I mutter.

It’s near the end of my second shift, and I’m standing near the register, fretting.

“I’ll make this work,” I grind out in a tense whisper. “No matter what I have to do, I’ll do it.”

“Hey, crazy person talking to no one,” Brad says, cruising past me.

When I don’t respond, he turns around. “Hey, is everything okay, Eden?”

“Yes.” I smooth back my ponytail and nod. “Everything’s fine.”

Brad’s aware that Paul just got into an expensive art school, so I’m sure he can figure out the cost is weighing on my mind.

Sure enough, in a surprisingly understanding tone, he says, “Hey, there’s someone still waiting to order at table five, some old dude. I’ve been covering that section since we’re short on staff again, but you can take the table if you want.”

I shrug. “Sure, okay.”

“Hey,” he says in a hushed voice, “I can tell the guy has money. Peek over and check out the fancy suit he’s wearing, and the polished air about him.”

I sneak in a quick glance. “Hmm, he does look like a man with some cash. Let’s see,” I tick off, “middle-aged and nice clothes. And damn, look at his watch.”

“Bet it’s a Rolex,” Brad says.

“I bet it is.”

Brad then informs me, “He’s been in here a lot lately, that guy. Rumor has it he tips extremely well.”

“Are you sure you don’t want him?” I check.

“No.” Brad shoos me away. “Go get him, girl.”

I laugh and start to walk away. But then Noreen drops by the big tipper’s table and I stop in my tracks.

“Aw, crap,” I lament, backing up to Brad. “It looks like someone beat me to him.”

“Maybe not, Eden.”

Brad’s craning his neck to peer past me, so I turn around. We then watch together as Noreen talks to the guy. After her and the wealthy dude share a laugh, Noreen returns her order book to her apron and heads over to us.

“Okay, that was really weird,” I murmur.

Before Brad can reply, Noreen walks up to me and whispers excitedly, “Hey, table five just asked for you, Eden.”

“What? He did?”

I’m stumped and even Brad looks perplexed.

“Why?” I question.

Noreen shrugs. “I don’t know. He didn’t share his reasons; he just pointed at you and asked if you could wait on his table instead of me.”

“Ooh, maybe he has a crush on you,” Brad teases. “You’re probably why Mr. Big Bucks keeps coming in.”

“Shut up.” I roll my eyes.

“Go, go.”

With a shove from Noreen, I start over to table five. And as I close in, I realize I have seen this guy at the diner before.

But like Brad said, only recently.

Hmm, that leads me to believe he’s with the Columbus Comets in some capacity. Their training facility and fancy new football stadium are just down the road.

No way is this guy a football player, though. He’s too old to be one and too short, though he looks to be in excellent shape.

He’s probably from the front office, management or an agent of some sort. He looks suave and savvy like a business person.

But he’s still a guy.

And he asked for me.

Good, I could use a generous tip.

No, wait, I need a generous tip.

Every penny counts now, remember?

Since I think I look better with my hair down, I tug the ponytail holder from my hair. Fluffing out my long, thick auburn tresses to full sexy volume, I stick out my chest.

Oh, what the hell.

I proceed to go all out and undo the top button on my waitress uniform. Even though I’m kind of thin, my chest is ample. And I need to pull out all the stops.

When I arrive at table five, I greet Mr. Suave with a cheery, “Welcome to our diner, sir. What can I get for you this evening?”

As I take out my order book, I notice the old dude is totally staring at me. Not in any kind of leering way—damn, the pervs are usually the biggest tippers—but in more of an assessing manner, kind of like he’s sizing me up for something.

No, that can’t be right.

“Sir, would you like to order something?” I reiterate when he continues his unabashed perusal.

“Oh, yes, sorry.” He shakes his head, likely clearing his thoughts. “I’ll have a coffee, please, and make it black. Oh, and if you can grab me a slice of that delicious cherry pie you have here, that’d be wonderful.”

“All right…” I jot down his order. “You got it.”

When I walk away, that’s when it hits me—what if he requested me because he plans to ask me out?

That would explain all the staring.

Yikes!

No offense to the poor guy, but he’s definitely not my type. For starters, he’s like twenty-five years older than me. Not that it’s appalling or anything, it’s just not my norm. The dude is handsome, though, for a guy his age. Still, I prefer men I can relate to. And that means I like them closer to my age.

Wait, though, I better think this through.

An older dude can probably take care of someone. Not that I care about that sort of thing for myself, but I have my brother to think of.

Wait, what the hell are you even considering? You are not that kind of girl. You don’t date people for what they can do for you.

No, I don’t. I never have. And I wouldn’t even entertain the thought, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

It wouldn’t be for me, anyway. It’d be for Paul.

I can sell a little dignity to give him a shot at a good life, right?

Yes, yes I can.

So I wait, and prepare for whatever.

After the suave guy finishes with his coffee and pie, he asks me what time my shift ends.

Oh shit, here we go.

My voice is shaky and meek as I utter, “Uh, I’m actually done now. You were my last customer of the night.”

“Excellent. Can we go talk somewhere”—he squints at my name tag—“Eden?”

“Ahh, um…”

Eek, I’m suddenly nervous.

“Eden?”

“I, uh, I…”

He smiles at me kindly, before he says, “This is nothing untoward, miss. If we could just speak someplace quiet, I think I may have a very lucrative business opportunity for you.”

My mind goes crazy with possibilities, none of them good.

Business opportunity?

Is this how older guys ask women out on dates? Just cut through the crap and lay it on the line?

I don’t know about this.

I guess I could try and date him, but this is looking more and more like he might just want to pay me for sex.

And that’s just nuts.

No way!

There are some lines I just cannot cross.

Huffing indignantly, I state, “Sir, I don’t think—”

He cuts me off. “Just call me Jock.”

Jock? That sounds like an I-want-to-get-in-your-pants name to me. Though any name would probably sound like that right about now.

“Uh, okay, Jock.” I’m sweating bullets as I state, “I don’t know what type of business opportunity you have in mind, but I have to tell you I’m not that kind of a—”

He stops me by raising his hand.

And, I note, he looks totally amused.

Jerk.

Yeah, his name should be Jerk, not Jock.

Chuckling, he says, “This is nothing like what I bet you’re thinking. I’m actually an agent for professional sports players.”

Even though I’m lost on why he’s telling me this, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Maybe Jock’s not a jerk, after all.

And hmm, how ironic his name is Jock and he’s a sports agent.

I’m pondering all this, but then he gets my attention again when he says, “What I’d like to discuss with you is an opportunity, a legit way for you to make a lot of money in a relatively short period of time.”

“Is it legal?” I squeak out, appalled and intrigued at the same time.

“Yes, it’s legal,” he confirms.

“That’s good, but it wouldn’t involve me taking off my clothes, would it?”

“No. I mean, not unless you ended up wanting to.”

WHAT?

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” I snap.

“Eden, please, I’m sorry. That came out the wrong way. Just listen to my proposal. There are no obligations. If you’re not interested, simply walk away.”

Biting my lip, I glance around. No one is watching us, but that could change in a heartbeat. It’s not like I can take him around back, either. That’d definitely arouse suspicion. Plus, yucky garbage dumpsters. No, just no.

And then there’s this—what if he’s a psycho? I watch the ID channel, I know what can happen.

With that in mind, I finally say, “Okay, I’m willing to hear you out, but there’s really nowhere for us to talk in here.”

“That’s fine,” Jock replies. “We can discuss this out in my car.”

“Uh, I don’t know about that, either.”

Jock, trying not to laugh, says, “I assure you, miss, this involves no funny business.”

“You promise you’re not a psycho killer?”

Jock, the Psycho Killer Sports Agent!

It doesn’t really have a ring to it.

Bowing his head, he says, “No, I am not.”

“It’s not like you’d tell me if you were,” I counter.

Reaching into his suit jacket, he pulls out a business card. “Here. Take this. I really am who I say I am. And my car is parked right out front, in clear view of your fellow employees.”

I take the card and peer down at it.

His name is Jock, and he really is a sports agent. This would be a pretty elaborate ruse to knock off little ole me. I mean, who am I?

So, slowly, I say, “Okay. Can you give me a minute, though?”

“Sure.”

I hurry to the back of the diner where I punch out on the time clock. I also ask Noreen to keep an eye on me.

“Call the police if he drives off with me,” I say.

“I’ll do that and come rescue you,” she assures me.

I give her a hug. “I love you, you know that?”

When I return to the front of the diner, I head outside with Jock…to a slick red Ferrari that is, as he said, parked out front.

“Wow, what a nice car,” I exclaim.

“It’s just a rental,” he informs me nonchalantly as he unlocks the doors with the press of a button on the key fob in his hand.

“Still…”

If he has money to rent a car like this, what the hell else can he buy?

I have a feeling I’m about to find out.

Once we’re inside the Ferrari, I take a deep breath.

Wow, my old rattletrap Saturn doesn’t smell anything like this. It’s all leather and wealth inside this sleek machine. With my old guy, all you get is oil, gas, and musty upholstery aromas.

I can’t help it, I keep breathing in and out, again and again.

Jock watches me with amusement, kind of like he knows he picked the right girl.

For what, though?

I finally ask him straight up what he wants, and he says, “Are you a good actress, Eden?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve never acted in anything in my life. Is this an audition for a movie or something? I thought you said you were a sports agent.”

“I am,” Jock replies. “And this isn’t an audition for a movie. What I’m about to propose to you, though, would involve some acting.”

“Huh?”

“You’d be playing a role in real life.”

“This is making no sense to me,” I say. “What kind of real-life role are we talking about here?”

Clearing his throat, Jock says, “I’d like for you to play the role of girlfriend to soon-to-be acquired Comets football player Graham Tettersaw.”

I know football fairly well, but mostly at the college level.

Though that name does ring a bell…

And then it hits me.

“Wait, I know who you mean. Graham Tettersaw is that NFL quarterback who played a few years ago for the Cardinals, right?”

Jock nods.

“Wasn’t he hooked on drugs or something?”

Jock winces. “See, that’s why we need you, Eden. The Comets would like to rehabilitate Graham’s image, make him appear more stable. A girlfriend in the picture would work wonders in achieving that objective.”

“I don’t know,” I murmur. “Does he still do drugs?”

I figure I should check.

Jock doesn’t seem to like that question, though.

Too bad. I want the full, unedited facts before I agree to anything.

Wait, am I really considering this?

Before I can answer my own question, Jock says, “For the record, Graham never did street drugs. He was hooked on painkillers that were prescribed to him when he hurt his knee. Nonetheless, all that is far behind him. The sad thing is you just validated what the Comets fear.”

“What’s that?” I whisper, feeling kind of bad for rushing to judgment about poor Graham.

“They’re concerned all anyone will think of when they hear Graham’s name is his past addiction. It’s already held him back in resuming his career.”

I reiterate what is essentially his proposition, “So you want this Graham guy to look like he’s settled down. And that’s where I come into the picture. I’d pretend to be his steady girlfriend?”

“Yes. But it’d only be for one season max. That’s what the Comets are planning to sign Graham for at this point in time. A condition in that new contract is that he has to have a steady girlfriend.”

“He can’t find a real one?” I inquire.

“There’s no time for that.”

“So a fake one is the only alternative?”

“Yes. And it’s actually better this way. The team can dictate how long you stay together, what your backstory is, things such as those.”

“Glad to hear they have it all figured out,” I deadpan.

Jock ignores my commentary and simply says, “Eden, I have to be honest with you. You’re perfect for this role. And you need the money, right?”

“Yes,” I confess.

“Well, I think you’ll find the pay is more than substantial. The Comets recognize that this is a lot to ask of someone.”

I can’t believe I’m even considering a thing as preposterous as this, but I am.

It seems like it’d be an easy enough gig. And I was looking for a second job, anyway.

But, needing some clarification before I agree to anything, I say, “Just to be sure we’re clear, I’d only have to pretend to be Graham’s girlfriend, correct?”

Jock nods. “Yes, but the team may want an engagement by mid-season. There’d be a bonus, of course, if that came to pass.”

“Engagement?” I yelp. “I wouldn’t have to really marry this Tettersaw dude, right?”

Jock laughs. “No, it’d be an engagement for appearances only. Once Graham starts performing on the field, and the fans forget his past, we can begin to orchestrate a ‘breakup.’ Your obligation would then be fulfilled.”

“It kind of doesn’t sound too bad,” I murmur. “Could I remain at the diner? So that I have a job when this all ends?”

Jock laughs. “You won’t need a job if you agree to this arrangement. But sure, I can check with the team and make sure they’re okay with you picking up a shift or two here and there.”

“Okay, good.” Squeezing my eyes shut in shame, I blurt out, “I can’t believe I’m asking, but how much would I be paid?”

Without missing a beat, Jock replies, “Up to $500,000, paid out in increments every couple of weeks, so long as you remain Mr. Tettersaw’s girlfriend.”

My eyes fly open.

$500,000!

I go numb and can’t find any words.

Once I regain some semblance of composure, I blather, “T-that’s like half a million dollars.”

“It is indeed, but you may not earn out that full amount.”

“Still…”

Looking smug, Jock says, “Let’s just say the team really wants this to work. It has to be completely believable.”

Softly, I whisper, “What made you choose me? Do I really look so desperate?”

Jock raises a brow. “Are you desperate, Eden?”

“A little bit,” I admit. “I have a ton of unpaid bills and a little brother who just got into an expensive art school. So yeah, I guess you could say I’m sort of desperate.”

He sighs. “I think it shows a little—your desperation, that is. It’s part of the reason why I picked you. But I also like your work ethic. I’ve been in the diner more than a few times lately, and I always see you hustling and helping out. You seem nice too. And I like my client. He deserves someone nice.”

“Other girls at the diner are nice,” I state softly.

“I’m sure they are, but other girls at the diner don’t look like you.”

And there it is. I’ve always been told I’m pretty—some say beautiful, even—but I don’t see it myself.

Thinking out loud, I murmur, “I guess a professional athlete is expected to be with someone moderately attractive.”

“You’re more than moderately attractive,” Jock tells me. “That’s why you shouldn’t sell yourself short.”

Sell myself short?

Funny he should phrase it that way, since that’s exactly what I’m considering doing—selling myself.

I almost back out, but then I remember this isn’t for me. It’s for Paul.

And pretending to be someone’s girlfriend for a shit ton of money, money that could set us up for years to come, is a very small price to pay.

Or so I hope.