Chapter Three

“Are you freaking kidding me?”

I shake my head. “Nope. One hundred million,” I say. “I cannot believe what they're doing.”

I'm sitting with my best friend Isabella in a booth at the Velvet Orchid, a lounge in downtown San Francisco, about a week after our first meeting with Jay Hill. Since then, I've been up to my eyeballs in research – though, as usual, they've kept me out of the loop on almost everything important.

The Orchid is a lounge that's popular with professionals, and for some reason unknown to me, hipsters as well. The Orchid is a place where you can have a drink and carry on a conversation without the risk of some drunken frat boy trying to grope you.

Izzy has been my best friend since law school. She works in a prestigious firm here in the city, which is only about an hour and a half drive or so from where I am in Napa Valley. We get a lot of clients who come in from the city, and to me, it makes sense to have our office located here. But, for whatever reason, my father prefers to run his firm from there.

I don't get to see Izzy as often as I'd like – we're usually both running around like chickens with our heads cut off – but we make sure to carve out time for each other whenever possible. I will usually come into the city on a Friday – and not wanting to cramp my bestie's love life – I grab a room at a nice little boutique hotel and make a weekend of it with her. It's something I need for my own mental well-being.

“You could always quit,” she says. “I can definitely get you an interview at my firm, you know.”

I let out a long breath and take a swallow of my drink. “I wish it was that easy.”

“It's only as complicated as you make it,” she replies.

“He's my dad.”

“And from everything you've told me, he's also a controlling, overbearing asshole.”

I give her a rueful grin. “Yeah, he's that too.”

Izzy takes a sip of her martini, studying me closely, and not for the first time, I find myself wishing I had her life. She grew up in a household free to be herself. To make her own decisions. She didn't have to live under the thumb of an authoritarian father. She was encouraged to find her own way and be her own person – to find her passion and calling in life.

She doesn't know what it's like to be me. Doesn't know what it's like to have a father who essentially controls everything about your life. Nor does she understand the way growing up like that can screw with your mind. The kind of hold it can have on you.

What she doesn't understand is how much easier it is to tell me I should quit and walk away than it is for me to actually do it. I know I should. Everything in my brain tells me so. But when I start trying to talk myself into it, the guilt rises, and my heart begins to undo everything my brain has been working so hard to accomplish.

Suffice it to say, I envy my best friend. Mostly, I envy her ignorance about growing up the way I did and the lasting impact it has had on me. Unbeknownst to my father, I've been seeing a therapist for almost a year now. Trying to get my life together. I like to think I'm strong and independent in so many ways. But, when it comes to my father and my family – I just fall apart and revert back to the scared young girl who depended on him for everything. Who let him take the lead and make all my decisions for me.

My therapist says that I need to take back my agency from him. To learn to stand on my own two feet and take my life back. For me. I feel like I'm making some progress but ultimately know that it's going to take some time.

“So, what are you going to do, doll?” she asks. “I mean, they're talking about extorting this guy for a lot of money.”

“I don't know,” I reply. “I really don't know right now.”

I lean back and let out a long breath before taking another sip of my drink. What they're talking about doing is basically extortion. I know that. But, what can I do about it? My father barely considers me a lawyer as is. I think he views me as more of his assistant – there to fetch his coffee and do his research for him. Yeah, he's letting me handle some of the questionings now and work on trial prep, but my access becomes limited at a certain point.

In the background, I hear a live singer on stage. His voice is nice. Soothing. I'm not really paying attention to him – I'm pretty caught up in my own problems right now – but I catch snippets of his music now and then. His voice is filled with raw emotion and I hear so much pain behind his words. It's beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.

“I looked into this guy,” I say. “He's absolutely loaded. He used to front some big band back in the day, but now he owns a successful winery and is an artist. The guy is worth more money than God.”

“Doesn't make shaking him down right,” Izzy says.

“I know,” I reply. “I'm not trying to justify it or anything. I just...”

I let my voice trail off and let out another long breath. I honestly don't know what I was going to say. All I know is that it's a screwed-up situation and I'm not super thrilled to be a part of it. Any part of it.

“Anyway,” I say. “I don't want to talk about it anymore. It's just making me all tense and stressed out.”

“No offense doll,” Izzy says. “But you're always tense and stressed out. You're naturally wound kinda tight.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say dryly.

She laughs like it's a joke, but I know deep down, she means it. Even worse, she's right. I consider it a byproduct of growing up with my father. He always pushed me to excel in everything. Growing up with him gave me chronic overachiever syndrome. It's something I haven't ever been able to shake.

But then, maybe it's not all bad, considering it's driving me to be the best attorney I can be. Not that my father will ever give me the chance to prove it.

“You know what you need?” Izzy asks, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“Do I really want to know?”

That mischievous look turns into a wicked little smirk as she looks at me – and I know exactly where she's going with this.

“You really need to get laid,” she says. “You'd be surprised by how quickly a good, earth-shattering orgasm will melt all that stress away.”

I laugh and shake my head. Izzy is always getting on me about my needing to have sex with somebody, telling me I need to loosen up a bit.

The truth is, I'm a virgin. A fact that both shocks and appalls Izzy. It's not like I'm saving it for marriage or anything like that. I'm not that pure of a girl and I'm certainly no prude. I'm just a busy woman, intent on developing my career. To me, my job – my career – comes first. I'm intent on learning everything I can, so when the day comes that I work up the courage and strength to strike out on my own, I'll be ready.

Also, the fact that I work sixty to seventy hours a week kind of interferes with my ability to develop a relationship with anybody.

“You're like a broken record,” I say, still laughing. “And besides, I have plenty of orgasms on my own, thank you very much. I've got porn. I've got my vibrator. I get myself off quite well. What else does a girl need?”

“Umm… how about a nice hard cock inside of you?”

My mouth falls open and a gasp bursts out of my throat as I stare wide-eyed at Izzy, who just stares back at me, an impish smile on her face. I look around nervously, afraid somebody might have heard her. Thankfully, nobody seems to be listening to us – not that she would have cared anyway.

Izzy is a woman in charge of her own sexuality. She can be bold. Brash. And when she wants sex, she gets it. Like me, she's focused on her career and doesn't have the time – or the desire, honestly – for a relationship. If she wants to find a man to pleasure her for the night, she just does.

I mentioned that I envy her sometimes, right?

“Seriously, doll, vibrators are great, don't get me wrong. I've worn out my fair share of them,” she says. “They get the job done, sure. But, sometimes, wouldn't you prefer to have a warm body on top of you? Wouldn’t you sometimes prefer a big, strong man inside of you, tending to your every desire, making you feel good – instead of a cold piece of plastic?”

Truth be told, yes. Yes, I would. If I'm being honest with myself, I'd like it very much. But, between my hectic schedule and my own social awkwardness, I wouldn't even know how to go about finding somebody to do that for me. I simply don't have the confidence that Izzy does.

“I'm not going to use Tinder or anything like that,” I say. “I have no desire to meet some random guy online.”

Izzy laughs and shakes her head. “You newbies are so cute.”

“Newbies?”

“Newbies,” she replies. “Meeting random guys online is a good way to get yourself killed.”

“Exactly,” I say.

“Professional, discerning women like us,” Izzy says, a devilish expression on her face, “use a discreet service.”

“A service?” I ask.

Izzy nods, a wide smile on her face as she takes another sip of her drink, leaving me twisting in the wind. She's going to draw this out, clearly enjoying my curiosity and discomfort.

“What kind of service?” I finally ask and then lower my voice. “Like – a prostitute?”

“I think the right word is gigolo,” she says and laughs. “But, it's probably best to just call them escorts. Takes some of the stigma out of it, I think.”

I giggle and can't keep the heat from flaring in my cheeks. I didn't know that Izzy frequented prosti – escorts. The admission shocks and embarrasses me a little bit. The idea of paying for sex – I just don't know how I feel about that.

“What?” Izzy teases me. “You think it's wrong somehow? Dirty maybe?”

I shrug. “I – I just never thought that you'd be a woman who had to pay for sex,” I say. “I mean, you're an absolute knockout, Iz. Any man would be –”

“It's not about not being able to land a man,” she cuts me off. “I'm sure if I wanted to, I could have my pick of the men in this place. Not interested in it though. Too many complications.”

She doesn't say that to brag. It's simply a statement of fact. Izzy is tall, fit, blonde, smart, and has the kind of body you'd see on Victoria's Secret runways. I know Izzy can have any man she wants – not just in this club, but anywhere. Which is why the fact that she hires escorts is so surprising.

“You know that old joke guys like to tell about what they pay prostitutes for?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I haven't heard it.”

She grins at me. “They say they don't pay prostitutes for the sex. They pay them to leave afterward,” she says. “Same principle at work here.”

I laugh, still unable to believe that my best friend pays men to have sex with her. I look at her, my mouth agape, still unsure what to say.

“Relationships are messy. And I have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with some clingy guy,” she says. “I've tried having no-strings-attached fuck buddies, but they all end up wanting to be in a relationship. I don't want that right now. All I want is to get off when I need to and be done with it.”

“I'm not judging you at all,” I say. “I just never thought about – you know.”

“Paying for sex?”

I nod, a nervous giggle escaping my throat. “Well – yeah.”

She drains the last of her drink and signals to a waitress to bring a fresh round. She looks at me, that devilish little gleam still in her eye.

“Think about it,” she says. “Going through a reputable and legitimate company is safer in a lot of different ways. Their guys are tested regularly, so you're not going to catch some crotch-rotting STD. All their guys are fine as hell, so you don't have to worry about them being a catfish and not looking like their profile picture when they show up. And best of all, they'll give you the best sex you've ever had – and then leave.”

“Or, in my case, the only sex I've ever had,” I say.

“Well, yeah,” she replies. “But, what a first time it would be, doll. No fumbling around in the dark with some guy who has no idea what he's doing – and very well may not even get you off. Trust me, these guys know how to use what they got really, really well. A couple of weeks ago, I had this one guy –”

I raise my hand to stop her and laugh, shaking my head. “Spare me the details. Please,” I say. “I can't do it, Iz.”

“Why not?” she asks. “It's 2018 – we're not living in the Victorian age anymore. We're free to own our sexuality, Zoe. We are free to be the sexual beings we are. Why deny ourselves? Because it's not proper for a lady to think about sex? Fuck that. We all think about sex all the time – and the fact that you watch porn and use a vibrator tells me you do too. It's natural and there's absolutely nothing wrong with it. There's nothing wrong with enjoying our bodies.”

“Just the thought of paying for sex with a complete stranger feels too – weird,” I say.

“Is it any weirder than picking up some random guy in a bar and taking him home?” she asks. “At least this way, you know you're going to be getting something good out of the deal – and you won't have to deal with an awkward walk of shame afterward.”

I take a sip of my drink and look around the Orchid, at all the good-looking, professional men. And all I can think is that most of them probably have personalities as repellent as Bryant's. I know it's wrong to think that way. And I'm sure there are some good ones in the crowd. But, I can see by the way some of them carry themselves that they're arrogant. It's just an aura some of them radiate.

And honestly, the few men that I have gone out with over the last year or so, have had pretty horrible personalities. They've been quite like Bryant – and my father, truth be told – in a lot of ways. It's not something I'm attracted to nor find sexy. If anything, that kind of personality kills my sex drive.

Which is why I rely on porn and my vibrator – they never let me down. Even still though. The idea of losing my virginity with a complete stranger scares me. Intellectually, I know Izzy is right. It'd be no different than taking somebody home that you'd just met in a bar. It might even be safer, like she says. I'm just having a really hard time wrapping my head around it.

“I just don't know, Iz,” I say. “I don't know if I can do it.”

“Because you're still caught up in the whole proper lady thing,” she says. “You still haven't taken hold of your own power. Your own sexuality. You're still living how your father wants you to live. You're living his life, not yours.”

“I don't know any other way to live, Iz,” I say. “It's ingrained pretty deep in me.”

She takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze and a sympathetic smile. “What does your therapist tell you about breaking that cycle, doll?”

“That it's a process,” I say.

She nods. “And the only way you're going to break this psychotic hold your father has on you is to take it one step at a time,” she says. “This can be one of those steps – reclaiming your own sexuality. Doing something that pleases only you.”

I let out a breath and chew on my bottom lip. Izzy squeezes my hand again, forcing me to look up at her. I see the determination in her face and the stubborn set to her jaw. It’s then that I realize her insistence is not about the sex itself. It's about trying to help me get out from under my father's thumb. To help me reclaim my life. Reclaim myself.

“Why not do this one thing for yourself?” she asks. “Why not take this first step to living your life for you?”

“Is sex really that big of a deal?”

Izzy shrugs, flashing me that mischievous little smile. “Depends on what the guy's packin' down there.”

I laugh and slap her hand. “You are incorrigible.”

“You've known that for a while now,” she says. “But, seriously, I think that it will help relieve a lot of the tension and stress you're feeling. Also, as strange as it may sound, it might start you on the right path to completely liberating yourself.”

I lean back in the booth, my mind racing. On the one hand, the mere thought of doing something like this – paying a man to have sex with me – is terrifying. It's not something I would have ever considered doing before.

In my head, paying for sex always seemed like something desperate men do. Something dirty. Something taboo. But, knowing that Izzy frequently uses a service like that, being the professional, strong, sexy, and successful woman she is – makes me think twice about it.

Maybe she's right, maybe this would be a first step toward reclaiming my life. The first step to fully liberating myself. Though he's never said it, I tend to think my father expects me to save myself for marriage – or, in his mind, save myself for when I marry Bryant.

My virginity isn't a religious or morality thing. It really is just a time and interest thing. When I've had the time to socialize, I haven't met a man who interested me enough that I wanted to sleep with him. She's right, my vibrator gets the job done, but I'd be lying if I said I don't long for the things a man could do to me – the things I see on the videos I like watching.

Honestly though, the more I think about it – having somebody come over, please me, and then leave – the more I have to admit, if only to myself, that the idea intrigues me. I still find it terrifying. And even entertaining the notion still makes my cheeks burn with embarrassment. But, still, I'm intrigued.

“Plus,” Izzy said, “you really need to get laid, doll. Maybe worse than anyone else on this planet.”

I laugh again. “Gee, thanks, Iz.”

“Listen,” she says. “I'm going to make this really easy on you. All you need to do is go back to your hotel. I'm going to take care of it. You just focus on enjoying yourself.”

“Izzy, I –”

“Go,” she says and laughs. “Off with you. Go back to your hotel and just wait. I'm going to make sure your first time is memorable and safe.”

“I can't –”

Izzy pulls out her phone and scrolls through her contacts, her eyes never leaving mine.

“Back to your hotel,” she says, that salacious little grin on her face once again. “Now.”

I stand up, my body, seeming to be moving of its own volition. I turn and look at Izzy again as she raises the phone to her ear.

“Go,” she commands, still smiling at me. “You can thank me later – after I get a full and detailed report.”

As desire and lust overrule my common sense, I turn and walk out of the club, and back to the Golden Bay Hotel.