we’ll scratch the Sugar Daddy,” Babs said by way of greeting. “Here’s a job that requires no emotion. Just sex. I heard through the grapevine they’re casting at Dirty Boys.”
The statement made Story sit up. “Excuse me?”
“Story, love, dreams have no place in the real world. Not fashion designer dreams. Or teaching goals. You’re a beautiful, beautiful girl. Use your looks and your body. You’ll be happier.”
The dreams she’d had of becoming a fashion designer were locked away in the lone closet in the apartment, in the form of her drawing pad with all her sketches. Her future as a teacher was all but lost for the time being if she didn’t find the money to pay next semester’s tuition.
“Think about it. I’ll text you Ryker’s contact information. He’s in charge of production and casting for the company.”
“So you’re telling me to get into porn?”
“Yes,” Babs answered without apology. “You already have a name. Flossie Dick.”
Story had a dead father and a lunatic for a mother. “Bye, Mom.”
Without waiting for her mother’s response, she ended the call and moaned in frustration.
Vague images of Babs holding on tight to Story while they foraged through restaurant dumpsters for food and found nighttime shelter wherever they could, still haunted her. Somehow, Babs had gotten them out of that situation and found a wealthy man to marry. From the age of three, Story had suffered through the revolving door of Barbra Thornton, right along with her mother. The man she married two days after Story’s third birthday stayed around for eight months. By Story’s seventh birthday, she was on her fourth stepfather. When Winston married her mom, stepfather number ten had already walked away. Including Winston and her dad, her mother had been married twelve times.
Babs’s thirteenth husband would appear as soon as she divorced Winston. Whenever that happened. Neither of them seemed in a rush.
Story’s phone beeped, and she glanced at the screen. True to her word, Babs had sent a phone number and email address for Ryker Sherwood, with the message: Contact him immediately.
The battery operated clock ticked in the silence of the rundown efficiency apartment. The drip-drip-drip of the leaky kitchen faucet captured her attention. For the months that Story had lived in this place, faulty plumbing had plagued her. Despite numerous complaints, the landlord never made an effort at repairs.
It was almost time for her to start her shift at the Burger Den. She needed to cook her Ramen noodles, change into her uniform, and get a move on if she didn’t want to be late.
Heading to her bedroom, she once again eyed the bills. Just for a moment, she’d considered the idea of becoming a stripper. Why not porn? It was just sex, and she needed the money like yesterday.
Before she changed her mind, she sat back down and typed out a message to Ryker. Hopefully by the time her shift ended he’d answer her.
Hi Ryker. This is Story, your stepsister. How are you?
This had to be the worst idea ever . Story wasn’t a stripper or porn star material or a Sugar Baby. She wasn’t—
Her phone beeped, and one word appeared. Who?
Asshole.
Story: Babs’s daughter
Ryker: Yeah
Oh my God. What did that mean? Was it a question? A statement? He wasn’t up for small talk. She needed to get straight to the point.
Story: Your company’s casting and I’m looking for work. What must I do to be considered?
Ryker: You want to do a show?
Damn it, she needed to hear his voice to know the meaning behind the words. Was he asking in a rhetorical way? Or was he surprised?
Story: May I call you? Texting doesn’t seem to be right for this.
Ryker: No.
Chewing on her lip, Story stared at the screen and almost breathed a sigh of relief at the word. Her half-hearted attempt was laughable. If she wanted to have a roof over her head, food to eat, and a school to attend in the fall, she needed to put in more
The statement made Story sit up. “Excuse me?”
“Story, love, dreams have no place in the real world. Not fashion designer dreams. Or teaching goals. You’re a beautiful, beautiful girl. Use your looks and your body. You’ll be happier.”
The dreams she’d had of becoming a fashion designer were locked away in the lone closet in the apartment, in the form of her drawing pad with all her sketches. Her future as a teacher was all but lost for the time being if she didn’t find the money to pay next semester’s tuition.
“Think about it. I’ll text you Ryker’s contact information. He’s in charge of production and casting for the company.”
“So you’re telling me to get into porn?”
“Yes,” Babs answered without apology. “You already have a name. Flossie Dick.”
Story had a dead father and a lunatic for a mother. “Bye, Mom.”
Without waiting for her mother’s response, she ended the call and moaned in frustration.
Vague images of Babs holding on tight to Story while they foraged through restaurant dumpsters for food and found nighttime shelter wherever they could, still haunted her. Somehow, Babs had gotten them out of that situation and found a wealthy man to marry. From the age of three, Story had suffered through the revolving door of Barbra Thornton, right along with her mother. The man she married two days after Story’s third birthday stayed around for eight months. By Story’s seventh birthday, she was on her fourth stepfather. When Winston married her mom, stepfather number ten had already walked away. Including Winston and her dad, her mother had been married twelve times.
Babs’s thirteenth husband would appear as soon as she divorced Winston. Whenever that happened. Neither of them seemed in a rush.
Story’s phone beeped, and she glanced at the screen. True to her word, Babs had sent a phone number and email address for Ryker Sherwood, with the message: Contact him immediately.
The battery operated clock ticked in the silence of the rundown efficiency apartment. The drip-drip-drip of the leaky kitchen faucet captured her attention. For the months that Story had lived in this place, faulty plumbing had plagued her. Despite numerous complaints, the landlord never made an effort at repairs.
It was almost time for her to start her shift at the Burger Den. She needed to cook her Ramen noodles, change into her uniform, and get a move on if she didn’t want to be late.
Heading to her bedroom, she once again eyed the bills. Just for a moment, she’d considered the idea of becoming a stripper. Why not porn? It was just sex, and she needed the money like yesterday.
Before she changed her mind, she sat back down and typed out a message to Ryker. Hopefully by the time her shift ended he’d answer her.
Hi Ryker. This is Story, your stepsister. How are you?
This had to be the worst idea ever . Story wasn’t a stripper or porn star material or a Sugar Baby. She wasn’t—
Her phone beeped, and one word appeared. Who?
Asshole.
Story: Babs’s daughter
Ryker: Yeah
Oh my God. What did that mean? Was it a question? A statement? He wasn’t up for small talk. She needed to get straight to the point.
Story: Your company’s casting and I’m looking for work. What must I do to be considered?
Ryker: You want to do a show?
Damn it, she needed to hear his voice to know the meaning behind the words. Was he asking in a rhetorical way? Or was he surprised?
Story: May I call you? Texting doesn’t seem to be right for this.
Ryker: No.
Chewing on her lip, Story stared at the screen and almost breathed a sigh of relief at the word. Her half-hearted attempt was laughable. If she wanted to have a roof over her head, food to eat, and a school to attend in the fall, she needed to put in more
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