Page 1 of Paid With Innocence

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MEGAN

“It’s one date, Megs! All you have to do is show up, get treated to an expensive dinner, and go home!” I glance over at Trish from the watercolor landscape I’m working on and give her that frown that only people who have been friends for years understand.

“I am not going to get paid to sleep with a guy—”

“Whoa, who said anything about sleeping with him?” she protests, shifting around so she’s right in front of me. I twist my lips and look back at my brush, doing my best to ignore her. “You’re just there to be good company. Arm candy. His companion for the night.”

I frown up at her. “Okay, first of all, isn’t companion just code for hanky-panky—?”

“Hanky-panky?” She bursts out laughing. “Are you my grandma or something?”

“And second of all, no man wants me as arm candy.”

Trish leans in, grabs me by the shoulders, and starts to shake me. “Girl, when are you going to learn that if you actually just put a tiny bit of effort into your appearance, you’d have men all over you?”

I scoff and pull away from her. I appreciate Trish always saying things to inspire me, but our relationship is clear: She’s the hot one. The rich one. And I’m the awkward broke one. I live in a tiny studio apartment with a bathroom I can’t even stretch my arms out in and have to use a hot plate to cook on because there isn’t even a kitchen.

Late at night, I have to put in ear plugs to sleep because my landlord blasts Ted Nugent past our designated quiet hours. He’s also made more than a few comments to me that could be considered…flirtatious at best and harassment at worst. But he drinks so much it wouldn’t surprise me to see him hitting on a tree.

“I don’t know why you don’t believe me,” she goes on. “A little makeup, some actual decent clothes, and maybe do your hair once in a while?”

“Well, excuse me if I’m saving all my money for instant ramen so I don’t starve to death,” I reply, sticking my tongue out. She gives me that commiserating look back and drops it.

We’re both eighteen now but have been friends since we were ten. Dad left when I was thirteen, and Mom got remarried—to the bottle. I moved out as soon as possible to get away from the string of scumbags coming in and out of the trailer. I got a job as a waitress, but my hours have been cut so drastically that I’m now two months behind on rent. If I don’t figure something out quickly, I’m going to be out on the streets.

“I actually need your help tonight, Megs,” Trish says. “I kinda…double-booked.”

“Double-booked? You’re kidding me!” I can’t help but laugh. “So you have two dates tonight, and you want me to cover one?”

She giggles like a kid who’s been caught sneaking an extra brownie from her mom’s freshly baked stash. She shrugs. “What can I say?”

Trish has found a ridiculously lucrative way of making money. Basically, she finds wealthy men on dating sites and gets them to take her out on dates and buy her things. She milks them for as much money as she can, and when they want to get serious, she makes up some excuse as to why she can’t be in a relationship right now.

I could never do it, but hey, as Jay-Z said and Trish loves repeating: Can’t knock the hustle.

“There is no way,” I reply, mixing some green for the tree I’m working on. “You really think one of these rich guys is going to be happy seeing me when he’s expecting you?”

“First of all, you need to stop being so self-deprecating,” Trish says, scolding me like a teacher. “Second of all, he doesn’t know what I look like.”

“What?” I ask. “Didn’t you meet him on an app?”

She fidgets awkwardly, trying not to laugh. “He’s only seen me from here”—she holds her hand flat just below her lip line—“down…if you know what I mean.”

I burst out laughing. Just another one of the places where Trish and I differ. She looks at her body as a tool—just a way to get guys to spend money on her. I look at my body as something sacred. Something special that only the man I fall in love with will get to see.

I guess that’s why not a single guy in the world has seen it yet…

“Trish, you are nuts,” I laugh.

She grabs her phone and holds it out to me. “Here, look. This is him. Look how insanely gorgeous he is—”

But before I can look, there’s a pounding at my door like someone is trying to break in. I gasp like I just got jump-scared by a slasher movie.

Oh, no. It’s him.

“All right, Miss Anson!” Derek bellows, hammering the door again. “It’s time to pay up! You’re two months behind!”