Good Evening,
I am a businessman in my late twenties looking for someone to accompany me in my travels. While I cannot disclose exactly what I am looking for in an email, I believe that the arrangement I am seeking would be of great interest to you. I realize that my lack of information seems suspicious, but I would like to set up a meeting as soon as possible. I will give you $2000 to meet with me tomorrow night, so long as you sign a non-disclosure agreement upon arrival. Regardless of whether this arrangement pans out, you will receive the money. Please respond as soon as possible.
Sincerely,
-L
That piqued my interest. His profile displayed a man in a business suit with large sunglasses and dark, chocolate-brown hair. I couldn’t really discern anything from the low quality picture; it seemed like he could be handsome. His pricing was negotiable and his net worth was a staggering 1.6 billion.
Holy fucking shit.
My mind churned. Two thousand dollars just for showing up. I couldn’t pass this up, no matter how sketchy his request sounded. I could get my car back and pay last month’s rent, but it wouldn’t be enough to get me back on my feet. I knew that he couldn’t be a hoax; the website claimed to check each “gentleman’s” bank and tax records. He was really worth all that money. My insides squirmed as I thought about it. Where would we go? Why did he want a travel companion? The questions raced around in my head ceaselessly, but I knew that I couldn’t pass up two grand.
Hi L,
Thank you for emailing me. I would be glad to meet you. Yes, I am free tomorrow. What time and where?
- Jessica
I decided to keep the email as curt as possible. L was clearly no-nonsense guy, and I didn’t think he would respond to a sugary message. My heart hammered as his reply came within minutes. I trembled as I clicked on the new email.
Jessica,
Please be at the A16 restaurant in San Francisco at 7pm. The hostess will show you to my table. Please RSVP soon.
Thank you,
- L
I let out a strangled laugh at his email’s clipped tone, and I suddenly felt a lot less worried. This wasn’t the tone of a guy who wanted to get into my pants. He was something else entirely, but I wasn’t sure what. Intrigued, I sent back a confirmation and he replied lightning-fast.
See you tomorrow.
- L
The bedroom echoed with the sound of my nervous giggle. I closed my computer and climbed into bed. What is he going to be like? I tossed and turned in my bed, the promise of two thousand dollars alleviating my nerves. The old adage burned in my mind: if it’s too good to be true, it usually is.
Chapter 3
Four p.m. Jesus, there were only a couple hours left before I would have to go to the BART. The restaurant was in the Marina, far from all the BART stops. I would have to get out and take a bus.
It was pathetic, really. But what other choice did I have?
Finally, at four-thirty I reluctantly began to get ready. The anxiety clawed at my stomach as I painstakingly applied my makeup. I chose the same black cocktail dress. Maybe he would think that was lazy. The truth was that I didn’t have a lot of clothes for going out. I wore nude stockings because it was cold out and the city was always at least fifteen degrees cooler than the East Bay. I pulled on my faux wool coat and grimaced at all of the missing buttons, hoping the billionaire wouldn’t notice how very poor I was.
As I prepared to leave, the front door opened and I heard Natalie came home from work, just as I was preparing to go out. My stomach was in a tangle of knots.
I opened my bedroom door and came face to face with Natalie. She looked like she hadn’t slept at all; there were dark arcs under her eyes and I suddenly felt a rush of guilt.
Her eyes roved down my body. “So, you’re really doing it?”
“Yes.” I brushed past her, hoping my tight-lipped expression was enough not to start another round of disagreement.
“Jessica, please don’t do this.”
The note in her voice turned me around. “I’ll be fine.”
Her body was still rigid. “Text me as soon as you’re done.”
I inwardly rolled my eyes, but I knew that Natalie was concerned for me and only wanted me to be safe. “Whatever. Fine.”
I opened the door and walked into the crisp November air. As a lifelong Californian, any temperature below seventy degrees made me instantly reach for a sweater. I tried to imagine myself in a cold climate and laughed through my chattering teeth.
And it’s going to be even colder in the city.
Luckily, the BART was only a few blocks away. I felt quite ridiculous as I tottered in my heels through the neighborhood. Cars sped past me with their bass raised to ridiculous levels, pounding up my legs and into my heart. I followed the distant scream of the metro and again I wondered what he would be like—and why he was so secretive.
What if he wants to kiss me?
I kept myself calm by imagining a two thousand dollar check written to me. It’ll be fine. It might even be fun! If anything, when it was over I could write an article about what it was like being a sugarbaby for a billionaire. God, I hated that word.
The doors to the BART hissed open and a slew of tired-looking businessmen and women commuting from the city spilled out of the train.
I sat down carefully on the stained seat cushions. I tried not to imagine how stupid I would feel next to such a well-bred man, probably born into money, raised by a series of nannies and teachers at his overseas boarding school. I told myself to shut up and relax, but I couldn’t help but obsess over it. I wasn’t classy. I never walked in heels and constantly stumbled. I felt like I was always fumbling my way through life, as if I had a permanent blindfold. I wasn’t graceful. I would be terrible.
Oh, shut up.
I kept opening my phone during the BART trip, half-hoping that I would receive an email from the billionaire canceling the meeting. Just relax, I kept telling myself. I wobbled on my heels as the train stopped on Montgomery and left the heated train, my legs freezing as I ascended the escalator into the night.
The streets were filled with people who just left work. Even during the weekdays, San Francisco nightlife thrived and those who were rich enough to afford living in the city would be hitting the city’s many restaurants and lounges with their coworkers. I used to walk past them all the time during my internship. Jealousy burned in my stomach when my coworkers would go out together and leave me behind, knowing that I always took the BART home. I never went out with them after work because I couldn’t afford eight-dollar cocktail drinks and tapas plates that cost double that.