Girl for Hire. Various

      Best Offer

      Rachel Kramer Bussel

      ‘A hundred dollars? Really?’ I almost choked on my drink as I raked my eyes over the early-thirties bearded guy who’d just offered me that measly sum to go home with him – and, presumably, fuck him. Not that I was actually considering it or anything, but still, $100? Even a make-out session with me was worth more. I wouldn’t say I’m materialistic, but I like to know a man will invest in me, that he considers me worthy before I go home with him. Yes, I’ll admit, I have a taste for fine dining and champagne, but I’m not a gold-digger. To me, it’s a matter of respect more than anything else.

      ‘That’s all I’ve got,’ the man stuttered, whipping out a crisp hundred and, from what I could tell of his wallet, the truth. A few stray dollars were all that were visible. He didn’t sound like he actually thought I’d leave the bar with him for a hundred, but why not try? To me it was the equivalent of leaving a waitress a twenty-cent tip; you might as well not bother, and if you did, you were holding out the cash more as an insult than an offer.

      ‘A thousand,’ a smooth, steady voice spoke from behind me. I turned to see a man who looked a good twenty, possibly thirty, years older than my twenty-seven, but he wore the years well. His salt-and-pepper hair was sleekly shorn, he wasn’t balding and the slight wrinkles only made him look more powerful. It was his dark-brown eyes that made me go still. His eyes told me he wanted more than just to buy me for the evening.

      ‘Look, guys, I don’t do that. I’m not … you know.’ For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Hooker, prostitute, call girl. I don’t know why exactly, but even thinking those words made my face burn hot, and I reached for the water I was sipping in between drinks.

      ‘Not a whore?’ the hundred-dollar man asked coolly, an edge of impatience and something darker in his voice, as if he expected me to be one. Why? Because I was in a bar, flirting? Because I wore bright-red lipstick, the brightest I could find, to offset my pale face, and my low-cut lilac blouse did more than hint at my large breasts? Or maybe it was my snug buttery black leather skirt and knee-high black books that laced up the back? Or maybe he just wanted me to be a whore, so that’s what he saw. I nodded in answer to his question. I was mildly offended that he was only offering what I would make in an entire morning’s work at my office job. But even more intrigued that another could so calmly offer up such a huge sum, what I’d earn in two weeks.

      The bartender walked over and gave me an appraising look. I was, after all, sandwiched between two men who were close enough to me that it appeared I was intimately engaged with them, and one was holding out a hundred dollar bill right in front of me.

      ‘We’re all whores, darling,’ said the older man, ‘you just have to figure out your price.’ I turned to make a smart remark when he pulled out a chequebook and handed it to me. Unlike mine, which simply featured the single stack of cheques stuffed somewhere into my voluminous purse, this man had an elegant leather holder and he held a monogrammed pen in his hand. He looked like the kind of man who didn’t even handle paper money, as if that were a foreign concept, but dealt only in money via credit card. The chequebook looked unused, though his hand paused over it.

      I blurted something out before I could even think. ‘Fifty thousand dollars. For two hours.’ Imagine earning my annual salary in just two hours! It was the first number that leaped to mind, but no sooner had I spoken the number aloud than the stranger was scrawling it across the rectangle on the light-blue paper, making it out to ‘Cash’. ‘Here, since I don’t know your name yet,’ he said, ripping it off and pressing it into my palm. ‘I’m not even going to ask your name because I’m sure you’ll just make one up. Oh, and I’m good for it,’ he said, holding my hand as if to caress the dollars into my skin. When I glanced down at the cheque, I gasped, suddenly sure he was more than good for it. He wasn’t exactly famous, but he appeared in the business pages often enough, and since that was the section I copyedited at the paper, I recognised Clay Barker, this titan of the high fashion industry.

      ‘This is crazy,’ I said, but didn’t let go of the cheque. ‘Maya,’ I added, more softly. The man sitting next to us was agog, but scooted slightly away, knowing that whatever game we were now playing, he couldn’t compete.

      ‘Perhaps,’ he conceded, ‘but I’ve done far crazier things in my day.’ News headlines started to flash in my mind, stories about sex, drugs, strippers, trashed hotel rooms; he came from a wealthy family and before he’d decided to take over their business, he’d spent time sowing plenty of very expensive wild oats. ‘Well? I have a room down the block, at the hotel.’ Of course, he knew I’d know he meant the $600-a-night brand-new luxury hotel that had just opened, and of course he had a room there. He

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