noticeable improvement, but it still looked dry. I squirted some of that hair moisturizer in my hands and then tousled it to make it shine. Should I straighten my hair? Nah. I didn’t want to look too polished, and yet I wanted to stand out from all the blonde Barbie dolls listed on the website. My mascara and eyeliner were next, and then I added just a touch of lip-gloss.
I looked at the frightened, pretty girl in the mirror.
Damn it. This will never work.
Then I walked out of the bathroom and bumped into Natalie.
“There you are! I was getting worried.” She paused in the midst of talking. “Wow, are you going out on a date or something?”
She knew I didn’t date. “No, I’m not.”
“Then why are you all dolled up?”
“Because I need to take a nice picture of myself. Can you help me?”
“Sure,” she smirked. “Is this for an online dating profile?”
I faltered as she dashed inside her room to get her camera and wondered why she was so excited. “Uh—sorta.”
“Well, I think that’s great,” she gushed. “It’s about time you dated.”
My insides squirmed at not revealing the whole truth. I would tell her soon enough, but I didn’t think she would approve. “It needs to be flattering.”
“Well, duh.” She dragged me around the house. “Here, lean against the wall and hold one of your arms. Look down.”
“Shouldn’t I look at the camera?”
“No! Models never smile for the camera.”
I rolled my eyes. Natalie took one photography class in college, and apparently that made her an expert.
“If I don’t smile I’ll look angry.”
“Stop talking.”
I laughed and was blinded by the flash of her camera. She took dozens of random photos, some of me sitting down on the couch, standing, drinking wine, and holding books.
“What’s the point of this?” I whined as I held several volumes.
She kept shaking her head at me as she snapped pictures. Am I doing something wrong?
“You’re so pretty. I always thought you should model.”
I choked out a laugh. “Me? Model? I don’t think so. I’m too short.”
She said nothing, but her face looked wistful as she snapped more photos. “Okay, I think that’s enough.”
“Could you send them over? I’m going to take this thing off.”
I walked back to my bedroom, stripped off the dress, and pulled my jeans and t-shirt back on with a sigh of relief before returning to my unfinished profile.
How much do I want?
It was tempting to put $20,000, but that was too crazy, so I clicked on the $5,000 - $10,000 per month tab and described myself as an aspiring writer with a Bachelor’s degree in English. I drew a blank at what else to write that would make me sound appealing.
Aquarius? Adept at juggling? Can make a mean French toast from stale bread?
“I sent them!” Natalie’s voice roared through the door.
Her pounding footsteps grew louder, and I half-lifted from the chair.
She flung open the door. “So, what is this dating site?”
Double crap.
I bit my lip hard.
“What is this?” She leaned over my chair. “Oh my God, is this an escort site? Jessica!”
The way she said my name made me feel like something under her shoe. “It’s a dating website f—for rich men.”
She stared at me as if she’d never seen me before. Natalie’s thin arms crossed her chest as she glowered at me. “It says here that you want five to ten thousand dollars a month. I mean, really, Jessica. What do you think they’ll want in exchange?”
“No,” I said even louder. “That’s not how it works. You go on dates with them and they pay you. It’s an eye-candy thing. I’m not fucking men for money.”
Her eyes shined with pity. I hated that.
“Look, I get it. You’re desperate for money.”
“I don’t think you get it,” I said in a quiet voice. “I have two jobs and they’re still not enough.”
“Then you search for a better job!”
“What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? Eating bonbons? I’ve been applying to every posting on craigslist. The few places that bother to email me back send a letter of rejection. I’m out of options.”
Admitting that tore my heart out of my chest.
Natalie’s face flushed an ugly shade of purple. “You don’t have to do this! I’ll pay for your rent, you can pay me back later.”
“No. I will not keep depending on you. It’s wrong.” I turned back toward the screen.
“You’re not depending on me—”
“Yes, I am Natalie. There’s no need to sugarcoat how much of a leech I am.”