For my girls.
May you always know your worth.
I learned at a young age that looks are everything.
Nothing in this world is out of reach for the simple fact that I was born a woman, blessed with an attractive face. My childhood was spent studying how valuable the female body is, admiring its ability to drop men to their knees in worship by simply existing.
Some of my very first memories are snapshots of my mom dancing for dollar bills in a smoky club. Lace accentuated the curve of her hips, and neon lights ignited the stage, like she was moving atop fire. Men watched and coveted her every motion, engulfed in flames.
“We’re eating good tonight, baby,” she’d say once her set was over and she’d collected her earnings. The sharp scent of metal stuck to her fingers after her journey around the pole, and she didn’t bother to put a top back on.
In the beginning, I thought she was a unicorn—tall, blonde, and majestic.
When Cricket died a decade later, the magic was gone.
But the lessons stayed.
“This is Cara,” I say, answering my work cell. It’s a nondescript prepaid phone I’ll toss away after a month or so. New number, new phone, no paper trail.
“We’ve worked together for how long? And you still answer your phone that way? A lesser woman would be offended.” Inez’s velvety tone greets me through the receiver.
“Better safe than sorry,” I say.
She doesn’t press the subject and asks, “Do you have your schedule for the week?”
Sitting on the edge of my bathtub, I hold the phone between my shoulder and ear as I slip into a pair of black heels. “Yes. Any changes?”
“Only one,” she says. “Your twelve o’clock appointment with Dr. Coston has moved to eleven-thirty.”
After a quick glance at myself in the bathroom mirror, checking for imperfections in my winged eyeliner or bloodred lipstick, I hurry to the kitchen to grab my clutch from the counter. Inside is everything I need to pass as Cara Smith, a name as nondescript and disposable as my phone.
“Inez,” I snap. “That’s in thirty minutes. How am I supposed to get across town in that time?”
“Your driver’s parked in front of your building as we speak,” she says assuredly. “You’ll be there with time to spare, I promise.”
My quickened heartbeat slows, and I say, “Thank you.”
“That’s what I’m here for, sweetie,” she replies in a tone as smooth as silk. In my mind’s eye, I imagine her behind an oversized desk, twirling the telephone cord around her finger—like a boss. “Don’t forget to check in after the appointment.”
“I never forget,” I say.
A black Suburban’s parked curbside just like Inez said. The chauffeur, dressed in a suit and driving cap, waits at the back passenger door with his hands crossed in front of him. His kind smile widens as I approach.
“And Lydia,” Inez says before we hang up. The enunciation of my real name, so rarely spoken, sparks a flame in my belly. “Stay safe.”
I slip my phone into my clutch and slide into the back seat of the SUV. When I started working For Inez Ricci five years ago, the chauffeurs and hired cars made me feel exposed. Like a lot of things this lifestyle has afforded me, it’s something I’ve become accustomed to in the time since.
Tucked snugly between San Francisco and Palo Alto, Grand Haven is home to some of the wealthiest residents in California. None of whom can be bothered to drive themselves from point A to B, despite their left-leaning fight to end global warming. And if I want to fit in, I need to act as they do.
“Are we still headed to the east side, Miss Smith?” my driver asks. He watches me from the rearview mirror.
“Yes…” I don’t remember his name. “Please.”
Like most things in my life, drivers are temporary. I don’t share more than a destination with them. My goal is to be as vague and forgettable to everyone but my clients as possible. To achieve this, I keep my words to a minimum, treat people with common courtesy, and I give everything an expiration date.
The sound of my voice, my touch, and my magic are saved exclusively for the gentlemen who pay up.
I won’t make the same mistakes as my mother by giving it all away for chump change. In a city like Grand Haven, rich with real estate, startups, and old and new money, everything has a hefty price tag. Including me.
“You got it.” My driver pulls away from my building, and I stare out the window to shut down any expectations of further conversation.
Silence doesn’t bother me.
Quiet moments appreciating my city’s perfection is food for my soul. It’s an exact contrast to the environment I grew up in, and I pinch myself to make sure this isn’t a dream. I escaped trash-filled gutters and abandoned buildings for business districts and art galleries. The sidewalks are clean, the shopping is upscale, and the restaurants are all five-star eateries.
I’m four miles from the ocean, ten miles from a national park, and a million miles away from the life I left behind.
There’re times when that doesn’t seem far enough away. This is why when I feel the urge to ask my driver if he has a family or where he’s from, I swallow my words like a pill. Small talk almost always leads to heavier conversations, and I have no interest in getting personal with anyone. It’s a lonely existence, but my reputation with Inez and among my clients secures this stripper’s daughter a life that was never in my cards.
The tradeoff is worth it.
I’m a fleeting thought, a mirage to everyone except the men who pay for my undivided attention. In exchange for their loyalty, I promise to do my best not to be recognized or draw suspicion to our arrangement.
I won’t be the tramp looked down upon in public because I fuck for money.
I’d rather be invisible.
There’s nothing to lose when no one knows who I really am.
“You can stop here,” I say as we approach the four-story building where my first appointment of the day is. Sunlight gleams off the glass structure like the Emerald Castle in The Wizard of Oz, but I’m no damsel in distress looking for her way home.
“Are you sure, Miss, I can pull to the front,” my driver asks.
“Please, this is fine,” I say with a ring of finality in my voice.
Avoiding eye contact, I pass him a twenty-dollar bill and exit the vehicle. This will be the last ride he gives me, and in a week, he won’t remember if my hair was blonde or brunette. He’ll be unable to pick out which condo on Bradford Street is mine or where he dropped me off.
Today, I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever set eyes on. He’ll think about the length of my legs and the soft scent of my perfume for hours. But without anything concrete to hold on to, without solid facts about me to grasp, as his memory of the day fades, so will I.
Spring in the Bay Area is crisp and blooming. The air smells like sea salt and the unfolding of brand-new leaves from trees lining the streets. Above the hum of traffic, birds chirp, and a vessel’s horn thunders as it arrives in port. Sun shines on the city today, and the sky is the bluest of blues.
My red-bottom heels click on the sidewalk and then on the tile floor of the building’s lobby. Elevator doors open as if on command, and I hurry inside before another passenger joins me. I rehearse Cara’s smile in my reflection on the elevator walls as I soar twelve flights up, gluing it in place when I come to a stop.