Inside is some kind of makeshift studio. A couple of people are putting the final touches on the cake I’m going to get into. It’s white with lots of hearts and bright red ribbons.
“Change into this. You’re shorter, but it should still fit.”
He tosses a corset and matching G-string my way. I catch them automatically. “Where’s the dressing room?”
“‘Dressing room’? That’s funny.” He points with his chin. “Use the corner.”
The area has no screen, no privacy. My face flames. “I can’t—”
He regards me through drooping eyes. “Don’t want to disappoint the customer, right?” Then he turns away to supervise the cake.
Biting my lower lip, I go to the corner and change as quickly as I can. The “corset” is really two pieces. The top part is so tight, it’s almost painful to put on, but the hooks and eyes make it easier. I’m sure they’re also to make it easier to rip it off during the show. My breasts are pushed together almost indecently, and it feel like the girls are going to pop if I breathe too deep. The bottom part hooks to the top, and together they look like they’re a single piece. The G-string is black, with rhinestones strategically placed to emphasize my private parts without actually showing anything.
God, I feel so naked and trashy. Clear-heeled fuck-me shoes don’t help the situation. I put my own clothes back on over the slut-wear so I can feel less exposed.
“Let’s go.” The man claps, and we all get into a waiting truck. The cake is surprisingly small, just big enough to hide a crouching woman.
I don’t know how much time passes. My heart beats erratically, and I can’t seem to track anything. Sweat wets my hands, and I surreptitiously wipe them on my skirt.
Now that the time has come, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’m doing. I mean, the money’s great—and I need it—but do I really want to go this low to get it?
Shut up. It’s just one night.
But isn’t that what my dad thought too when he started his crazy scheme? My head hurts. Who knows what he was thinking when he decided to cheat everyone in Lincoln City so he could live big? He died before anybody could get any answers.
My pulse is in my throat, and the canned tomato soup I had for dinner sloshes in my belly like a waterbed.
“Hey, you gonna be sick?” one of the guys who worked on the cake asks.
I shake my head.
“We’re almost there.”
I nod, breathing through my mouth.
When the truck stops, its engine cuts off and my stomach no longer churns. I get out and fresh air settles my belly.
“Get in. We gotta finish it up,” the driver says to me, gesturing at the cake.
The white thing looks like a prison, and my legs stiffen.
Think about the money. Think about what it means.
Curling my hands into fists, I take off my shirt and skirt and climb inside the cake. It has small steps built in, so I can enter and exit without ruining it.
The workers glue a couple of thin tissues around the top of the cake to cover up the opening.
“Yo. You in the cake,” the man who opened the warehouse door says. “When it’s time, you just jump out. Just push on the top.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Despite the cooler night temperature, the inside of the cake feels stuffy. Low voices murmur around me, and I swallow.
I hear a ding, and then feel the mild pressure of an elevator rising.
“Don’t forget to wish him happy birthday and sing him the happy birthday song,” one of the guys says.
I have to sing too? Caroline never said anything about that, but I don’t think it’s the time to argue. Besides if singing can delay the inevitable stripping, I’ll sing. “Okay.”
“And don’t forget to give him whatever he wants. He paid for the works.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“But his guests—”
“They’re up to you.”
Oh my god. What the hell? Caroline totally screwed me over by omitting that important fact! “I’m not a hooker!”
“’Course not,” the man says, his voice bored. “You’re an escort.”
“What?”
“Honey, just make the birthday boy happy, and you can clear two grand.”
I reel. For that much money, the “customer” must be expecting a helluva lay. But I’m just not that into sex. I can’t even fake it like those girls on Elliot’s sex tape.
There’s some muttered discussion outside the cake. Then, “He won’t try anything except vanilla stuff. It’s in the contract.”
Thanks for making me feel better. “Isn’t this illegal?”