The Dean’s List(2)
“Let’s talk white collar and horny. What I’m about to tell you can’t be repeated. I swear if it gets out, the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security will come to arrest you. They’ll fight over you and tear you from your top to your toes.”
“If you’re trying to scare me, you’re failing. You don’t have the fear factor. You wear Hello Kitty pajamas and drink caramel lattes for God’s sake. Who could be afraid of someone who likes cats and caramel?”
“Don’t underestimate the strength and power of a caramel macchiato. Show me a double and I’ll show you fear. The caffeine alone is deadly.”
From the deep recesses of her purse, she pulled out two energy drinks and handed me one. They were the kind of drink you bought for purpose rather than pleasure, and I wondered why I’d need three hundred milligrams of caffeine after my shift had ended.
“Are you an assassin? Is that how you keep so damn fit?” I popped the top on the can of Bang.
“No, I’m not killing anyone, but if you don’t pay attention I might begin with you. Remember when I told you I was working in hospitality?” Her voice softened to a purr. “Well, that’s the truth. I’m very hospitable.” The words brushed past her lips like a lover’s kiss.
“What the hell are you talking about? Aren’t you the concierge at that fancy place on Fifth Avenue?” I swore she said she was the concierge. Maybe she’d said something about customer satisfaction. Hell, with the clothes she wore, she had to be raking in the tips.
“I never told you I was the concierge. I told you I was in charge of making sure clients’ needs are met. I tried to get a job when I graduated, but you know a bachelor’s degree doesn’t cut it anymore. That’s why you’re here.” She slipped from the booth and sat across from me. Something big was going down and she was distancing herself. “Have you ever heard of The Dean’s List?”
The high-octane drink was beginning to thrum in my veins. “Um, yeah…I made the list in my sophomore, junior, and senior year. As a freshman, I was still figuring things out.” What did that have to do with making moola?
Jade scooched and settled into the far corner of the booth. I moved myself so I sat directly in her line of sight.
“No, think about rumors. I’m talking about ‘The Dean’s List.’” She emphasized the word Dean’s. “Think in terms of secret societies, like the Illuminati or the Freemasons.”
“Are you trying to recruit me for a religious sect? Count me out. Religion and I don’t see eye to eye.” Jade knew I was the poster child for what not to do as the daughter of a pastor. When I was caught blowing the mayor’s son behind dad’s pulpit, I was told I was going to hell. But, I gave that boy a boner-fied religious experience.
“Shut up and let me explain.” Her black look silenced me. “The Dean’s List is an exclusive group of people who meet to propel the university and its students toward success.”
“Perfect, what can they do for me?” Her guarded look told me she intended to dance around the truth. In fact, I knew Jade well enough to know that she’d create an overpass to avoid it completely. “Get to the point.” I didn’t have time to dawdle. I needed to decide whether to ride the bus home or jump in front of it.
She tapped her fingers across the tabletop like she was typing an overdue thesis. “The Dean’s List is about students seeking ‘sponsorship’ from members in their field of study. These members can be very ‘accommodating.’” Her use of finger quotes around the word sponsorship and accommodating had me tilting my head.
“You’re still speaking a different language. Plain English. Now. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were asking me to prostitute myself.”
“Let me explain.” Her shocked expression told me I’d hit a bull’s eye.
My heart pitched forward, then tumbled swiftly into the hollow pit of my stomach. I kept my voice low. “Shit. You are asking me to become a hooker. There’s no way you’ve been dishing yourself up for dollars. No. Fucking. Way.” Prostitution wasn’t a gig I could see Jade participating in. She was always so…so above board. I’d have been less shocked if she’d told me she were a man.
Her eyes shifted to every corner of the shop. Her body relaxed when we appeared to be alone. There was no one close enough to hear her secrets. Hell, The Grind would be like a morgue for the remainder of the day.
“Shhh, prostitution is such an ugly word.” Her voice became uncharacteristically small. “I have a couple of advisors, also known as mentors or sponsors. They’re successful members of their community. They work in hospitality management—my specialty. They donate obscene amounts of money to the university—my program. They take care of their own—me. And in exchange, I take care of them.” She pulled the high throttle drink to her lips and drank like a marathon runner who’d just crossed the finish line.