“An art degree won’t pay the bills,” my mother said, and Dad grunted his agreement. “We feel you should experience what not having any money is like as soon as possible. You’ve been privileged, sheltered—”
“Didn’t both of you have trust funds?” I said, folding my arms over my chest.
“That’s neither here nor there,” Dad said. “We’re prepared to pay for your education as long as you pursue something worthwhile—”
“You mean something you approve of.”
“—but if you insist on an art degree, you need to finance it yourself.”
“Basically, if I don’t do your bidding, I’m on my own.”
“Correct.” My mother gave me a curt nod and shot my father a victorious look.
They were right. I was privileged and sheltered, but that didn’t mean I wanted to turn out like them, let them mold me into something I didn’t want to be. Our relationship had been difficult for years and it was time for me to do something about it. Join the real world. See if I could hack it on my own.
I stood up, put my hands on my hips and said, “I’d better go pack my stuff.”
Knowing how the minds of the infallible Ronan and Suzanna Hetherington worked, I suspected they had a bet going as to how long it would take me to fold and come back, homemade ceramic begging bowl in hand, compliance at the ready. Quentin had probably taken that bet, as well. But they all lost because I hadn’t returned. I’d remained stubborn, moved into a crappy little apartment, worked three jobs six days a week—often seven—to make rent and save for my art degree every single month. I knew what people would think if I told them about my background: poor little rich girl, waah, waah—and so I never told anyone. There were millions of individuals trying to make ends meet, my situation was hardly a rarity or special.
Had it been hard? Excruciatingly. Had I become disillusioned? Of course. I’d worked in so many different places I’d lost count. My most regular gig was bartending, but I’d also been a store clerk, a dog walker, and given car detailing a go. The things people left in their vehicles had astounded me: full wallets, cell phones, dirty underwear, even used condoms—nothing was off-limits to some—and, although it had been gross at times, it had been fun, right up until a customer grabbed me between my legs and asked if it was where he could leave me a tip. I was pretty sure he left with a cracked rib from where I’d elbowed him. The next day I’d been fired for not being a, quote, “team player.”
Working at the bar had paid the most, and I’d been good at it, knew how to charm the customers without flirting, and calm the rowdy ones before things got out of hand. I was employed at an upscale hotel bar in Buffalo when I met Dominic Martel, a smooth-talking Frenchman who’d immediately spotted my potential—his words, not mine. He’d whispered them in my ear as we were lying in bed on our fourth date, after we’d gone back to his huge, loft-style apartment. My potential wasn’t the only thing he’d seen, because the next thing he told me was, from the glimpse he’d had of the location and size of my tiny studio when he’d picked me up, he’d also gathered I was broke.
“I have a way to get you into some money.” Dominic traced a finger down my arm. “And I know you’ll be really good at it. You’ll get all dressed up and go to a bar...”
“A bar?” I froze for a second as I realized where this was heading. “What the hell? You want me to be a hooker?” I shoved him away and leaped out of bed, reaching for my jeans. “Why don’t you go f—”
“That’s not what I meant,” he’d replied, holding up his hands. “Not at all. Are you kidding? You’re an amazing person, Lily. Beautiful, smart, funny—”
“Yeah? Is this the part where you tell me I’ll meet one of your friends for a quiet drink, or maybe someone who wants to buy me dinner? Only dinner, of course, nothing more?” I grabbed my shoes. “I thought you said I’m smart.”
“Let me tell you about my idea,” he said, his voice calm, and damn it, his French accent, and the memories of the sex we’d had, all making my resolve crumble. “It’s an easy way to make money. No sex, no strings, nobody gets hurt.”
I put down my shoes and gave him two minutes to explain before cutting him off after one. No way would I get involved in his illegal bullshit. I left his apartment, cursing him all the way home, but when I lost another of my jobs three days later, and my landlord refused to give me an extension on my rent, I changed my mind. It would be easy, Dominic said when we met for coffee. I’d go to a bar and have a drink. When someone Dominic had preidentified as the owner of an expensive car walked in, I’d get a signal and distract the mark by spilling a cocktail over them. By way of apology I’d proceed to buy them drinks until they were past the point of being able to drive. Dominic, a seasoned pickpocket, would lift their car keys and, a while later, I’d send the drunken mark home in an Uber.
“By the time they’ve recovered from their hangover and notice their car has been stolen, it’ll be in a shipping container,” Dominic said. “And you get a ten percent cut.”
“Fifty,” I answered. “I want fifty. Equal partners.”
Dominic shook my hand on twenty-five before taking me back to his place again. I’d known what we were doing was bad, but reasoned the only victim was the insurance company. Not a watertight argument—I knew that, too—but I was desperate, and the prospect of having to crawl home to my mother and father was
