The Billionaire’s Stripper

So, just because I am shamelessly broke, you think I will w***e around with men for their money?" This was about the umpteenth time that Quinn had tried to talk me into this and I had made it clear to her over a hundred times and counting that there was nothing she would say or do that would make me give in. With a sigh of exasperation, she turned her head back to me so fast that her long, brown wavy hair had whipped to the other side, and then with prompt steps, she walked towards me and took a seat on a spot next to me on the bed. As she flashed her big brown eyes at me, I could see that there was a lot of concern and care in them, and she held her gaze with me for a few seconds and for a moment there, just a quarter of a moment, I genuinely thought that she was going to say something meaningful. "You can w***e around with rich men," She let out. My shoulders dropped in disappointment. Of course. Common sense and my best friend Quinn Anderson were like cats and mice. They were repulsed by each other. "I mean, the men that come to the Highway Club are crazy as s**t! Real a*s money wasting lunatics!" She did not stop elaborating for a second. "Those fuckers could legit throw a whole fortune on you just for a three second lap dance. Sis, you could get someone's entire life savings for just one night. I mean, come on, what's there to lose?" It was how she was so hell bent on getting me to give in that she did not even stop to realise how ridiculous she was even sounding. I loved Quinn and I did so with all of my heart. But for a girl as pretty as she was, she had the oddest mentality I had ever come across. She had many controversial views of life and strange opinions that made me wonder sometimes. She was just that kind of lady. I loved her nonetheless, but she startled me sometimes. "My dignity as a respectable woman," I answered her anyway, arguing still. "Oh, come on, Rachel," Quinn moaned. She clearly was not buying my s**t. "I am not getting the escort job at Highway, Quinn, please do not drag this any further," I said to my best friend and dismissed the conversation on that note. Quinn looked like she wanted to say something in protest, but she did not. Thankfully. As pushy and almost a pest that my best friend, Quinn could be, she knew when to stop. For a moment, there was a silence between us and she just sat there with me on the bed and said or did nothing more than stare at me with a look that made me know that she had a lot she wanted to say, but was not sure how to start to relay it. As much as I knew Quinn only had my best interest at heart, I was not ready to further this conversation with her. "Please, go," I asked her. I was polite about it. I wanted to be alone for that moment because as it was, there was so much going through my head. She didn't go. She didn't even look like she was going to make an attempt to. Instead, Quinn surprised me by scooting in to be able to sit closer to me. "Rachel," She called my name. "I am serious, Quinn, I don't want to talk about this," I said to her. "Look around you," She insisted. I swallowed. And hard. That instruction was more or less a dagger to the heart to me and even she knew it. But she didn't relent even after I had pretended like I did not hear what she said to me. "Look around you," She repeated. "I don't want to," I refused. "Look, Rach," She urged. Whatever urged me to, I couldn't have been sure. But I raised my head up to look around me, to look around the dump of a room that I practically lived in, and I felt cold air like chills move through me in embarrassment. I lived in a one bedroom apartment with walls that had its colours of blue and white dampening and dulling, and the wood of the doors, furniture, and the little creaking bed Quinn and I sat on, chipping due to the termites and evil creeping creatures that chose to feast on it without mercy. It was pathetic that even having to live in a small and humiliating dump like this, I couldn't even afford as little as the monthly rent. Speaking of rent would have even been far fetched in my opinion. At the age of 25, I could not fend for myself to have at least one proper balanced meal every day. I knew that if I did not find something to do and fast, I was going to end up on the streets of Los Angelis, homeless and hungry. "I know how hard you have worked to help yourself, Rachel," Quinn said to me, "But, right now, you need a job. Not just any kind of job. You need something that could put some food on your table, pay your rent, and even get you a better place than this dump. I know you're better than this life. I am sure you know that too." "I get that, but I'm not just comfortable with this kind of wayward hustle that I have been putting myself through for so long just to earn a living," I told her the truth. "It's actually very exhausting." It was exhausting. And by far, undeserving. I couldn't even begin to elaborate just how. "I have a degree in Marketing," I reminded her, "And it's hard for me to get a job that I want. First, it was the waitress job. Then, I became a stripper, and now, I have to sleep with men? No, Quinn. This is not what I wanted to do with my life. This is not where I want to be in life." It was not close to it. It hurt me that I had to go out of my way to do things that I did not want to do just because I was scared of not being able to cater for myself. And as much as I was revolting against the idea that Quinn had been throwing at me, I hated myself for struggling with that mental dilemma as there was that one side of me that just kept whispering over and over again, "Give it a try."