Page 11 of Fake It For Glory

MERIDA

Iwas a nervous wreck. This was not what I did. This was so far outside of my wheelhouse I didn’t think it could have gotten any stranger. I was sitting in my car, staring at the door for the agency I was supposed to be investigating. My stomach had a million butterflies fluttering around. This was so not my thing. I wanted to be an investigative journalist, but I really never considered the investigating part of things. I didn’t think I was very good at lying. I couldn’t say I had ever really put it to the test before.

I doublechecked the address Dalton had given me. It was the right place. It just seemed so normal. Like a typical business office. From the outside, it could be a clinic or an accounting office. It didn’t look like a whore house.

Dalton assured me it wasn’t a whore house, but I couldn’t help but be a little suspicious. It certainly felt like there could be some whoring going on. Who the hell paid a woman five grand to eat dinner? There had to be a catch. There had to be a perk the men paid for. It was like one of those massage places that offered a lot more than a deep tissue massage.

I pulled out my phone, took a picture of the building, and sent it to Dalton. I needed to make sure I was at the right place. A few seconds later, he called.

“Go in,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t go undercover if you don’t actually go in,” he pointed out the obvious. “All you need to do is go in. I’ve heard there is an application of sorts. Your goal is to take notes on the process. How does someone become one of the escorts? Do you get to choose your clients? Who are the clients? If you can find out that last bit, we’re good.”

“I don’t know,” I groaned.

“They’re not going to know who you are,” he assured me. “Just get as much information as you can and get the hell out of there.”

“What if they ask for my ID?” I asked. “Do I use my real name?”

“That’s up to you,” he said. “There’s no reason you can’t use your real name. They aren’t going to know who you are.”

“True,” I muttered. “It’s not like I’m a successful reporter or anything.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know, I know. I think I’m out of my league here, Dalton. I don’t know the first thing about going undercover. I should have gone to spy school.”

He laughed again. “It’s not as bad as it seems. You’re not really undercover. You’re an average person checking out a lucrative job opportunity. How else do they attract women to the agency? I’ve seen advertisements, so they expect people to come in off the street. You’re not doing anything wrong or illegal. You’re just going in to get some information on the process. They don’t need to know you’re going to expose what they do.”

I gnawed on my lower lip. “I cannot believe I’m doing this. If my parents ever found out I was going to an escort agency, they would absolutely die.”

“No one needs to know,” he said. “This is how a journalist gets stories. She goes out there and chases them down. The stories don’t fall in your lap.”

“But this is your story,” I reminded him.

“We’re collaborating,” he said, laughing. “You can do this. I’m not expecting you to actually become one of the escorts and go on a date, but if you happen to run into one of the ladies that is an escort, you could ask her what it’s like. Make it sound like you’re genuinely interested. The key is to ask questions without asking. You don’t want it to be an interrogation.”

If I wanted to stop writing about home décor, I had to get comfortable doing things like this.

I took a deep breath and nodded. Dalton was right. I had to put my fear aside and embrace this opportunity to get a good story. After all, I was a journalist and this was my job. I couldn’t let my insecurities get in the way of my career aspirations.

“Fine, but if I end up in jail, you have to bail me out. If he finds out I’m in jail, tell him I was buying crack.”

He laughed. “Crack?”

“I prefer he think I was buying drugs than going into an escort agency,” I said.

“Deal.”

“I’m going in,” I said, sighing.

I ended the call and got out of my car. I crossed the street and stood in front of the door for several seconds, trying to gather the courage to go inside. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the tinted glass. My body looked distorted, but it wasn’t all distortion I was seeing. I was seeing my wide hips and big chest. I was wearing black leggings with a black blouse that hung enough to cover my big ass. My mass of curly hair was clipped back as always.

I did not look like a high-end escort. I looked like a woman who spent her time indoors and alone. I didn’t write a fashion blog because my idea of fashion was anything that fit right and didn’t accentuate my body. If I could find a way to make burlap bags fashionable, I would do it.

This was a waste of time. There was no way I was even going to get my foot in the door. These people hired beautiful women that could be seen on the arms of the wealthy elite. They didn’t hire women like me. I didn’t fit the mold, literally and figuratively. No billionaire was going to want to see me in a little black dress and take me to a swanky party to make his friends and colleagues jealous.