Page 4 of Three, Two, One [321]

JD hugs me tight. “You wanna come back to our place and finish this off, darling?”

I look down at the two hundred dollars still clutched in my fist, then notice my bare feet.

JD notices my predicament at the same time and turns his back to me. “Hop on, baby. I’ll carry you.” He shoots me a wink over his shoulder and I can’t help myself.

I laugh. After everything that happened last night, I can still laugh. And this stranger did that for me. He did that for me and he’s offering to do something else for me. He’s giving me a way out if I want it.

Seven hundred dollars can buy a thrift-store outfit and a bus ticket. I could stop all this. I could leave Denver and forget.

I look over at Ark and he shrugs. “You wanna suck his dick for five bills, that’s your choice. But you can take that two hundred and leave. And if I were you, I’d take that option. Because he’s not as charming as he looks. Neither of us are what we appear to be right now.”

“Jesus Christ, Ark. No wonder you can’t get a girlfriend. Fuck him, little darling. I’m guessing you don’t have somewhere better to go, otherwise you wouldn’t be out here in the rain on Sunday morning.”

He’s right. I have nothing. Literally nothing but the dress and panties I’m wearing and the two hundred dollars. That’s not enough to make a difference. But five hundred more can. Five hundred more changes everything for me.

“I don’t,” I admit, ashamed. More ashamed of how I got here than I’ll ever be after sucking the cock of this man for money.

“Then let’s go.” JD pats his back and I grab his shoulders and jump. His strong hands clasp under my knees and he hikes me up, rubbing my already throbbing pussy across his wet flanneled back.

And the three of us run out into the rain.

I met JD four years ago when I first made my way into Denver via the Greyhound bus terminal. I had money. And I had a contact. One contact and that was it. So I basically started this new life alone. Just me and my camera.

But JD was there that first night after I got off the bus.

It was a fight, but not a fight. It was a breakdown, that’s for damn sure. His life was over. The very moment I stepped outside the terminal was the very moment he learned he lost everything.

And he was getting his ass kicked. Which I didn’t realize then is a pretty big deal. Because JD is a dangerous guy. He’s no stranger to fights, but he is a stranger to losing them.

It was four on one that night and even though I was brand new in town and my business was so many shades of shady, I stepped up.

Because that’s what I do. I step the fuck up.

We didn’t quite win that fight. But we didn’t lose either. And after I told him I was new in town and was just on my way to find a hotel, he offered me a place to stay.

And this friendship grew out of that first night. His story was a blessing and a curse. A reason to stay and a reason to leave. We are polar. I am north and he is south. We are equal and opposites in almost every way imaginable. We are this and that. Black and white. Rough and calm.

And yet there is this straight line that connects us. One to the other. No matter what, we are bonded together by some law of the universe.

And now he is a brother. A best friend. A business partner.

But back then JD was making money as a stripper for some company who specialized in bachelorette parties. So it was not hard to convince him we could do better on our own.

And that’s how Public Fuck America was born.

We approach women in public venues. Clubs, festivals, concerts—shit like that. And we make an offer. Very nice offers. Because I had that start-up money when I blew into town, so we could afford to set this shit up so it was legal.

Once we have the girl spinning with dollar signs in her eyes, we bang out a contract and set up the testing with a local clinic. We pay up front for that and take it out of their contract pay. So this girl who ditched us today was a hundred-and-twenty-dollar loss because she never worked. Once we get them tested and on board for the first shoot—which is always outside, early AM, and in a recognizably public place—we typically get them to do more.

That’s where the clubs and concerts come in. And those get the online hits like nobody’s business.

But a few months after we started, a guy approached us. Asked if we’d like a steady paycheck. We could keep the Public Fuck America name—which was not even negotiable, since we bought the domain name for it on day one—and just upload our videos to his boss’ aggregated site. We have a quota of three videos a week and we make money per view on the site once it’s live.

We make bank.

Bank.

Like we make more money in a month than my old man did in two years back when I was a kid.