And I knew she was going to ask the question, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
I pour the margaritas into their respective glasses. “I don’t know. Once again, too scared to look.”
Kelsey takes a deep breath, picks up her drink, and says, “Well, if we’re going to figure out what you’re going to do, then we’re going to have to rip the bandage off and take a look at what we’re working with. We need to know your level of desperation.”
She pulls her computer from her bag and nods toward the dining room table.
“It’s time,” she says.
Crap . . . I’m afraid she’s right. It is time.
I stand there, lift the glass to my lips, and take a very large sip. I’m going to need it.
We both stare blankly at the wall in front of us.
Not a word.
Not a movement.
Just . . . staring.
The air conditioner will kick on every few minutes, blowing cool air over my heated body. But that’s it. That’s the only movement in the house, a slight wisp of my hair floating across my grief-stricken and incredibly shocked face.
I’ve heard of rock bottom before. I’ve read about it. I’ve even seen it on some people.
I thought I was at rock bottom yesterday.
But I was wrong.
This . . . this right here is rock bottom.
Finally, after at least five minutes of silence, Kelsey says, “So, I’d say our level of desperation is DEFCON 1.”
I tip back my drink and finish the contents. “Yup,” I say simply.
Over thirty thousand dollars in debt, less than three thousand dollars to my name.
Not enough for a deposit and first month’s rent for my own place.
Not enough to keep paying off my loans.
Not enough to consider some money to fall back on.
Nope.
DEFCON 1 is precisely what we’re dealing with—nuclear war.
“You really weren’t making much, were you?” Kelsey asks.
“No, I wasn’t.” I press my hand against my forehead, the severity of my situation really starting to sink in. “I hate to admit it, but I think I have to start stripping.”
“What?” Kelsey asks.
“Yup, stripping. I’ve seen how much those girls make. They’re raking in the dough.” I lift the collar of my shirt and peer down at my body. “I have nice boobs, maybe smaller than what some might enjoy, but guys like that, right? They’re perky enough. And I can . . . sway to the music.”
“Strip clubs aren’t looking for people to sway to Taylor Swift music, they want you gyrating. Do you know how to gyrate?”
“You’re never too old to learn something new. Gyrating is just thrusting your pelvis, right? I say we look up some strip clubs and just, you know, scope out the competition. See what’s getting the penises up around Hollywood these days.”
“I’m going to tell you right now, it’s not the kind of two-step, side-to-side dancing you do. Also, Mom would murder you. And you realize, you’d have to dance in a thong, and your boobs would be out for everyone to see.”
I roll my eyes. “I know what strippers do. I’m not an idiot.” I tap my chin. “Do you think if I get my nipple pierced, that would help my chances?”
Kelsey actually gives it some thought. “Maybe—wait, no.” She shakes her head. “You’re not going to be a stripper. There has to be a better idea than exposing men to your bare-breasted two-step.” She stands and holds her hand out to me. She helps me stand as well and then says, “Let’s go for a walk. Fresh air will clear our heads. Booze is always a good idea to forget, but we can’t forget, because we’re in DEFCON 1 mode right now. We need ideas, not sorrows.”
“Are you saying I’m not allowed to wallow?”
She shakes her head again. “No. We have no time for wallowing. Not unless you’re ready to tell Mom—”
“No way in hell.”
“Then get your shoes, because we need to get thinking.”
Not bothering with sneakers, I slip on my sandals, we lock up, and then we head out of the house. Kelsey walks across the street and turns right.
“You want to walk through The Flats?” I ask her. “Do you want to depress me?”
“Being surrounded by rich, elaborate houses might be exactly what you need. Inspiration.”
Dragging my feet, I follow her, and we start our walk through the neighborhood of the most elaborate and ornate houses in Los Angeles. The sidewalks are immaculate, with not a crack in the cement, and the grass is so pristinely cut that, from a quick glance, one would assume it is AstroTurf, that’s how perfect it is. A mixture of palm trees and old oak trees line the roads, while cascading bushes and wrought-iron gates protect the dwellings of the wealthy.
“This is depressing,” I say as I go to turn around.
“No, this is inspiring. You have to have a mindset change. Who knows? Maybe by walking these streets, we’ll run into someone rich who wants to work on a charity case—you.”
“Aren’t you cute.”
She chuckles. “Seriously, though, you never know who we might run into. Haven’t you heard those stories about people who meet an investor on an airplane and next thing you know, their product is in every Target in the country?”
“No,” I answer. “I haven’t heard those stories.”
“Well, they happen. You never know who you might run into.” She laughs. “You could possibly meet a rich husband, walking these streets.” She glances at me and then looks me up and down. “Well, not dressed like that, but—”
“You know, that might not be a bad idea,” I say.
“What? Meeting a rich husband?” Kelsey asks. “Sis, I was joking.”
But it’s not a joke in my head. And, yes, it might be the tequila—what little we had—talking, but there have to be men around here looking for someone to marry, right? Some singletons looking for a romp on their luxury mattress that could very well turn into a lifelong coupling? I’m not opposed to impressing with my sexual exploits to snag a man. Remember, DEFCON 1.
“No, this could be something.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Kelsey says in an exasperated tone. “Lottie, I know you’re desperate, but we need to be smart-desperate. Finding a rich husband isn’t the solution to your problems. What are you going to do, get married next week?”
“Love can happen that fast.”
“I’m going to stop you right there—this isn’t a solution. We need something concrete, something we can control.”
“No.” I gesture to the houses around us. “Look at these places. You can’t tell me all these people are living the perfect life. I bet there are some bachelors here looking for someone to keep them warm at night.” I point to my chest. “That person can be me. I’m warm. I have snuggly arms, and I’ll put out. I have no problem with such behavior.”
“Jesus, help me,” Kelsey says, pressing her hands together while looking up to the sky.
I lift my phone and open my browser.
“What are you doing?” Kelsey asks.
“Looking up how to snag a rich husband.”
“Lottie, you’ve lost it. Truly, this is an all-time low for you.”
“Precisely, which means I can only go up from here. Oh, look.” I point at my phone. “An article on how to impress the rich.” I click on it and start scrolling. “It says they like braids.” I look up at Kelsey. “Rich people like braids? Do your clients have braids in their hair?”
Kelsey thinks about it. “I mean . . . I guess I’ve worked with a few who have the cute mini braids in their hair.”
“Okay, braids—check.”
“Lottie, you can’t be serious.”
Desperation consumes me, and once I’m fixated on something that I think will save me from my current situation, I go all in. So . . . yes, I am serious.
“Classy clothes, nothing scandalous.” I glance down at my shirt. “Think they would like this Taylor Swift shirt?”
“No,” Kelsey says. “No one likes that shirt. It has holes in the armpits.”
“Unless you’ve experienced the kind of breeze received from these holes in the armpits, you have no opinion on the matter. But noted, the rich might not enjoy it.” I scan the article. “Makeup, sophisticated conversations. Knowledge on a vast array of topics.” I think about it. “Do I know a lot of things?”
“What kinds of things?”