I held it out of reach with a glare. “I’m still trying to catch up on your Instagram vomit. I swear, you guys woke up each day determined to make me miserable. Give me two minutes to get over my jealousy and pretend to be happy for you.”

“Two minutes … ooh, that reminds me. Chloe, when we get to dinner I have to tell you about this ‘stud’ that Benta hooked me up with. The guy finished before I unbuttoned my shirt.” Cammie snorted.

“Is there more to that story?” I glanced up from my phone.

“Nope,” Cammie said cheerfully. “That’s about it. But ohmigod, wait ’til you hear…”

I stuffed my phone in my purse and settled in, their excited chatter filling the car, a welcome distraction from my current issues.

5. Kissing a Frog

We didn’t head home, our first stop a bar in Chelsea, then a club in Midtown, dancing and drinking until 3 AM when we finally called it a night, stumbling out the doors.

A hand caught mine as we stepped into the street, the pull interrupting my giggle at something Cammie had said. The hand was attached to a tailored suit, wide smile, and flushed face. “Hey beautiful,” he said, his breath frosting in the night air. I gently worked my hand free, feeling the flank of my girls rallying beside me.

“Hey.” I smiled. “You good?” I stepped back, glancing up the street to make sure we weren’t all about to be run over.

“I was hoping for your number, didn’t get it in the club. I’m Tommy.” He smiled, a grin that probably made his girlfriend real happy.

“Nice to meet you Tommy.” I stepped back another pace. “I’m not interested.”

He scowled. Held up a hand that swayed slightly, his friends pulling at his shoulder, sending apologetic looks our way while failing to move Tommy. “Awww… come on. One kiss, princess. If it’s not incredible, I’ll give you a thousand dollars.” He fumbled in his suit pocket, pulling out a thick wad of hundreds and holding them out. “Come on. One kiss.”

I hesitated. Three months ago, I’d have laughed in his face. But with my low bank balance fresh in my mind, a thousand bucks was tempting. More than tempting. I stepped closer, Benta’s hand wrapping like a vise around my arm. “Chloe,” she warned.

I hesitated. When Benta barked, I normally listened. Her authoritative tone was that of the dominatrix variety. But there, on that street, I stood firm.

“One kiss,” I repeated, meeting his eyes. “For a thousand bucks.”

“You’re probably worth it.” He shrugged, smacking the cash across his palm as he swayed slightly, the action drawing attention to the shine of his watch, the same brand my father wore. Or rather, used to wear. Behind him, his friends stopped their efforts, suddenly interested in the late-night negotiation.

I examined him closer. He wasn’t terrible looking. Prep school pretty, I wouldn’t depend on him to protect me in a dark alley. I could tell you without looking that his nails were manicured, his palms probably smoother than mine.

I risked death, tugging my arm from Benta and stepped closer, looking up at him. “Okay, Romeo. Give me your best shot.”

He stepped forward with a smile, one hand gripping my shoulder, his lips pushing on mine and let me tell you right now, his best shot really, really, really sucked. A thick tongue forcibly rammed itself into my gum line, with a smack of extra saliva as he clamped his chops around my lower lip and slowly pulled away, my lip stretching out before popping free. He tasted like Red Bull and whiskey, sugary sweet with a foul aftertaste. I’d literally had gyno exams that I’d enjoyed more.

I jumped back, shoving off his chest, my hand wiping across my mouth as I glared at him. “That was your best kiss?”

He laughed, rubbing his own lips with a smile that reeked of asshole. I held out my hand, wanting the cash, and his eyes dropped to it with a sneer. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach, and it wasn’t from the four martinis I had downed inside.

“Let’s go, Chloe,” Benta spoke quietly from behind me.

“Gimme the cash. We had a deal,” I insisted, my palm still extended, my pride at an all-time low. The urge to cry pricked my eyes, and I swallowed hard, begging him with my stare.

“He’s not worth it. Come on.” Cammie’s hand wrapped around my forearm and pulled, my heels tripping over the icy curb, her driver moving to open the back door for us. Before climbing in, I glanced over my shoulder and caught the trio of assholes laughing.

The SUV bumped over a pothole, taking us home. I rested my forehead against the cold window, hoping to get the spinning to stop. That experience … it had been the first time in my life that I had ever felt cheap. God, the look in his eyes when he’d laughed at me. I must have looked so pathetic, holding out my hand, begging for his cash.

I shouldn’t have even turned when he grabbed my hand. I should have listened when Benta spoke. I should have laughed in his face like I would have done three months ago.

But instead, within a month of my trust fund’s disappearance, I had prostituted myself for a kiss. And hadn’t even gotten paid for it. I groaned against the glass window and felt the gentle pat of Cammie’s hand against my back.

Maybe the cultured, confident woman I was before was just a product of my parents’ money. Maybe now, with my new life a train wreck, I would discover the real Chloe Madison. And maybe, I wouldn’t like her.

Ugh. I rolled down the window and tried not to vomit at the thought.

New Year’s Eve. The first holiday season spent without my parents, Christmas normally spent at our Aspen home, a picturesque cabin with six bedrooms, a hot tub, and theater room. Dad and I would ski through the Christmas tree fields until we found the perfect one; Mom and I would cook Christmas dinner in the chef’s kitchen, and we’d end the holiday with a pile of presents and lots of eggnog. That house, along with our Bahamas condo, was now the property of the government. I hoped someone was using it, the thought of our furniture under sheets, the hot tub frozen over, too depressing to consider. I didn’t even know where my parents were this year. They hadn’t called on Christmas Day, and we’d spoken once since my eviction, long enough for Mom to give me Nicole’s number, no apology or explanation given for their actions, their voices bubbly, lives busy, glamorous plans apparently still in effect.

“Ms. Madison?”

“Yes,” I said, stepping carefully toward the car, trying not to turn an ankle in my four-inch Brian Atwoods. “Are you the Brantleys’ driver?”

“I am.” He didn’t offer a name, just opened the Escalade’s back door with a polite smile, supporting my hand until the moment when I released it to grip the door frame. “I’ve already taken the Brantleys to the event. I have instructions to bring you to the house, pick up Chanel, and arrive at the party by eight.”

The same instructions Nicole had given me three times already, her over-enunciated words making it clear that she assumed I was an idiot. I nodded at the man, tucking my bag in the floorboard and bringing my feet in. He shut the door gently, then walked around to the driver’s side.

The large SUV felt small with just the two of us inside. I opened my compact and checked my lipstick, glancing up front to the driver. “How was your Christmas?”

“It was quiet.”

Well, that was a conversation starter. I had expected for him to politely return the question, giving me an opportunity to share my own story. Cammie, Benta, and I had failed in our attempt to play house. Our turkey had burned to a crisp on the outside, but was rare on the inside, my soufflé fell, and Benta’s try at haricots verts produced water-logged beans as limp as drunk dick. We’d ditched the food, and settled on the couch with a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates and two bottles of champagne. Adding Netflix to the mix, my first NYC Christmas had ended up being pretty damn awesome, my thoughts only flitting to my parents a handful of times. It had been nice, spending it with the girls. It felt so grownup, like we were finally adults, even if we had failed horribly in our cooking.