Page 3 of Worthy

But there was nothing. There was no one who could save us.

I wrapped my arms around myself and headed back to Kylie’s.

“You should just sign up for the app I told you about. Remember Regina Dixon?” Kylie asked. “She met some dude, and he paid her four hundred dollars just to pee on her. You could line up a whole parade of freaks and make bank!”

“Thanks, Kylie.” I put my face in my hands. “I’ll think about it.”

Kylie was trying to get me to sign up on the Sugar Finder app, this creepy platform where young women posted pictures of themselves and old, rich pervs DM’d them and asked them for dates.

“You need to get on there. I’m telling you, the men are wicked rich—it’s members only—they have to fill out a financial profile and everything.” Kylie lit up a joint and held it toward me.

“No thanks,” I said, waving it off. “So why aren’t you on it?”

“Who says I’m not?” Kylie shrugged. “But you’ve got the face, Faith. Dirty old men would pay a lot for a face like yours.”

“So they can pee on it?” I arched an eyebrow.

“Maybe.” She had another deep drag and laughed. “But seriously, what else are you going to do? Ten G by Friday is no joke. And I’m not trying to pile on, but Joe’s coming back this weekend, and he doesn’t want you sleeping on our couch anymore.” Joe was Kylie’s boyfriend, and he was a total dick. To be fair, I’d been staying with them in their tiny, gross apartment for two weeks without paying rent. I didn’t have any money. Every cent I had to my name had gone toward Lucas’s treatment, and there was nothing left.

So not only was my brother about to get kicked out of the trial and lose access to the only treatment that had managed to work for his rare form of cancer, we were going to be homeless again.

I sighed. “What’s the name of the app?”

Sugar Finder made it clear: plenty of dirty old men lived in the Boston area. Within five minutes of creating a profile, a lot of them “liked” my picture and had been texting me, asking me out for dinner and drinks. I was about to make a list and start accepting invites when another message popped up: An Offer You Can’t Refuse.

Curious—and also, dreading a dick pic—I clicked on the message.

Hello:

I work for a prominent dating agency in Boston and saw your profile. We would like to meet you ASAP. Our client is offering a six-figure signing bonus. Please respond to this message to set up a meeting.

It was signed User467533.

I read and re-read the message, the phrase six-figure signing bonus drawing my eyes again and again. Was User467533 an actual person who worked for an actual dating agency? I doubted it, but there was only one way to find out. Six figures was… Six figures.

I messaged them back. I’m interested in learning more.

They immediately texted back with an address in the South End, along with a meeting time: three thirty that afternoon. They instructed me to bring my driver’s license. See you at 3:30, Faith. This will be worth your while.

I googled the address, which belonged to a business named AccommoDating, Inc. I checked it out—it appeared to be a high-end dating agency. But this was the internet, the land of make-believe. My phone pinged again with a message from another Sugar Finder member, a dirty old man named John White. He wanted to buy me a drink. I didn’t respond.

Instead, I texted User467533. See you then.

Then I crossed myself for good measure.

CHAPTER TWO

accommodating, inc.

FAITH

I had to change trains twice, but I finally made it to the South End. I checked and re-checked the address on my phone. The neighborhood was fancy. The residences were expensive-looking brownstones with Range Rovers parked in front of them. When I reached the agency’s building, I hesitated. AccommoDating,read a small, tasteful bronze sign. I rang the buzzer, painfully aware of my thin jacket and ugly, cheap boots.

I hoped it was a dating agency—not some freak’s house. At the same time, I was petrified it was legitimate. Because… What kind of dating agency offered a six-figure signing bonus to some random girl from Sugar Finder?

I swallowed hard as I knocked. The door opened a moment later. “Hello,” said a tall, imposing, well-dressed woman. “You must be Faith. Come in—Gina’s waiting for you in the conference room.”

I followed the woman, who had short hair and wore a figure-hugging pantsuit. The scent of her perfume engulfed me as she clicked over the hardwood floors. “I’m Elena, by the way,” she said.

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