Page 37 of Dirty Damage

“What?”

“You’re flashing that ass all over the internet. I knew those photos would pay off; I just had no idea how much.”

My tongue is a brick in my mouth. I have to swallow twice before I can choke out a simple, “What?”

“I’ve seen the comments. You’re fetching high-end escort prices, girl.”

I thought turning off my phone would end the objectification. But here’s my own sister, serving it up with a side of encouragement.

Stay calm. Don’t engage.

But the words spill out anyway, venom I can’t contain. “I’m not gonna spread my legs for money, Syd.”

That gets her attention. Her million-watt smile dims a few degrees.

“Obviously. But there must be some modeling offers in there, too. This could be really great for?—”

“Oh, it’s amazing,” I seethe sarcastically. “Some guy wants me to send him nudes for five hundred dollars. He’ll double the price if I eat a hotdog at the same time.”

She hesitates, and I see the wheels turning behind her perfectly lined eyes. “Five hundred dollars just for nudes? Are you serious?”

“Oh my God!” I screech. “Stop making this sound like a good thing!”

Her frown cracks the porcelain mask she’s painted on. “Why are you freaking out? Why put the pictures out there if you don’t want anyone to see them?”

Have I really not told her? Between quitting my job and meeting my former boss on his private yacht to discuss being his surrogate, I guess I’ve been busy.

“I didn’t put them up, Syd. Some deranged helicopter mom blasted them on every social media site in revenge. Apparently, she doesn’t think porn stars should be wiping her kid’s snotty nose.”

My sister sits back, hands raised. “Hold on. Start from the top. Why did you send your pictures to your daycare parents?”

Heat crawls up my neck as I explain my epic Reply All disaster.

How I digitally flashed my entire company when I only meant to send the photos to her.

How I torpedoed my career with one click.

I’m ready for her to backtrack—apologize for making jokes and bid me farewell on my life of witness protection.

Instead, she laughs.

I gawk at her. “This is not funny!”

“Well, it’s definitely alittlefunny.” She gives me awhat-are-ya-gonna-doshrug. “And it’s not the end of the world. People have seen you in lingerie—who cares?”

“The parents of my future clients!” I snap. “Future employers!ME!I care, Syd.”

I had plans. Real ones. Going back to school. Getting a degree in early childhood education. Building something meaningful from this daycare gig.

But now, when people Google my name, they’ll find themselves in a deep dive of my lace-clad cervix.

Dreams? Dead on arrival.

“I know you didn’t mean for this to happen, but you need to learn to pivot. Turn this bad thing into something useful.”

With all that makeup caked on her face, my sister looks a heck of a lot like our mom.

She sounds like her, too.

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