Page 2 of Scout
Not because I don’t want to—but because her mom and I... we don’t exactly get along. Technically, Juniper's my half-sister. Same dad, different moms. Our dad died when Juniper was twoand I was thirteen, and after that, everything sort of cracked down the middle.
My mom? A literal angel on Earth. But she moved to Florida last year with her fiancé, and I stayed behind. For Juniper. She's the only family I’ve got left around here—and more importantly, sheneedssomeone.
Her mom’s too busy chasing bottles and bad decisions to pay attention to her. And we’ve got this unspoken agreement. I cover Juniper’s extra expenses—school clothes, field trips, braces, whatever. In exchange, her mom got to use the rest of Dad’s insurance to pay off the house and her car when I turned eighteen. And she keeps whatever loser she’s shacking up with away from my little sister.
Juniper’s smart. She’s honest. I’d know if anything happened.
That’s why I got her an iPhone on my plan. So she can call or text me, any time, no matter what.
It’s not perfect, but it works. And it keeps her safe.
I wait until the door shuts before backing out of the driveway and heading toward the city. The Tesla’s quiet, just this soft hum under me as I drive. It’s smooth—reallysmooth. Clean, too. And mine. Paid off. Every last cent.
My parking spot in the garage is numbered and sleek. Just like the rest of the building. It’s the kind of place where the elevator has mood lighting and no one makes eye contact. I swipe my key card and nod to the doorman like I belong here, which, technically, I do. But barely.
As I cross the lobby, I open my phone and thumb through my inbox.
One new message and it’s from Jovette.
My lips twitch before I even read it. Jovette. We’ve only talked a few times; once during my Foxy’s orientation, and a couple phone calls after that, but she left an impression. Down-to-earth. No-nonsense. Kind under all the steel. You need that kind of spine to work at an agency like Foxy’s.
See, that’s how I’m twenty-two and living in a luxury apartment with a brand new Tesla and enough disposable income to spoil my little sister for the hell of it.
Foxy’s pays me to date.
I know how it sounds. But it’s legit. Lavish dates, high-end events, fake boyfriends for hire. Sometimes the clients want company. Sometimes they want a distraction. Sometimes, yeah, they want more. And if they’re hot and respectful—well. Who am I to say no?
The job helped me figure out my sexuality, rebuild my confidence, and build a solid savings account.
And no—I don’t feel bad about it.
Because this job? It’s perfect for me. I’m not built for real love. Not after the string of exes who made it perfectly clear I was just a placeholder. Second best. Something to pass the time until someonebettercame along.
You only have to hear “you’re not enough” so many times before it sticks.
I open Jovette’s email as the elevator doors slide shut behind me.
Subject: New Booking – URGENT RESPONSE NEEDED
Some fancy hospital gala. Charity, black tie. The guy wants to make his ex jealous. Classic.
I skim the rest—his name’s Kendrix, thirty-one, a surgeon, apparently hot enough to makemedo a double-take on his profile photo. Brown skin, sharp jaw, the kind of eyes that saydon’t mess with me unless you’re serious.
The event is Saturday at eight PM. My job? Look infatuated. Be pretty. Laugh at the right times. Flash the kind of smile that makes people wonder what we did in the limo.
Easy money.
I hit “Accept.”
By the time I reach my floor, Foxy’s has already approved it. Another ping—fifteen hundred dollars lands in my account.
I smile as I slip my key into the door, step into my apartment, and drop my keys in the bowl just inside. The place smells faintly of cedarwood and laundry detergent, and the lights come on low with a soft click. I keep it clean—sleek white walls, matte black hardware, minimal furniture that still somehow looks expensive. My couch cost more than my first car. The framed prints on the wall are all weird abstract lines, but they make me feel like I live in a place adults live in.
It’s the kind of apartment you walk into and forget I’m twenty-two.
I shrug off my jacket, toe off my sneakers, and grab a protein bar before flopping onto the couch. Before I can even think about zoning out, I pull up my messages and text Juniper.
Me: Home. You good?
