Adrift

subscribers?”
“Yes, for the most part, yes.”
“I’ve read that additional income can be derived from individual requests. What percentage of your income would you estimate comes from these kinds of arrangements?”
Heat radiated all around me. I’d expected questions about my current income, but I’d thought he’d focus more on my restaurant business plan.
“A small percentage.”
“Can you be more specific?”
I thought through the special random requests. Photos of me in specific costumes. Answering messages. A hundred bucks here and there. I ballparked my answer. “Less than twenty percent.”
He stood up and walked around the desk to sit in the chair beside me. I wore a slimming black dress with a suit jacket. His gaze fell pointedly to my exposed knee, then traveled up.
Confusion circled. I uncrossed my legs and placed my leather portfolio flat on my thighs. His vacated desk chair taunted me. He leaned against his desk and rested his hands on the edge.
“Do you have questions regarding my business plan?”
“No. To be frank, Ms. Smith, your plan needs some additional work. It’s rare for a bank to invest in a restaurant, especially one started by someone without restaurant experience and no college degree.”
“I have experience. I practically ran Jules for years.”
“Ms. Smith, there is a difference between practically and ran. But I believe with some work, we can get your application to a point where this bank, or maybe another bank, would be willing to make a small business loan. I find a woman with your entrepreneurial spirit to be intriguing, and I’d be willing to help you.”
“You would?”
“Potentially, yes.” His gaze fell to my lap. “The Holiday Inn on Market Street has a nice bar. Are you familiar with it?”
It took me a minute to process exactly what he was saying. I looked him over, hoping I heard him wrong. He had to be in his fifties. But in a quick minute, I comprehended the situation. What an asshole.
I stood and leaned over his desk. As expected, a family photograph of himself, wife, and three kids filled the larger frame. Two awkward middle-school-aged kids, one in braces, completed the smaller frame. I straightened and looked him in the face, not that he’d know that because his gaze fell to my chest. “Thank you for your time.”
With two steps he blocked my easy exit. He reached forward, and I stepped back, ready to scream like a banshee, but he didn’t touch me. He offered me a business card.
“If you decide you’d like to meet, here’s my contact information. Your application isn’t quite where it needs to be, but with some coaching, you could get it there. I’d be happy to help you. I’ve been mentoring young entrepreneurs for the better part of two decades.”
I mumbled a thank you and rushed out of the building. I drove to the nearest Starbucks and ordered a salted caramel mocha creme Frappuccino.
“Would you like whipped cream on that?”
“As much as possible.” The barista smiled, a warm, normal smile. A heavy weight replaced the mild shock of a loan officer offering to meet at a Holiday Inn for a coaching session.
I sat in a chair by the window and replayed the meeting. Had I read between the lines? Jumped to conclusions? He didn’t actually say anything out of line. Was I too sensitive? Paranoid? Maybe he did only want to coach me. I needed it.
By the time I’d eaten every last bit of whipped cream, I determined that no, I hadn’t jumped to conclusions. I’d reacted with my gut, and I’d been damn smart to get out of that office. He wasn’t my only chance. I had a list of other banks.
In under five minutes, he brought up my lack of a college degree. I worried that would be an ongoing issue. I tapped my fingers, evaluating what happened and what I learned. I’d been completely honest on the loan application. Next time, I could reposition my OnlyFans business. Perhaps list it as a photography business. One Google search and people could come away with all kinds of perceptions.
My phone lit up. An image of Scarlet and her cat filled the screen. Scarlet and I joined OnlyFans around the same time and became fast friends after sharing comments on the same post in a private Facebook group for content creators.
“Hey.” I pressed the phone against my ear and stared out the window.
“Whoa. What’s wrong?”
I sighed long and hard. “I had that meeting with the banker.”
“Oh, snap.”
“Yep. I expected rejections. Still sucks. I’m drowning my sorrows in hot java and whipped cream.”
“Why are you even trying to get a loan? I swear, right there in Wilmington is a very successful studio. You could work with them for a couple of months and pay cash.”
“Scarlet. That’s not for me.”
“It’s just sex. I mean, if it’s not for you, it’s not for you. No judgment. But think about it. Yeah, it’s filmed. But you can make so much money. And they do the marketing. You get paid up front. It doesn’t have to be your career, but it could get you that jump-start you need. I mean, you have sex anyway, right?”
“Right,” I mumbled. Wrong, actually. My one and only shattered my big, fat heart into a gazillion smashed pieces. The next time I had sex with someone, it wouldn’t be easy, and it wouldn’t be something I wanted on film.
Since entering the OnlyFans world, I’d met men and women with a different world view. I didn’t hold it against them. We all survived hard times in our own way. And, actually, some of the performers I’d become friends with had pride in their work. And why not? The porn industry remained the most profitable internet segment, as had been pointed out in more than one post in our private group. That meant an awful lot of someones were participating. But I had to be true to myself, and the porn life wouldn’t be good for me. I got red-cheeked at the thought of people who knew me