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cream of the crop
     
    As she stood in front of the posh hotel room door clenching her scarlet purse in an ironclad fist, Amy swallowed hard and almost choked. Her mouth was as dry as the Mojave Desert, but the ball of nerves coiled tightly in the pit of her gut took the cake. Worst case scenario? If she threw up now, would she feel better? Probably not.
    The brass numbers that read 1608 on the door glimmered in the low light of the hallway. As a couple walked by, she pretended to look for the key card in her purse. When she heard the elevator ding, only then did she exhale.
    What the hell am I doing? she thought for the hundredth time. Trying to maintain a three point seven GPA, that's what.
    In her final year of corporate law, she needed money to complete her degree and get out of debt. The string of student loans she'd acquired the last three years hung like a noose over her head. She despised owing anyone, least of all the Government. Debt did strange things to a person's self-esteem. It made them make decisions that perhaps weren't too smart. Standing here now, she was certain this was one of them.
    It didn ’t matter how people worded the profession. Call Girl. Prostitute. Lady of the Night. There was no denying what she was doing. The bottom line—she escorting for money, and this hotel room could be either a barrier or another path down the long, winding road Amy Radcliffe called her life.
    Not that long ago she ’d stood in the office of Patrice Marshall, owner of Cream of the Crop Escort Agency . The older woman had sported an air of smug-importance. The business suit she wore over her rail-thin body cost more than Amy made in six months working as a waitress at Santino’s Diner. And that was including tips.
    Patrice made her twirl in one spot as she scrutinized every inch of her body. When she 'd asked Amy to take off her clothes, panic had set in. The monetary gain Trisha had raved on for months about proved too difficult to resist, however. Standing in the buff and feeling foolish as hell, she couldn't help but wonder whether the job was worth it. Then again, she wouldn't know unless she tried. It'd be a rainy day in Hell if she ever backed down from a challenge. That's just who she was. Being raised in group homes and making her way in life alone, she'd learned early that whatever life had to offer you either worked hard in order to achieve it or you ended up as a waitress at some five-and-dime diner for the rest of your life. She'd vowed long ago that wasn't going to happen to her.
    With an impatient nod, Patrice had motioned her to dress. Then she began writing in a gold leather bound book. “You’ll do fine,” she said, glancing up over her glasses that were attached to a chain around her neck. “We always have requests for natural blondes. It’s not every day that the cuffs match the carpet, if you know what mean.”
    “ Um, exactly what does the job entail?” Amy dared to ask.
    The woman ’s inquisitive stare drilled through her, making her feel more naked than she'd been a minute ago. Feeling like some dissected bug under a microscope, she shifted from foot to foot.
    “ That depends on you and the amount of money you want to make. I’ll be in touch.” The woman pursed her pencil-thin lips and dismissed her just like that. To add insult to injury, she gave a nonchalant wave of her fingers as if to tell her to hurry up before resuming her attention back to that damn book.
    *~*~*
    A month later, as Amy walked the sunny trails of NYU’s campus on her way to criminology class, Patrice called again. She'd been putting the woman off for two weeks now. She had no choice but to deal with the situation.
    The cold, sugarcoated tone in her ear made her stop dead in her tracks.
    “ Look, Ms. Radcliffe,” Patrice began. “I hired you to do a job. It’s a simple task with lots of potential.” A drawn out sigh echoed through the phone. “Look, I understand school comes first, but you either take this