“You like coke?” Rob whispered to me, his breath hot on my ear. “We’ve got enough to share.” I nodded, even though it was a lie. I had never liked it very much, the way it made my heart buzz, the too-sweet drip of it down my throat. “I’m assuming you’ll also share some of your winnings, Mr. Big Shot.” I could do it: be this stupid, this bold. That’s what they wanted, all of them. Matthew ranting on about how stories matter more than money, more than success. Ramona nodding in agreement, that you become the story you tell.

“I see.” He didn’t sound surprised. I suppose I had wanted him to.

“What are you waiting for?” Clara was watching me again. I wanted her to feel the force of what she had provoked. I was young. I had a body that was firm and soft in the right proportions. I had good skin and long hair. Why couldn’t I use these fleeting gifts to a particular end? Besides, Matthew had and without my permission. Now, at least, I was the one making the choice, offering myself up. I would get all of the benefits of whatever exchange we worked out.

Fuck off, I texted Matthew, as I climbed down from my barstool. But I was still thinking about what words I would use to tell him about this experience. The look of awe and disgust and finally respect coming into his face. And it would answer Clara’s prophecy: I would hit rock bottom. I would fall again before I could rise. The bad fate would buy the good. I pictured all of my misery reversing suddenly and absolutely, like the tipping of a seesaw.

The men lay bills on the bar and led us back through the floor, toward the eastern tower.

Clara edged closer. “Are you sure about this?” she whispered.

“What? You do it. It’s like you said, no big deal. Under control.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“So what did you mean?”

In front of us the men were talking, too—probably about money. Who could pay for us. How much we would cost them. Whether they should drop us and head to a strip joint instead. What was my value, to the dollar? I had wondered this, too, after Matthew’s show, when I read that it had sold out. A piece of me had been in the offing then, too. I suddenly had so many questions for Clara. Would the money always feel paltry, the amount too low? What did she do if someone didn’t want to pay? Did she ever sleep with anyone simply because she wanted to? Or was she ruined for anything like genuine lust?

“It’s harder than that. It takes a piece of you away. And you don’t need to do anything with these guys. You should go. Before we get into the elevator with them.”