Chapter Text
When Raven told her to get back on track and move on, Clarke didn’t think she would find herself sitting on top of her unmade bed and in front of her laptop, browsing through an escort agency website looking for a good company on a Friday afternoon. She is angry — at Finn and at herself for being stupid enough to be played with — and she craves for angry sex. Clarke knows better than to try to sleep with any one of her friends, she’s not going to cross that line since she’s needy and frustrated because her boyfriend ex-boyfriend cheated on her with his little sister’s admittedly very hot math tutor.
It has been almost an hour of endless, desperate scrolling when she sighs. There are pictures of the escorts above their names and contact information and they’re all attractive but Clarke wanted a good fuck and not a good-looking model for her new project (that’s what her friends are for). She takes a glance at the screen and dials the number of the agency before shutting the laptop close.
“Hello, Good Afternoon.” Someone answers the calls after half a ring. It was very rare that she didn’t have to wait longer for a response. A+ Customer Services. So far so good, Clarke notes, also, very polite. “This is Grounder Grind,” Clarke was so needy she didn’t even get to read the name of the agency earlier and it sounds fairly comical out loud but oddly sexual at the same time, she has to stifle a giggle. “How can we help you today?”
Clarke is not sure what to say. “I, um.”She never thought there would come a time where she would literally order and pay for someone she could sleep with. This feels a lot like pizza, Clarke notes again. Except it’s not pizza this time. “I would like to book an escort.”
“Oh,” There is a pause from the other line and she uses the time to wonder what other services does Grounder Grind offer. “Thank you for settling on our agency, we have a catalogue on our website where you could—”
She cuts the teller off, “Yeah, I know. I looked through it just now but I couldn’t decide.” The teller hums in understanding as Clarke puts pressure on her forehead with her palm, “Is there a random option?”
“Yes, of course. But you could also e-mail us with your preference or type, identification and contact information at [email protected] and we would arrange the meeting.” The teller says.
“Okay, um. I’d just send you the details then. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, thank you for choosing our services. Have a nice day.” The teller hangs up first, Clarke pockets her phone and lifts her laptop open. Thank you for choosing our services, It’s not like she had any other choice, she’s not familiar with this kind of business and it’s the first result that came out when she inputted um, sex for sale? on the search bar.
Clarke realizes she didn’t think this through. She just wanted to forget about Finn and the many things (things that made her swoon and things that made her mourn) he did to her but here she is, typing an application letter to an escort agency for their services. It feels strange but she also feels ignorant for thinking that she just have to call someone for a one-night stand when there is clearly more work to do than just a talk on the phone. She doesn’t take a step back, nevertheless. Clarke proceeds on constructing her e-mail. This whole thing reminds me of college. From ordering pizza to writing applications. Is it bad to be comparing these two completely different things?
She’s almost done with the letter when she thinks about her preference. If she wants to forget Finn — she needs change, she needs to get out of her comfort zone. And she could think of one change that would be most applicable to the situation she is in right now.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Client
Hello. My name is Clarke and I would like to make an appointment with an escort. It’s my first time trying this service and I have decided the date — is tomorrow @ 8pm alright? (But of course if you would like to have our meeting, the escort and I, on a different time and day, I’m fine with whenever you’re pleased to schedule it. The place is also not a problem. We can discuss it in further correspondence. You can find my number at the end of this e-mail.) I have no specific preference or “type” except — can I ask for a queer girl?
Contact number: xxx-xxxx-xxxx
Clarke clicks on the send button and it feels like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She’s not burdened about writing an e-mail, she just feels nervous — which was evident with the way she wrote the letter. It seems too formal for Clarke’s liking. She also regrets typing the last line. She doesn’t regret requesting for a queer girl, she regrets requesting for a queer girl the way she did. She hopes whoever gets to read it doesn’t take offense. She made queer girls sound like something they’re not, like a product for a customer’s consumption or entertainment — which in this case, as escorts, they somewhat are. But she knows better than to judge someone who works for a living and earns enough money to support their family, no matter the occupation is.
//
Clarke springs out of the bathroom, arms clutching her chest and a towel wrapped around her torso. Shamefully enough, this is the first time she took a shower after breaking up with him. She figures if she want to move on, she has to stop being such a lazy fucking potato just because her heart was broken by a fuckboy.
She’s twenty-three, jesus christ.
She needs to step up her game of Being A Grown Ass Woman if she wants to conquer the world, she should start eating healthier, too and it’d be nice to work out at least once before she meets her escort, it’d be embarrassing to request for someone if she doesn’t look good herself.
When she’s dressed, Clarke fishes her phone from a dump of her dirty clothes, dials a batch of digits (she had it memorized for her convenience) and orders a — who would’ve thought — pizza. I guess I have to pause my game of Being A Grown Ass Woman for now.
She makes her bed and changes the sheets. It’s the only messy spot left in her room, she managed to force herself to clean before heading for a shower.
When she opens her laptop, there is already a new e-mail waiting for her.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Client
Good Afternoon. We received your letter of request for our services, you are not going to regret this decision.
For your preference as you made it clear in your letter, we have a number of queer girls available at your designated time, tomorrow at 8pm, and since you mentioned that this is your first time, we would make sure you get the most out of this experience by assigning you to our best one of them.
However, we need you to go to our website, groundgrind.com, and read the etiquette page. We offer our customers want they want, and we offer our escorts their safety. Thank you.
Here is the escort’s contact number for you to discuss the details of the meeting: xxx-xxxx-xxxx
Clarke saves the number immediately, she didn’t think it would be this fast. One minute she’s weeping about getting cheated on, then she’s about to see an escort the next.
She refrains from calling the escort though, she didn’t want to seem eager. Instead, she goes to the website earlier and checks the etiquette page the e-mail mentioned.
She almost regrets her decision after reading the whole thing when the doorbell rings. An escort’s job is more complicated than she thought. Their safety (perhaps hers too, soon) is on the line. There were cases of abusive clients, as written on the website, and it made Clarke feel worse than she already did doing this. The doorbell rings once again and she hopes it’s the delivery boy and not Raven or Octavia or Bellamy or any of her friends or her mom because then she’d have to tell them about the escort and frankly, she doesn’t want them to know about it. At least for now. They can always smell dirt when she’s hiding something.
Clarke deflates in relief when she opens the door and sees a boy in a yellow and black uniform, holding up a box. She makes sure to generously tip him before snatching her food from his hand and shutting the door close.
//
She remembers to text the escort later that day when she was about to take a bite from her sixth slice of Hawaiian pizza.
Clarke (10:24pm): hi.
Clarke (10:27pm): I’m clarke um. your future client?
She receives a phone call a few moments later, Clarke tries very hard to not sound panicked.
“Hello, is this Clarke Griffin?” comes from the other line. She didn’t know what to expect from her escort, but their voice is either undeniably attractive, or it’s just the effect of locking herself in her house for a week and not hearing from anyone else besides few of her concerned friends.
“Yeah, um.” Clarke swallows, “Are you the um, escort?”
She thinks she hears a chuckle before the response. “Yes, ma’am.”
//
Clarke (10:36pm): the coordinates to my house xxx-xxxx
Clarke (10:37pm): I work as a nurse at the city hospital. heres the landline number so you can check im not police xxx-xxxx
Clarke (10:39pm): pls dont tell them youre an escort my moms going to kill me
Clarke (10:39pm): I dont mean theres something wrong with being an escort sorry
Clarke (10:39pm): shes my boss too and if she finds out why im skipping my shifts im dead
Escort (10:41pm): I just called the hospital to confirm you work there. I’m sorry about this, we have to be extra cautious.
Clarke (10:45pm): no it’s totally fine safety first right?
Escort (10:45pm): Right.
Escort (10:47pm): I asked them if someone named Clarke Griffin happens to work there, they told me there is and that she hadn’t been seen in the hospital for a week now.
Escort (10:47pm): I hope they do not think you are dead or kidnapped or something.
//
Clarke wakes up with a groan when she hears her phone roar her out of sleep. She sits up, swiftly turning her alarm off and tries not falling back to bed. She has gym plans today and she’s not going to ruin it because she’s a Grown Ass Woman. Octavia’s probably going to be there and Clarke’s going to get grilled for finally getting out of her house for the first time since she’d been single and her friend would probably try to hook her up with everyone inside the establishment and Clarke is going to hate every second of it but is going to be thankful of her wonderful friend at the same time.
(And when Octavia asks what’s gotten in her head for motivation to work out, she’d have to lie and say she’s Being A Grown Ass Woman and not because she is having an escort at her house later this day and she wants to look toned and also that she is lowkey very excited about it.)
She checks her phone, there isn’t a new text from her escort. Clarke feels bad for wondering if she’s going to get charged extra for texting her. She doesn’t have any money problems and she’s financially stable for rest of her life with too much paper bills left for her to spend so she’ll be fine with whatever rate the escort asks her for (she refrains from thinking about how a part of that came from her father’s insurance).
Clarke doesn’t know the escort’s name and she had been too afraid she would say something disrespectful to her so she didn’t ask. But she had a lovely voice over the phone and an excessively polite way of messaging.
She’s almost sure the escort’s amazing in bed.
//
Lexa is gathering her books after the last period of her morning classes when she glances at her phone and realizes Anya left her some messages.
Anya (12:06): Costia is going to start throwing things everywhere if you don’t get back home soon.
Anya (12:07): Seriously.
Anya (12:07): I know you’re in class right now but she threatened to fight me if I don’t text you to hurry up and come see her.
Anya (12:08): I don’t understand why you call her an angel, she acts like a fucking devil sometimes.
Lexa (12:47): Yeah. A really adorable one, unfortunately.
Lexa (12:47): Tell her I’ll be there in 10.
The smile on Lexa’s face is wide when she walks down the hallway and it doesn’t fade when she rides her bicycle. There is a 30-minute distance from her university to the orphanage if you travel by foot but at least she has a bicycle that Indra gave on her sixteenth birthday as a gift but also as a “thank you” for helping her watch over the children through the years. It was a natural thing to do, the orphans are her friends and she’s just like them — abandoned in the streets when she was an infant and utterly oblivious. The orphanage is her only home.
Costia is already waiting in front of the gate when she parks her bike.
“Alexandria!” She doesn’t even get the chance to greet back— Costia dashes, thrashing her body against Lexa and traps her in a tight embrace, lanky, tiny arms capturing her calves for dear life.
Lexa crotches down to level the little girl’s height, “Hey there, Cos.” She says, ruffling Costia’s hair. “Anya said you were looking for me?”
“Yes.” The little girl pouts, “I missed you, Alexandria.”
Lexa wraps her arms around Costia, standing up and carrying her on her chest. “You did not come home last night. Why?”
She did not want to lie, at least not when she could just dodge the question. “Well. I am here now, Cos.” Lexa tells her instead of giving an answer.
“Can we go play in the flower garden like the last time?”
“Your wish is my command, angel.” She says. Costia cheers in excitement, wiggling in Lexa's arms.
Costia came into the orphanage when Lexa was twelve, a baby covered in a thin, white cloth that is barely warm enough to protect her from the slightest sway of the freezing winter breeze on a late December. Lexa knew from Indra that three month old Costia was found left in a cold vacant seat of a city bus crying helplessly six years ago. Costia is her responsibility because she is family, and so is the other 309 children in the facility. They are her people and she would do everything for each and everyone of them (even if it means selling her body to spiritless, excessively rich businessmen just so she can maintain the weekly food budget of the orphanage. She does what she has to do).
Anya is standing along the blue catmints in her work uniform with a distressed look on her face when they found their way to the garden.
“Jesus Christ, Lexa. Thank God, she's with you. I thought she ran away.” She sighs in relief before playfully glaring at the child in Lexa's arms. Costia pokes her tongue out at her in return.
“I was not aware of your avid religiousness, Anya.” Lexa jokes.
The latter shakes her head in defeat as she lets out a laugh that is barely audible. “Whatever. I'll be back at seven.” Anya knocks Costia's forehead once which elicits a giggle from the little girl before scooting pass the two. “Take care of the kids.” She tells Lexa as she gives a nonchalant wave.
Lexa microscopically nods, Anya rushes to the gate and then she's gone.
Anya usually takes care of the children in morning hours together with other older orphans while Lexa attends her classes. When Lexa comes back from the university, she is in charge because Anya would be working in a fast-food restaurant as a waitress in the afternoon and then Lexa heads off to her job at night when Anya returns from her shift.
(Everyone, including Anya and Indra and Costia, thinks she's still working at Quint's shop. However, Lexa can't help but notice the insufficiency of their salaries for the expense of food to feed her people, she also has college fees to pay and the children's personal necessities like clothes to buy. She needed fast money, plenty of money.
And she knew exactly how to earn it.)