"Oh, that is a hard one. There are so many places I loved. The Met. Strand. Getting tea at Harney & Sons which always made me feel a lot more sophisticated than I actually am," I admitted, smiling at the way I would carefully sip my tea, sitting ramrod straight in my chair as I did so. "So where is your favorite place when you travel?"
"The Maldives is beautiful. France. Italy."
Okay then.
So whoever GAPPR was, he was traveled. The way rich people were traveled. I couldn't help but wonder why a man who had a life that let him see some of the most amazing countries on the planet was spending the night talking to me in a chat room.
"If you don't mind me asking, where are you joining me from now?"
"California. It was the second place I called home. I guess it stuck."
"Know of any good places to get some furniture?" I asked, figuring that someday, I would have a little extra money to invest in some decent furniture that didn't come from a big box store at a steep discount. Thanks to people like him who were willing to part with their money for just a couple minutes of my time.
"Depends on your style, I guess," GAPPR told me.
"Can 'comfortable' be considered a style? I hate when people have white couches that make it clear they've never sat on them with a cup of hot chocolate and binged watched Netflix."
"Comfortable is definitely a style. I've had my living room couch since I was nineteen. It was the first expensive furniture purchase I ever made. Everything before then was from a box store. It's old and the leather is starting to wear. But it's the most comfortable thing I own."
"My living room couch feels like it is stuffed with pieces of even more uncomfortable couches," I told him, feeling my lips curl up.
"Well, that won't do. But I remember the scrimping days. Why isn't your account set up?"
"It is," I corrected, brows furrowing. "Or else we wouldn't be talking."
"You don't have any of your stores listed. Or Paypal."
My gaze slipped to my desk, scanning over the sticky notes stuck there, seeing one about stores and Paypal, but I guess I hadn't been paying enough attention when they were talking about it because I had no idea what any of it meant.
"I'm afraid I'm new to this," I admitted, figuring it was better than lying.
"Normally, you would have a list of stores you like and an email. So that guys like me could take advantage of that."
"Take advantage of that?"
"Send you gift cards to your email, so you can do online shopping. Or simply send you money to your Paypal so that you can put it into your bank account."
"But you're already spending money. To... talk to us."
"Many of us think some of you are worth spoiling," he said.
"That sounds like a cheesy pickup line at a dive bar," I teased. "I, ah, I guess I'm not someone who is used to being spoiled."
"Not even by boyfriends?"
Alone in my room, I snorted. "If Chinese take out and convenience store flowers on my birthday counts as spoiling..."
"Christ, that's sad, baby."
It was a testament to how needy I was for some connection, for some kindness, that his little throwaway endearment made my belly wobble a little.
"Hey, at least he remembered," I said, feeling bad for trash talking an ex even if what I was saying was the truth.
"That is the absolute bare minimum he could do," GAPPR told me. "Beautiful women should be spoiled."
"Maybe I am hunchbacked and hairy-lipped," I told him.
"Would you let me see you?"
Well, I walked right into that one, didn't I?
I mean, obviously, he would eventually ask me to turn on the camera. That was how this worked. Sure, maybe he would want to talk a little bit, but this was an extension of a porn streaming service. Of course he would want things to get a little less G-rated.
"If I can figure this out," I told him, figuring if there was anyone to begin this whole thing with, GAPPR was a good start. At least he had eased into it.
"Take your time."
I tried three things before I saw my face pop up on the screen.
"There we go."
"You're beautiful."
It was vain, but my belly wobbled again at the compliment.
"Are you blushing?"
There was no way to hide. "This is my first webcam."
I could talk to him now. I didn't turn on the microphone. But I wasn't ready for that. I was hoping GAPPR didn't push.
"Is that the first time you've been called beautiful too?" GAPPR pressed. "If so, everyone you've ever met must have been dealing with some major vision issues."
"Thank you," I typed, unsure what else to say, unable to look at the camera while I was being complimented.
"It's getting late. Do you have work tomorrow?"
"I have about an hour before I really need to get to bed. But yes. I, ah, have two jobs tomorrow actually."
"Is either your dream job?"
"No." That sounded too harsh, too sad. "I worked my dream job in New York for years," I added. "I had to move back here unexpectedly. So I am working jobs to get me by. But I hope someday to get back to it."
"What was your dream job?"
"I worked at a non-profit that helped get the homeless off the streets."
"Oh, wow. That sounds challenging."
"It is. Was. And fulfilling. But also really heartbreaking at times as well."
"I bet. California has a large homeless population just like New York."
"They do. But not as many openings in the non-profits as you might hope. But I will get back into that line of work eventually."
From there, the conversation slipped to other, more meaningless things. If I surfed. If I liked the beach at all. Where were my favorite places to eat. What music I listened to.
Each time I gave him some information, he gave me some as well. Little snippets of the nameless, faceless man behind a computer. Who, even an hour later, did not once ask for me to take off my top or, well, whatever things men might want when they got a woman on webcam.
"Take care, Rosie," GAPPR signed off, leaving the chat a moment later.
No one else had come on the entire time we talked. And while I knew I was supposed to be disappointed, seeing as the more men there were, the more money I would make, all I felt was a small slice of contentment as I got myself ready for bed.
It was the first time since I left New York that I felt even a tiny bit normal, that I felt like just an average human being. Not a grieving daughter. Not the executor of a crumbling estate. Not the sister to an equally grieving and mentally unwell brother. Not a check-out girl at a market I couldn't afford. Not the new neighbor that everyone pretended not to be eyeing as I moved around. And not, as of recently, a porn star.
I just got to be myself.
Without pity or concern or even expectations.
I didn't remember the last time someone asked me about favorite movies or music or food.
It was strange the kinds of things a person could take for granted.
It was the first night in a long time that I didn't toss and turn, anxiety curdling my stomach, closing a hand around my throat.
In my dreams, a faceless man came to me, curling me into his chest, sifting his fingers through my hair, murmuring that things would work out, that everything would be okay. That he was going to be there for me.
In the morning, the memory was hazy around the edges, but I could have sworn that the hands were ones I had felt exploring my body, that the voice was one I had heard whispering low, sexy things in my ear.
The voice of a man I was going to see later that evening.
I didn't stop to consider how problematic dreams about him could be, how detrimental it could be to me to blur those lines between work and, well, not.
I simply plowed ahead.
And hoped for the best.
SEVEN
Preston
I signed off feeling both satisfied... and completely disgusted
with myself.
For keeping the truth from her.
For, in a detached sort of way, manipulating her.
For being possessive and secretive.
I had tried to talk myself out of it, had left from work to hit the gym, doing reps until my muscles screamed, gone for a long run around my neighborhood, hit the market to get food to actually cook myself dinner. I was just trying to keep myself busy, keep the temptation at bay, stay the hell out of my home office, away from my computer, away from her.
But as I ran out of other things to do, I found myself grabbing a glass of Scotch, and making my way into the spare bedroom that I'd converted into my office given that I never had any overnight guests anyway.
I managed to force myself to do some work, getting the email in from Cooper about the test results for the actors and actresses who hadn't been able to make it in while I was still in the office.
Negative.
All negative.
Of everything.
I should have felt relief. All there was, though, after the threat of altered lives was gone, was the remaining anger. At him. At the situation. At myself for not seeing the signs earlier.
And that was about when Rosie finally signed on.
I didn't plan to talk to her about it. But after hearing she had a rough day too, I found myself wanting to know more. And when it came to online conversations, to get, you had to give. And I damn sure wanted to get.
She was right, too.
I needed to let the anger go.
I needed to get Ryker the help he needed.
Maybe I would never let him back in the company, but if he didn't get help, there was a risk of him going elsewhere, taking more chances, risking more people.
I made a mental note to reach out, offer to get him into an in-treatment center.
Then she'd told me about caring for someone. A parent, I figured. That made sense why she had needed to uproot what had sounded like a happy, comfortable life, move clear across the country, and begin again. Maybe the sudden need for money had something to do with their care, needing equipment to help with their care or pay for a health worker for when she couldn't be around.
Something foreign to me - a churning discomfort - moved around my chest and stomach for a long time before I recognized it for what it was. Guilt. As though I was somehow taking advantage of her even though she had come to me, she had decided to take money in exchange for the scenes, for access to her via webcam.
Rosie was, in her apartment, in her life, precisely what I had expected. Good, sweet, a little silly. With a somewhat unhealthy addiction to queso and dip and a love of early 2000s hip hop as her personal guilty pleasure. She blushed if you complimented her, avoided eye-contact until she felt more comfortable. Her eyes got small when she laughed. Her fingers tapped - on the desk, on her cheek, on each other - when she was thinking.
The longer we talked - the longer I watched - the more I realized how bad an idea it was to have more access to her. Because the more I got, the more I wanted.
And I couldn't have any more.
I had as much as I was ever going to get.
That fact didn't sit right with me as I got ready for my day the next morning, as I drove to work, as I signed into the portal at work to find she had hooked up her PayPal before - I imagined - she left for work. She'd also set up a few, unusual stores.
Greg's Graphic Novel Garage - a secondhand graphic novel website that used digital gift cards in store as well.
She didn't strike me as a graphic novel reader. But, then again, who knew. She had said she liked Strand in the city. While I hadn't scoured every inch of it to be sure, I imagined they had a graphic novel section as well.
Then there was a connection for a local chain discount store that specialized in imperfect art, non-name-brand beauty and cleaning products, and a housewares section that had about twenty-thread count sheets on sale for less than fifteen bucks. For a queen-sized bed.
Then, finally, a little upscale market that I had happened into a time or two that boasted a lot of prepared meals that were easy to grab to bring to work or home if you didn't feel like ordering in or cooking.
Somehow, given that everything else was discount or second-hand, I had a feeling that she chose the store for convenience. Like she was there a lot. Like, possibly, she worked there.
But that was where I was going to draw the line, I decided as I opened a tab to send a Greg's Graphic Novel Garage gift card to her email. I wasn't going to invade on her work. I wasn't going to demand more of her time.
I wasn't going to become a full-blown fucking stalker.
"Funny thing," Merrick's voice said from my doorway, something in his tone letting me know that I absolutely would not think what he had to say was a funny thing.
"Not now, Merrick," I told him with no emphasis, knowing he would read too much into that.
"Yes now," he told me, moving in, closing the door behind him. "I heard something interesting yesterday. About a certain group of men going to a certain new starlet's place to set up equipment. But guess what?"
"No."
"I decided to log onto the portal to check things out. And there is no one by her name in the list of actors and actresses. Don't you think that is funny?"
"Not at all. Sometimes things take a while to go live or refresh."
"Mmhm," Merrick said, leaning back in his chair, eyes watching me. "I noticed Rosie was on the schedule today again."
"And?"
"And her co-star isn't listed."
"Merrick, enough."
"I'm just wondering if you know what the hell you're doing."
"Honestly, no. No, I fucking don't. Clearly," I admitted, sighing out my breath.
"You like her."
"I barely know her."
"Okay so you like her more than you usually like a woman at this stage," he clarified.
"You could say that."
"So why not cut the creep shit and ask her out?"
"It's complicated."
"Oh, fuck off with that. What is complicated?"
"She needs the money."
"So what? Plenty of the stars here date in their personal time. It doesn't impact work."
"She's not one of us, Mer. She gets green after a scene, worried the next one will be with someone else. So if I take her out, and shit goes south, she's going to have to star with someone else. Because she needs the money. And then she'd be all green again. I don't want to be selfish and fuck up something that is working just because I am curious."
"So you creep on her via webcam instead, hoard her movies... Do you ever plan to release them?" he asked, brow raising. "You don't, do you? You're paying her top dollar for scenes you have no plans of releasing, and making the money back on?" he asked. I didn't really need to answer. "Christ. This is fucked in multiple ways, you know. I'm assuming Rosie isn't aware about you hoarding them for personal use? That you are the only one allowed access to her webcam and chat?" I must have looked guilty because Merrick chuckled. "This is going to blow up in your face."
"Probably," I agreed.
"She's going to be pissed that you lied to her. So if you had any ideas of trying for something outside of this, after all this is done, you can forget it because she's not going to trust you."
"Yep," I agreed, shaking my head.
"Alright. Well, this is going to be fun," he said, rising to his feet. "For me," he added. "Not you. Obviously."
"Mer," I called as he made his way to the door.
"Yeah?"
"I don't need to tell you that none of this can..."
"I wouldn't share your secrets, Preston. First, we're friends. And second, you're my boss. And I love my job," he added with a wicked smile as he made his way out into the hallway.
"Here are all the print-outs for the residential treatment centers," Coop declared, dropping a folder down on my desk. "For the record - and what it's worth - I think you're doing the right thing. Now that we know no one was hurt because
of this - save for Ryker himself - it's good of you to get him help. He's still one of our community. Even if he fucked up."
We really had Rosie - and her better angels - to thank for it, but it was the right thing to do.
"Thanks, Coop. Did you set up the appointment with the website guys?"
"Yep. Tomorrow morning. And your scene today is going to be in the black room again. The lighting guy had to cancel again, so there was no one else who could film in there."
I had a feeling Cooper - like Merrick - knew exactly what was going on. Luckily for me, he was not the type to press me on it. He would just let things play out, clean up the aftermath if he needed to. That was, after all, what I paid him to do.
"Sounds good. I like that room."
"Anything we need to stock in there for you today?"
"Ah, no, thanks."
I actually did need something. Something Rosie and I would likely need if she hadn't changed her mind about the scene. Some lube. But I found myself not wanting to tell Coop, not wanting him to collect it from the supply room, stock it in the black room, all the while knowing what it was for, knowing those details about her.
I would handle it myself.
About half an hour before the shoot, I did, grabbing the lube and a couple other things to put out on the table simply to gauge her reaction. Aside from surprise. Would there be disgust, interest, familiarity?
A part of me wanted to pick up Harney & Sons tea or cran-apple juice - things she told me she liked. Well, the tea. The cran-apple was what she had been drinking occasionally between typing.
But I couldn't get her those familiar comfort things. Because then she would know my one lie. And if one unraveled, how long would it be before they all did?
Then what?
Her refusing to work with me? But still do the scenes?
With a bunch of other guys?
So more men could watch while they jerked off?
No.
In fact, fuck no.
I'd never understood the impulse many men - and women - had to demand monogamy, to loathe the idea of someone else having touched what they thought of as theirs.
faire l'amour Page 12
