faire l'amour

by Jessica Gadziala

  It sounded stifling.

  But the idea of having Rosie sitting in my apartment, her robe over the back of a chair, her shoes tossed carelessly around, that hideous, oversized bag of hers on the mail table, sitting there waiting for me to get home, well, it made me think I'd be a hell of a lot less of a workaholic.

  Maybe she thought of those things.

  Or maybe she was simply counting down the days. To when she would have the money. To when she could have her life back. To when she would never again have to sell herself for money.

  My stomach twisted harder still at the idea of her thinking of it that way, that she didn't see how much more it was than that. I would know. I'd had sex for money countless times in my life. The difference between that and what Rosie and I were doing was night and day.

  I guess two weeks would tell me all I needed to know.

  It was going to be an agonizing fucking wait.

  ----

  Rosie $46,500

  Michael was doing better.

  After the episode and my misery that followed it, I had been called into his doctor's office, informed that one of his friends had been taken out of the facility by his family to live at home once again, and for whatever reason, in Michael's head, some voice was telling him that I had been the one to reach out to their family, tell them to take him out, take him away from my brother, leave him alone since he was such a miserable asshole that no one should have to be around, that everyone knew it, that I was only visiting him because I had to.

  It wasn't your fault, they added, voices vehement, like they knew I had been trying to take on the blame.

  I was told that his medication had been adjusted once again, then led upstairs to where he was once again situated in his bed, his cuts on his face still raw and angry-looking, a dark ring under his eye.

  "Geez, what does the other guy look like?" I asked when his gaze fell on me, a little worried looking.

  "Got a nice chunk taken out of him, that's for sure," he answered with a small smile, referring to the chipped coffee table I had passed on the way in, all evidence of blood bleached away.

  I left feeling about fifty pounds lighter, splurging on some extra groceries to take home and cook, something I hadn't felt like I had the time for in ages.

  Things were so close to being so much better.

  I was about thirty-five-hundred away from having all the money for the medical bill. Well, less, technically. I had money from my day job and some money from GAPPR too.

  But, somehow, I was choosing not to count that. Not because I was excited for the buffer in my account, a little leeway in case a bill came in higher than I anticipated.

  No.

  Because I didn't want to cut any sessions out. I didn't want to cut short my time.

  With Preston.

  Because I was hopeless.

  There was no denying it, downplaying it, pretending it didn't exist.

  No.

  After almost three months, I felt like it wasn't exactly premature anymore to deny something I had known for weeks already.

  I was falling for him.

  I could have written it off as hormones, as the desperate need for the stress relief he provided. But after a while, it was clear it was more.

  I was almost considering signing on for a contract renewal just to get more time with him.

  Because that was so healthy.

  It wasn't like I was risking anything, I had tried to convince myself, by staying on. Except for my heart, I guess.

  There had never been any question about me working solely with Preston.

  And, well, I figured that if my movies were going to be out there, what did it matter if it was thirty-six or seventy-two of them?

  Besides, leaving the studio also meant losing access to GAPPR. Who I was probably relying on a bit too much, but I couldn't seem to help it. He was there. He listened. He made suggestions. He made me laugh. He let me be myself. And, what's more, he seemed to enjoy that.

  Aside from the one night with the butterfly, he had never made an advance or suggestion for more nights like that. Like he had truly just been trying to help me feel better that night, like he had no actual investment in me that way.

  I had everything, in a way.

  The most intense intimacy of my life, the best sex.

  Then the closeness in a completely different way, at the heart level, soul level.

  The problem was, it was with different people.

  Neither of whom I could actually have in real life.

  Christ, I needed therapy.

  Something was clearly not working right in my head if I was going to sign myself up for more of this insanity.

  "Hey girl," Melody called as I walked into the building, today wearing a ridiculous pleated schoolgirl skirt with a skintight white shirt. All that was missing was duel pigtails and she would be sporting a spot-on Britney in "...Baby, One More Time."

  "Fetish day?" I asked, smiling a bit at the look, at the absurdity of it. Sure, she wasn't a day over twenty-six, but she was clearly not sixteen either. It was funny, at times, how fetishes worked.

  "Ridiculous, right? This one really plays into that Madonna/Whore debate, y'know? They want her looking pure and virginal, but then fuck like she's a porn star. It's ridiculous. But, hey, I'm getting paid. As I hope their shrinks are too. Anyway, how are you?" she asked, linking her arm through mine, pulling me with her toward the break room which was unusually empty for a Saturday. Maybe it was just too early. Preston had wanted to film at eleven in the morning because he had some kind of visit with a friend later tonight, and it was a long drive.

  "I'm good. A little less stressed lately. Which is good. And I'm finally figuring my way around the area again. Starting to feel a little more like home."

  "That's awesome," she gushed, pouring us each a coffee. She'd meant it too. Melody had been the one to suggest a good clothing store to me, the best pizza place, where I could pamper myself with a pedicure for next to nothing. "So, I have a question. And feel free to tell me that it's none of my business," she said, handing me my cup, leaning back against the counter.

  My stomach tensed, worried she might have noticed my attachment to Preston, suspected I was in over my head, that it was inappropriate.

  "Okay. Shoot," I invited, clutching my cup between both hands.

  "Why are none of your films up yet?" she asked, brows furrowed.

  I had maybe wondered the same thing when I had searched for my name in the database one day.

  "Oh, um, I just figured they were being edited," I said, shrugging a shoulder. I couldn't claim to know, well, anything about how films were made. And this company seemed to do a lot of filming. Things could get caught up in editing. Or so I figured.

  "No way," Melody said, shaking her head. "The editing takes maybe two or three days. I mean, there isn't much editing to do, y'know? We're not exactly using a ton of fancy CGI. Well, except maybe for the horror porn movies."

  "Horror porn?" I asked, brows drawing low.

  "Oh, you haven't seen any of the guys or girls walking around in their alien or zombie or werewolf garb? One day, you'll just be coming to get a bottle of water, and you'll walk in and there is some guy straight off a spaceship. It's great."

  "People like to watch other people dressed up in alien garb have sex?"

  "Horror porn is on a rise lately. It's a thing. Like BDSM had been a thing a couple years ago. Anyway, yeah, no. Editing is just a few days. I will usually go a shoot on a Monday and see it live by Friday. You've been here almost three months, and not one of your movies is live yet. What's up with that?"

  "I, ah, I have no idea," I admitted, brows furrowing.

  "Maybe you should ask Preston. It's just... not good for you, y'know? Once your movies are up and people know who you are, there is more of a chance of making money with your webcam. And I mean good money. You can make in a night or two at home in your jammies more than you make for a shoot. It's not fair to you that there is s
uch a delay. Especially if you don't plan on staying on long-term. Then there would be no chance for you to cash in on your new popularity."

  I didn't want to tell her that I was happy with just my one admirer who must have found me by pure happenstance. I kind of worried that my own feelings about how I operated in the industry might be offensive to those who didn't see things my way.

  "I will ask Preston," I agreed. And I would. Just in case he wasn't aware. I mean, there were hundreds of new movies every month. I was sure he didn't know the status of every single one of them, no matter how much of a workaholic he was.

  "Do that. It's not fair to you. Alright, well, I have to go have my ass smacked with a ruler," she declared happily. "I will see you around."

  "Have a good shoot," I called, making my way out as well, walking toward the office. "Hey Coop. Is Preston free?" I asked, nodding my chin toward his office.

  "Yeah. I think he was just checking over the supply order. Go on in."

  "Thanks," I said, sending him a smile, realizing I would miss him too when all was said and done. I had grown to like just about everyone I had met, had coffee with them, eaten lunch with them when someone had ordered in, invited me to join, pulled me into their fold.

  Any unfair preconceived notions I had maybe had about the people in this industry was gone after one shared conversation over pizza where everyone talked about, well, the same stuff I talked about with friends back in New York. About movies. About the weather. The mess of our politics. These weren't some weird, damaged, hyper-sexualized people. They were just people who did a job, who - outside of that job - were just... people.

  My knuckles knocked on Preston's door even though it was ajar, stepping into the space before his head shifted up.

  "Rosie. Are you early, or am I late?" he asked, brows furrowing.

  "I'm a little early, but actually, Melody just brought something up that I wanted to talk to you about."

  "Oh, alright. Well, close the door. Come sit down," he invited, putting his paperwork away, reaching for his coffee mug as I sat. "What's going on?"

  "Why are our films not up on the site?"

  I was pretty sure I didn't imagine it.

  He paled.

  His jaw went slack.

  Almost as though he was guilty, not just surprised.

  "She told you they're not up?" he asked, stalling, since that was clearly what I had just said.

  What was going on here?

  Were the movies that bad?

  I had only seen the one. And I was maybe a little biased, having participated in the scene, having known how good it was in real life. Maybe it hadn't transferred, hadn't been as hot to other people.

  God, maybe I was horrible at this.

  I couldn't claim it was a goal in my life to be the best porn actress to have ever lived, but the idea of being so terrible that Preston thought no one should ever be subjected to it filled me with dread.

  And then another - equally unwelcome - thought formed.

  Was I simply that bad in bed?

  Had we signed the contract that had tied their hands in the matter, locked them into a deal of over thirty movies with me... when I was just terrible?

  Had I been alone in thinking there was something special between me and Preston?

  Had he just been faking it for the cameras in the hopes that his good reputation and his acting could save the movies?

  And then failed regardless because I was just that awful?

  My stomach rolled.

  "I was terrible, wasn't I?" I heard myself ask, wanting him to tell me already, get it over with, confirm my suspicions.

  "What? No. Of course not."

  "It's okay. You can tell me. I can handle it." That was a lie. I would really try hard to pretend to handle it. Then go home and die a little. Or a lot. "I would rather know," I added, feeling very much like I might throw up, making me put down the coffee cup, take a slow, deep breath, watching as Preston moved around his desk sitting down in the chair next to mine, reaching out to put his big hands over mine.

  "Stop," he demanded, voice both demanding and pleading at the same time, a combination that shouldn't have been soothing, but oddly was somehow. "You're not terrible. Where the hell would you get an idea like that?"

  "Why else wouldn't you release the movie? Clearly, I suck in bed. But you had to keep having sex with me because we had a contract. And you can't break a contract. God, how could I have been so blind?"

  "Alright. That's about enough of that," Preston said, holding back a smile, but the light of it was in his eyes. "You do not suck in bed. And I didn't have to keep having sex with you. If I thought you were terrible, I could have assigned someone else to do your scenes with you. Why would I keep having sex with you if I didn't enjoy it?" he asked.

  And, well, there was definitely a bit more logic in his head than in my swirling one right about then.

  But it still didn't answer my question.

  "Melody said that editing doesn't take this long," I added.

  "Right," Preston agreed, taking in a deep breath. Like he was steadying himself for something. What? I had no idea.

  "What aren't you telling me?" I asked, noticing the way his gaze was stubbornly avoiding eye contact. Which was not like him. He was always confident, direct.

  "Shit," he hissed, hanging his head for a long moment.

  Don't ask me where the compulsion to do so came from, but there seemed to be no stopping it when my hand rose, reaching out, gently pressing into the back of his head. Comforting, reassuring. Because regardless of the confusion surrounding this situation, there was no denying my feelings for him, my desire to be there for him when it seemed like he needed me.

  "What is it?"

  His head rose, shoulders still slumped, making my hand slide to the back of his neck.

  "I haven't been honest with you, babe," he told me

  "About the movies being good?" I asked, stomach twisting.

  "You know I think the movies are good," he said, shaking his head, but only a little, like he didn't want to dislodge my hand. "I showed you one of them," he reminded me. "They're good."

  "Okay. Then why aren't they on the service?"

  "They're not going to be on the service."

  "Did you change your mind about coming out of retirement?" I asked, grasping at straws. Why would it matter now? When there were hundreds of movies of him out there already? It wasn't like he had let himself go. Or lost his touch.

  "I never planned to come out of retirement," he admitted.

  "Then why did you?"

  "Because you wanted me to," he told me, surprising me enough to make my hand drop.

  "What?"

  "I don't understand it either," he admitted. "But you wanted to work with me. And I didn't want to let you down."

  "Okay..." I said, still not understanding.

  "It doesn't happen in this industry to kick out the cameramen, the advocate. To never have a crew around."

  "I've noticed that," I agreed. But I guess a part of me had figured he just personally preferred the privacy. And since he was the boss, he could make those calls.

  "At first, I was just... I felt bad for how nervous you were. I knew that you clearly needed to do this, but that you were losing it. So I just got rid of them to calm you back down."

  "And then?"

  "And then... I watched the movie," he told me. "Then had this ridiculous, unexplained reaction."

  "Which was?" I prompted when he didn't go on.

  "I didn't want anyone to see you?"

  "Why?"

  "Honestly, I didn't fucking know, Rosie. I just... didn't want anyone to see you. It was weird and possessive and not like me, but it was how I felt. So I closed the sets. I got the crew to stay away. And then it was just us."

  "So, you were just... paying me to have sex with you?" I asked, somehow more bothered by that than the idea of being a porn star. It was a small, but definite line between porn and prostitution. And he had, wi
thout my knowing, shoved me across that line.

  "I guess that's one way to put it."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Because it's fucked up, baby," he said, rising out of his seat, pacing away from me. "And I was in too deep before I realized it. And I thought you'd freak out over me overstepping."

  "And if I did?" I asked, watching as he stopped, leaning back against his office wall, head tilted to the ceiling, exhaling hard.

  "I figured you wouldn't trust me anymore. And then you'd refuse to work with me anymore. But you would keep doing this because you clearly needed the money."

  "And you didn't want me to work with anyone else?"

  "No."

  "And that is so bad?" I asked, remembering the night with GAPPR where I tried to watch one of Preston's old movies, but had felt such a stabbing of jealousy that I had to turn it off.

  "It wasn't my place to make those decisions for you. And in doing so, I decreased your opportunities to make more money."

  "Because no one knew to webcam me?"

  "Christ," Preston hissed, raking a hand down the scruff on his face. "This might be the worst part," he told me.

  So far, I didn't think any of this was that bad. Had he overstepped? Yes. Made decisions that should have been mine? Absolutely. But those choices were what I wanted. There was a gross lack of communication. But it wasn't just on him. It was on me too. No one could be blamed for a miscommunication when both parties stubbornly kept their mouths shut.

  "What is? That I haven't been able to make more money on the webcam?"

  Preston's gaze found mine, intense, almost unblinking.

  "Rosie, I'm GAPPR."

  It felt like the floor bottomed out.

  My hand actually flew out, slapped down on the surface of his desk, the sensation was so strong.

  "What?" I hissed, watching the knowledge cross his face, the realization of all that entailed. All the stories I had told this person, all the trust I had put in him. Thinking he was just a random guy, knowing it was a safe place to unload all my stress and sadness. Because this person didn't know me, not really. They were a nameless, faceless sounding board.