by Zara Cox
“Look, I’m asking you to show some…mercy.” The word sticks in my throat. The idea of having to beg this piece of shit to give me back money that’s rightfully mine burns a hole in my chest.
He steps closer, his gaze probing where I’ve crossed my hands over my breasts. “I can be merciful, sugar. Come with me to my office and I’ll show you what Papa Bear can do for you.” He smiles. His hand starts to lift toward me.
I step back, partly because the idea of him touching me fills me with severe loathing. And partly because my knee is itching to make violent contact with the flabby Papa Bear parts between his legs. He accurately interprets the move.
“I guess you don’t want your refund, after all.” He waves a beefy hand in the direction of Union Turnpike subway where I’ve just walked from. “There’s a homeless shelter that way. Or you can blow some homeless guy into sharing his cart with you.” He laughs and walks backwards. “Either way, sweetheart, your situation is not my problem.”
He disappears round the corner into his office and tears surge into my eyes.
I don’t blink. Because, damn it, tears are of zero use to me right now. But, God, I want to succumb. I want to find the nearest dark corner and howl my eyes out. I want to beat myself for falling into a trap of my own making. With leaden feet, I retrace my steps to the motel room. My larger backpack sits where I left it this morning. At least the asshole didn’t break in and help himself to my stuff as well.
I sink onto the bed and stare at the ugly wall until my vision hazes. Fat tears slide down my cheeks, shamelessly defying my will. Defeat throbs in my veins and I drop back on the bed, setting free thick sobs that rip from my throat loud enough to wake the dead.
I cry until I’m certain there isn’t a drop of liquid left in my body. When I can bear to drag myself up, I make my way to the bathroom, blow my nose on coarse toilet paper and wash my face. My eyes collide with my reflection and I shudder in revulsion. My face is blotchy, the hair at my temples tear-soaked. Averting my gaze, I grab more paper and swipe at the damp spots. I throw the paper in the general vicinity of the trash. It misses. I don’t pick it up. It can be my tiny fuck you to the cosmos for the unending deluge of shit-dumping.
I return to the room and catch the sound of an electronic ping. My heart trips in paralyzing alarm before I remember my new phone. In the tumult of being suddenly made homeless, I’ve forgotten my appointment with Fionnella and her team back in the Midtown apartment.
It’s not for another two hours, but as I’ve found out in the last two days, Fionnella is nothing if not a stickler for punctuality. At midday today, I received a menu by text with a prompt to choose my preferred meal. The repeat of the burger and fries arrived within half an hour. I was in the middle of devouring it, when Sully found me and informed me of my new work status.
I nearly choked on a precious mouthful when he told me the two girls who contracted food poisoning last week had both quit, and that until they were replaced, I would be working in the executive restaurant. As if that wasn’t intimidating enough, he calmly announced that my first task would be to serve Quinn Blackwood’s lunch to him in his office.
A different emotion weaves through me as I pull out the phone.
What happened in Quinn’s office still feels a little surreal. After a short exchange while I lay out his lunch, the man barely spoke more than a few words. Sitting at his dining table, watching him eat, was a weird experience, for sure. But it wasn’t the sort of weird that made me recoil. It was a mind-bendingly fascinating weird. A make-your-heart-flip-flop-in-your-chest-with-each-move-he-made weird.
Watching him rendered me tongue-tied to the point where I was grateful he didn’t want to indulge in conversation. But tongue-tied didn’t mean paralyzed. My gaze was constantly drawn to him, although I didn’t gather the courage to meet his eyes again—twice was more than enough. Especially when both times the sensation of sliding at rocket speed toward a dark, but blissfully fatalistic end knocked my breath out of my body.
And when my pathetic attempts to resist staring worked, I could feel him watching me, those piercing, soulless eyes probing me.
My breath draws out now in a long, shuddering exhale as I recall those eyes.
God—
Heavy fists pound the door. I jump and release a husky croak. “What?”
“Time to vacate, lady!”
I shove the phone into my back pocket and thoughts of Quinn Blackwood to the back of my mind. I quickly re-braid my hair and stuff it back under the baseball cap, grab my stuff and open the door.
The manager smirks at me, flanked by two burly guys in dark clothing. They don’t have any distinguishing badges. In fact, they look more like street thugs than DOH, but then what the fuck do I know? I sidle past them, hurry down the stairs and cross the parking lot, avoiding the gazes of other guests who’re vacating the premises.
I lower my head and strike out towards the subway.
I’m still terrified to go anywhere near the internet, which is why the first thing I did when Fionnella handed me the phone was to turn the wi-fi service off, regardless of her assurance that it was untraceable. If Clayton could track someone to Alaska, he could track me here. I know that. But that doesn’t mean I intend to make it easy for him.
As my bag grows heavy in my hand, the subject of my homelessness looms insurmountably large in my mind. I consider asking directions to the shelter but even I know you can’t book a place at a shelter in advance just to stash your luggage. And with my money almost gone, I don’t even have a hope of finding a place to stay tonight. The rat-infested piss hole I’m walking away from cost forty-five dollars a night for the privilege. My only choice is to take all my stuff with me to my appointment and figure out what to do afterward.
I arrive with more than fifty minutes to spare. I find a spot under a tree in a park a couple of blocks away from the penthouse and drop down onto the grass. In order not to attract too many stares, I pretend interest in my phone. Time drags and with it a sudden intensity of hunger.
My stomach knows it’s about to be fed and it has the temerity to grow impatient. When it growls and clenches one more time, I put away the phone and dig through my smaller backpack. I stashed an emergency chocolate bar in there a week ago and I almost moan in relief when my hand closes over it.
I’m on the run from Clayton Getty. I’ve been recently evicted from my exorbitant hellhole. I’m sitting in a park, waiting to present myself to a team of strangers in a fuck off apartment in order to begin a cycle of prepping to whore myself on film with a man I’ve never met, in return for a million dollars.
I figure I’ve earned an emergency chocolate bar.
10
FIRST TAKE
Lucky
I arrive at the penthouse at the arranged time of six-thirty. The uniformed doorman holds the door open without questioning my status, and calls the elevator for me. I make eye contact long enough to murmur thanks and breathe a sigh of relief when the doors shut. The relief lasts as long as it takes for me to tug the cap off my head and stuff it into my bag. I’m beset by a whole new set of nerves when I exit the elevator to find Fionnella waiting for me, minus her clipboard. For the first time, she’s less than total sparkle.
“There you are. We need to get straight to it. The boss wants the first shots done tonight.”
“Shots?”
She nods and falls into step with me when I reach her. “Yes. Todd can’t start until we have you properly prepped.”
I’m ushered down the hall to the great room and straight across to the grooming area. She introduces me to Angela, the technician who was absent on Monday and yesterday, when I met with the fitness trainer. The petite woman with a mop of dark brown hair beckons me into her section and pulls the curtain closed.
“I’ll leave you to it. We need to finalize your lingerie choices.” Fionnella stops when her gaze lands on my extra piece of luggage. She glances back up but doesn’t voice the question lingering in her eyes. “Hav
e you eaten yet?”
“No.”
“Okay, I’ll get you something for when you’re done waxing. You can eat while your hair is being done.”
Satisfied with her schedule, she nods and exits.
I drop my stuff in one corner and turn around to find Angela staring at me. I’m not sure whether she’s assessing me for work purposes or her personal curiosity is getting the better of her.
“Your face, honey,” she eventually says. “Are you temporarily blotchy or am I dealing with something else?”
Heat surges into my face. I’d forgotten about my epic crying jag among the detritus of everything else I’m dealing with. I swipe self-consciously at my cheeks. “It’s temporary.”
“Great. That helps a lot. Okay, get your clothes off, slip into the white gown and hop on the bed. Have you had a Brazilian before?”
I shake my head as I toe off my boots.
“What about a bleach?”
“No.”
“Depending on your coloring down there, we may not need the bleach, but prepare yourself for the possibility.”
She heads to the prepping table and turns on a machine that looks like a fondue set without the tower. I get rid of my clothes, tug the gown over my head and stretch out on the massage table. She returns with a small bowl, which she sets down at the head of the bed. In the grand scheme of the huge obstacles I face, I’m mildly shocked to find myself nervous at the thought of having a patch of hair ripped off my pussy. But my nerves clearly filter through because she lays a hand on my knee.
“Relax, honey. The first time is a bitch, I won’t lie, but tensing up will make it worse. I’ll go as fast as I can.”
Laughter spills out before I can hold it in. Even to my ears, I sound a touch off my rocker. “I’m sorry. This is all a little…surreal.”
She nods as if she totally understands. Maybe she does. I wonder how often she does this for…the boss.
Q.
Did I really name him that? And what exactly had he meant by bravo?
My spinning thoughts refocus on the room and what’s being done to my private parts. I take a slow, deep breath and force my limbs to slacken.
Twenty minutes later, I’m a full member of the Brazilian club, shock and pain induced tears included.
Luckily, I pass the no-need-for-a-bleached-butthole test, much to my semi-hysterical relief. When Angela instructs me to, I get off the bed and hobble gingerly to the hair wash section of her domain.
The touch of firm fingers massaging heavenly smelling shampoo into my hair takes my mind off the stinging in my crotch. And thanks to the miraculous hypoallergenic mist she sprayed down there, by the time I’m seated in front of the mirror with my dinner of pasta fettuccini, garlic bread and slice of cheesecake in my lap, the pain is almost gone.
The blow dry warms me from the outside and the hot food releases the chill inside me. By the time I’m done with both, I feel a little more able to form thoughts that don’t start and end with abject hopelessness.
I need to find a place to stay tonight. That’s my first priority once I’m done here. Fionnella has a laptop, but asking for it would involve too many questions. I toss the problem around while Angela combs and trims my hair.
Deciding I have no choice but to return to Queens and take my chances with the homeless shelter, I look up as Angela fluffs my hair one last time.
“There. We’re done with your hair.”
I look into the mirror and my eyes widen. My hair has always held a natural wave, but Angela has emphasized the curls with a hot iron and teased the layers so the caramel and blonde swirl around each other in eye-catching waves. I no longer have split ends and whatever product she used has left a shiny, healthy head of hair styled back away from my face. Some the girls back at The Villa often attempted to replicate styles like these, but I’ve only ever seen perfection like this in a magazine.
My gaze lifts and catches hers in the mirror. “Thanks,” I murmur. I can’t summon more enthusiasm than that because, although I want to feel elated that my hair looks amazing, the purpose behind the makeover remains firmly locked in my mind.
The makeup session is even more dramatic than the hair, despite the subtle colors she uses. I barely recognize my own face by the time she finishes. I suddenly have noticeable cheekbones and my eyes are huge pools of deep green. I’m still staring at myself, stunned, when Fionnella walks in.
“Perfect, you’re right on time.” Her smile is back, although a touch strained at the edges. Angela excuses herself to tidy up and leaves Fionnella to judge her handiwork.
She makes pleased hums as she touches the curled ends of my hair.
“Come on, let’s get you fitted for the shoot.”
Her gaze follows me when I go to grab my stuff and when I return, she nods at my large backpack. “You look like you’re going somewhere. Is there a change of address we need to know about?”
I need to be careful with my answer. “I…yes, but I’m not exactly sure what it’s going to be just yet.”
The smile leaves her eyes. “Is there a problem I need to know about, Lucky?” She cuts to the point.
My grip tightens on my backpack and I decide to come clean. “The place I was staying at was kinda…raided.”
Her mouth purses. “Drugs?”
I shake my head quickly, although I can’t exactly stop her from forming her own opinion. My motel address is scribbled down on one of her clipboards. She knows in which part of town I live. Or lived. “No, some other…vermin problem. Anyway, I didn’t have time to find a new place because I had to come here.” The half-lie slips out easier than expected.
She spears me with an incisive look. “We won’t be done here for another couple of hours. You know that, don’t you? That means you won’t be able to start looking for a place to stay until almost midnight.”
I nod. “I’ll be fine,” I say. The dull thudding of my heart states otherwise.
Fionnella turns away without responding, and I don’t know whether my answer is satisfactory or not. Still in my gown, we head to Wendy’s station. “Put your stuff over there.” She points to the area behind her desk. “I’ll go and see if Todd is ready.”
But she doesn’t head to Todd’s area. She leaves the room for five minutes and when she returns her smile is back.
She inspects the lingerie on the table for a minute before she picks up a moss green ensemble. “This one first.”
To my surprise it’s a simple lace-trimmed half Teddy and French knickers set. Considering the nature of what I agreed to, I was expecting the pieces to be much saucier than this. With a touch of relief, I retreat to the curtained off area and slip the garment on, taking care to avoid messing up my hair. The silk feels warm and soft against my skin, and I let my fingers drift over it for a stolen second before I emerge.
“Great, we got your size right.” She reaches for her clipboard and ticks a box, then cocks her head toward Todd’s area. As we head over, the lights dim and I notice the three staged areas for the first time.
One area is set up to resemble a window of a suite or bedroom. A posh velvet chaise longue is set against roped off, expensive curtains. The setting is classy and flawless, but it’s clear the spotlight is on the chaise.
The other two areas follow the same design—one’s a bed with sexily rumpled sheets, and the other the mirrored vanity of a black and gold bathroom.
Todd looks up from the piece of equipment in his hand and points to the chaise. “We’ll start there.”
Nerves attack me as I walk toward it. “What…what do you need me to do?”
“Just recline on it. Try not to exaggerate your poses. And look directly into the camera.”
I recite the steps and nod. “Okay.”
I climb onto the dais and walk to the chaise. The spotlight trained on the stage is warm but not uncomfortably so. I sit, place my hands on the seat and scoot back on the smooth velvet. It feels so natural to lie sideways and tuck my feet beneath me, so t
hat’s what I do. Taking care not to ruffle my hair too much, I tuck it over my shoulders and recline into the corner.
The first flash blinds me and I wince. “Sorry.”
“It’s cool, but try not to shut your eyes.”
I take a breath and stare into the lens. Todd snaps several shots, taking a step closer with each one. After five minutes, he swaps cameras. This one doesn’t need a flash, so I relax a little.
Staring into the lens, I’m suddenly reminded of another camera in another room down the hall and my first audition when I had to perform. Something stirs inside me—hot and urgent. I try not to fidget; the memory grows stronger.
Convince me that you’re worth fucking. Convince me you’re worth dying for.
The mechanical voice is so clear in my head, it feels like I’m back in that room again, giving myself over to commands that tap into fantasies I didn’t know I harbored until I was challenged.
“Let’s try another pose.”
I slowly sit upright, my mind still in another room, and move to the middle of the seat. I plant both feet on the floor and bring my knees together. Hands on either side of me, I slowly lower my head until my nose is pointed to the floor and waterfalls of hair gently brush my cheek. As I lift my gaze and stare into the camera another voice, another room, slides into my mind frame.
Tell me, Elly, do I look like a freak to you?
It’ll be our little secret…
Come here, Elly.
Sit.
The heat in my belly intensifies. My breath shudders in and out. My knees want to part. I fight them, fight the deeper tingling between my legs. Todd climbs the stage again, comes closer. My bare feet slide in opposite directions on the smooth wooden floor, but my knees stay glued together.
Quinn’s low, gravel-rough voice replays over and over in my head as his deeply hypnotic, soulless eyes, stare at me from the ever-advancing camera lens.
Come here, Elly.
Sit.
Elly…
Elly.
“I think that’s it for this set up. Let’s get you ready for the next one.”
