The Companion Contract

by Solace Ames

  I didn’t have much of a gag reflex left, and I showed him. It felt like a kind of dreamy drowning. Controlled descent. He filled my throat with his heavy, dragging length.

  Not many women could do what I’d done with a man this big. I can take it, I swore to myself. However you want me, I’ll take it, I’ll fucking take it.

  He cursed, low and guttural, in one of the languages I didn’t know. His palm cradled the back of my head. I wouldn’t mind if he pushed me back against the doorframe and fucked my throat, I’d be good for that, but the rhythm we settled into wasn’t that vicious. He guided me firmly more than forced me.

  The back of my mouth felt tender and raw by the time he came inside me. The thick, bitter seed clung to the roof of my mouth, and when I moaned the sound came out choked and desperate.

  “Swallow,” he told me gently.

  I did. I appreciated the instruction. After all, sometimes they wanted me to open my mouth and show.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. My stomach twisted and I licked the wetness from my lips, tasting slick lipstick and the salt from his skin, and his come. I pulled back his foreskin—he wasn’t cut, which was different and unusual but not unwelcome—kissed the slit of his cock and cleaned him with my tongue.

  I was a little dizzy when I rose to my feet, but I was proud I didn’t stumble at all. It would be easier to look in his eyes now, I told myself. I looked right up into his discordantly handsome face and smiled slyly. “I can do that anytime,” I said, keeping my voice soft and singsong. “For him or you.”

  “Can you start this weekend?” Crazy fast, he’d gone back to formal. His eyes seemed unfocused and distant, although I couldn’t tell whether that was the aftereffects of pleasure or a more baseline state.

  “Yes. But I’ll need some kind of contract when it comes to the tour proceeds, and I’ll need time to hire a lawyer to look it over.” Before he answered, I turned away, walked up to the wall of mirrors, took out a napkin and my lipstick, and touched up. My hands were shaky only for a second. I caught his reflection grinning.

  “I’ll have a contract written,” he said, very smooth. Very civilized.

  We talked over the details on the way back down to the main floor. The sun was halfway down over the ocean to the west, and the light lapped into the outdoor living room. Emanuel sat at a table that was still in shadow, and I joined him there. I felt slinky and catlike from the sex.

  “What else do I need to know?” I asked.

  “Listen.”

  There was a distant sound of waves. The rustling of palm trees. Waiting silently beside him was surprisingly comfortable. In an alternate universe, maybe the two of us were partners in some epic gravity-warping project, waiting for our plans to be fulfilled here on a cliff at the edge of the world. I’d rest my head against his solid, heavy chest and—God, what a strange fantasy. This house was messing with my mind.

  Then I heard a scream.

  “Jesus, what was that?” I half rose out of my chair, gripping the metal arms tight. The scream did not sound human.

  “Hopefully he’s not a deal-breaker,” Emanuel said. He must have a twisty sense of humor, bordering on evil. I told myself to remember that carefully. “That’s Gabriel, our host’s pet ocelot.”

  “She’s got a fucking ocelot?”

  Emanuel took me to the north side of the house, where a structure that looked like an aviary was slung between the house wall and the garden wall. There was, indeed, an ocelot. It looked like a mini-supermodel-leopard and made noises like a freaky goblin. I didn’t have the slightest desire to pet it.

  “Is that even legal?” I asked.

  “No.” He sighed and crossed his arms. I could already tell that he and Gabriel weren’t on petting terms. “A wild animal belongs in the wild. I’ve agreed—reluctantly agreed—to take care of him while his mistress is gone. But I won’t take the fall if wildlife rangers storm the mansion. I’ve made that clear to her.”

  “Does he complain like that all the time? Or just when he’s hungry? Poor guy.”

  “I’ll walk you back to the restaurant before I feed him.”

  We talked some more money on the way. Money, and ocelot habits. Apparently Gabriel wasn’t the snuggly kind of ocelot, and he pissed on everything. The situation was so surreal I almost couldn’t take it seriously, but I promised myself I’d research the legal risks of aiding and abetting an illegal ocelot. Emanuel also reassured me there’d be a caretaker who’d handle all the cleanup. I just had to coexist and ignore the occasional rabid goblin sounds from the north of the house.

  Considering the matter in the open air, away from the dreamlike environment of the house? No, the ocelot wasn’t a deal-breaker.

  Once we got to the restaurant veranda, I slipped my sandals back on and took out my car keys. Emanuel leaned against the wooden railing, contemplating me behind his dark glasses. My chest felt tight as a stretched spring—there was an energy inside me that had no outlet, that would hurt me if I didn’t figure out how to release it.

  “Did I pass your test?” he asked.

  That scared me. He’d put it into words even before I could. “Yes. You passed. You’re not treating me any different. I fuck for money and I still want to be treated like a human being, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “So I think I can work for you.”

  “I’ll email you tomorrow about the contract.”

  He kissed me on the cheek when we said goodbye. Like a friend, or a partner. I watched him walk north until he was only a blur against the pale golden sand and searing blue ocean. I wanted my body to stop humming inside, but it wouldn’t.

  * * *

  I made a detour on the way back to Chiho’s place and dropped in on my friend Snap. I figured I could use him for sex and work off some of the nervous energy. I started out in the business with him, and he was one of the few people I still talked to from that time.

  He lived in a ranch house in San Fernando Valley that he shared with a few other young guys. The house smelled like stale beer and bongwater and I wrinkled my nose as soon as I walked in the door.

  “Yo. Amy.” Snap was shirtless and hunched over the living room coffee table painting his Warhammer 40,000 figurines. He carried off the awkward pose just fine with his lean surfer’s body.

  “Hey.” I sat down next to him on the squeaky futon couch. “Are those the space elves you were talking about?”

  “No,” he said, sounding glum. “And they’re not space elves, they’re called Dark Eldar. That shit’s expensive, man. They’re made out of metal and shit. But I really want them.”

  “Mmm, you need a rich girlfriend to buy them for you.”

  “Shit, man, I just need some more work. I’ve been thinking about shooting some gay shit.”

  I groaned silently. Not this again. I tried to head him off. “I’ve got an amazing job lined up. I can hardly believe it.” I rushed through the whole whirlwind story starting with last night’s party.

  “Jacinth was a total bitch,” he said when I was done. “I’m not buying her new album then.”

  He pirated all his music anyway, but I appreciated the loyalty. “So this job could be good for me, but I’m kind of terrified that it’s too good to be true and everything’s going to fall apart. I feel out of my depth. And I can’t lean on Chiho because she’s got so many—”

  “Hey, do you think sucking dick is like, habit-forming?”

  I groaned out loud this time. “Jesus, Snap, I was really sympathetic to you about the first fifteen times you brought this up. But by this point, I’ve given you all the advice and sympathy I can give. I mean, come on. Suck a dick or don’t suck a dick. You didn’t hear me agonizing like this over my first girl-on-girl scene.”

  “That’s different,” he protested.

  “This house s
mells and I’m not in the mood anymore. I’m going home.” I didn’t have a home, but fuck him anyway. I needed better friends with less stupid names.

  “I guess I’m kind of self-absorbed sometimes. I’m sorry.”

  He wasn’t such a bad guy, not really. But he was the best I had on my side, and that was depressing as hell.

  “I’ll let you know how it goes,” I said, and left him there.

  I thought about changing my life as I drove through the Valley. I desperately wanted to grow into someone better than I was, but not entirely alien to myself. It was time—God, it was past time.

  The dashboard clock shone 3:13 p.m. I made some calculations as I was waiting to get onto the freeway. Manila time was way ahead, or way behind, I could never remember which. It was probably just before sunrise there, so too early to call my mother. I called my brother instead. He worked in a call center where they kept U.S. hours, going to work at midnight and coming home late in the morning.

  Jimmy answered on the first ring. Crowd sounds clattered behind him. “Are you okay, Amy?” A faint trace of the Philippines had crept into his accent, more and more each year.

  “Of course I’m okay.”

  “You don’t usually call me at work.”

  “I didn’t mean to attack you. I don’t have any bad news. Good news, actually. I’m doing a sort of—” I struggled for the words, “—companionship thing for a musician, from Avert. They’re getting back together.”

  “Cool, that rocks.” That gave me a big, sappy smile. Jimmy always had good taste in music. He was the one who got me listening to postpunk in the first place. “So you’re not doing any more, uh, movies?” He sounded guardedly optimistic.

  “Not for the summer. I need a break. Everything’s fine, though. Really fine. Hey, Mom said your laptop broke, I was thinking I could—”

  “Already got another one,” he said quickly. “A new used one. Don’t worry. And don’t send me money.”

  I felt like crying. “Okay, Jimmy. I won’t.”

  “Save it up for a trip, okay? I have to go. Love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  The line to Manila died.

  I wanted to bring them all back. I wanted so many impossible things, I was dying from the piled-up weight of them. I gritted my teeth to keep from crying, and pulled out onto the freeway.

  Chapter Four

  Las Vegas was awful. I don’t like being cooped up in clubs. The locker room in this Las Vegas strip club turned out to be especially hellish, packed full of house dancers snarling at me and stinking of sickly sweet perfumed deodorant.

  I had a few friends at the clubs closer to Los Angeles, but not in Las Vegas. I’d rather be alone than in bad company, though.

  The feature-dancing gig meant a three-song set every night, then selling my porn stuff and signing autographs and posing for sexy photos. I didn’t escort afterward. I was too worn out. I just went back to the hotel and watched whatever cheesy horror movie I could find until I keeled over like a zombie who’d taken a bullet to the brain.

  When I woke up, I’d spring open my laptop and madly refresh my email looking for messages from Emanuel.

  There was always something. He sent me a contract for the tour. Answered all my questions promptly. Forwarded me long email chains of ex-friends and ex-lovers complaining about Miles Morrison.

  “He’s impossible to deal with.”

  “I didn’t sign up for this.”

  “This motherfucker seems to lack every basic life skill.”

  Lots of highly personal information, and I got a little uneasy reading through some of the secrets. I found out Miles was color-blind, not in that obnoxious I can’t see race way, but literally color-blind, and favored cornstarch over baby powder when it came to easing on tight leather pants, and might have tried to kill himself a year ago, although he passed it off as a joke. I absorbed the secrets like a sponge, dizzy and soaked with secrets by the end of the day, no room left in my mind to think about what I really wanted to think about.

  And that was mainly Emanuel.

  His cool efficiency, his warm respect. His courteous formality combined with a complete lack of interest in conventional...morals? I wasn’t sure. This job was so sleazy, but it made sense from a practical standpoint. And I’d heard of much sleazier. An escort friend of mine had been hired by a client’s mother to entertain him for a weekend. The client had a mild developmental issue and thought the “girlfriend experience” thing was literal.

  I wouldn’t have taken that job.

  I’d take this one, as long as I could trust Emanuel, and strangely, I did.

  I flew back to Los Angeles with a nice cushion in my bank account and a headache from all the loud, bad music at the club. The plane landed just after dark, and it seemed like the city lights were rising up to greet me. I’m home, I told them, and halfway believed it this time.

  I took the shuttle out to the economy parking lot, found my black Honda CR-V, and slid my suitcase into the back, being careful not to bang it against my surfboard. I was always a little worried someone would break into the car and steal it. Well, I wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore, not parked at a Malibu mansion. I could hit the waves every single morning if I wanted to, and the thought made me tap a cheerful rhythm against the steering wheel as I pulled out of the lot. Maybe I could distract Miles Morrison by teaching him to surf. Surf all morning, music all afternoon, sex all night. Why would he need heroin?

  Maybe we’d fall in love.

  I tried to rein in my optimism. Addiction was complicated. And women like me handed out happy endings, we didn’t get handed them.

  I drove west on the Santa Monica Freeway, playing Joy Division to somber-down my too high mood. Ominous swooshing noises, complex soundscapes and existential despair were just what I needed right now. My headache faded. The nervous feeling in my stomach ratcheted tighter until I could hardly breathe, and I started to consciously time my breaths to the jagged rhythms of the cold, wistful dirges.

  I was driving down a dark highway into a new life. A slightly better life, probably. But it wouldn’t be simple or safe.

  The GPS in my phone directed me to a gravel driveway blocked by a gate. I’d never seen this side of the house. I cut the music and texted Emanuel.

  At the gate.

  The gate buzzed and swung open. I edged through the opening, keeping my eyes on the dark driveway and resisting the urge to check my face in the mirror. I looked just fine. I could do this.

  Emanuel was waiting in the courtyard. I thought I was used to the sight of him, but every time, every time...

  He was dressed casually tonight, dark suit pants and a thin white tank. Eyes in shadow. I’d never seen so much of his skin, and his bulk was all muscle. Marble statues came unavoidably to mind, classic marble statues where the flawless stone curved softly as flesh. Then he moved, and he was a natural part of the world again, belonging here. His house, his space, his time. I took a deep breath, opened the door and readied a smile.

  “Amy. Welcome.” He nodded curtly. “I’ll get your bags.”

  I tried to turn my smile less giddy and more professional. “Just the black suitcase for now, please.”

  He swung it out with one arm as if it didn’t weigh a thing. I stepped out of the car and stood there waiting. Waiting and staring. His skin wasn’t flawless after all—he had a diagonal scar across his chest, ropy enough to slightly raise the fabric of the tight shirt. I wondered what had cut him.

  “I swim when the sun goes down,” he said, and tapped his scar with the fingers of his left hand, the motion elegant and economical. “The ocean is very cold.”

  Confused, I almost asked why are you telling me this, but then I remembered cold water could raise scars and make them more prominent. “I have a wetsuit.”

&
nbsp; “Maybe tomorrow night, then.”

  “Yes, of course.” I shook my head and blinked, not sure what we were even talking about anymore. Swimming at night? Right.

  “It was a machete stroke,” he said, then turned around and walked toward the arched entrance, beckoning me to follow.

  He was always one step ahead of me.

  I didn’t mind. To be honest, I liked it.

  He must be cold from the ocean, and his skin would taste of salt...

  Get back to business. “Is Miles Morrison here?” I asked.

  “His parents are taking him out to dinner.”

  “Will I meet them?” I rubbed my arms, wishing I’d worn something over my black velvet halter top. His parents would have to be in their fifties or sixties. It was jarring to imagine Miles Morrison even having parents—being born from a lightning stroke with hair already stiffly gelled seemed more in keeping with the legend.

  Emanuel opened the door for me, looking down with a faint smile as I crossed the threshold. “Yes. They’re good people. They trust me with him, more or less. I’ve told them you’re his sober companion.”

  The house felt brighter, somehow. More lived in. I didn’t remember how to get upstairs from the front door. Emanuel touched my shoulder—yes, his hand was cold from the ocean, so cold—and guided me to the right. “I remember now,” I said under my breath. “I mean, how to get to the room.”

  “I’ll get you settled in and give you a key.”

  He let his hand drop from my shoulder when we got the stairs. I wondered if I’d warmed him. If I’d had an effect on him. He certainly had an effect on me, no point in denying it, and I was terrible at lying to myself anyway.

  The bedroom was scattered with clothes, towels, papers. More contracts, perhaps. Lying across the bed, a half-strung guitar sprouted wires that bobbed according to the vibrations of our footfalls. That’s me. Not ready for prime time, twitchy as hell, way too many sharp points.

  “Do you play, Amy?”