The Companion Contract

by Solace Ames

  “But it’s going to be fun,” I pleaded. “And Miles always acts more civilized when you’re around. My friend Chiho might come as well, if I can get her on the list.”

  “I don’t want pictures of me all over the fan pages. They’ll go after you, but you’re ready, right?”

  “Yeah. I don’t have anything to hide. I mean, if people make the connection to my porn name, they make the connection. I’m not going to worry either way. And Emanuel doesn’t care.”

  “He never worries about the small stuff. He just gets his money and takes care of his own.”

  I was included in Emanuel’s circle of care, right near the center. Everyone at the house knew where my suitcases were now: underneath his bed. His bed was wide and warm and I lay in his arms there. It was pretty awesome. “I’m happy with Emanuel. I’m really, really happy. I hope it lasts.” I kept saying the same things over and over again whenever I thought of him, and I wondered if the endless loop was beginning to irritate other people.

  A small smile played on Xiomara’s lips, but she didn’t look irritated. “Me too. I wouldn’t call him a one-woman man, but he’s not a player, either. Kind of in between. He tried hard to work it out with his ex-wife, and I don’t think he ever cheated on her.”

  “It’s hard to explain, but I’d be okay with him seeing other people, if I knew. Especially if I was there too, watching. If I wasn’t ever a porn star, I’d still be a slut like that. It’s too much fun.”

  “That’s an open relationship, not cheating.”

  “The emotional fidelity is more important to me. Wow, I sound like I actually know what I’m talking about. Like I’ve been in real relationships.” I thought back over my past as I paddled to keep my board lined with Xiomara’s. “Sugar daddies and fuck buddies is what I’m used to, and even then, I hated blurred lines, because I always wanted to know exactly what I was giving and getting, and so many men lie about both.” I remembered the old man in San Diego with the beach house who said he only wanted to look, not touch. I would have let him touch me, if he’d been honest, but I left when the lies and the long, long board games wore me down.

  Xiomara pointed to a cresting swell. “Should I try standing up this time?”

  “Go for it. Remember, keep your feet shoulder-width apart. You’ll fall off the first few times, but that’s okay.” I paddled forward, yelled “Banzai,” popped up and rode the sturdy little wave in to shore, the wind in my...oh.

  I could have been a seagull skimming inland for how weightless and free I felt.

  By the low cliff, where the sand was dry, the menfolk gathered under a beach umbrella, playing guitars. The wind whipped scattered notes at me. Crouched between Emanuel and Fausto, Miles’s pale skin swirled with black tattoos like ink spattered symmetrically into a bowl of cream. The new gauntlet on his left arm shone the brightest black. It was a surreal and beautiful lineup, and I wished I had a shred of artistic talent so I could take a photo and turn it into album art.

  Miles was the one who caught my eye, but Emanuel kept me. I stood there, the tide tugging at the sand under my feet, and just looked for a long time. Really looked. The rest of the beach faded into a nondescript brightness, a backdrop sheet for his handsome, blocky-shouldered form.

  Emanuel waved at me. I wondered if he could see my face at this distance. I waved back and blew him a kiss anyway, tasting the salt water on my own skin and licking my lips afterward.

  The ankle strap that connected me to my surfboard was loose, so I tightened it before I went back in the ocean to check on Xiomara. The comfortable pressure reminded me of bondage and Emanuel’s hands hard against me. The first cold wave I waded through sent an almost supernatural shiver up my spine.

  “I missed that break,” Xiomara said, pouting.

  “I just made an intense mental connection between surfing and bondage. It’s like I’m flying free while I’m attached to something, there’s an amazing sense of security...And now you’re laughing at me.” I splashed water at her smiling face. She made me laugh at myself too, in a good way.

  “You’re a trip, Amy.”

  “Next time you need to kick off a little harder, okay? Let’s go back and try again.”

  We paddled out and waited, drifting. I loved talking, but I also loved how silent the ocean got beyond the breakers, how it swallowed down sound.

  Xiomara drummed her fingers against the longboard and made a sharp, decisive noise with her teeth. “All right. I’m going to the party.”

  “Cool. I’m sure you’ll end up on the front of the Avert site, but I bet the pictures are going to be awesome. You should wear those burgundy leather pants again.”

  “I decided a year ago I was going to be out. But I just keep on having to make the decision all over again, you know?”

  I wasn’t sure I understood, so I shook my head and listened.

  “I can say ‘I’m a transgender woman’ to friends, to people I go to school with. It wasn’t as hard as I used to think. But when you’re in the public eye, when you have people picking you apart and trying to measure you and shit...”

  “I see what you mean. It’s a whole different level. You’re right. I didn’t think of it like that.” I tried to come up with some relevant advice. “As a general principle, you have to have thick skin to be famous, and you won’t know if you have thick skin until you let a bunch of strangers poke at you with needles. I know I don’t want to be famous. What about you?”

  She sighed and couldn’t answer me.

  We both caught the next wave. Xiomara rose to her feet for a few seconds before windmilling her arms and falling comically backward. I shouted encouragement over my shoulder at her.

  I hoped she’d stop second-guessing herself and doubting her own strength. I could see that strength from the outside, better than she could. But that was true for all of us, in a way. Amy, you’re so mature, so level-headed, so independent, everyone in the business told me. I’d smile and take the compliment, but it always felt like a lie. You are enough—hell no, I wasn’t enough. In the past, I’d spent whole nights hugging my arms around my waist to keep the loneliness from ripping me apart.

  Now I had a lover. Friends. A beautiful place where I belonged, where no one ever lied to me.

  Please don’t let me fuck this up.

  * * *

  We drove down Hollywood Boulevard in the back of a limousine, a bubble of luxurious quiet drifting down a river of roaring light.

  Emanuel stroked my hand, and I leaned against his shoulder. He wore a bright white linen suit, the usual smoked sunglasses, square-toed shoes made of white leather with gold embroidery. Xiomara wore the same colorful outfit she’d worn at the impromptu show, and we’d hired a stylist to dress Fausto and Miles in designer jeans, thickly textured knit tops and Italian leather boots. El Tigre sat in the back in a modest gray bulky suit, looking like the bodyguard he was, at home in the shadows at the edge of the spotlight.

  Miles was the only one of us with full professional makeup on. No matter what you had between your legs, camera lights turned your face into an oil slick without the right foundation, and Miles would get the lion’s share of the paparazzi attention tonight. He had to look good and matte. And he looked really damn good, eat-your-heart-out rock icon good. His face, subtly contoured in a style halfway between butch and glam, resembled the photos from Avert’s last tour, as if he hadn’t aged a day in ten years. His cheekbones were even sharper, in fact. Maybe a bit too sharp.

  “What do you think?” Emanuel asked me, gesturing at Miles.

  “I think he needs to gain some more weight. Like about ten pounds, maybe do some upper body workouts.”

  Miles did a pretend arm-lift with his middle finger extended at us.

  “She’s right,” Emanuel said. “You know that.”

  “Then hire me a personal trainer. One
who gives good head. I need a motive from you motherfuckers.”

  Xiomara rolled her eyes, drawled, “You think your bitch ass is still cute,” and drew away from Miles to lean her head against the car window.

  “I’m not cute anymore?” Miles protested, laying on the fake wounded tone a little too heavy. “You’re not cute either, X-babe. You’re fucking gorgeous. You should be the lead singer, not me.”

  I didn’t know whether to break out laughing at X-babe or groan at another wildly inappropriate Miles maneuver, but my mouth fell open and stayed there.

  Emanuel and Xiomara split the difference: he laughed softly while she groaned and shook her head.

  “Your voice is stronger than I remember,” Emanuel said to Xiomara. His deep, calm voice soothed the tension in the air. No one was going to fight tonight, not with him in charge, and he was always in charge. “You should consider session work when you’re in graduate school.”

  She leaned even farther away from Miles. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miles said. “I’ll be good. As good as I can. We’re not going to stay too long though, are we?”

  “An hour. El Tigre will follow you, including to the bathroom, and discourage anyone who offers you anything. Do you agree to that?”

  “Yeah, sure.” On the other side of the limousine, Miles mirrored Xiomara’s pose. I wasn’t sure if it was subconscious on his part or not.

  “The belly of the beast rumbles,” Fausto said.

  I startled for a second before I realized we’d arrived, and it was only his poetic version of knock it off and get the fuck out of the car already.

  The driver opened the door for Miles. An explosion of light greeted him, shouts and shrill keening, and he stepped out into the chaos with an air of workmanlike bravery.

  “Are you ready, cariño? I’ll hold your hand.”

  “Yes. Please.”

  Emanuel led me out of the car. The lights hurt, but I didn’t let myself blink. I smiled a weird smile with my widened unblinking eyes and tried not to panic at how the pictures might come out. The adrenaline surged in my blood, and time slowed to a crawl. I gathered my strength, breathed deeply, and reminded myself I was armored with love and happiness.

  No more fear.

  At least, not for myself. I squeezed Emanuel’s hand. “Can you see at all?” I whispered up toward his ear.

  “I was prepared. These glasses are my darkest. I see outlines, blurry shapes. The door will be twenty feet ahead.”

  He must have memorized the route.

  We walked together into the club, following the red carpet, side by side, leading each other. I was so proud. I wasn’t dressed for attention tonight, wearing only a stark black minidress and chunky black heels. I wanted to look timeless, like the man I walked beside.

  They couldn’t take our measure. And they’d never, ever bring us down.

  “Who is she?” I heard.

  I wasn’t sure anymore, but I didn’t care. I was myself, and I was right where I needed to be. We swept into the club like we had angel wings, arrogant and serene.

  “Describe the theme for me, please.”

  “Ice palace. Glass tiles all over the walls, or maybe they’re Lucite. Crystal chandeliers. Don’t worry if you can’t see your feet. I can’t either, because there’s a shit-ton of dry ice fog covering the floor.”

  “Aesthetics?”

  I loved that we were already speaking in one-word sentences, developing a private language. “It’s a little theme-park cheesy, but it fits with Hollywood. Looks expensive. Someone covered in white feathers is leading us to the VIP balcony.”

  We walked upstairs dripping with the ostentatious fog. The pulse of the music stirred me but didn’t talk to me or take me away. It was just part of the background.

  When I glanced behind, Xiomara had a look on her face I liked, regal and haughty without a trace of insecurity. We exchanged big pleased smiles. Tonight was work, a calculated performance, a photo opportunity. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy it.

  The VIP balcony served drinks over illuminated glass-topped columns, so as people passed by their faces shone with a flattering cold blue underlight. I described the effect to Emanuel. He exchanged his sunglasses with another, lighter pair and told me he could see well enough to navigate now.

  Miles stood about ten feet away, in the middle of a strange fractal crowd of people who approached, drew away, then approached again. They were calculating his fame potential, matching it to theirs, and perhaps factoring in some of the erratic behavior he’d become infamous for at the end of Avert’s first incarnation. No one walked past him in a straight line, they always veered toward or away. The wry smile on his face told me he knew exactly what was going on.

  Emanuel bought us Campari and sodas. Neither of us drank much. He told me that when he’d started playing, he’d keep a flask of aguardiente in his pocket and take a shot before he stepped onstage, for liquid courage in the face of the blinding, flashing lights.

  One shot only. And by the time it faded in his blood, he could somewhat see.

  We leaned against the bar and let famous musicians drift by and greet Emanuel. They included me in their greetings, sometimes shaking my hand. “This is my girlfriend, Amy,” he’d tell them, and each time I’d feel a pleasurable dizziness sweep over me.

  “If Jacinth is here tonight, I don’t intend to speak to her,” he said, after a less-established pop diva had paid her greetings and mentioned Jacinth’s name.

  “I don’t want to create drama. I know it’s business between you and her and I’m not the jealous type.”

  “My own decision,” he warned me, and touched the line of my jaw with the pad of his thumb. The dizziness sank downward, becoming a pleasurable swirling sensation in the pit of my stomach. He laid down clear lines, letting me know, gently but firmly, when I’d overstepped them, and oh my God did that turn me on.

  “Whatever you say.” I didn’t add Sir at the end—it didn’t feel right, not in public—but I said it in my mind, and I think he might have heard it.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Serena Sakamoto? Can I say hi?”

  My stomach didn’t feel so good anymore. Before I even turned, I knew something was wrong. If the question was serious, if the man had really cared about outing me as a porn model, then he wouldn’t have used that name in the first place.

  “I guess you can,” I said coldly. “Emanuel, this is Derek. He directed one of my shoots about a year ago.” Emanuel’s hand rested lightly on my shoulder. I have a boyfriend and he knows and he doesn’t care, our language said.

  “Lucky guy.” Derek was young and he had good hair, and he always had a girlfriend in the business, although they never stayed long because he also had a blockbuster coke habit on a porn movie budget, not to mention the personality of a cockroach. “You in porn?” he asked Emanuel.

  “No.”

  “I started off in front of the cameras then shiiiit, know what happened? Turns out I got allergic to Viagra.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that story, and I’m not very interested in hearing it again, Derek,” I said, glaring at him. “Why don’t you—”

  He cut me off before I could say leave, slamming his drink down on the bar. “You still into bondage, baby? We did a bondage scene—”

  “Don’t call me baby.”

  Emanuel edged my shoulder to the right, switching positions so that he was standing between us. Derek really should have read that language, but he must have been too drunk.

  “We did a bondage scene where the other chick lost the blindfold, and I said to Serena—I said, ‘We could blindfold you with dental floss,’ and she got pissed the fuck off but we made up, right, went out afterward and—”

  “No, we didn’t. We never made up and I never worked with you a
gain.” I was about to add an eat shit, motherfucker when the configuration of bodies around me changed radically, quick as a house of cards falling down.

  I didn’t process the change, at first. I’d spoken on autopilot, and now the aftershock dragged me down, left me shaking inside with rage and an old, old grief, remembering that day at the park when the other children surrounded me, pulling their eyes at the corners into vicious slits and chanting how do you even seeeee, chinky chinky ching chong and I begged them to stop, but they never did, not until my sisters and brother came charging after them with rocks and sticks and they scattered, and I fell down, covering my eyes...my eyes...

  I was alone in the cold blue light.

  My family was long gone.

  And then Xiomara grabbed my wrist.

  I held on to the edge of the bar with my other hand until my heels stopped wobbling and the room stopped spinning. “I’m okay,” I gasped. “I’m okay. Where’s Emanuel?”

  “He grabbed that guy and walked him into a back room. Pointed me over to you on the way there.” Her harsh whisper sounded only inches from my ear. “Something’s going down.”

  “I don’t want anyone to get in trouble.”

  “This? This isn’t trouble. El Tigre está—” she took a deep breath and switched back to English, “—watching the door. I don’t know what happened, but your man is going to fix it.”

  “Who’s with Miles then?”

  She squeezed my wrist, let go and cursed, rubbing at her forehead.

  “I’m okay, I swear. Go find him. I’ll wait here.” I took up the Campari and soda that looked dark blood red in the eerie light and sipped at it for the sole purpose of proving my emotional stability. The alcohol hit my throat like a grappling hook, making me cough and sputter.

  “All right.” She was gone into the crowd after flashing me the same encouraging smile from the stairs, as if our one shining hour in the ice palace was still full of promise and hadn’t just gone to shit.