The Companion Contract

by Solace Ames

  I liked being included in such a formal way. My opinion, requested for due consideration. At the same time, I couldn’t help a twinge of worry. I knew him well enough to tell that he was worried too. Something in the stiffness of his body, the resignation in his deep rolling voice.

  “Okay.”

  “Listen.”

  I closed my eyes and listened, relaxing against him. All I could hear was the sound of the sea and the words in my mind. Nothing else. “I don’t hear anything,” I said after a few minutes of deep, peaceful listening.

  “I think Gabriel is dying.”

  * * *

  He was an old cat. His gums were inflamed, and a cyst the size of a quail’s egg nestled on the inside of his right hind leg. Arturo, the caretaker, had brought the issues to Emanuel’s attention. Treatment options for an endangered species were limited, to say the least. Legitimate veterinarians would report an illegal ocelot.

  “I’ve found a place, a legal refuge, that will take him in with no questions asked. They’ll treat Gabriel, and if he lives, he’ll end his days in a larger range, the way it should be.”

  “That sounds ideal,” I said. We stood by the aviary, hand in hand. Gabriel’s body was nearly hidden behind a log, but the tip of his black-and-sand tail flicked listlessly every few minutes. “Will the owner go for that?”

  “No. She’s a rational woman in many ways, but when it comes to Gabriel, madness takes over.”

  “You have to be a little mad to own an ocelot in California.”

  “I can take him to the refuge now. I need to leave very soon, to be back by nightfall.”

  He couldn’t risk driving at night, not with his eyesight. “I could drive for you.”

  “I need you here. Arturo will look the other way, but not for long—he doesn’t want to lose his job. He’s promised me twenty-four hours of grace before he calls the owner to tell her what I’ve done. We should be gone from this house by then.”

  “Give me a budget and storage addresses for the studio equipment. I’ll start looking up movers and do it all. We can get into the place in Venice Beach, it’ll just cost an extra week’s money. This is the right thing to do. I don’t mind handling the situation.” In fact, I was positively looking forward to it. I could prove myself as his right hand.

  “I trust you absolutely.”

  I looked up at him. The expression on his face of subtle satisfaction—the corner of his lips slightly tightened and tilted, glance easily sliding to meet mine—thrilled me to the bone. I smiled like an idiot. “I’ll do my best, and if anything goes wrong, I’ll keep in touch and let you know, okay?”

  “I’ll make sure to reward you later, for all your work.” The slight part of his amazingly expressive mouth made it clear to me exactly how, and I remembered how pleasantly sore I still was from last night. I fucking loved that feeling. It was so close to when I rode the waves and woke up the next day with my arms and back worn out but stronger.

  Maybe tonight he’d tie me down. Or we’d speak of collars again.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I said. “You’d better not let Gabriel mess you up for me.” I put my hands on my hips and pursed my lips.

  Emanuel’s solution didn’t involve armoring up and going into the aviary to wrestle down a sick, angry ocelot, and thank God for that. Instead, he brought a large kennel, put a plastic bowl of grocery store shrimp cocktail in the back and rigged it carefully so that the door closed behind Gabriel. The resulting screams of rage weren’t as vital and powerful as I remembered, but they went on, and on, and on.

  Emanuel would have to listen to those screams through the long drive. I didn’t envy him. He kissed me goodbye and we didn’t draw it out—Gabriel’s hnnngh hnngh noises were too disturbing. “Be careful,” I said. “I know you will, but I have to tell you anyway.”

  “I know.” He kissed me one more time, then rolled up the window, trapping himself with the hellish screams, and drove away, past the dry fountain and down the path to the gate.

  I realized, after they left, that I might never see an ocelot this close again. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, although perhaps I could describe it as an exotic salty cocktail of awe and guilt and regret.

  Que te vaya bien, Gabriel.

  Time to get to work.

  I went back into the house, got dressed properly and broke open my laptop. I called a few recommended moving companies and hired the one that sounded readiest. Much of the equipment in the studio garage would need to be removed, so I took my phone and hurried over there to start an inventory.

  The movers arrived within an hour, a trio of young white men with thick Eastern European accents. The words they spoke to each other sounded like curses—I hoped they weren’t cursing me. I had to explain more than once to treat the guitars delicately, keeping my instructions polite but firm. We settled into a good rhythm. At noon I ordered pizzas for us all.

  Miles would be in the air by now, while Emanuel drove through the desert with a miserable Gabriel. Soon I’d be on the move as well. I felt like a little girl holding a dandelion who’d just taken a deep breath, intent on scattering the seeds on the wind.

  I wouldn’t miss the mansion. This house wasn’t a home anymore. It was an interesting and tricky geometry problem, a puzzle I had to take apart instead of put together, and I was slowly, proudly, solving it.

  “Pizza is here,” Saša told me, his burly arms bristling with mic stands.

  I wasn’t sure how to pronounce the name on his tag, but when I tried for a “Thanks, Sasha,” I got a curt nod in response.

  I opened the door with a smile that wasn’t artificial in the slightest. I was full of good feeling toward all my fellow human beings, not to mention hungry as hell.

  The woman I opened the door for didn’t even look like a human being. She had flame-red hair, flashing eyes and the body of an ancient Greek goddess with a twenty-first-century boob job. I couldn’t help looking at them, the creamy curves were right at eye level, and they were really fucking impressive.

  “Jacinth!”

  “Emanuel!” she shouted past me, not even meeting my eyes. “Speak with me this instant.”

  “Hi,” I said, and tried to recover my social skills. “I’m Amy. We met before, briefly. Emanuel isn’t here. Can I help you with anything?”

  She hissed and bared her teeth at me. The impression I wasn’t dealing with someone fully human only got stronger. Past a certain level of fame, whether it was a natural charismatic fire burning inside the idol or just a fake one fueled by great gobs of money, the heat was equally mind-melting.

  I wasn’t angry at her for what she’d said to me that night, because I couldn’t bring myself to judge her by any normal rules.

  That didn’t mean I was going to let her intimidate me.

  “Please don’t hiss at me,” I said. “I don’t think that’s necessary. The house is kind of a mess right now, but would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee?”

  “Fuck you, cheap shit whore. And Emanuel, I will never use you again. All I wanted was to make one song together. You turn me down for no good reason? You turn me down? Me?” She was still shouting over my head, as if she were convinced I was hiding Emanuel just around the corner.

  The pizza delivery guy stood about ten feet behind her, boxes loosely balanced in his arms, his mouth gaping open. She must have come in the gate with him. If he was any older and smarter, he’d drop those pizzas, whip out his phone and start recording the Pop Star versus Porn Star Deathmatch, round two.

  But then, I wasn’t really the fistfight type.

  I slammed the door right in her face and locked it. Jogged over to the side door and locked that too. “Don’t go out there for a while,” I warned Saša. “There’s a crazy lady.”

  “What about pizza?”

  Fuck.


  Ten minutes later, after the screaming died down and I heard a car leave, I poked my head out the front door. Jacinth was gone. The pizza delivery guy sat slumped on the side of the dry fountain, rubbing his forehead.

  Turned out she’d ripped the pizzas from his arms, stomped them into the gravel, stolen his phone and thrown a wad of hundred dollar bills at him for payment.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t call your boss. Just keep the money and go,” I told him. “I’ll heat up some frozen dinners instead. At least you’ll have a story to tell, right?”

  * * *

  Emanuel couldn’t get home before dark, so he checked into a motel in San Bernardino and told me not to meet him there, because it was rough—like so rough even the bedbugs were scared of the sheets. His plan was to sleep on top of the covers, fully dressed.

  His voice over the phone soothed me so much that the episode with Jacinth fled my mind. Then as soon as I hung up, Jacinth circled right back around. I was exhausted, in the middle of one more trip to take the last of the suitcases to our sublet in Venice Beach. I didn’t want to think about it. My brain was running low on processing power. The house was still a mess, but Isabel and another relative whose name I forgot were over there now, handling cleanup and security.

  When I dragged the last suitcase upstairs and sank down into the bland living room’s welcoming futon couch, I had to mentally confront the situation.

  There’d been a real chance for Emanuel to write a song with Jacinth. Markov was an up-and-comer with a bright but uncertain future; Jacinth was a solid chart-topper. It wasn’t even a competition, because he could have worked with both, converting Avert’s failure into desperately needed money to throw at the mounting debt. His daughters’ private school. Miles’s monstrous rehab bill. My contract, so agreeably broken.

  Of course it was his decision to make. And I should’ve been thrilled that it was because of me—he’d turned down Jacinth for me, he really had. Still, he should have asked.

  I threw my head back, stared at the ceiling and rehearsed how I theoretically would have responded.

  I knew, when I went into the business, what I’d be giving up. And I knew I’d be giving it up for the rest of my life. I can handle what they throw at me like a boxer trained for punches. I’m hardened and I’m proud of my armor. I cast them all aside.

  Well, maybe not all of them. But most of them, for sure. The phrase sounded really tough and kind of biblical, so I imagined myself saying it again.

  I cast them all aside.

  I don’t care what Jacinth said to me that night. You could still work with her. You’re used to working with divas and whackos. Just don’t talk about me.

  I wanted to help Emanuel, not hold him back. Punishing anyone who didn’t fully respect me would lead to a life together full of trouble, and he had a big fucking truckload of that already. We’d rip each other apart with the best of intentions.

  On the other hand, maybe this was just me staring at the ceiling and spinning the doom of our relationship out of nothing but thin air, low blood sugar and self-esteem issues.

  I had to talk to Emanuel like the adult I’d been pretending to be. Put all my concerns on the table, trust him and listen to him. Whenever I did that, it seemed to work.

  Before I went to sleep that night, I looked up advice by and for sex workers in relationships. None of it gave me any confidence. I read a lot about how we wanted to be treated, stuff that made me whisper yes that’s the way it should be while pumping my fist, but getting from desire to reality? Now that was the kicker.

  * * *

  The next morning, I had a text from Miles. Back home with mom and dad. Still alive. He’d sent a copy to Emanuel as well. I cheered him on silently and replied with a textual hug.

  I thought about checking on Xiomara to see what kind of wild night she’d had with Markov, but then I remembered Miles’s parting gift, the little book nestled in an interior pocket of my most important suitcase, and some very complicated emotions started tugging at my stomach.

  I’d fucked Miles. None of those metaphysical proxy feelings I’d been overcome with the other night really altered that basic fact. I should wait until my mind was clearer and cleaner before I talked to Xiomara.

  Since I was still a little worried about her, I ran a social media check on Markov. Every channel was fairly quiet. Maybe he’d given up on the stupid gay scandal plan. I texted her to let her know that her few remaining possessions from the mansion were boxed and waiting for her at Isabel’s house.

  I put on black jeans and a black leather halter, and slicked some gel in my hair for the first time since the haircut. My short, thick, pin-straight hair wouldn’t stay down otherwise. Emanuel might love my hair at any length, but that didn’t mean I wanted to walk around looking like a human dandelion puff.

  He called me just as I put my hand on the phone to call him.

  “I miss you.” Was I being too clingy?

  “I miss you too, mi reina, to the point of distraction.” No. No, I wasn’t. I grinned triumphantly. “I miss you and I stink of cat.”

  “I’m so sorry. But when you get here, the bathroom is pretty nice. Awesome water pressure. You can take a really long—”

  “I need you to meet me at the airport with my red suitcase and my Ibanez 6-string.”

  “Sure. No problem. Where are we going?”

  I waited for him to answer. I counted every second, except I counted them by heartbeats, and they came faster and faster and faster until I lost count.

  “An opportunity presented itself. A band I’ve worked with before needs a guitarist. Their current one fell off a hotel balcony halfway through the tour. I either wrote their songs, or they’re simple enough to learn in a day.”

  “Oh.” I should have known he had other plans to fill in the money gap. I even knew what band it was—I’d heard something about the accident a few days ago. They were called Renderer and had a good live reputation. “Where’s the tour?” And where was I going to join it? I didn’t want to ask all the details yet. I wanted him to tell me.

  “Europe. Two months in Europe.”

  Come on.

  Tell me.

  My eyelids trembled.

  “Amy, I’ll need you to stay in Los Angeles. This is not the way I want to show you the world. We’ll travel together soon, once I fulfill this contract.”

  “That’s really disappointing,” said a robot voice from my throat. “But I’ll be fine. I’ll wait.” I squeezed my eyelids shut and sat down cross-legged on the carpet, because all the bland beige furniture was starting to melt around the edges and spin.

  “I hate leaving you. But the world is small nowadays. I’ll speak with you every day, see you every day. I’ll write you a song.”

  “Thanks,” the robot said.

  “And I’ll be faithful to you. I think of it as a penance, a very small one for my sin of omission.”

  “Okay.” That sounded really weird and really Catholic. Also, I didn’t fucking care. I’d rather have him by my side, getting sucked off by a different man or woman every night, than gone to Europe without me. “Well, I might need to go back to work.”

  There was another long silence. My carefully rehearsed, delicate and oh-so-mature speech about Jacinth leaped into my memory, except now it was a stupid parody.

  I cast them all aside. Bullshit.

  “No. You don’t need to go back to work, Amy. The advance for my services is generous, and you have access to the account. You don’t need to spend your own money for the next few months. Save it for yourself and your family. I won’t forbid you from work. You haven’t given me the power, and I won’t claim it for myself without having earned it.”

  He was right, I hadn’t given him my submission over that part of my life. Not yet. And he treasured my submission only
freely given, and I loved him fiercely for that.

  So why was I withering inside?

  “I might need to wrap some things up,” I muttered.

  “I trust you absolutely. Do what you feel is right. Tell me as much or as little as you want.”

  “Okay.”

  “I know this is hard for you. I remember how it felt as a child, when a loved one left to find work. Sometimes they never came home, sometimes they came home broken.”

  And now I had to fight like hell to keep from crying. He’d pulled out the third-world immigrant card. The one we both had, deep in our decks.

  Not fair, the child in me screamed.

  Be strong, voices told that child, silencing her scream. Be strong for your family.

  “But when it was my turn, I always came home, or I brought them to me and made a new home. Always. And today, it’s so much easier. We’ll hardly be apart at all.”

  “Why can’t I come?”

  “These men...they wouldn’t be respectful.”

  “They’d make a porno joke and you’d kill them?”

  “More or less.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I’m sorry, Amy.” His voice was regretful but firm. He’d already made his decision. There was nothing left but to accept it with grace.

  “Where do you want me to meet you?”

  * * *

  I met him curbside at the international terminal. He wore all black, silvery sunglasses and a black Kangol golf hat. A steady stream of tourists tried not to stare as they passed him to board their buses—their heads jerked, then came the inevitable correction. He seemed above it all, speaking into a phone, no doubt winding up last-minute business.

  He put the phone away as soon as he saw me.

  I expected that things might be different between us. That my dread and terror and loneliness would explode, become visible, do something.

  Instead, what always happened when I saw him kept on happening: I felt light and happy, at ease with myself, confident. I couldn’t believe it, but I didn’t have a choice. I loved him so much.