"Okay, where do we start?" I ask, ready to get through the pile of paperwork.
"Let's quickly go over this company's do's and don'ts. I think that's a good place to start," Cheryl says.
I look over at Walter—who hasn't said a word. He seems to be transfixed by Cheryl.
"First, your sexual health is important to us," Cheryl continues. "We expect a high level of personal hygiene on the set, and we have a strict testing and STD prevention protocol. Also, if you are escorting or thinking about escorting outside of your work with Illicit Entertainment, we strongly urge against that."
She puts her hands up almost apologetically and continues. "A stigma still remains in the industry you know toward those entertainers who choose to go down this path."
I nod my head as she continues her spiel. I've heard this all before.
"There may be gonzo scenes in the films you shoot to give it a more 'realistic' quality—of course that's you interacting with the director and cameramen. And you can expect a healthy dose of pop shots, facials, and creampies. I assume you're okay with all of the above?" Cheryl asks.
She's all business now, but is she for real? None of this is new to me from my days as Brittney White. "Sure, I get it; I've been out of porn, but I've been around this industry for a while," I say. "Where do I sign?"
At this point, I just want to get this over with. I watch as Walter excuses himself from the room. "I'll be right back," he says to both of us. He feigns that he needs to use the restroom, but I know better. I know he's scoping the building out.
Cheryl points her finger to the bottom of the fourth page and I add my signature. We continue on through the paperwork, and while I don't show it, the NDA makes my insides coil like a guarded snake.
I'm not a liar—at least I never used to be—but here I am, preparing to sign a document that asks me to not disclose anything about the technology that Illicit Entertainment is rolling out, which goes against the very reason why I'm even here. But Simon's high-pitched voice floats back into my mind.
I can almost hear him repeating those words in the limo that made my insides grow cold, "I can give Richard a file." Richard is not a name that I ever want to hear again. I've worked hard to move on. So, I place the blue ballpoint pen to the paper and scratch out my signature.
"We have high hopes for you," Cheryl says with a smile. "Ethan says you've got a star quality about you."
"I won't let you down." I force a smile.
Who have I become? It's like I've walked into a new body. I don't even recognize myself. One minute I'm helping women victimized by infidelity and abuse, and I'm doing well—Man Chaser LLC is actually kicking ass if I'm honest, and yet the next minute, I'm whisked back into the porn industry to steal some plans, and I'm trying to protect myself from some wannabe billionaire who seems to be coked out of his mind.
Now that the last of the paperwork is signed, I
thank Cheryl again for walking me through it all, and I think of a pretext to go find Walter. "I need to make a call," I say, and I excuse myself from the room.
I quickly walk down the hall, peering into offices in the hopes that I'll see Walter. After walking around for a few minutes, I finally see him rounding the corner and we nearly bump into each other.
"Where have you been?"
"Where have I been?" he asks. "You know I've been taking a look around this place, but you nearly blew our cover. I walked back into Cheryl's office to find you and she gave me a confused look. She said you had left a while ago," Walter complains.
"Well, I'm here now. Let's finish scoping this place out," I say. You go left and I'll go right.
We need to find out as much as we can about this place. He agrees and I continue down the hall, walking as quietly as I can against the hard floor, until I find a corner office that catches my attention.
It has large windows that overlook the city. The lights are on but no one is inside. I notice that the walls and desk are adorned with what appears to be family photos. There's a large mahogany desk with a dark-brown leather chair. I walk over to one of the walls and peer closely at the photos.
This must be Ethan Kane's office. One photo looks like it's from the early 80s—grainy with age. It shows a young blonde-haired boy flanked by what appears to be his mother and father. When I look closely, I realize that the little boy in the picture is Ethan.
My eyes travel further across the wall and I see a picture of a man in a military dress uniform. It's an even older picture, and given the family resemblance, I figure this must be Ethan's father.
In another photo, I see a woman. She's sitting in a wicker chair—she must be in a backyard because the backdrop is a sprawling lawn with the hint of a flower garden in the far distance. I lean in closer, squinting to make out the details. What kinds of flowers are those? I figure this must be his mother. There's certainly a resemblance. I wonder if she's sitting in her family's yard in this picture, or—
"Looks like you're already making yourself at home," a voice says, breaking my thoughts.
My heart nearly leaps through my throat as I hear a voice coming from directly behind me. I look up and whip my head around to see who it is, and I come face to face with him.
It's Ethan Kane.
Ethan