Kick. Kick. Kick.
“If you didn’t want to do this,” I say, “you didn’t have to go along with it. I let you answer first because I didn’t want to put any pressure on you.”
He smirks at this, but it’s all cruelty and sarcasm. “Thanks so much for not wanting to pressure me into anything. Nothing like meeting for lunch only to be hit with a sales pitch. You could have warned me what I was getting into.”
“I warned you last night. I told you this was about money. If you don’t want to keep—”
Finally Brice turns to me. He grabs my wrist. His fingers are tight, but not with anger. It’s almost like he’s desperate. “It’s not like that.”
r /> “Not like what? I didn’t even get to finish.”
“I mean, I want to keep doing this with you. It’s just that—” Before he can get the words out, Greg has pulled up. After two short honks, he waves from inside his Audi for us to join him.
Brice and I sit in the back as far away from each other as possible. We don’t speak for the whole ride. When we finally arrive at a very plain-looking office building just on the outskirts of the city where the suburbs start, Brice jumps out of the car as soon as we roll to a stop.
If the icy environment worries Greg, he doesn’t say so. He’s been his own entertainment this whole time. Telling stories about the worst divas he’s worked with. The number one was some girl named Sally who always insisted on making the most fake moans when she was on tape. When Greg imitated her sounds, neither of us in the backseat so much as cracked a smile. This didn’t deter Greg though. He just moved onto the next nightmare like we were already coworkers sharing our worst work stories.
If I expected people to be having sex on every available piece of furniture the moment we walk in, I’m proven immediately wrong. The only indicator as to the business conducted here is a giant painting hanging on the wall behind the receptionist. Dripping paints depict the image of a woman lying on her back, her legs open, curly, artistic renditions of hair sprouting from all around her vagina.
“Sally!” Greg practically shouts the moment we’re through the door. He winks at us before turning back to the receptionist. “Any problems with mice playing while the cat was away?”
“You mean besides that psycho bitch, Jenny?”
“Now Sally, you know she hates being called that,” Greg clucks his tongue at her.
“I am not calling her Cherry. It’s a fruit, not a name.”
“I’ll deal with Cherry later. So don’t you worry about her.” Greg pats Sally on the head. “You just get me new contracts for these two to sign. And let the guys up in Studio B know that we’ll be ready for filming right after lunch.
Right before Greg leaves Brice and me in a conference room, he sticks his head back in and imitates the horrible sex noises he made in the car. “If you need anything, Sally is here to please you.” An uproarious laugh bounces down the hall after he closes the door.
“So she’s the secretary now,” I say more to myself than to Brice. “With the way he treats her, it’s a surprise she hasn’t burned this place to the ground yet.”
Brice says nothing at my lame attempt to lighten the mood. And I’m not about to beg him to talk to me. Especially not when we got into this together. He can keep blaming me all he wants, but the truth is that I didn’t drag him here.
When silence falls between us, I can hear the faintest rhythmic sound of sex being performed on the floor above us. Or maybe it’s two floors up. It’s almost undetectable unless you really hone in on the sound, but it’s there, and soon it will be Brice and me on the other side.
This brings me back to last night. How incredibly connected we were. What has come over Brice since then? I just can’t understand the change in his demeanor. I know we didn’t say anything about it, but I was sure that we’d crossed some bridge last night. Not just as friends or even friends with newly discovered benefits, but as something more. Last night was a passionate rush, a flame that burned brightly but quickly. Still, for just a moment during our lustful communion with each other’s bodies, I felt that we weren’t just having sex but that we were making love.
Sally brings forms for each of us to sign. Brice barely glances at them before signing his name at the bottom. I read through the first page, which mostly covers the company’s health regulations and liability clauses. It then goes on to detail the length of our agreement (30 days) and our payment ($10,000 each). I’m sure that there’s more legalese that I should read through, but I’m no lawyer, nor am I in a position to turn this down. We’ve come this far, and Brice has already signed. What else is there for me to do?
Sally collects the forms and returns five minutes later with a man in tow. He carries a clipboard and has two pens in his chest pocket, but there’s no other indication that he’s a medical professional.
“Do you two need privacy?” he asks and then laughs at his joke. “Sorry, I just always try to do this altogether. Considering your profession, it shouldn’t make either of you uncomfortable. Plus, I think transparency is important in your line of work.”
Brice nods but says nothing. And since I’m not protesting, the doctor goes on.
“Just a few questions. Have either of you ever been treated for an STD?”
That’s a negative from both of us.
“Have you had any unprotected sex in the past six months?”
Brice and I look at each other.
“Only with her. Last night,” he says first.
“But I’m on birth control.”