ChapterNine
Yenni Montoya had not orderedproduction to fire them. Bryn stared blankly at her email, still half asleep like the sun that had only just nudged the sky awake. Harvey said little in his response to Vivian’s email sending yesterday’s raw files, but what he had said felt like a damn ticker-tape parade down an idyllic Main Street: “Looks like the third time’s the charm. Keep it up.”
That was it. No notes. No demand to start again. No modern equivalent of a pink slip. Just an unelaborated thumbs-up.
In her borrowed bed, Bryn exhaled. Eyes on the ceiling, she let relief flood her nervous system. She wasn’t sure that there was anything noticeably different in her performance, but even Vivian seemed more at ease on their second attempt. It was hard to replicate something when Bryn didn’t know what it was, but she pushed aside her worries and focused on the positive. A green light from Montoya to keep going.
She checked the time, suddenly giddy like she’d shotgunned a gallon of espresso. She had an hour and a half before breakfast.
Chewing the inside of her cheek, she debated whether to record a new audio or upload one of the ones she’d banked for emergencies. Eighteen months of consistently posting twice a week on Siren—the audio erotica app—had been critical to her success, modest as it was.
She had three ready-to-share audios left in the file labeled: BREAK IN CASE OF EMERGENCIES. With so much ofMagpiesstill to record, she might need to use all of them. That would risk running out of material and faithfully posting on a schedule was so crucial.
She could make something new and leave the banked files for a true emergency.
Bryn mostly performed short scripts she commissioned. They were explicit, but fully plotted. There was no way she could record that without her good mic and pop filter and editing software.
There was only one option. She’d have to lean into the grainy quality of her earbuds and phone. She’d have to pretend that was on purpose.
Bryn wasn’t a writer, but that didn’t matter for the idea whirling to life as she opened her recording app. Both earbuds in, Bryn closed her eyes. She imagined herself as a professional on a conference trip. A woman who missed her wife and wanted to show her just how much.
With a grin, she dropped her voice to sound like her alter ego Kelly Craves. “Hi, baby. I miss you,” she muttered as if she were talking to her partner on the phone. Talking directly to her 8,000 subscribers with a sleepy, sultry voice.
But she never pictured so many people listening. She conjured a single person and imagined herself talking only to her. Shifting under the sheets for her. Aching only for her.
“Yeah?” She chuckled as if her wife had returned the sentiment. Having a one-sided conversation had taken getting used to, but it was second nature now.
“Still in bed? Don’t you have to get ready for work?” Bryn’s tone was playful, like she didn’t know exactly where the conversation would lead.
“I wish I were there with you right now.”
Bryn visualized a nice bed. White sheets and a plush duvet. In her fantasy, a woman sleeping in a thin T-shirt stirred.
“You know I hate hotel beds. And I really hate sleeping without you.”
Bryn imagined full lips pulling into a little grin. A satisfied grin. Her fictional wife was happy to hear that she was mildly miserable in her absence.
“Oh? Thinking about me? What were you thinking about?”
“Nope, yep, yeah.” She cleared her throat, pretending to be caught off guard. “Yes, that was quite a send-off. I haven’t stopped thinking about your?—”
Bryn laughed like she’d been interrupted.
“Babe, you don’t ever have to worry about anyone else snagging my attention. You’re the only woman I see. I’m not even sure there’s anyone else at this damn thing.”
She paused, giving the illusion that the other person was talking. That her fictitious wife was sharing her insecurities.
“No, not evenSierra the Sales Queen,” she assured with a soft chuckle. A pause. A beat. A flirtatious tone. “Baby… are you jealous?”
She shifted her weight, making the sheets rustle so they’d get captured by the recording.
“Don’t get shy. I like it,” she muttered reassuringly.
In her mind’s eye, Bryn saw a flash of blonde. A hard jaw and intimidating countenance easing. She resisted painting the rest of the picture. Refused to let herself see a face. Seeherface.
Bryn focused on the task. “What are you wearing?”
She imagined Vivian’s white camisole. The line of her biceps. Nope. She wasn’t going to be an objectifying creep. Absolutely not.
