“I can’t believe you. This is all so fucked up. I don’t even know what to say.”
“There’s one more thing,” I warn. He’sreallynot going to like this one. “I messed with your scale.”
“My scale?” he says, arms waving, eyes bugging, now in complete histrionics.
“You went into a depressive spiral whenever you were a few pounds over your target weight, so I recalibrated it to even out your moods.”
“Recalibrated it? Like added more weight?” he sputters.
“Or took some away.”
“My fucking scale?” He grows about two inches then, shoulders heaving, muscles bulging. So erotic. I want to lash him with a saddle and giddy him up onto my four-poster bed. Tie him to the bed posts and fuck him raw and mean until he’s whimpering and docile again. Gag him and spank him and use him until all that aggression is spent. But Adam seems to be of another mind as he storms out of the room. I consider arming myself for the wrath that is sure to come, but what’s the use? I love him too much to kill him, and besides that, I doubt I could talk my way out of two homicides in one week. I’ve hurt countless people in countless ways, but Adam is truly my crucible.
He returns a moment later carrying the scale in both hands. “This scale?” he demands.
“That’s the one,” I confirm.
He raises it over his head and hefts it at the mirror with both hands, projecting the ten-pound scale with enviable force. Christ, he does love breaking things with a dramatic flair. The glass shatters and the scale falls to the floor with a dull thud and barely a scratch on it because it’s made to be indestructible.
“Good thing I didn’t try to save my mother’s priceless heirloom,” I tell him, “or I may have ended up just like Elliot.”
“Fuck you,” Adam says, still huffing and puffing but somewhat depleted now. He certainly doesn’t let things fester. He blows up and rages, and then it’s over. Like a violent, beautiful storm. As opposed to my preference for slow, excruciating torture. He walks over the edge of the bed and collapses onto it, cradling his head in both hands. Poor baby. He’s had to confront a lot of unpleasant truths about himself today. I shake out my arms and shoulders, which have become tight throughout our exchange. It’s time for my closing argument.
“Look at your life, Adam. Take stock in the things you have. Would any of this have been possible without me?”
“Probably not,” he sulks like a kicked puppy.
“I’ve taken care of you all along, as I will continue to take care of you. Whatever you want, you can have.” He stares up at me, seeming to want to believe me. I drop down to my knees before him. “Tell me what you want, darling, and it’s yours.”
He licks his ruby-red lips, flush with violence, and contemplates my offer. “Is that all this is for you, some kind of transaction?”
“Transaction? Not at all. This is me expressing my love for you in the way I know best. You want things, and I get them for you. You have dreams. I make them happen.”
“And how do I show my love for you?”
“By being my eager little cum dumpster.”
He scowls, not liking that, but his sexual appetite says differently. “Doesn’t sound very healthy.”
“What we have is more honest than most relationships. We each have what the other wants. I’m invested in your success, and you’re invested in pleasing me. Why, in ye olden days, you would have made an excellent courtesan to a king.”
“What’s that?”
“A whore, but fancy-like.”
He’s still brooding, but I believe the scale is tipping in my favor. Adam has dreams that are much bigger than him, and he knows he’s one fuck-up away from being forsaken by an industry that’s as fickle as it is cruel.
“Anything you want,” I whisper like the devil on his shoulder.
“I want that part inSoldier of Chaos,” he says at last.
“Done.”
“That easy?” he asks in disbelief.
“Your character inSoldier of Chaoswill be bisexual at the very minimum by the time I’m through with them. And no filming in Marrakesh.”
“I want an exotic locale,” Adam demands mulishly. “Not some stuffy Hollywood set.”
