‘Oh, well. I-I’m glad we’ve had a little chat. That we’ve cleared up some things. It was nice chatting with you,’ she says quickly and through gritted teeth, if I’m not mistaken. ‘So... goodbye!’
I’m left with a hard-on, a smile, and a phone beeping emptily in my hand.
Chapter 10
CHASTITY
If anything is going to sort out mixed emotions, it’s a Monday morning. Working for myself is a joy. My hours are mostly my own, but sometimes, I still have to drag myself out of bed early. Like today, for instance when we’re shooting a scene in a five-star city hotel. I’d tell you which one, but I don’t want to get kicked out of the place before we’ve filmed today’s actors, Sasha Savage and Nathan Cox, screwing against a wall of windows, the dramatic backdrop of the city beyond.
I take pride in the beauty of my work. There’s the obvious beauty in sex, yes, but I also like to make sure my sets are top-notch. I have a small studio, but I much prefer filming on location; Prague, Barcelona, Ibiza, and places closer to home.Like my aunt Camilla’s potting shed.
Travel cup in hand, I place it on the roof of my Mini Cooper. Yes, I suppose in some ways I am that clichéd city girl. But not only is my car adorable, she’s also very cool. For instance, she has a fabulous name. None of thisMiniorCooperbusiness. It’s Minerva, like the Roman Goddess of warfare. Which is pretty apt as driving in Londonisa battle.
I pull open the rear passenger side door to throw in my bag, when a deep voice calls out in greeting from the other side of the road.
‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’
Is that . . . the waiter from the restaurant? What was his name again?
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ I reply, looking up momentarily into the clear blue sky. This is the song of my people—British people. We’re all about the weather. It’s so erratic, it’s probably been ingrained into our psyche somehow. But it’s also a safe conversation starter. Polite, I suppose.Bugger it. What was his name again?Throwing my bag on the back seat, I close the door.
‘How’s your head this morning?’ Nowthatwasn’t so polite, and neither is the way he’s looking at me, or the way his mouth hitches up in one corner.
Hmph.I refrain from swapping him a judge-y look for his judge-y comment, though I glance across at him again. The bastard is chuckling and from his garden gate, it seems. Someone new moved in recently. So he’s my new neighbour and not some random out running. Pity because I could’ve told him tojog the fuck on.
On any other day, I might take a moment to appreciate the sight of a fit bloke dressed for the gym, especially one as easy on the eyes as him. But not today. Today, my head is a mess from my conversation yesterday with Flynn. We aren’t supposed to be building a friendship. He was just a means to get my orgasm back. Which brings me to another sore point in my day. Quite literally sore, from overwork, because my orgasm hasn’t returned. So fucking much for that plan.
‘Perfectly fine, thank you.’ My answer is crisp, if not a little belated, as I clear the back of the car on my way to the driver’s side.I am fine, if I discount the fact that I almost gave myself friction burns this morning.
‘Have a good day in the stacks,’ he calls. His words almost cause me to falter mid step. How in the hell does he know about...Ohhh.It dawns on me that he’s referring to my fictious career as a historian—a historian of the phallus—andnotmy fantasy ofAtonement’slibrary scene. Bloody Flynn Phillips dominating my bloody thoughts. He has single-handedly spoiled the start to my day, and he’s not even here!
With a weak wave and an equally weak smile, I open the driver’s side door and slip into the seat before pulling away from the curb. In my rear-view mirror, his assessing eyes follow me down the street.
~*~
‘Come on, you. Shove up.’
‘Oh, you are in such a crabby mood this morning,’ Hillary, my latest hire, moves along the love seat at the end of the bed. Just the two of us are here at the moment, though Paisley is due soon, along with the two stars of the show. ‘Here,’ Hills says, shoving a banana in my hand. ‘Your blood sugar must be low.’
I murmur my thanks as I take it, peel it savagely, and bite a whacking great piece off the end. ‘What?’
‘You’re making my puddings feel all queer,’ he says with a shivery wince. I’ve no idea what his “puddings” are, and I know better than to ask. And despite the misleading name, Hillary isn’t actually a girl, but a Christopher; a one Christopher Hillary.
‘Darling,’ I say, one brow raised. ‘You are every inch the queer.’
‘You say the nicest things,’ he responds, fluffing imaginary hair. Not that he doesn’t have hair—he has plenty. Red and wiry, it covers both his face and his head. Stylishly so. He’s quite the hipster. And as camp as a row of pink tents—pink tents festooned with floral bunting. He’s also a film student, which makes him super useful and a bit of a love.
As you can imagine, in my line of work, it can be pretty difficult getting suitable staff. I don’t have a huge budget because Fast Girls doesn’t produce films for the mainstream porn market. My customers are subscribers to my website, and mainly women, though sometimes couples, and are interested in something other than mass-marketed porn. They want tasteful. They want seduction. They want fucking from something other than the perspective of a man deep-throating the equivalent of a Barbie doll.That’s not sexy at all.
But it is hard hiring suitable crew. I’m told there’s a certain awkwardness in the job—no matter if you’re dealing with lighting or running errands—lurking in the room fully clothed while trying not to look like you’re watching people fucking, I suppose. Once the initial worry of being turned on, and worse still, the possibility of being called out for it, is lost—which doesn’t take long because, believe me, there’s nothing sexy in the production of porn—I’m told it still makes people seriously question their life choices.
But not me. I make a good living out of this, and I’d say the same goes for the adult actors. And while they themselves always look like they’re enjoying themselves, I know that’s not the case. It’s part of the fantasy, and they deliver because they’re professionals. And if they didn’t like it, I’m sure they’d find some other form of work.
‘Shitty morning?’ Hills asks, who is officially my part-time production assistant while he studies film at a local university.
‘How can you tell?’
‘I’m a sensitive soul. An empath. Not to mention your aura,’ he adds, waving his hand in the general direction of my head, ‘is sort of the colour of... fucked off.’
