Activities? The way she speaks makes it sound like a playdate with pottery lessons. She’s going to have to do better than that. I tilt my chin to defer to her continuance. It’s a bone she picks up.
“A gala next week that as EPA I am expected to attend with you. I’m just after some clarity on what capacity I will beattending with you. I mean, how many executives bring their support staff to these kinds of things…”
“Is there a question coming after this lengthy preamble?”
“Yes, sorry. I was wondering if I would be on your arm as your assistant, or your date?”
It’s a fair question; one I fear she’s worried over for some time today.
“You won’t beon my arm, so let’s get that out of the way before anything else. Some evenings, I’m required to attend functions such as premieres, galas, openings of something,” I continue, my hand waving forward to convey my building exasperation. “If the nature is more business, then you will attend as my assistant. You will be expected to stay sober and pay attention. A lot can be learned from peers and adversaries who have consumed more alcohol than their body weight can cope with.”
She nods along, content with the explanation.
“Other events, such as a wedding I am invited to in October, you would attend as my partner. I still demand that you behave, so there will be no displays of public affection, no hand-holding whatsoever. Both scenarios, assistant or date, demand your highest level of professionalism. As long as that is clear to you from the outset, I can assist you with some advice at each function if the need arises. Does that sound workable?”
“Yes, sir,” she agrees without hesitation.
“Good. Now, I know you had the contraceptive shot on Friday, so condoms will be needed for around seven days to ensure no breaches of contact in the interim. I’m aware that your last sexual encounter, prior to your stellar blow job at Sercio, was around four months ago with the married twin brother of your coworker. Correct?”
Her lower jaw sinks an unhealthy distance from her upper mandible.
“How do you know all that?”
“Because it’s my business to know yours, as my EPA, Sabrina.”
“You did a background check,” she huffs out with mild indignation. “I was expecting a credit check and any outstanding arrest warrants. Not intimate details of my private life. I guess nothing stays private in the media, huh?”
“No, nothing stays private in the media, and nothing is off-limits when it comes to my executive staff and who they are fraternizing with. At the end of the day, it’s your cunt that my dick will sink into, after all. I need to be sure that my dick is the only dick that enjoys the privilege. I have eyes and ears everywhere; your company phone is tracked, and your drivers and security work for me, not you. Remember that if you are ever tempted toward a cock not attached to me. Is that understood, Sabrina?”
“Yes, sir,” is all that squeaks out of her before the reddening hue of a facial flush roars up her neck with flourish.
“In the limited time after the Houston call, please ensure that you are back in here, on your knees next to my desk. The moment that call light is off, your presence is required, and it would want to be as enthusiastic and stellar as the last one. Dismissed.”
The hours mesh into each other, a blur of meetings, conferences, studio visits, and sex. Sex with a condom, I’ve since discovered, is Mason’s most hated thing of all. He’d rather gouge his eyes out with a teaspoon, he told me while rolling the latex down his impressively veined, heavy shaft. The man fucks like everything else I assume is demanded of him. Perfection. I never expected him to kiss me or pull me to him after our bodies were covered in a thin film of sweat. He told me it’s not Pretty Woman; he’d kiss me on the mouth if he wanted to, and by God, I had better kiss him back. Kissing is an art form in itself. Sometimes, it can be more intimate than sex. Only with everything else Mason Mercer does, every act has a function, a neat box to be categorized into, and a benefit for him. Kissing me is part of necessary foreplay to get me wet enough to take all of him. He didn’t want to kiss me; he needed to.
Emboldened by Mason’s dreamy, post-coital stupor, and my family’s pressing fiscal need, I decided to ask Trystan later for a potential salary advance, if possible. He said he’d speak to Mason about it, and that’s all I could ask for. Arriving home after day one, I’d called Mom to tell her a sanitized version of my new job, so sanitized it was dripping in Clorox and half-truths. I’d been put forward for an executive position at a media firm (true) and had landed the position (also true). The role came with a hefty salary and bonuses (again, factual),and could she please contact the specialist to get Cait an urgent appointment, because I know how long the wait can be, regardless of insurance cover. Then I told her I wanted to be listed as the person responsible for account payments, or, if that was an issue, I’d transfer the bulk of my earnings into their joint account, allowing her to be billed.
“What is this new job?”
“It’s an executive position. I work under the CEO (again, truthful and in parts, literal) and the money is more than double what I made in publishing.”
“Are you qualified for this, Bubble?” Absolutely not.
The elevator stopsat one of the lower levels that house one of the many studios inside the building. Trystan is busy on his cell, so I follow Mason out across the expansive floor where rowed seating is stacked to the side. When I look up, the roof is a trellis of tracks with directional lighting peeking out from barn door frames in a mismatch of focal points. Several yards away is a giant Christmas tree, adorned with the most gorgeous glittery glass baubles, each one boasting its own shine thanks to the myriad of lights. The base of the tree is obscured by a mass of bulky gifts, all wrapped up as prettily as the tree, in shiny papers of red and gold and trimmed in metal finishes and voluminous bows. As I study the scene closer, a functional hearth complete with mantle, floor rug, and sash windows hangs on a set wall that must be foam. The view through each sash window looks like a snow-covered garden beyond. In early September, in a New York high-rise.
“A beautiful illusion, don’t you think?” A studio hand gestures to the wholesome scene just waiting for family, revelry, and festivities to begin. Or illusions of such familial activities.
“A load of bullshit,” Mason murmurs none too quietly. He’s trailing a makeup artist who directs him to sit in a chair next to a makeup table rimmed in glowing Edison bulbs, and next to two other people with similar assistants fussing with hair and cosmetic application.
“What is this?” I ask, dumbstruck at the scene unfolding.
“This, dear Bri, is the first take of the Mercer family Christmas card.”
“In September?” I inquire, my tone unsure.
“Of course. Some years it is earlier still. Alice Mercer demands perfection. She will have this scene retouched to within an inch of its life. Take note of what you’re looking at now, because when we send those cards out, they will look markedly different.”
My eyes are drawn to the middle chair, the one occupied by an older woman, rail-thin with high cheekbones and a severe pout. One elegant wrist waves erratically around her head, as if she is unhappy somehow with her hair, the silvery-blonde strands curled and quaffed, pinned in place with a shimmering hair clip.
