Red (The Safeword Series: Book One)

by Ava Claire

  If I went to each station and pressed my finger against every wrist, the pulse beneath my touch would gallop like some wild horse, spooked and terrified. Even the self proclaimed 'villains' of the season, like a stay at home mom who cussed like a sailor and cooked a mean filet mignon, shuddered with apprehension when my eyes settled on her.

  She had a personality born for the small screen; reality TV gold from the moment she took the last of her salt and slowly poured it down the drain when a fellow contestant asked to borrow a pinch. When she'd first sauntered in for her audition in her modest flowered dress and her short, curly blonde locks bouncing, she'd wowed me with her eye for plating. It didn’t hurt that her crab cakes made my taste buds explode. We'd discovered she had the personality of the high school queen bee, gossiping and sabotaging the competition with that disarming smile, and just like that, she brought herself a ticket to the final round.

  "Cassidy," I began, my voice solemn. "You will be moving onto the next round."

  Her sigh of relief came out as a gasp as she raised her hands to the sky like her prayers had been answered. Like she wouldn't damn everyone in this room if given the chance.

  I called out the next three cooks that were making it through. I watched the relief flicker across their faces. Guilt used to eat at me, all the behind the scenes machinations that whirred and spun; the manipulations that created good television. Now, I was jaded. Nearly as heartless as all the reviewers called me. Yet, every week, people tuned in religiously, hungry for more.

  The last name burned on my tongue, the energy in the room charged with anxiety and tension. The cameras zoomed in on me, and even though the team was behind the scenes, in a completely separate building, I could hear the producer's voice, gently asking me to milk the painful moment where five of the people before me would pack their bags and this would become a story of hope or despair—where they had a moment in the sun, an opportunity to hone their skills and tell their story to the world; or that time they were on TV, so close to that check that they could taste it, and fell short. I was supposed to pour salt in the wound, settle on each hopeful face and sound out every single word, making them believe that maybe their name would be called.

  I didn't waste any time on the bullshit. Let them add the dramatic pauses in post production. I put them out of their misery and said the same line I'd said time and again, reminding the contestants that were leaving the show that they'd been chosen out of thousands. I acted like the tears glittering in their eyes meant nothing and when the red light on the camera dimmed, I turned my back to it all. I almost got away, was almost home free until I heard footsteps echo behind me. I turned to face Roger Jones, a father of two who’d lost his wife to cancer three years ago and was the only one that I believed might actually use the money for something good, like college educations for his kids.

  “M-Mr. O’Connell...” His voice trailed off and I saw the pain etched in his weary face, his apron stained by a dish that had actually been my favorite of the night. “I don’t understand where I went wrong.”

  I knew what I should have said: nothing at all. Most days I was pretty good at going through the motions. Today, not so much.

  I looked him in the eye. I owed him that much. “You’re an incredible cook, Roger. You didn’t deserve-” I cut myself off, clearing my throat. “You just weren’t dramatic enough. You don’t make good TV.”

  His expression went from blank, to confused, to pissed off. He looked ready to step in the ring with me or anyone else that had anything to do with the call to let him go. “How do you sleep at night?” he spat, not even waiting for me to answer before he stormed away.

  My earpiece was going wild, but I plucked it out as the door shuddered closed behind me. The sun streamed down on me, the support staff buzzing like ants, dodging to and fro. Always moving. Clearing out the warehouse in preparation for the next episode being filmed in the morning. I pulled my shades from my inner pocket and slipped them over my eyes, my gaze locked on my trailer.

  I'd barely stepped into my home away from home, already tasting the bourbon on my lips when my assistant hustled in behind me.

  "Des, I heard what you said to Roger. That was...” She didn’t finish. Stupid, unwise, unfair...any of those words would do. “ And you know that Kara is going to want to reshoot the final reveal. You looked absolutely bored and like-"

  "I didn’t give a damn?" I finished. I went to the bar, lifting the bottle from its resting place. "This may come as a surprise, but I don't." I almost brought it to my lips, not giving a damn about appearances and respectability either, but I could feel the worry radiating from her.

  "It's not even noon," she murmured behind me. That familiar, deathly pale arm shot into view and gently eased the bottle of bourbon from my clutches.

  I glared at her in the mirror, looking into eyes that were the same shade of green as mine. "What did I tell you about mothering me, Mal?"

  Mallory glared right back, nestling the bottle in the crook of her arm like a quarterback with the football, ready to make a beeline for the end zone. "What did I tell you about wasting your breath? If you wanted an assistant that kissed your ass, you shouldn't have hired your little sister." I knew that in her perfect world she'd take that bottle and empty it, but she settled for tucking it out of sight near the closet. When she pivoted back to me, hand on hip, her red locks wild and standing on end, she looked so much like our mother that my heart clenched in my chest. "And, billionaire or not, wearing shades indoors is just douchey."

  Smiling despite my best efforts to maintain my crappy mood, I pulled off the shades and tossed them on the counter. "As much as I enjoy our quality time together, did you just come in here to keep me away from the booze, or is something up?"

  She crossed her arms, the same stance I'd taken a few minutes ago. The 'shit is about to get real' stance. "There's a woman that wants to come to the trailer."

  I arched an eyebrow with interest. "I'm guessing there's a reason we're having this conversation and she's not sitting on that couch with a red bow?" I knew I had a reputation on set, groupies who snuck past security. The truth was a lot less salacious than most were privy to. I enjoyed the company of a very particular kind of woman. Women that were drawn to men who took charge.

  "You're such a pig," Mallory groaned with an eye roll. "What all those women see in you is beyond me." The joking lilt to her voice wavered. "It's...she's a friend of Caity's."

  My blood ran cold. Instantly, the ghosts and demons of my past rushed to me. Through me. The smell of Caity's hair, the curve of her lips, the feel of her hand in mine, with the life we were supposed to live together stretching before us. It had been years since it happened, but all the emotions, the loss, was still as fresh as if it happened yesterday. So I did what I'd been doing since I got that call in the middle of the night.

  I ran like hell.

  "No," I uttered. It was more like a croak. But it was audible. And from the look on Mallory's face, it was the answer she was expecting.

  "Are you sure, Des? She works with the company that catered the pastries on set and she seems really sweet-"

  "No, Mallory," I snapped, hurling all the vitriol whipping inside me at my sister. She was the last person that deserved the angst and pain. "Surely you know what that word means?" She opened her mouth, probably to remind me that she wasn't one of the PA's that had to put up with Big, Bad Desmond. I didn't bother pausing long enough for her to get in a word edgewise. "If not, let me elaborate. No, I do not want to see her. Period." I stormed the two feet to the door and yanked it open. "I'd like to be alone."

  Mallory hesitated, that O'Connell stubbornness shining through bright and clear. I knew her heart was in the right place; she worried about me, but this was one piece of me, of my past, that always had been and always would be off limits. It had to be. The alternative was devastating. And I couldn't afford to fall apart.

  She tucked her red strands behind her ear as best she could, looking like my awkward
sixteen year old sister even though she was twenty-two now and I'd seen the way she turned heads. "I'm guessing you're headed to the club."

  I nodded and cleared my throat, still holding the door.

  She sighed, her shoulders slumping as she acquiesced and made her way toward me. She paused just outside the door, casting a glance over her shoulder that made me feel vulnerable. "One of these days you're going to have to stop running. Stop using Hush to hide the wounds so you can finally heal. Stop using Hush to dull your pain."

  "When I need a therapist, I'll let you know so you can hire one."

  It was cruel, and her cheeks reddened like I struck her. Before I could apologize, she was gone, stalking toward the production building. I could have called after her, loosened the grip on the apology that was burning in my throat like fire, but I just let the door shut.

  Hush—that's what I needed. It was the only thing that made me feel these days. And lust was better than nothing at all, right?

  Chapter Three: Sophia

  I took a step backwards, staring intently at my three choices. This was make or break. There were only rumors; whispers of the truth most likely. I knew better than most that the truth could get lost in the need to tell a good story. Whether they interviewed hundreds in a dungeon, forcing the prospective hostesses to witness all kinds of kinky horrors, then whittled it down to a handful that were strapped to a St. Andrew’s Cross and—

  I shuddered, getting a grip on my nerves. I wouldn’t psych myself out before I’d even begun. Not that it mattered, if I couldn’t figure out what to wear to the interview.

  I flicked my eyes to the plaid skirt, white blouse, and fringe leather jacket. It had this rebellious, edgy schoolgirl thing happening. I’d even found a bit of ribbon and could put my hair in pigtails. While the skirt was sexy, hitting me beneath my butt, and combat boots would kick things up a notch, it looked like a costume. Like I was going to a Halloween party instead of an interview. The interview.

  A smile grazed my lips. Considering the fact that I would be wearing a mask for the interview, if I got that far, Halloween party wasn’t too far off.

  Hush was a place where you could pretend you were someone else. Where I would pretend I was some seasoned submissive who craved a job at the hottest kink club in town. Pretend that I wouldn’t be committing ever comment, scene, words, and hopefully, faces that I encountered, to memory. That I was the kind of woman that craved my pleasure with a whole lot of pain.

  The plaid skirt wouldn’t do it.

  The second outfit I’d thrown together was a blood red blazer, a lacy, black corset, and black leggings that fit like they were painted on. With the stilettos perched on the pillow, I’d look like a sexy business woman. But there was something about it that was...lacking. When I picked up the blazer and held it in the light, I realized I’d seen it around the office. It was the kind of get-up that you imagined women who worked at gossip magazines wore. Sultry and fierce...and a far cry from my band tees and skinny jeans. If the rumors about Hush were true, I didn't need to look like I’d crafted the perfect ootd post. I needed to be demure, but scream ‘I belong here. I’m finally home.’

  That left the last mashup. The black body con dress looked small enough that I was pretty sure I’d need prayer to get into it, but that took the back burner to the wig beside it. I approached it slowly, deliberately, and lifted it gingerly from my bedspread. I’d seen it in action, the pink strands bright and flirty. I combed my fingers through the colorful strands and turned to the dresser where the mirror would help me decide.

  I scooped my bone straight, dark brown strands into a low bun and secured it at the base of my neck. Carefully, I pulled the the wig on, closing my eyes as I situated it and tugged it into place. When I opened them, excitement jolted through my system. The color was like candy against my fair skin. All the striking features I shied away from—my cheekbones, my electric blue eyes, my plump lips—they wouldn’t be denied.

  I looked good.

  “I knew you’d go with the little black dress and wig!” My roommate, Lindsay, appeared beside me, her dark eyes shining with approval. Every outfit on the bed belonged to her. With her pixie cut, platinum blonde hair, deathly pale complexion, and plethora of piercings from her eyebrows to places I didn’t want to know about, she pulled off every article of clothing on the bed. I didn’t even own a little black dress, a travesty she reminded me of every chance she got.

  She’d gawked at me like I’d asked her to come with me to an orgy when I asked her if she had something to wear to my interview at Hush.

  “You look hot, Soph!” She clapped her hands together like I’d just given a four star performance.

  I shied away from the attention, turning my back to the mirror. ‘Hot’. ‘Sexy’. They were all words I avoided. “I feel a little...ridiculous.”

  Lindsay lifted a pierced eyebrow. “These are my clothes. Do I look ridiculous?”

  I cringed, gripping her shoulders. She put on a brave, ‘don’t eff with me’ face for the rest of the world, but her scars and insecurities ran as deep as my own. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes-” She opened her mouth to say the obvious, but I beat her to the punch. “I know that’s the point. I’m interviewing at a sex club for crissakes.”

  That peek beneath her armor, the look at the woman with a past as brutal as the spikes in her ears, faded when her smile returned. “I still can’t believe you waited until the night of your interview to tell me you’re in the running to become a hostess at Hush!”

  Lindsay was a dancer of the erotic variety, and wore her sexuality like a badge of honor. Working somewhere like Hush, where sexuality and kink was celebrated, was her dream job. “I’m not gonna lie...I kinda hate you a little.”

  I smoothed the pink bangs with a giggle. “Just a little, huh?”

  “I already said you look hot, but clearly you’re still fishing for compliments,” Lindsay stuck her tongue out at me. “When I applied two months ago, I didn’t even get past the ‘please please please give me a job!’ phase.” dpgrpup exclusive

  I knew that the odds of my query standing out in the herd of eager twenty somethings that tried to sell that they were sexual, wild, and a little reckless (but not so much so that they couldn’t be trusted with Hush’s exclusive members identities), were not in my favor. “I’m pretty lucky.”

  “Uh huh,” she winked a brown eye at me. “I’m still in shock actually. The chick who can’t even handle the steamy scenes of Grey’s Anatomy and can hardly say the word ‘sex’ out loud is interviewing at a club where actual sex happens? And not just sex. Kinky sex. It just doesn’t-” Her rapid-fire assessment was doused with water, like a different perspective had smacked her in the face. “Wait, is this for work? Some sort of behind the scenes story?”

  “Uh, no, er...” I coughed and it was the fakest thing I’d ever heard. I hope your acting skills improve before the interview, or you’re screwed. “It’s not for work,” I finished, giving it another shot by ignoring her incredulous expression. Usually, I’d blanch in less than five seconds. Lindsay had the best BS detector that I’d ever seen. This time, I dug deep and cleared my face of all tell-tale indications that she’d hit the nail on the head. “The pay is good. Great, considering it’s $20 an hour, plus tips.” I decided to give her a little bit of the truth. “And to be honest, I’m curious.”

  She dropped her frown. “Curious?”

  I nodded slowly, turning back to the bed. I picked up the black dress. “Curious about what it would be like to watch someone let go.” I held the dress to my body and bit my lip. “To see parts of someone that no one else gets to see.”

  This time she came to me, putting both hands on my shoulders. I knew I’d said the right words because that flirty, happy go lucky energy in her gaze hardened to ice. “You’re preaching to the choir. I get it better than most.” Like she could sense we were getting to a place that she didn’t dare venture, she carved
a smile onto her face. “Enough of that. Good vibes only!”

  She got no argument from me. The dress wasn’t nearly as nightmarish as I thought it would be to put on. The slinky, black fabric clung to my body like it was made for me, rounding my breasts, gliding over my hips, and stopping a few inches shy of showing parts of me that very few people had seen. The combat boots added an extra sprinkle of badass and Lindsay did my makeup, creating a smoky eye effect and coloring my lips strawberry red.

  After a smack on the butt for good luck, I said goodbye and hailed a cab.

  “Cash only,” the driver barked after his eyes swept over my dress.

  I peered at the clearly operational card reader mounted on the seat in front of me and decided to try sweetness instead of flipping him the bird. “It’s cool, I have cash.”

  He muttered something that sounded like ‘I bet’ and pulled away from the curb before I had a chance to change my mind.

  The cabbie and I were clearly not on speaking terms, so I leaned back and closed my eyes. My mind wasn't a more friendly place. It ran me through a sea of disappointments. The first was that the interviewer would take one look at me and laugh. The second was that I'd get one foot through the door before an alarm went off, screeching that I worked for The Dish and wasn't to be trusted. The third didn't even allow me close enough to be disappointed; it whispered that the address was fake, and this whole thing was complete BS.

  I pried my eyes back open, the last thought disconcerting enough to put me back in gear. I pressed the button on my phone to rouse it awake and brought up my camera. The woman staring back at me wasn't Sophia Slater. She couldn't be. The workaholic who put her nose to the grindstone because she wanted someone, anyone, to notice that she had something to offer, wouldn't get the job. This woman, this pink haired, lipsticked, take-no-prisoners vixen didn't have to worry about being noticed.