Cammers With Benefits (FWB Series Book 1)

by Kaylee Spring

  “The server farm,” he says with deep melancholy. “It’s in Nevada.”

  While Greg is acting like someone has died, Jack treats this like a small hiccup. His impressive frame is not curled around itself as though he were trying to hide from the world. Greg and him are different creatures. In fact, it’s almost like Jack derives some sort of manic energy from the fire casting shadows across the two of us.

  Jack flicks his cigarette to the pavement. Squashes it with this sole of his shoe. “The firefighters say it’s going to take the rest of the night to make sure the fire is well and truly out. Then comes all the paperwork. Until then, there’s nothing I need more than a drink.” He holds out a hand to help me up. “Care to join me?”

  Like an involuntary reflex, a ‘No’ queues up to jump across my vocal cords. But the thought of Brice and that young nurse stop me from turning Jack down. Instead, I take his hand and pull myself up. “A drink sounds perfect.”

  He doesn’t say a word to Greg. And Greg doesn’t look up when we leave.

  Fifteen minutes later, the only reminder of the fire is the smell of smoke that occasionally wafts off our clothes. The bar that Jack chose is not the type where blue-collar guys stop by after work, delaying the inevitable return to their wife and kids. It’s not a sloppy, dark place where college kids play with their parents’ money. No, this is unlike anywhere I’ve ever visited.

  Jack calls it a speakeasy.

  The entrance is at the back of an alley. Although there’s no little window that slides open at eye-height, and no bouncer who asks for the secret word, it still manages to feel secretive. An unmarked door leads down to a little lounge area with three sofas and a large bookshelf. We are the only ones here. It’s the oddest set-up I’ve ever seen, and I wonder briefly if all of this hasn’t been a dream, because I simply can’t fathom how a place like this exists in the real world. It’s like someone dropped a man’s idea of a living room into the basement of a random building downtown.

  I go to sit down but not Jack. He peruses the books along the shelf until he finds the one he was apparently searching for. He then pulls it out and opens it up. Smiles and turns it to me. Inside the book is hollow, a little black button where hundreds of pages should be. When he presses it, the whole wall—including the bookshelf—slides away, revealing the rest of the basement. The real speakeasy.

  It’s two levels, the second level a mezzanine structure that runs along the circumference of the dimly lit room. At the back is a bar stocked with hundreds of whiskies, vodkas, gins, and everything in between. The roof is composed of square brass tiles in geometric patterns reminiscent of the 1920s. Jack leads me over to a table and quickly orders us two Old Fashioneds.

  “This place is amazing.” That’s all I can get out between gaping around at the sights. The workers are dressed like early 20th century mobsters. There’s even a tommy gun behind the bar.

  “Not to brag, but this is another one of my little investments,” Jack says. When my eyebrows shoot up Jack smiles. “What? Can’t a porn star own a bar?”

  “No, it’s not that,” I say, though that’s exactly where my thoughts jumped to. It’s easy to forget that Jack isn’t just an actor; he’s the co-founder of the company I’ve been filming for.

  “Well, the industry has been good to me and Greg. And while he’s squirreled his money away, I’ve invested mine. This speakeasy took a chunk of my change initially, but it’s paying back dividends.” He pauses and looks across the table at me like I’m the only girl on his mind. “So tell me, what do you do with your spare time?”

  What do I do in my spare time?

  If I’d been asked this two months ago, before my life took such a radical change, I might have answered that I didn’t exactly have a lot of spare time. I would have never brought up the fact that I watch far too many cheesy films and work on abstract oil paintings based on said movies. Instead, I might have made something up about picking up part-time jobs here and there.

  If I’d been asked this question just before the accident, I would have said that I did Brice in both my work time and spare time. It would have been a good joke back then, but now my heart aches as I remember that Brice has someone else now.

  “Spare time?” I ask as if the idea is a foreign concept.

  “You must have a hobby or way to pass the time,” Jack prods.

  I stare up at the ceiling for a second, the reflections off the countless angles in the brass ceiling dazzling my eyes. Jack might be insanely good-looking, and obviously rich to boot. And I might be missing Brice wildly, but I’m not about to open up to this man. Not so quickly anyway. So when my gaze comes back down, I lie. “I don’t have anything like that.”

  Jack finishes the rest of his drink in a single gulp. A slight grimace crosses his face before he asks, “Then if you suddenly had time and money, what would you like to do? Everyone has something they daydream about.”

  Again, I envision the old theater on Main Street fixed up. Imagine walking past the ticket counter and through the double doors to be greeted with my paintings hung on every wall. I event dare to see myself and Brice cuddled up in the center of the empty theater, only half-watching the movie as our embrace deepens.

  But I’m not about to say any of this out loud. Instead, I shrug my shoulders, knowing that I’m being an absolutely terrible date.

  And that’s when it hits me: this is a date.

  I didn’t realize it until now because of everything else going on around me. I’ve been too preoccupied wondering what I can say to Brice, because the truth is that eventually I will have to talk to him. Then there was the fire and wondering if I was the cause. Even sitting here with Jack, drinking at this fancy bar, my brain simply didn’t have the capacity to figure out what this was. But it’s clear as the ball of ice inside my lowball glass.

  This is a date.

  Jack calls the waiter over and orders two more drinks. Whiskey, I’m assuming, from the Scottish-sounding names. When they arrive, he raises his glass in a toast.

  “To our future.” He clinks my glass.

  “Our future?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says and takes a sip. “I’ve decided. I want you. As a business partner, that is. We’ll work together on screen and off. Makes oodles of money. In the meantime, you can figure out what you’re going to with all that cash. Because I’ll make you very, very rich.” He tilts his head in a questioning gesture. “So what do you say? Partners?”

  Chapter 16

  After draining the second glass, my mind pulls against its tethers, bouncing around in the fierce, whiskey-fueled winds. It’s at this point I remember that I never did eat anything today. The pizza I ordered is cold on my couch by now. Unlike Brice who has someone to keep him warm.

  Jack is waiting for my answer, his eyebrows raised. But even in my inebriated state, I’m not quite ready to relinquish all control of my future to this gorgeous man I barely know.

  “I’m going to need to sleep on it.”

  “What you need is to sleep under me,” Jack says matter-of-factly. “All that filming you’ve been doing. Getting yourself off. How long has it been since you performed with a partner—on or off the screen?”

  This conversation has taken a sudden personal turn. Even though we work in the porn industry, I’ve always worked either alone or with Brice. I’ve never confronted the kind of talk that must go on between adult actors all the time.

  I swallow hard, turning my attention to my empty glass. “Brice’s accident was about a month ago, so….”

  “So more than a month? I can’t believe I’m saying this to a fellow performer, but you need to get laid.”

  I lick my lips at the mere thought of this proposition. Allow myself, even if just for a moment, to imagine what it might be like under Jack’s care. I’m sure he would bring me back to his place, which judging by everything he’s shown me would be large, well-decorated, and designed for animal comfort. We would fall into his bed, and thanks to his career, I h
ave no doubt Jack would please me in all the ways a woman desires. I remember Jade’s reactions to his body. If that was all an act, she deserves all the Oscars.

  I bet that Jack would touch me in ways that even Brice never has.

  Brice.

  Now my mind’s eye looks back. Imagines a different scenario. Wonders what Brice is doing now. If that nurse is with him. Perhaps she snuck back in his room and fell asleep beside him, curled up under the stiff hospital blanket. I know what I saw, and I know what it must mean, but there’s a part of me that can’t give up hope. And it’s this part that somehow overpowers my hormones and replies, “Like I said, I’ll need to sleep on it.”

  Jack holds his hands up as if in defense of his constant flirting. “Fine. I get it. Sentimental to a fault and all that. You just let me know when and where. More importantly, you think about my business proposition. I could use someone who’s more than just a pretty body. You’ve got the brains to boot. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have made it so long on your own.”

  Five hours and far too many drinks later, we finally emerge from the speakeasy. What with the fire and the drinking, I’ve managed to be out all night with Jack. Brice would undoubtedly cringe if he only heard that part, but the truth is that Jack is nothing like his on-camera persona. Still, I half expect him to be stupid enough to hop in the driver’s seat of his Audi, despite his inebriation, but he surprises me again when he walks over to a taxi waiting just on the side of the road. He slides in the back seat and beckons me in.

  “Jackson and 3rd,” he says to the driver, who nods. “What about you?”

  “354 Brown….” I begin to slur, but my voice trails off as I wonder if this is where I want the night to end. It's the uncertainty of what I’ll do when I wake with a hangover and no filming to busy myself with. Should I give Brice a chance to explain? Do I even want to chance running into that nurse again? Isn’t it better to avoid everything than to confront the reality that I’ve already lost Brice?

  With these thoughts roiling about in my head, I bite my lips, look over to Jack, and say, “I wouldn’t mind seeing where you live.” I quickly add, “So I can know where to meet you if I want to talk more about that proposition of yours.”

  Jack’s face blooms with the sly realization of what I’m saying, but he says nothing.

  Ten minutes later, I’m in a newly gentrified part of the city with no fewer than four coffee shops within a one-block’s walk. He leads me inside his brownstone building and to the elevator, where he inserts a card, presses the penthouse button, and we’re whisked upwards, my stomach twisting with the knowledge of what’s soon to come.

  The elevator doesn’t end in a hallway with half a dozen other doors like my building. Instead, the doors slide open to reveal his apartment. I step out of the elevator and into a magazine. At least, that’s what it feels like. It’s is a mix between classic New York loft-style—with its exposed brick walls and high ceilings that don’t try to hide the wires and air vents above—combined seamlessly with Swedish minimalism. Add to that the fact that the square footage of his apartment is probably five times that of mine, and I’m breathless by the time I sink into the leather sofa that spans the entire living room wall.

  “This place is amazing.”

  Jack looks around as if noticing how nice his place is for the first time. “It’s not half bad, is it?”

  All I can do is to nod in response. Now that I’m away from the bustle of the secret bar and comfortable on his insanely plush couch, the exhaustion I’ve been ignoring hits me all at once. I wonder if Jack would mind if I just fell asleep right here, right now?

  “Champagne?” Jack asks, looking as though he’s just woken from a leisurely nap. In one hand, he’s holding a bottle that says ‘Brut’ on the front. In the other he carries two champagne flutes by their stems.

  I can’t even imagine drinking more alcohol at this point, but I’m just at the perfect level of drunk to be equal parts sleepy and horny. And the sight of Jack is riling up the latter half, so I sit up once more and take a glass.

  “To our partnership,” Jack says and pops the top. White bubbles froth down the bottle as he fills out glasses to the brim.

  He drains his glass in one go, but I stare at mine and wonder aloud,“It feels a little strange to be drinking champagne the night your business burnt to the ground.”

  “One of my businesses,” Jack corrects me. “Besides, I’m not worried. We have good insurance, and this might be just the chance we need to finally scale up.”

  I sip at me champagne. It’s bitter even though I’m sure this isn’t a cheap bottle. I’m not sure what people see in this drink to be honest. But then again, I’ve never had fancy tastes.

  After Jack drains a second flute, he sits down beside me, his body pressed against mine. There’s no warning before his tongue is in my mouth, his hand sliding under my shirt. I’m so shocked at first that I can’t move. I’m not stupid; I knew this was the direction we were moving in. Why else would he invite me up to his apartment? But the shift was especially jarring for me, because with every heartbeat that races through my chest, the only thing I can think of is Brice’s face.

  It’s stupid, I know. I saw how the nurse sat on his bed. How she leaned over him. They were too friendly to be just friends. Besides, she’s young and pretty. Plus, unlike me, she has a respectable job. I shouldn’t be surprised that Brice has left me for another girl. The only surprising bit about the past few months is that he went along with me at all.

  Even knowing all of this, I’m still holding onto the anorexically slim hope that Brice will come to his senses. I don’t know if I can forgive him if I find out he’s slept with that nurse, but I know he’ll certainly never look at me the same if I find myself under Jack. Which is the direction we’re currently heading towards at breakneck speed.

  He’s leaned over me, his hand having found my breast. My rational mind is fighting to keep in control even as hormones rise within me, threatening to form into a storm I can’t hope to overcome. It’s not until I moan into Jack’s mouth that I know this is definitely not what I want. Well, that’s not completely true. I want to forget the pain of losing Brice. Even if just for half an hour, it would be glorious to lose myself to my senses. But I know when I wake up beside Jack, I’ll regret everything. And it will be too late to take it back.

  But it’s not too late now.

  When I pull away from Jack and yank his arm out from under my shirt, he groans. “What’s the hold up this time?”

  Instead of telling him the truth, I say, “I don’t feel too good.” He backs off like a cat falling in a bathtub at the sound of this, probably at the fear of being covered in vomit. Then I slap my hand over my mouth, make a gagging sound, and rush down the hall in the direction of Jack’s pointed finger.

  Once in the bathroom, I lock the door behind me. For one whole second I forget why I’m here as I admire the scale of his shower. It’s bigger than my entire bathroom, with water jets running down the sides. Then reality hits me again and I’m huddled on the floor, back against the door, face buried between my knees.

  While I’ve managed to hold it together in front of Jack up to now, I’m falling apart inside. And it’s not even all about Brice. My whole life is a mess. Not only have I lost my best friend, I’ve lost the man I love, my new workplace, and any semblance of a structured future. I don’t know what I’m going to be doing tomorrow, much less next month. Do I return to cam work until Greg can get the funds rolling in from our Choose You Own Sex-venture series? Do I try to get a regular job? The bigger question is what I’ll do with any free time in between working. It used to be Brice and me, watching cult classics or cringe-inducing Kung fu films from the seventies. It won’t be the same watching them by myself.

  I’m just about to gather myself off the floor when I hear a buzzer go off in the other room. Jack’s muffled voice answers, his tone annoyed. There’s a loud clack as he slams something down, but not seconds later, the buzzing has retu
rned. Another clack, then more buzzing. Finally he screams into what I can only assume is a phone, “Fine. Come on up.”

  When I emerge from the bathroom, slinking back into the living room like a guilty puppy, I find Jack staring at what appears to be an old landline phone with a video screen on the wall. The gears click into place, and I realize it’s an advanced door buzzer. Before I can ask who it was and why Jack looks like he could rip an apple in half right now, the elevator dings.

  And out steps Brice.

  Well, he would step if he could walk. Instead, he’s in a wheelchair, the nurse whose back I have only seen until now pushing him into my world. Now that I have a view of her face, I get why Brice would be into her: she’s like a sweet cartoon character, as innocent looking as a doll. I’m not beautiful—though on a good day I’d go so far as to let myself be called pretty—but my face is too sharp and my eyebrows a constant jungle that must be thinned. This girl in front of me has a beauty that she manages to make look effortless.

  “Tess!” Brice shouts, his eyes beaming until he turns to Jack. “I knew she was up here. Greg said he saw you two leave the studio together last night.” When his gaze is back on me, the love he had in his eyes just moments ago has evaporated, leaving behind raw ache. “The only thing I don’t get is why. Why would you go and sleep with this asshole?”

  “You’re in my house,” Jack interjects with. “And don’t think being in a wheelchair is going to keep me from throwing you out.”

  Even I’m leaning towards defending Jack. It’s not like he brought me here against my will. And although he’s been a bit show-off-y with his hidden bar and his apartment and everything, I don’t think he deserves to be called an asshole.

  “I gotta go along with Jack on this one,” I say, folding my arms and convincing myself that I can stand up straight without wobbling. But my brain is spinning, and I’m getting that unsteady feeling in my stomach that warns that systems are not stable. Still, I soldier on. “He’s been nothing but honest with me all night. Which is more than I can say for you.”