by Julia Kent
She flipped back to the beginning, turned past the nondisclosure agreement, and paused on Part 2, blinking at the numbers in front of her.
Term, five years, sixty months, from sign date.
See Part 7 for early termination circumstances and procedures.
Compensation, $125,000 per year, with a resigning bonus of $300,000 at contract end.
She jumped out of the chair, walked in a circle, then looked at the page again.
Over half a million dollars in five years.
“How did this happen?” she asked the ceiling. What did someone like Erik see in her that was worth this much money?
She sat back down and looked more seriously at the other pages. All her assets would remain hers, but would be jointly managed by The Executive. All expenses incurred by The Exhibitionist—
She halted. The what?
The Exhibitionist.
A bit of dialogue filtered in from her memory. They were walking out, Syria laughing and relaxed. A woman in a flamboyant red dress had passed her and bumped into her shoulder.
When Syria had stopped, the woman had paused and looked her over with disdain. “Is she your new exhibitionist?” she asked Erik.
“Good to see you, Sylvia. You are looking lovely,” he said. “Please excuse us.”
Syria hadn’t realized at the time what the woman had meant, but thinking back over the evening, she began to understand. Erik wanted her to be the girl he first saw at the bondage exhibition, and he’d led her back to it last night.
She wasn’t sure if she could do that, although the memory of the rope, the knot, the onlookers, the attention…
Maybe.
Syria looked back at the page.
All expenses incurred by The Exhibitionist would be paid for by The Executive. Compensation would be placed in the accounts of The Exhibitionist. Any expenditures by The Exhibitionist from the account requires approval by The Executive, other than a nominal $5,000 annually for personal gifts to members of The Household or family.
So he would control her money.
She flipped to Part 5: Expectations.
The Exhibitionist will accompany The Executive at functions.
She knew all that. She flipped the page.
Sexual and criminal acts. The Exhibitionist will not accuse, threaten, blackmail, or report The Executive for alleged acts that are covered in this contract, including forced intercourse, corporal punishment, sexual play, or role playing that could be construed by outsiders as a criminal act.
Now she was getting somewhere.
The Exhibitionist will fill out the addendum entitled, “Risk Assessment” to establish the parameters for disallowed, occasionally allowed, and frequently allowed activities that may put The Exhibitionist at risk for injury, pain, or mental anguish.
This was the craziest document Syria had ever seen. She wasn’t sure if it was even legal, although she assumed someone like Erik would make sure it was binding.
She got up and paced the room again. She couldn’t do something like this, could she? She should run it by Mia.
And Tyson.
The ache for him became fierce. She glanced at the clock. Still only 8 a.m. and even earlier in Seattle. She went to her bedroom for a coat and tennis shoes. Time for a walk, so she could think.
12: Grief
When Syria returned from her walk, her exposed hands red and chapped from the cold, a courier waited outside her door.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
The man handed her an envelope and headed back to the street.
“Wait!” she called out. “Did you just get here?”
“I was told to deliver it personally,” he said.
“I hope you didn’t have to wait long,” she said.
“It’s my job.” He saluted her and headed back to a white van.
Syria unlocked her door, puzzling over the package. From Erik, no doubt. Maybe he’d forgotten part of the contract. This one probably said she couldn’t pee without his permission.
She kicked the door closed, wishing her walk had helped her come to some conclusions. She sat on the bench in the hall and tore open the envelope. The page inside was a handwritten letter in a crisp clear style.
Syria,
Based on our search of your birth certificate, and the details you gave of your father’s other children, we have definitively narrowed the search to Arnav Sharma of Kolkata, born July 3, 1951. Married Anisha Shah in 1974. They had two boys, Deepak in 1976 and Manish in 1979.
Anisha filed for divorce in 1995, but rescinded the papers one month later.
All these things align with what you told me last night.
Arnav worked as a banker and did very well for himself. Unfortunately, he had a heart attack on Dec. 6, 2012 and died in surgery the next day. I have enclosed his obituary. I believe his resemblance to you makes this definitive.
I am very sorry, Syria. Perhaps we can still make a journey to his country together and see the places he called home.
Fondly,
Erik
Syria peered at the obituary, a print out from a web site memorial. The man stared up at her, his black hair shot through with gray, but a riot of curls. His eyes were shaped like hers, set wide, and something about his mouth seemed familiar, as though their smiles would be the mirror images, if she could make the face on the paper come to life.
She let the paper go. It fluttered from side to side as it caught on the current from the heater, then rested beneath the hall table. She felt so heavy, like she might fall forward. She succumbed to it, sliding off the bench to the floor. She’d never meet him. Never know him. He would never explain anything to her. She would not know if her laugh mimicked his, since it was not like her mother’s.
She wouldn’t know anything at all. Not ever.
Her head fell against the satin cover of the bench, cool and firm. Maybe it was for the best. She could nurture this fantasy of him all her life now, and the real thing could never disappoint her.
She should call her mother. Or Mia. Someone. She had to tell someone. Maybe Erik. He said he would contact her today.
Her heart thumped against her chest. No. She wanted Tyson.
She tugged her phone from her coat pocket. Maybe all this would be all right. He’d have some explanation about the call from the party. They would laugh about it. Then she could tell him about her father.
Or she could talk about her father and forget the video ever happened.
She laid the phone on the bench. This was all so impossible.
Syria pushed herself up and walked back to her desk and woke up her computer. She started the looping slideshow of images she’d taken of Tyson from the first shoot, and a few others she had accumulated on his visits. Three times she’d seen him. Just three. How could she know him any more than her mother had known her father?
A close up shot of his face came on screen, and she paused the show. She stared into those gray eyes tinged with blue, earnest, merry, open. She couldn’t see anything about him that made him look like a liar. He was open about his work, the stripping, the parties. He had told her on that first day, or maybe later, that he didn’t have sex with his clients very often, but that certainly left room for the possibility that sometimes he did.
She picked up her phone, her finger hovering over his name in the contact list. Rather than go directly for video chat, she called him normally on the voice line.
Each ring seemed to last an hour.
Finally, he picked up. “Syria?” he asked, sleep thick in his voice.
“The grannies kept you up late?”
He chuckled. “Those women were live wires. But they had trouble deciding which to do first — make me a sandwich and sit in my lap.”
“Sounds like you had fun.”
“Gigs like that are a nice break from the aggressive ones.”
He’d handed her an opening. “Like the night before? The bachelorette party?”
He was quiet a moment, then
said, “Yeah, like that one.”
“You want to talk about it?” Maybe he would just tell her, and that would be that.
He sighed. “I’d rather forget the whole thing happened.”
Syria hesitated, the news about her father heavy on her heart. She could bring it up now, and forget the party. Or she could tell him about the video chat.
But he cut in. “Apparently they called Mia using my phone. Did she tell you?”
“I knew about that, yes.”
“They seemed to think they were busting me.”
“Who all did they call?”
“I don’t know. My phone never turned up. I got a new one yesterday and had the other shut off remotely. I was able to keep my number, thankfully, and my contacts were backed up.” He paused. “Did they call you?”
“Yes.”
“Can we switch to video?” he asked. “I need to see you.”
Syria gripped the phone. “Okay.” She pulled the screen away and saw the Facetime request come up. She accepted it and Tyson’s face, hair every direction, made her heart flip. “Hey,” she said.
“You’re all bundled up,” he said. “You just come in?”
Syria looked down at her coat. “I went for a walk.”
“So did you answer the call from the party?” His eyes were earnest again, like in the photo.
“Yes.”
“I take it she asked if you were my girlfriend. She asked Mia.”
“She did.” Syria didn’t really want to volunteer what she had seen, to see if he offered it up.
“That party got out of control.” He ran his hand through his hair, and the phone dipped so she could see his muscled chest.
Syria set her phone on the desk and peeled out of her coat, feeling overwarm as her anxiety rose. “It looked pretty crazy.”
“I’m not so sure about staying in this business,” he said.
She sat down, her heart beating faster. “Really?”
“I can’t do it forever, obviously. I should plan.”
Syria twisted a long piece of hair around her finger. Tyson watched her a while. “I’m sorry she called you. Were you upset? Is that why I couldn’t get in touch with you last night?”
“I went to dinner with a client. The one who paid me a lot of money to photograph his two women.”
“Two! Wow. Sound like a fun shoot.”
“It got a little wild.”
His face sobered. Syria wondered if he was comparing his version of wild with hers. “Did something happen?” he asked.
“One was his slave, and the other his submissive. The slave is retiring, apparently.”
“Hardcore BDSM then.” He sat on his bed, the black sheets of his bed filling the background behind him.
“Yes.”
“You seem upset now. Can you talk to me?”
“Oh, I just…” This wasn’t working. Not at all. “I’m just tired. Maybe I should go.”
Tyson stood up and held the phone again. “I wish I could come down there.”
Emotion flooded through Syria, but as soon as she touched on the grief of her father, and the impossibility of wanting Tyson, something rebounded and blossomed into rage. “Why! You clearly can have sex with any number of hot bachelorette girls you want!”
Tyson squeezed his eyes closed as if she’d hit him. “I worried about this.”
“About what? That I’d find out? That I might mind?”
“No!” He brought the phone so close to his face that the image got blurry. “I thought that you’d think that!”
“I saw you, Tyson. I saw your naked ass pumping into that girl.”
His face contorted, as though he were trying to get control. “I didn’t have sex with her. I didn’t. I know it looked like I did. I can see that girl called you at a very inopportune time.”
Syria couldn’t take it anymore, and switched off the video to return only to voice. She pressed the phone to her ear. “I’ll say!”
“They said they were making videos for fun. I went along. But nothing actually happened. We just made it look like it did.”
“Why should I believe that?”
To his credit, he didn’t bring up their lack of agreement that they were exclusive, or Syria’s relationship with Mia, or even ask her what happened at the shoot that had gone wild. He just said, “I love you, Syria, and I want out of this job if it means it upsets you.”
Syria sank to the floor. “What?”
“I mean it. I know it’s how we met. And I know we thought we were getting so open to new things. But I can tell this isn’t for you. And it’s getting hard for me.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ve been applying for things in New Mexico.”
“You what?”
“That’s why I was there that second time.”
“You applied for jobs after having met me only once?”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “I think we did more than meet.”
They had. Syria lay back on the floor of her studio, where she’d been with him that first time, spontaneously, without hesitation. He’d changed her life.
“My father is dead,” she blurted out.
“What?”
“That rich client? He found him. I guess he has some sort of legal team that can find this stuff out fast.”
“When?”
“About a year ago. Heart attack, according to the obituary.”
“I’m so sorry, Syria.”
“I know. I thought I’d get a chance to know him.”
“I wish I could come down. I’m so stuck. Two gigs tonight. Something every night this week. Christmas is so close.”
Syria rolled on her side and drew up her knees, the phone resting on her ear. “I know. It’s okay.”
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Just talk to me,” she said. “Tell me stories about your dad.”
And Tyson did, regaling her with tales of t-ball and track meets and failed fishing expeditions and barbecues gone awry, until she calmed down, and morning moved into afternoon, and Tyson had to prepare for work.
“I meant what I said earlier.” They’d switched back to video, and Tyson smiled at her. “I really did.”
Syria knew what he was talking about. That he loved her. She needed to get used to this. “I know.”
“I’ll text you when I’m home, see if you’re still up.”
“Okay.”
She ended the call and glanced at her phone. Erik had called her too, while Tyson was talking, but she’d ignored it.
She’d decline his offer. She had other plans.
13: Seattle
The building didn’t look like much. Syria peered out the taxi window at the snow-covered parking lot. She handed the driver his fee and stepped out. She didn’t have any baggage, just a change of clothes in her backpack, and long satin scarf from her bed, the one Tyson used when he tied her up for the first time.
It was Christmas Eve, and while her heart hurt a little for her mother, who was taking extra shifts in the 911 call center, she would see her in a couple days. Today she was surprising Tyson.
Her boots crunched in the snow as she approached the front door. A middle-aged woman in a flowered dress, her hair tucked neatly in a red beret, sat just inside with a little metal box. “Have you already bought your ticket?” she asked.
“I was told I could get one at the door,” Syria said.
“You certainly can! Tickets are $20.” The women opened her box. “You are a single lady, right? This is a singles night!”
Syria smiled and pulled out her wallet. “This sounds like a fun way to spend Christmas Eve.”
“It’s my favorite night of the year!” the woman said, accepting the money. “And we have a super hot one this year?”
“Really?”
The woman whispered conspiratorially. “Some of the members thing it’s tacky, but they secretly love it. This year we have a professional Santa stripper. St. Nick is his specialty!”
She fanned herself with her hand. “I already met him when he checked in. He’s a hottie!”
Syria had to stifle her giggle. “I bet he is.”
“Right through there!” The woman pointed through the door. “Your first drink is free and there are snacks on the side table.”
Syria opened the double doors to a room throbbing with music and light. A four-piece jazz band played in the corner, and a number of round tables festooned with poinsettias dotted the room. Some fifty or sixty women sat throughout them, chatting amiably, eating from little plates. Syria slipped into a chair at an empty table to look around, tucking her backpack beneath her seat.
A bartender served colorful drinks at a portable bar. As promised, a line of tables boasted a number of finger foods, shrimp and vegetables and little cakes decorated like presents.
Most of the women seemed to know each other, but none minded her presence. Syria sat comfortably alone and waited.
The band finished their number and the clarinet player in a white tuxedo stepped to a microphone. “And now, I know it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Introducing, Naughty Santa!”
The spotlight shifted to the opposite corner. Two bulky women in sparkling dresses opened the double doors, and there he was, Tyson, resplendent in his full Santa gear, hat, beard, jacket, pants, boots. His hands in white gloves went into the air, and some of the women jumped to their feet, cheering and clapping.
Syria stood with them. Tyson leaped forward to the beat of the music and pulled his velvet bag off his shoulders, swinging it suggestively in front of him.
The women began shouting, “Me! Me!” as he moved to the tables. Tyson selected an elderly woman in a gray hat who was still sitting in her chair. He kneeled in front of her and smacked his thigh. The lady shook her head, but the chorus of women around her shouted, “Do it! Do it!” and as soon as she seemed less resistant, Tyson scooped her from her chair and deposited her on his knee.
Syria laughed out loud. He was so great. Tyson whispered in the woman’s ear and her eyes went wide. He pulled a small bottle from his bag and handed it to her. She looked at it more closely and jumped off his lap. “Santa!” she said.