25. Phoebe
Chapter twenty-five
Phoebe
A nxiety is ripping me apart right now, and I’ll be lucky if I hold down the bagel I ate this morning, never mind the three cups of coffee I’ve already had, that basically ensures I can hear and taste colors, and has a fine tremble racing through my limbs. I’m every imbecilic character that you’ve ever watched on one of those true crime documentaries on Netflix. You know the ones, where you sit back and think to yourself, there’s no way anyone is that stupid? Only to realize that I am, in fact, that stupid. Why the hell did I send him that message? Why did I give him the date, time, and, more importantly, the location for the shoot, with the stipulation that he wear a mask the whole time, and follow the rules I set out? What the fuck is wrong with me, and how do I get out of this mess that I have created?
My heart is pounding so loudly that I’m almost positive everyone I’ve passed inside Behind the Lens’ hallways can hear it, not to mention I’ll bet they can see the sweat dripping off of me in rivulets. Fucking gross. I leave the room where the photoshoot with Chad is going to take place, a thick, white ter ry cloth robe thrown over my skimpy sheer green panties, black thigh-high stockings, a pair of black suspenders, that do absolutely nothing to hide my bare breasts, covered in flecks of gold glitter flakes, a silk green bowtie around my neck, and a sparkly, black top hat over my blonde wig. I’ve finished off the outfit with black glossy stilettos, and I’ll wear a matching mask to disguise my features. Chad thought my choice of outfit for the March calendar, as a slutty leprechaun, was hilarious, and agreed to allow me to pose almost naked on top of a bed covered in fake gold coins, and next to a prop rainbow background and, you guessed it, a pot of overflowing gold. I also have a matching pair of green, four-leaf clover, tight boxer shorts for Strokemyshillelagh . I’m nothing if not thorough and cheesy. I’m sure my granny is rolling in her fucking grave, and cursing me right now, if she can see me making a mockery of hundreds of years of Irish traditions, and plight.
I keep repeating different mantras in my head that everything will be alright, as I make my way down to the front desk, and try desperately not to collapse to the floor in the fetal position, and have a massive panic attack. The irony is not lost on me. I spent hours online this morning, looking at ways to avoid being abducted by a stalker, and here I am about to lock myself in a room with a complete stranger who could, in fact, be exactly that. I’m pretty sure that everything is probably not going to be alright, thanks to my lack of foresight on how many ways this can all blow up in my stupid, reckless face.
I should have brought a bottle of whiskey with me, so I could take a few more shots to calm my nerves. The three large shots I had, before I left my apartment, obviously aren’t working, and I’m just seconds away from running out of this building, getting in my car, and racing for the state line. There’s no way I can continue working here, if I chicken out after making this poor guy come all this way. Not to m ention, I reassured the filmographer, Monty, that I was going through with it. The man is busy setting up right now for me, with the expectation that I don’t lose my mind, and run like a coward from my commitment. I wonder if I can sneak into Lorna’s office, and steal the bottle of whiskey I spied on one of her shelves the last time I was in there. It would be a blessing if she fired me, before I went through with all of this. There is a fat chance of that happening. You should have quit when you could have.
At least Monty won’t be in the room with me, when I have sex with a perfect stranger. Small mercies, I guess. No, it will only be me and my shadow Irish man after the very corny photoshoot. Let’s hope I’m not letting a masked serial killer into my bed. Seriously, I think I am going to end up on the news, and I’ll be used as an example of what not to do for other women.
Breathe, bitch, it will be over before you know it. I know I have the right to change my mind about sleeping with Strokemyshillelagh, or even doing porn, and Lorna would never force me. She’s amazing, and so supportive. The thing is, deep down, I want to do it. I’m incredibly attracted to him, or at least the shadowy, seductive version of him that I’ve built up in my head. My biggest hold-up is guilt. You heard that right. I feel guilty having sex with another man, after abandoning Aiden, and running for my life. Is that idiotic, or what? I’ve been gone for just over two years. Do I really expect Aiden not to have moved on in all that time with someone else, after the way I hurt him? Does my heart truly believe that he’s just sitting around in Chicago, missing me? What about Nicolo, do I honestly think he isn’t still fucking anything with a pulse? Fucking ridiculous. I might as well believe in the Easter bunny, and that my brother, Tadhg, will welcome me back home with open arms, and all will be forgiven. Yeah, right, Phoebe, and unicorns will sprout out of your ass, and sing you a merry tune.
I walk to recep tion, the staccato of my heels clicking on the floor, still lost in thought, and now seriously contemplating the possibility of actual unicorns. Get it together, Phoebe, you’re losing your mind, I chastise myself. Maybe the whiskey is finally starting to hit me. “Hey, Nova, I have a guest joining me in a bit for my shoot. Um, can you walk him up after checking his STD paperwork, and showing him mine, and ensuring he signs the NDA? I... I don’t want to freak you out, but he might show up wearing a mask.” Ohmygod, hole in the ground. Please swallow me now. I can feel the heat rising up my neck, and sliding across my face in mortification.
The beautiful brunette behind the reception desk doesn’t even arch an elegant eyebrow at my words, which both surprises and relieves me. I guess, working here, she’s heard all kinds of kinky shit. “Sure thing, beautiful, and cute hat. Is that a bow tie you’re wearing?” She stands up and leans over the reception counter to get a closer at me, her lips quirking in obvious amusement. “Ah, a St. Patrick’s Day theme, how fun.” After chatting for a few minutes about random stuff, I scurry back upstairs to grab my mask and freshen my lipstick, before heading to the room where I will be doing the photoshoot. I asked for a few moments to speak with Strokemyshillelagh before we got started. I want to make sure he’s not feeling pressured into this. Who am I kidding? A part of me is hoping he will back out. It would be both a relief, and a huge disappointment.
I slip into the room, checking that everything is set up, and taking a final look at myself in the mirror, before I slip my lacy green half mask over my eyes. Lorna has really outdone herself with all the props she has in the storage room for us to use. The minute I saw the bowtie, suspenders, and the pretty top hat, it cemented my idea to do an Irish theme. I wonder if my shadow man thought I was pulling his leg about it. Oh boy, is he in for a surprise! He’ll probably ascertain that I am insane, and run fo r the nearest door, and I can’t even blame him. This whole situation does sound unbelievable. My hands tremble as I release the ribbons that hold the mask in place. My reflection stares back at me, and it might as well be someone completely different, some unknown daring creature, and not timid Phoebe Murphy, whose only claim to fame is running away from her arranged mafia wedding. “After this, everything will be different, and I can finally put my feelings for Aiden and Nicolo to rest, and move forward. Maybe I can have a chance at love again,” I whisper to the frightened blonde in the mirror.
A knock on the door has my breath stalling in my chest. At first, I back away from the door instead of toward it, my fear rising as I look around the room for a way to escape, only to be confronted with the truth. There is no escaping this now; it’s too late, and he’s here. Buckle up, buttercup, you’re about to ride some guy’s lucky stick.
“Ladypoison?” The rich, husky voice utters through the door, and I almost fall to my ass, as my legs shake like a newborn deer’s, on my ridiculous sky-high heels. Run , my mind yells, but I force myself to ignore it, and the rising temperature that is making my skin clammy. It will all be fine. I can do this. I’m a strong, independent, modern woman. I can fuck a complete stranger if I want to. This will be like having a one-night stand. It’s totally normal to have one of those while you’re in college, right?
I push my shoulders back, raise my head, and steel my spine, as I force deep breaths through my nose, and out of my mouth. I can do this. I can play this role. It’s no different than the one I play every time I get on camera for my subscribers. So what if he’ll be inside the room, it’s exactly like doing a private chat, except there’s no screen between us, no money exchanging hands, and he’ll be able to touch me.
Fuck, what have I done?