Cera
THREE
The Loup: A loup is the small black half-mask that covers only the eyes, leaving the mouth and the truest part of an expression bare. It hides just enough to feel safe while letting the most honest thing slip through.
I hold warrior two until my thighs shake, hips open to the side, front knee bent deep over the ankle, arms reaching long in both directions. The instructor's voice floats across the studio like background noise.
I don't need it anymore. My body knows the sequence.
Sweat slides down my spine and pools at the small of my back. Sandalwood and lavender hang in the air, and the heaters hold the room at a savage hundred and ten. Morning light filters through the tall windows and cuts gold bars across the room.
Twenty mats, twenty bodies breathing in rhythm.
I shift into reverse warrior, arm arcing overhead.
My brown hair falls loosely over one shoulder.
The beauty mark above my lip catches my attention when I glimpse my reflection in the far mirror.
It's my real face, my real body, no mask, no platinum wig, no blue contacts turning my eyes into something they aren't.
My breath hitches, and I force it smooth again. Inhale four counts. Exhale four counts. The instructor calls triangle pose, and I hinge at the hip, one hand reaching toward my ankle, the other extending toward the ceiling. My ribs stretch and my hamstring burns.
Rent is due in six days.
I push the thought away and focus on my hand, fingers spread wide against the worn surface of the mat. The rubber is sticky under my palm. My belly button ring catches the light when my shirt rides up.
The callback hasn't come yet. Midnight's money means rent isn't the emergency it used to be, but I still need a real job, a steady paycheck, something I can build on.
I breathe into the pose and let my ribs expand. The woman next to me wobbles, and her foot slides on the mat. She catches herself and resets. I stay locked in place, muscles trembling but holding.
Yoga is the one thing I won't give up. Not for rent, not for bills, not for the stupid cost of staying alive in a city that was never cheap. This is mine: this mat, this breath, this body that still remembers what it feels like to be strong rather than scrambling.
The instructor calls child's pose, and I sink back onto my heels, forehead resting on the mat. My heart pounds against my ribs.
Class ends with savasana, and I lie flat on my back, arms at my sides, palms open toward the ceiling. My body melts into the mat. The worry stays hooked around my neck, like a cape I can't remove, waiting.
Namaste.
I grab my mat and water bottle, sling my bag over one shoulder, and head for the door. My legs are loose and warm, even though my mind is still tied in knots.
When I push out of the room, a whoosh of cold air invigorates me. The temperature change from the hot yoga room to normal air takes my breath away. It's one of the things I love about doing an hour session at least once a week.
I wipe my face with the cold lavender towel I grab out of the bin just outside the door. I'm meeting Locke in twenty minutes, so this will have to do in lieu of a full shower.
The café smells like cold-press espresso and wheatgrass.
I slide into the booth across from Locke and drop my mat bag on the bench beside me.
He's tanned from three weeks in Rishikesh, his hair longer than when he left.
He watches me come in over the rim of his green juice like he's been waiting all morning for an audience.
"You're glowing," I say.
"I know. Three weeks of sunrise yoga and a German named Matthias will do that.
" He sets the juice down and drapes both arms along the back of the booth, chin tipped up, holding the pose until I acknowledge it.
Three weeks at an ashram, and he came back more sure of himself, not less. I didn't think there was room.
"You look tense," he says.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Not meant as an insult. Any luck on the job front?"
I take my first sip of turmeric tonic, then turn back to Locke and let my shoulders drop an inch. He watches me with that patient amusement he always has, the one that says he can wait all day for me to say what I need to say.
"Nothing. I've sent my resumé out to so many jobs on Indeed and ZipRecruiter that I've lost count. I've done five in-person interviews, and so far, nothing."
"I'm sorry, babe."
"It's okay. Luckily I have my side hustle keeping me afloat for now."
"So," he starts, fingers tapping the tabletop. "How are the OnlyFans bros? That's far more interesting than a desk job, anyway. I need you to catch me up on everything while I was gone."
Heat floods my face, and I kick his shin under the table.
"Jesus, Locke. Plus, it's not plural. I emailed you three weeks ago and told you one of them is paying me an ungodly amount to keep me all to himself. Whatever the hell that means in a chat relationship where I'm fully disguised and he doesn't even show his face on the screen."
He laughs and leans forward, elbows on the table now. "Shit. That's right. The Girlfriend Experience."
"Definitely not a girlfriend. He's a client."
"He's obsessed with you. Clearly."
I wrap both hands around the cold plastic cup. "I don't get the obsessed vibe, but he definitely wants me all to himself. I'm happy to not have to manage multiple accounts, so it works."
"Babe, if he is paying to keep you to himself, and he keeps coming back for more, that's obsession. Let me call it the Girlfriend Experience. It's a whole vibe."
"Semantics."
I set the cup down harder than I mean to, and the juice sloshes against the sides. Locke raises his eyebrows but doesn't back off.
"Fine. Girlfriend Experience, whatever. Happy?"
"The question is, are you?"
I look away, toward the window where Magazine Street traffic crawls past in the late morning sun. A streetcar rattles by, and I count three breaths before I look back.
"Right now I'm surviving. Not much space for happiness, but I'm hanging in there. In a weird way, I'm grateful to be Masked Maiden, because I can pay my rent."
Locke sighs and takes another drink, then leans back again. "Such a badass name."
"You're the one who suggested it. Of course you'd love it."
"Still, though. I can't," he says dramatically, waving his hand before grounding himself with a sip.
"You're going to fall out when I tell you what he's been calling me for the last week."
"Please tell me it's Pussy Willow, or something equally cringe."
"Peoria."
"What the fuck is Peoria? It sounds like a cartoon skunk."
"Well, it's a city. Most people know Peoria, Illinois. There's also a Peoria, Arizona, which is my particular muse. I told him I was from there, and now that's what he calls me."
"How in the world did you come up with Peoria, Arizona? Who has ever even heard of that?"
"I went to a school with a girl from there.
I don't know, it just popped in my head.
Sounded like a good place to say where I was from.
You know, I've got to make conversation.
Sure as shit not going to tell him I'm from New Orleans.
If he is some deranged, obsessed serial killer, he could find me. "
"Cera." He tilts his head, voice softening enough to cut through my defenses. "You've got the wig, the contacts, the VPN, a fake name. The man's never seen your face. Did you really need Peoria, Arizona, on top of all that? I think you're covered, boo."
I uncross my legs under the table and stretch them out.
"You can never be too disguised. Plus, I didn't plan it and never thought he'd latch onto it. It's fun, anyway. I like it better than Masked Maiden, even though that's still my handle."
Locke's grin fades, and then he nods once. "Fair. Where is he from?"
"He wouldn't say. Told me he lives at midnight, so naturally that's what I call him."
Locke studies me, then picks up his juice again. "So tell me about the money. You know I have to know."
I shift the cup between my hands and pick at the edge of the label with my thumbnail. "Let's just say he pays me what twenty others combined would."
He stops mid-sip and sets the juice down. "For what? Exclusive rights to the masked show?"
"Something like that. Enough that I can breathe while I keep looking for a real job that apparently doesn't exist."
"Cera." He leans in, his voice dropping. "How much?”
I keep picking at the label, determined to remove it entirely as if it were never there. "Fifteen hundred a week."
He sits back and whistles low under his breath. "Damn. You don't even need to get a job."
"It's a relief, that's for sure. But yes, I do need a real job. He could disappear at any moment. Hell, he could have a wife for all I know. I can't depend on that income forever."
"How long has this been going on?"
"We're going on five weeks now of exclusivity."
"Okay. It's official. Midnight is obsessed."
"He's not." The denial comes out faster than I want it to, so I slow down and pick my words. "It's a business arrangement. He wanted exclusivity. I agreed. That's it."
Locke watches me, and I keep my eyes on the cup. He taps his finger on his cup, his eyes burning a hole through me.
"I'm so curious that he won't show you his face."
"Like I said, probably a wife or some other reason he doesn't want me to know who he is. Hell, maybe he's like a political person, or someone known."
"Could be a kink, or something more nefarious. Maybe it's best you told him you're from Peoria, Arizona."
"It's not what you think."
"What do I think?"
"That he's some creep."
Locke shakes his head and sets the cup down again.
"You sound awfully protective of him, Peoria."
I pick up the little pieces of damp, balled-up paper I've made. The tips of my fingers are sticky. "I'm not protective of him! Stop being weird."
"Just saying..."