Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
The tears continued to bubble up, spilling down her cheeks faster than she could angrily wipe them away; she couldn’t stop them. She wanted to hit something, to scream at someone.
Jake opened the back of the SUV and placed two bags of groceries on the floor without glancing her way, then jumped into the front seat. She watched him purposely avoiding her stare as he started the car. His chest puffed out, then deflated with a sigh. He had to be relieved; of course, he was. His ex-girlfriend had publicly run off with Bernardo Cappuccino, which had to have been demoralizing. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you happy I didn’t get it?” She sniffed, her eyes boring into him. “I mean, there has to be a sense of relief.” Her voice was steady but edging with challenge.
He pulled onto the street, focusing his eyes on the road, his jaw tight, lips pursed like he was contemplating an answer.
It gnawed at her that her boyfriend was probably grateful— boyfriend — the relationship I’d just declared to the world … “Oh shit,” she whispered to herself, taking out her phone.
Rakell : (to Ana) Do you think my Jake post on Instagram hurt me? … Send
As she pushed send, she focused her eyes on Jake. Hadn’t he hoped she wouldn’t get this, but then, he hadn’t said anything; he’d swallowed his thoughts so you wouldn’t be preoccupied with it.
Jake caught her intense gaze. “Okay?” he said with uncertainty, his eyes drifting to the phone in her hand.
“I just wondered if me posting about us, if that…”
“I was wondering when that was going to come up.” She could hear the curt tone underlying his words.
His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. “Because of our careers, you and I will be in the public domain. That’s just how it is. If you hadn’t posted it, someone else would have. I’m obviously not a Bernardo fan, but I don’t think the man is that short-sighted. He didn’t get to be one of the greatest actors and producers by being petty. Besides, he didn’t have any problem snagging my last girlfriend, so what would have prevented him from trying it again?”
“You’re safe,” she scoffed through a residual sniffle. “He likes the underdeveloped, nubile type.”
“Bullshit,” Jake shot back, pulling into the driveway, jerking the SUV into park, and turning off the key. He reached across the front seat and grabbed her hand; a shocked gasp left her throat, her eyes expanding as she stared at his red face. “I’m safe, or I better be, because of who you are…not because of what the other guys out there do. The only way I’m safe is because my sense about you is right; you wouldn’t do that to me.”
Her head dropped, her eyes landing on her lap. An uneasiness crept in; there was a hint of threat in his tone, but the hopeful sincerity scratched at her. He had the womanizing record, yet he didn’t feel like that one-on-one. If anything, he seemed fully present, like he saw a future with them. The trepidation she kept tripping on was in trying to figure out how he could be so sure about them.
“Jake, I’m just…”
He squeezed her hand roughly, then let it drop away. As she turned to get out of the car, he said, “Wait, I want to address the question about what I was hoping for…”
“It’s fine,” she whimpered, holding back the water behind her eyes; she had to stop crying, stop analyzing, stop thinking about every stretch mark on her hips, the heaviness of her boobs, every non-perfect part of her body that the camera had highlighted. How had she come off as matronly at barely twenty-five?
“No, listen, you’re right. There’s a part of me that didn’t want to think about you in that film with Bernardo, a part of me that’s afraid. I know this industry, and I know that there will be many people coming into your life who won’t care about us or our relationship. Who will have complete disregard for the guy you’re with. Yeah, I’m not going to lie, that fucking bugs me. But I can’t fight who I fell for…hard, and I have to believe the reason I fell for you isn’t your fucking gorgeous body.”
She cleared her throat. “Huh.”
“Don’t say it, I don’t give a rat’s ass what their idiotic assessment was. They had to say something. What they said was ridiculous. My point is, I fell for all that you are, so yes, the body, yes, the eyes, that smart-ass smile, that brain that makes connections about people and the world others don’t see—all of it. Fuck, that sense of humor that’s definitely helped you get through some shit. And I admire you, you’re a hell of a lot stronger than I am, and….” A long sigh eased from his mouth. Resting his head back against the seat, his gaze slid to her. “I wanted you to get it, and I was simultaneously scared that you would. I knew I’d think about him, and I would have to try to keep my mouth shut, which isn’t my specialty.”
She laughed, then said, “You think?”
He matched her laugh, his expression looking relieved that she had.
He continued. “Melissa said that she learned these phrases from one of Cameron’s therapists: think bubble, talk bubble , and she thinks I should have had intervention as a kid.”
Listening to him eased some of her angst. “Well, at least people don’t have to waste time figuring you out, Jake Skyer. I understand that you may not have wanted me…”
He cut in as if he had just figured out exactly how to explain his position. “It’s sort of how I felt when Jenae applied to NYU for law school. She wanted it so badly. It was a dream for her to go there. She talked about living in New York all the time, so I wanted it for her, but I really didn’t want her to go. I knew if she got in and left Texas, we’d never get her back, so I secretly didn’t want it to happen, but I also didn’t want her not to get it. God, does that even make sense?”
“Yeah, I think I get that,” she said with a far-off ring to her voice. She only remembered feeling something akin to that when Matt had met Jonathon. She’d known that they were happy together, but concurrently, she had gone through a mourning of sorts. Because once Matt came out to his parents, he and Jonathon were officially a couple. There were no more pretenses needed between her and Matt, so Matt and Jonathon were free to be in love. Even though they had been pretending, being Matt’s plus-one had felt like having a blanket of protection wrapped around her. She didn’t say any of that to Jake. When her thoughts were incongruent and unsure, she didn’t express them out loud, while Jake seemed to work out his internal monologue in public. She’d been honest with him about how important Matt was to her, but she’d thought about what to tell him for months, deciding just to lay it all out there because no matter what, Matt would always be in her life. The impulse to pick up the phone and call him now ticked through her, but if she started talking about it to another person, she knew she’d be swimming in tears again.
Jake opened his door, and she jumped out to help him unload, bringing everything into the house in silence. There was part of her that wished she could just leave, be alone, allow this smack in the face to reel through her, cry it out, not have to be with someone as she made sense of all the things Ana had said. She brought her bag to his room while he unpacked the groceries. She didn’t have the energy to make small talk, to act like she was fine, that their critique of her hadn’t settled under her skin. Nor did she want to hear Jake try to negate all their words. She walked past him in the kitchen, dropping to the couch just as her phone buzzed in her purse. She grabbed it, turned away from Jake, and then walked to the back wall of glass, looking out to a small backyard.
Ana : No, I don’t think your Jake post affected anything. Being with him may help you get product endorsements in the future. Everything you do now matters, and yes, people will be interested in your love life … Send
Ana : Jake’s a popular quarterback and has a significant following. He’s quickly turning into America’s sweetheart—by extension, the public will love you. This will give us a leg up on brand ambassador opportunities. I love the wine-tasting picture he posted of you two… Send
That irked her. She couldn’t figure out why, but that statement from Ana rubbed her the wrong way. As if she were suggesting that Rakell being with Jake was somehow part of some grand plan. She was doing this on her own, not because of Jake, or any other man.
Rakell : I’m not choosing relationships for endorsements … Send
Ana : Of course not, but let’s take advantage of the attention … Send
Rakell : Dating Jake doesn’t make me a better actress …delete
Rakell : This is why men have so much power. Who I date matters more than what I can do …delete
Rakell : I’ll call tomorrow about the cologne commercial. I’ll research them tonight … Send
Ana : Great. I think this one is a lock. I know the last audition was a shock, but I’ve been in this industry a long time, and the reasons actors don’t get roles are so varied. Bernardo was really impressed by you. They are recommending you for another film. I’ll get the details to you soon … Send
Rakell : Should I get a breast reduction? …delete
Rakell : I’m thinking about plastic surgery … Send
Ana : Don’t touch your face! If anything, you could do Invisalign … Send
Rakell : Huh? ... Send
Ana : It’s not a big deal, but you are competing with perfect teeth models. Americans get braces … Send
Rakell : Okay, so I am competing with perfect Generica. Dying to fit in …delete
Rakell : I’ll look into it… Send
Turning, she saw Jake in the kitchen chopping yellow heirloom tomatoes, a colander of green leafy lettuce, a cucumber, and an avocado on the counter next to the cutting board. It was almost as if he were busying himself so he didn’t have to engage with her, purposefully giving her space. She watched the small muscles in his broad shoulders flex as he chopped, the thin heather crew T-shirt stretched across his back, taking in his muscular Levi-covered ass and legs. His hair looked disheveled, like he’d run his fingers through it several times, his hips shifting ever so slightly when he reached for a cut crystal glass with a single large ice cube immersed in deep orange liquid.
She set her phone back on the counter. “That whiskey looks good. It's an exquisite match for garden veggies, probably helps extract that farm-to-fork taste this area is known for,” she said as if reporting, trying to change the current hanging around them, the tension she’d escorted in with her reactions.
Jake twisted, facing her, knife in hand. “Hey,” he said, his eyebrows rising up in question when she ignored her phone, emanating the familiar song. “You should get that.”
“No, I’ll take a whiskey, though.” It was probably Ana with more details, and she didn’t have the emotional strength to fake a conversation about the next opportunity. “I’ll call Ana tomorrow.”
“Answer it,” he pushed, stepping toward it, still a few feet away. “It’s Matt. Get it and I’ll pour you a whiskey.”
Jake picked up her phone and handed it to her. “Huh,” she said to herself. How the hell did he know it was Matt? Her phone rang again.
Jake opened the cupboard, grabbing another crystal glass as she heard him mumble. “Get it. You need him right now.”
“Matt, hi. I was going to reach out tomorrow, but, um, I’m glad you called. Well, because…” she said, her eyes moving to Jake, her vision beginning to blur from the tears welling in her eyes. “Jake, I’m going to step outside. I just need to…” The tears started dripping down her face again as she began recanting Ana’s words to Matt in a flurry. “So yes, he said impressive, and I guess I jumped too quickly in my head thinking I had it, but then they said I was too big. I mean, more specifically, I looked like I could be a mom…whatever the fuck that means….”
She heard Matt breathing calmly on the phone as she kept spitting out the stuff in her head. “I always feel like I’m never going to be thin enough or, I mean, I’ve lost weight and just maintaining this is hard. I just don’t know…” She wrapped an arm around her waist to stave off the chilled air.
“Hey, Princess, I’m not going to address the weight issue because you know how I feel about that. You being healthy is more important to me than…”
“Matt, it’s what they said; I didn’t make this stuff up. Honestly, they said matronly, and I’m twenty-five .” Even repeating it sounded maddening to her. “It’s fucking crazy. I don’t know how women survive it, the constant criticism.” As those words came out, an image of her mom flashed in her head. Her mom had been a model when she was young, and she’d been so critical of her own body, which bled into her criticism of Rakell’s.
Matt listened, then gave her the same pep talk he always did: this was her dream, but she had options that would not be predicated by her body. In the end, he said, “I’m never watching another Bernardo film again.”
They both chuckled, and then she added, “Yeah, Matt, that will show him. Let’s boycott Bernardo!”
From behind her, she heard, “I agree.” She turned to see Jake grinning, while handing her a large sweatshirt. “It’s getting cold, put this on. Sactown’s temps drop almost twenty degrees when the sun goes down.”
“Matt, I’m going to hop off. Jake’s here, okay?...I love you, too.” She ended the call, grabbed the sweatshirt, and wrestled into it. It hung halfway down her thighs, and she took in the familiar scents of pine and the gym, as though Jake’s essence had been woven into the fabric. She sniffed the soft, worn material. Jake joked that it was clean and handed her the glass of whiskey. She sipped it, looking over the glass. “Thanks. Did you post a picture of us? Ana saw it.”
“Yeah, you look beautiful in it.” He tilted his chin. “Was I supposed to ask you or your agent first?” He smirked.
She could feel they were both grasping for some humor after the tumultuous afternoon. “No need. Ana is a Jake Skyler fan. She says that being your girlfriend will help my career.” She elevated her voice to encompass the sarcasm.
“Really?” He sipped from his glass; his eyes steadied on her face as if trying to figure out whether that was good or bad. “So you know I don’t think…”
She stepped forward and nuzzled into him. “I know, it’s actually sort of ridiculous for her to say. I wouldn’t date someone because they could help my career. I mean, then I might as well stay with my old profession. That was easier and definitely more straightforward. Your body’s for pleasure…period.” One of her earlier client’s words… body built for pleasure …hung in the back of her mind.
She saw his face clench like he was trying to control the shock that had jolted through him. “I suppose…I, um…”
“Jake, I’m just saying what I’m doing with you is real. I don’t get in bed for payment or some expectations for my career, I spend time with you because I like being with you, not because it will get me somewhere. I want to get there on my own.”
His features took on the boyish quality she’d seen before, that truly grateful wide smile that pushed up his cheeks, highlighting the spark in his piercing blue eyes, as if he'd gotten something he’d been thinking about for a long time. She wrapped her free hand around his waist, letting herself fall into his side. They didn’t talk about the audition anymore that night. She sipped her drink, picked at a salad, then drank another whiskey. When they went to bed, she pretended to be asleep, her mind wrought with Ana’s words, her mother’s comments, the directions from photographers posing her, their whispers to each other about her hips, her breasts. She’d learned years ago to let the opinions of men about her body move past her, but this audition had her brain spinning.
The first client I had entertained after my year serving as the prince’s girlfriend, firmly planted the seed of resentment. “MARIETTA? MARIETTA? CHAMPAGNE?” I heard Jacques’s voice somewhere in the distance, abruptly yanking me back from my daydream. At twenty, after two years of working as an escort, I got used to my professional name, Marietta Adams. Lazily, I opened my eyes and turned to see the butler handing Jacques a glass of Champagne. I flipped over, holding the cups of my bikini top to my breasts. I was lying on my stomach, letting the Mediterranean rays warm my skin. Jacques must have untied the top while I’d been lost in sleep.
Jacques stood beside the chaise lounge on the deck of his family’s yacht in Monte Carlo with a glass of rosé Champagne extended toward me. “Sit up and sip.” Cupping the bikini top tightly to my breasts, keenly aware of the butler standing beside Jacques, I’d sat up.
Jacques had waved his hand, indicating I should stop holding the suit to my breasts. His eyes darted to the butler, who didn’t flinch. “Jeune fille na?ve—do you think he cares about your tits?” He used his hand to untie the string from the back of my neck, letting the suit fall away. “Sip and tell Paul your taste. He will bring a different bottle if it’s not to your liking.”
I had done as told. “It’s very nice,” I replied, my eyes sheepishly looking up at the butler. My insides clenching, I was acutely aware that my heavy breasts were fully exposed.
“So, you like?” I nodded, my green eyes focusing on him as I’d worked to imprint a small demure smile on my lips. Jacques took the glass from my hand and took a small sip. “Armand De Brignac Rose, tres agreeable.” He nodded at Paul. “Yes, the bottle and fromage.”
Paul nodded. “Oui, Monsieur.”
As Paul had turned to leave, Jacques sat down on the lounge next to me. “Marietta, I am aware that you are new to this, but the shy girl act is getting tiring. You were not hired for your sweet innocent smile, were you?”
I steadied my breathing. I hadn’t yet adjusted to this new, sexual level of escort service. I was still unsure of how to act, still so inexperienced. The truth is, prior to Jacques, I’d only had one clumsy experience a year ago with the prince, who never touched me after we had each lost our virginity together in the most awkward encounter. I’d first escorted Jacques to two gallery openings and a movie premiere in London. When he asked me to join him on his family’s yacht in Monte Carlo, he requested a different level of service. The agency explained what that would entail, and I agreed. I found him very attractive, with a narrow yet muscular build reaching almost six feet, dark brown hair, and caramel eyes, his face usually darkened by stubble.
Jacques’s hands moved to my breasts, squeezing them together. “La fille, such grosse breasts.” I hated that he acted like my chest was a detriment, but I just smiled when he made such comments. He rested his eyes on my face as he bent his head to my tits. His mouth had its way with my erect nipples. “That excites you. Do you feel it?” His eyes darted to my crotch.
I did feel it. I’d felt the pain dance on the edges of my pink nips and how my lower belly tensed when he sucked at them, but I didn’t know how to answer, so I just looked at him, my eyes growing wider. ‘Yes... yes, Jacques,’ I had almost shouted. I did feel it, my insides churning at his touch.
He’d let go of my nipples and started gently massaging my whole breasts. “Ah, so there’s some fire in there. Best harvest that magnifique.” He continued to knead my tits in between sips of Champagne. “These will make modeling a challenge. Not fit for the runway, but certainly a body built for pleasure.” His hands moved away from my breasts as he looked up. “Merci, Paul,” he said as Paul set up a tray of cheeses and meats circled by an array of fruits. Next to it sat a silver Champagne bucket with the rosé we were enjoying.
Paul had ensured that our flutes were full and that we had plenty of sparkling water. He asked Jacques if there was anything else. Jacques nodded to him, then toward me. Paul reached in his pocket, semi-discreetly handing Jacques two packages of condoms. My cheeks flooded with heat. Humiliation, anxiousness, excitement—I wasn’t sure which—ran through my body.
Paul picked up the tray, telling Jacques to enjoy the spread. “Merci,” Jacques had said, nodding. His eyes darted to me. “Lie down on your stomach. I have something for you before we enjoy these treats.” My throat constricted as I flipped over.
“Paul, no disturbances. Marietta wishes to take a nap,” he’d instructed, tugging at the waist of my bikini bottom.
“Oui, Monsieur,” Paul said, his tone consistent, never altering.
Jacques had slid my bikini bottoms off my legs, instructing me to put my bottom in the air. “Keep your arms and head down.” I turned my head and saw that he’d lowered his swim trunks and was sliding a condom onto his penis. I could feel my pulse in my throat. I wanted to scream and run, but this was exactly what he was paying for. This was what I had agreed to in a contract. I was making a lot of money for this. Far more than I could make as a catalogue model.
“Uh!” My breath caught in my throat as I felt a jab into my vagina, but it wasn’t his penis, it was a finger, maybe two. I couldn’t tell.
“Ah, perfect,” he’d murmured, his fingers moving in and out of me, then exploring my lips before briefly rubbing my clit with his thumb and index finger. His voice was low and guttural. He rubbed my bottom and commented on the full roundness of it. “Definitely not built for modeling, but…” He slipped a finger deep into me and I gasped, “Yes, built for pleasure. Work it.” I didn’t know what he meant by ‘work it.’ I planned on asking Rene, one of the more experienced girls, a lot of questions when I returned to London. I could feel his penis pressing against me from behind. I trembled but wasn’t sure where it was coming from. “Spread more,” he demanded, pulling my legs apart. Then I felt it, his penis piercing me…pain…pain…I cried out, a sharp cry—more like a yelp, that surprised even me.
“Merde! Are you a virgin? Merde!” he shouted, freezing inside me.
“No, no, please—I’m not.” I sounded like I was pleading.
“You’ve done this before? Tell me, la fille, have you done this before? Tell me, say something,” he exhorted, squeezing my ass cheeks before starting to slide out of me.
“Yes, yes. I have.”
Pushing into me, he’d groaned. “So tight. Move against me,” he said, clutching my hips and pulling them toward him. I started moving to meet him, getting in sync with his thrusting. “Nice, nice,” he hissed, “let’s hear how much you like it. Come now.”
“Yes, yes, I like it. Please, I like it,” I had murmured without conviction. I was trying to adjust to the pain, the pressure, the ickiness, and, yes, the pleasure. All of it registered, but none of it made sense at that moment. I wondered if I could get used to offering this level of escort services.
He’d pumped in and out of me, demanding I make noise and meet his movements. I heard a guttural moan from behind me; his pumping lessoned, then stilled. I felt him pat my bottom as he pulled out. My body was stiff with nerves. I didn’t move, listening as he put on his swim trunks. “Put your suit on, and let’s have lunch,” he instructed, sitting next to me before handing me the bikini bottom. He extended a glass of Champagne to me and said, “La nana, sorry. I’m not good with inexperience. You’re beautiful. Men will want you. Just give it time.” There was a serious softness to his tone.
“Merci.” I silently cursed him, and myself, for letting him get to me.
Being with Jacques that first time was indelibly imprinted in my brain. I felt simultaneously embarrassed and turned on. I had wanted to explain to him that I really wasn’t a virgin. Still, the story was too convoluted, and I had been sworn to secrecy by way of an explicit NDA, prohibiting me from speaking about my relationship with the royal family. They had paid me a healthy sum to sleep with their son and act as his girlfriend for a full year. The compensation was outrageous, but the terms were very strict. We had sex only once. I was barely nineteen, and he was a scared eighteen-year-old. I would learn that night that the teenage boy had no desire to continue any physical relationship with me, or any other woman, but we both went through the motions as expected. I was released from that contract when it was obvious to the father that I would not be enough to change his son. For the next six months, I accepted only “arm-candy” escort assignments, no add-ons— the industry term for sexual services. Jacques was my first add-on since the prince. I had “crossed over” as they say in the industry, but I was still cautious of what I would agree to within a contract.
It was only because I’d pledged myself in a silly teenage way to Randall Adams that I had still been a virgin at nineteen. This semi-pledge had made me determined not to lose my virginity to some Joe Blow or John Citizen just because they were persistent. This meant I could meet the "virgin requirement” when this opportunity of a lifetime came along.
As time passed, she’d become more adept at the intricacies of the escort life: the doll-like expressions, the large doe eyes, the small, demure smile, the furtive glances, the light laughter at every semi-witty thing a client would say. That’s how she learned to deal with monied men. Men who had it all, not because of talent, character, or any mind-blowing impact they had on the world, but simply because they had money. It changed the way people viewed them, but not her. She told herself then that she was honing her acting skills to make it in Hollywood.
As she lay next to Jake now, staring into the dark room, she couldn’t help flinching with trepidation. She realized that in order to achieve her dreams, she was still beholden to men.