Under All Illusions
Chapter 1
Iwas given the cute and adorable nickname “Bubble” by my family so long ago that I don’t even remember who coined the term. It all took place before bullies made my life a misery, taunting me about the weight that steadfastly clung to me because of taking cortisone for severe asthma.
“She should take up swimming. It’s great for lung development,” the specialist told my mother, back when we had solid health insurance.
Neither of my parents could swim well, having emigrated separately from Ireland with their respective families as wee little ones.
Yet the doctor-mandated lessons were agreed upon, and off we went to the local pool for swimming lessons.
The cloying smell of chlorine, both foreign and biting at first, tickled my nostrils in that icky way smells do when you’re young.
Day after day, week after week, I heard, “Great work, Bubble,” or “Nicely done, Bubble, is your breathing improving? Is the breathing easier?” I was improving, both in stroke form and endurance, and in the lung capacity tests I had to do before any new medications could be considered.
During my middle school years, my asthma worsened to the point where I had to forgo swimming for several months because of an overwhelming sensation of suffocating.
The c-word I disliked the most, cortisone, made its way to me.
Did it work? Yeah, it worked pretty well.
Well enough that I could breathe on my own with limited inhaler use after an attack, while still relying on preventer medication.
The damage had been dealt, though. Prednisolone had packed pounds of weight onto my developing body, puffing out my face so much that my head resembled a full moon.
The name Bubble only added to the misery.
Kids can be cruel and bitchy; middle schoolers can be downright toxic.
The last fucking last place I wanted to be was on a pool deck in wet Lycra.
In the water, churning through laps of freestyle until my lungs and limbs burned—perfection.
Climbing up the metal ladder and the walk of shame to my towel, not so much.
“Flabby Sabby” featured as the moniker of choice for a rancid group of wannabe popular girls.
“Potato” being another one, an unoriginal play on my surname, Broe.
A name steeped in rich European history, according to my dad, and a name I despised for about half my life when I didn’t feel comfortable in my skin because my body was trying to suffocate me, one tortured breath at a time.
Two things saved me during that tumultuous chapter of my adolescence.
My love of swimming and my rambunctious family.
You had no time to feel sorry for yourself in our close-knit family of eight, plus our home resembled a drop-in center for extra relatives.
Either you cheered yourself up quick, fucking smart, or someone would do it for you.
“Plus, moping around like a sad sack of shit soured the sugar,” my mother used to say, and still does.
We had been taught to be grateful and respectful, raised to understand that we may not have much, but millions of others had less than our lot, so grumbling could fuck right off there and then.
Yeah, we may be a little rough around the edges, but we were real, loved, and we all knew that every single member of our family had our back, front, and sides, always.
Family meant blood, water, and whiskey, my dad said. My family was fabulous.
Ten years after the oppressive quicksand of bullying, harassment, and the worst of my body dysmorphia, I’d transformed into a somewhat confident, college-educated, independent woman.
I still swim endless laps most weeks, although today it’s more about cleaning the charcoal and graphite pigments from my hands than it is to stay fit and limber.
The blackened fingers and palms are a side effect of my other love: charcoal realism drawing.
My friend Eden and I signed up for charcoal drawing in college when the still life class had filled.
Of course, because a campus of horny college women are tripping over themselves to draw some pasty naked guy staring at his upturned hand as if it held all of life’s answers.
Ed ditched the drawing when she declared it a waste of time because she had no artistic talent and had to make time for her college boyfriends.
I would never be so dismissive of my graphite sticks and 200 GSM paper, and I didn’t have a real-life, breathing boyfriend with a pulse in college.
Mine were either battery-powered or in the saucy pages of a dark, Why Choose romance novel.
Why choose indeed. You go, sister. I couldn’t get a guy to text me back, and the FMC is just out here collecting pierced cocks and an array of ready guys who commanded her to “Come on my fingers, then on my cock, princess.” Um, ok.
I was three knuckles deep into chapter twenty-eight of my latest spicy saving grace when my phone chimed with a text from Penny.
Pen was one of my only friends from school when the bullies were just losing interest. Even then she was a glamazon, standing five feet nine inches at fifteen, and all but destined to become a model.
Back then she didn’t give a single fuck about pretense, stating that we were friends and anyone who messed with me would have her size ten heel print up their ass.
She didn’t judge my lunch tray options, nor the other side effects from the meds like acne and brain fog.
I helped her expand quadratic equations; she helped me survive junior year.
Pen
I have a job offer for you. I’m sending it over now.
Me
Fantastic. Is it in publishing?
Pen
Not exactly. But you should take a break from publishing, perhaps.
Me
Publishing is all I know.
Pen
Lies! Anyway, it’s corporate. The pay is insane and you’ll be perfect. Promise me you’ll read through the entire thing before you jump to any conclusions.
Me
Now you’re making me nervous.
Pen
Don’t be nervous. Be excited. Be confident. Be rich! Think of Caitlin.
That she mentioned my only sister puts me on edge.
Caitlin is the youngest in our family at thirteen.
Next comes Ronin, nineteen, and me, twenty-five in a few months, and three older brothers, all within two years of each other.
Caitlin resembled a living doll from the moment she arrived.
A sister! With three older, rugged brothers off playing soccer, football, and hockey, Caitlin became my best friend first, and sister second.
Only when her vision deteriorated rapidly did anyone know of the insidious issues lurking around her retina.
Identifying the problem took a long time and cost a lot, resources our household lacked.
Me
Fine. I promise I won’t jump to any conclusions until I am briefed.
Pen
Remember that when you’re going through the clauses of the NDA.
By page two of the weighty contract, I understood why she asked me to keep an open mind. It seems the successful applicant will also maintain open legs.
This contract is between the employer, CEO Mercer Media, and you, the receiving party.
No part of this contract may be shared or transmitted outside of the agent/client contract that exists between yourself and your representative, or Mr. Mercer.
This contract refers to the term free use, implying that the employer shall engage in activities of a sexual nature with the receiving party.
What the fuck? Presentation clauses, where presentation had a dual meaning. I scoured the page like an eager college student awaiting exam results.
The receiving party shall keep the vagina, anal area, and surrounds in a hair-free state. Schedule all necessary appointments around your other commitments.
The receiving party is expected to be available for intercourse at the suggestion of the employer. Sometimes this instruction will be a verbal command; at other times, the receiving party shall interpret and understand visual cues from the employer and perform accordingly.
Again, what the actual fuck? My mind wanders to some uptight CEO miming a blowjob with a clenched fist being brought to his mouth across a conference table. Plus, the fine print.
A birth control implant or contraceptive injections will be supplied to the receiving party. Any pregnancy voids the contract immediately.
The receiving party is expected to carry herself with elegance and poise in the employer's company and his business associates, and wider circle. All events will be responded to with gratitude, an outfit appropriate to the event selected and approved by the employer prior to the event.
No, or minimal, alcohol is consumed at any event. This will be at the discretion of the employer and strictly adhered to. Any embarrassing or unruly behavior will cause the instant termination of the contract.
Payment to the receiving party will be at month-end after a two month trial period by the employer from a subsidiary account.
The daily salary is $2500 per day for 360 days. Five special notarized days attract a $20,000 rate, resulting in a yearly salary of one million dollars ($1,000,000).
Should the receiving party be terminated for any reason, a $150,000 fee will be deducted from any payment to cover re-advertising and administration fees.
Termination requires the receiving party to return any items loaned to the receiving party for the duration of the Executive Personal Assistant role. This includes clothing and accessories such as jewelry or bags (see Appendix 6 for a full item listing)
One hour and eleven minutes later.
Me
You want me to be a CEO’s personal prostitute? Are you out of your mind?
Pen
It’s an Executive Personal Assistant role. Emphasis on personal.
Me
You’re not funny
Pen
I’m not trying to be. You need a job; I have a listing.
Me
I can’t do this.
Pen
You can do this. Did you see the salary?
Me
Yes, I saw the damn salary
Pen
Think of all the treatment and surgery Cait still has ahead of her
Me
I am! That’s the only reason we are still having this unhinged text exchange.
Pen
Your interview is scheduled for ten on Thursday.
Me
Pen. I can’t do this.
Pen
Sure, you can. See you tomorrow at 6 for outfits. Love you.
Me
No. There is no love here right now
Pen
Think of the money, then. One million dollars! And the sex. Xo.
Ugh.